114. The Hardest Fight
Athos:
Athos heard the catch release on the door to his left. The hinges creaked as the door opened, scraping slightly on the rough flagstone floor.
Footsteps close by, trying to be quiet.
It was winter, he knew. But he was warm.
His limbs were heavy. They would not respond, but he knew he was not under threat here. Only, perhaps, from himself.
The smells were familiar. He was in the Infirmary.
He was safe in the sense that no harm would come to him, though he had no doubt he could not simply rise from his bed and leave. He was here for the duration, at the mercy of those who now sought to treat him. But he could not fight his friends on this. His strength was minimal. It did not extend to opening his eyes. At this moment, he could breathe and hear. All else was moot. Nor had he the wherewithal to consider what had brought him to this.
Whatever maintained his warmth was heavy; more than a mere blanket. It had confused him when he first became aware of it, though his attention span was short and when he next thought on it, some time had passed, as the room beyond his closed eyelids was dark now.
Nothing had happened following the earlier footsteps. They had stopped beside him, but he had been left undisturbed. A chair had scraped across the floor, someone had sat with a sigh. He could not discern who it was that sat at his side, but it was a comforting presence along with the warm, firm hand in his.
He had therefore given himself up to his present circumstance, allowing his awareness to drift in and out, the anchor of faint familiarity giving some comfort. Worry may come later when they invaded his narrowed world with their desire to bring him back. Then, he may summon frustration or anger, as he had not decided whether he wished to alter his predicament. He was not sure he wanted to return to the harsh, often brutal existence that lay beyond the stillness he now inhabited. Or whether he wished to address the damage that obviously assailed him and caused this terrible but strangely comfortable lethargy.
Now, he drifted beneath the warmth of the animal pelt, for he was sure now that that was what the heaviness was, though he still did not have the strength to open his eyes. The light played on his eyelids but he was content to stay as he was.
They would want him back, of course. He was a piece that fit. One quarter of their brotherhood. The hand that held his sword atop theirs in their familiar gesture.
It would be easy to float away.
Perhaps they would expect it, for it seemed as though an eternity had passed. Had he done his part? Had he achieved what he wanted? What had that been, when all was said and done? His thoughts were as distant as his body.
Time was passing, he knew, and he had not moved.
They would want him back.
He could not remember the last time he had been this inactive and been aware of it.
His thoughts came and went; dull, fleeting. Each one born on the tail of the last, equally waif-like in body and purpose. It had begun to concern him.
Usually so in tune with his body, each muscle honed and stretched when needed, now of no consequence.
He remembered running. Slipping on ice, but running on. Putting himself in the path of an assassin's bullet. Nothing more. No pain. Nothing. Until the weight of the pelt. Addled, his brain wondered which animal had died to provide him with warmth. A wolf most probably.
It was quiet now. Aramis had once said senses lingered when death was assured. For how long he wondered?
He seemed to be passing between rooms, or floors. Each one a little darker than the last.
He slowly began to realise something. The threat that darkly hovered was from himself.
He had thought this peace acceptable. He had been prepared to drift away. Unchallenged and unchallenging. Almost.
But on the very edge of his consciousness, something intruded. Persistent.
Perhaps he had dismissed it before, as he recognised the soft cadence. The quiet sound of rosary beads. The soft "amens," spoken by more than one voice.
It had disturbed him.
But, this. This quiet, solid darkness, this gradual infernal creeping darkness … this, disturbed him more.
He wanted no part of it.
The earlier brightness behind his closed eyelids was more welcoming than this. The promise of that earlier brightness outshone what he had willed himself by his lassitude; his lack of fight. His lack of faith in what he had. What he had held in his hands, every day for the last five years. Why had he doubted himself? Why had he dismissed his brother's entreaties, just because their God made him uneasy?
He could hear them now.
And he listened.
This was a struggle he needed to win. For them. For him.
But coming back may be his hardest fight.
He took a deep breath and held it, willing himself on. He released it with all the strength he had, but instead of lightness, his body grew ever heavier. No, no, no. Again! Try again!
Nothing happened.
Was he too late? Was his path back too dark?
And then, his heart thudded in his chest and began to pound in his ears.
The fight he needed coursed through his veins and he gasped in another breath, borne from fear and released on hope.
Chairs scraped and anxious voices rose.
Now, he was manhandled. Now he was lifted. Cradled.
Now, he felt the fire of gunshot. The pull of stitches. He felt the sting of his tears through eyes squeezed shut. His lungs burned as he tried to breathe, his earlier languid lethargy forgotten.
Familiar voices urged him on. Slowly, he felt the comfort of strong arms holding him, a hand supporting his head as he slowly ceased his struggles. Now, he knew who held him and who spoke the urgent words that pulled him up, like a fish on a line.
Like a dead man from a grave.
Like a brother loved.
They laid him back down and pulled the black wolf pelt around him once more.
Now, he could fully open his eyes.
He could see their relief. He hoped they could see his, for the last of his strength willed it.
Now, though, he felt alive!
He would hold every day in his hands once more and not let it sift between his fingers, like sand in an hourglass.
His hardest fight won; now, he knew his purpose.
Now, he was back.
oOo
Thanks for reading! More soon.