Many thanks to all of you who read these tales, and for all your comments. There is a humorous one half written, but these others seem to keep pushing themselves forward, so I am just going with it. I'm away next week so just leaving this one with you :)
oOo
34. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (3)
It has been said that walls absorb the energy of those within them.
It was a sobering thought, Aramis mused as he looked around the empty Infirmary one bright Spring morning.
He had often wondered on it, for this was a place where energy sparked in abundance.
Sometimes the air fairly crackled with it.
Pain, fear, grief and heartache would bleed out freely and not all attempts to staunch that flow were successful.
It was a place where emotions ran high; where confusion reigned for those twixt this life and the next.
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?
What nightmares …?
oOo
Aramis had watched many a bad dream play out within these walls over the years.
They all had.
Those abed and those caring would often succumb to the mysteries that the mind unleashed as it attempted to make sense of the day's circumstance.
Bad dreams were like a fever; something of a release which left the body spent.
Aramis had once watched Athos dream; eyelids wide open as if awake. Eyes rolled back so only the whites showed. A soul in torment. At the time, there was nothing Aramis could do from his bed, where he himself was recovering. He could only watch his friend as he slumped on a chair, head resting on his arms on the table; obviously exhausted.
Those white eyes turned toward him had made his blood run cold.
Athos had eventually woken and, seeing him watching, he had smiled and asked how he was feeling.
It broke his heart.
The image of his brother's torment still in his mind, Aramis finally found his voice.
"I am fine, mon ami. Thank you for asking."
Porthos slept like the dead, injured or not, but was not often troubled with bad dreams.
The excessive dreams he did have usually revolved around food; lately, walnuts and apples and the damage they could do.*
And the Red Guard of course. Always fodder for Porthos.
d'Artagnan's dreams were sorrowful; his grief for his father just below the surface when he was healing. His guilt at not being able to prevent the mortal shot, nor save him as he fell on that dark, wet night were the stuff of his nightmares. Any other dreams were more troubled than dark, often involving Constance, who was never far from his waking thoughts. And the loathsome Bonacieux; where his dreams could take a dark turn.
Aramis had no doubt that as d'Artagnan progressed in his service, there would be many a dark dream awaiting him.
Aramis had been told he himself reverted to Spanish during his nightmares. He was glad of that. His darkest dreams were for no-one but himself. They involved fearsome black crows and the consequences of treason. The latter was only a fevered cry away from making his transgression known to his two brothers. His third already knew his secret. That was the stuff of nightmares too. Of the hangman's noose and Athos's lifeless body; if he lived to bear witness to that terrible outcome, of course, which he doubted. The nightmare of being broken on the wheel was a whole episode of its own.
There was plenty of dark fodder for these walls to absorb from the four of them alone, Aramis mused, as he walked quietly around the empty room.
If these walls could talk they would howl.
They would scream.
Aramis suppressed a shudder that threatened to overtake him. Images he thought he had repressed came flooding back to mind.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. Closing his eyes he tilted his head back, stretched out his arms and slowly turned in a circle.
Could a room feel? Could its walls absorb pain and suffering? It was true that many a painful moment, many a crisis, had played out here.
But, when a crisis is over and the dreams are beaten back, there is a certain silence that descends.
Where does the energy go?
How can it be that nerves stretched to breaking point by witness to these nightmares, and deep emotions laid bare, are suddenly released and such silence descends?
Then, the atmosphere is different.
As if the walls mock … having absorbed the worst and stored it. For later.
However, if nightmares are absorbed, surely words of love are too?
It was a comforting thought at last, as he opened his eyes.
Calmer now, he walked to the end of the room, straightening sheets and setting the room to rights. Still lost in his thoughts, something caught his eye.
A mark, on the wall ahead of him, which he had never seen before.
He approached slowly, bending slightly, the mark close to the head of the cot that stood in front of it.
One word, written in pale red-brown thick letters, as if executed carefully by a finger:
"Hope."
Aramis drew in a breath and reached for his crucifix.
His heart lifted.
A single word that encompassed all that was good here.
Human spirit, at its best.
The walls had given their answer.
"What are you doing?"
The quiet, clipped voice broke him from his reverie.
Turning, he looked into familiar green eyes.
"Nothing," he smiled as he strode across to join his friend in the doorway.
"Did you know walls could talk, Athos?" he said, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulder and grinning broadly.
Athos did not move, mere!y raising a quizzical eyebrow.
"What am I supposed to say to that?" he finally replied.
Aramis put his finger to his lips as he drew Athos out of the infirmary.
"Nothing. Nothing at all," he smiled, as he closed the door behind them.
oOo
Thanks for reading! More soon.
*"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?": Hamlet, Wm Shakespeare.
*"Infirmary Talk 26 – King of the Castle."