I've spent the past week ill in bed, mostly lethargic and sometimes fevered, and in the course of typing this story I found out that I've tested positive for Covid. This is a cathartic little piece rather than an actual Musketeers story, so it gets posted here in Scraps. It can be read with any of our Musketeers in mind except Aramis.
Stay safe, everyone. Covid is not fun.
Deliverance
The chills aren't too bad, at first.
He finds an immense comfort in burrowing down under blankets, clutching them close and curling up in that safe, soft cave. There's a sense of ease, of letting go, a surrender. Warmth gradually engulfs his limbs, answering obligingly to that devoted, self-assured summons, and a sigh carries off with it weights more deeply settled than just the recent illness. Sleep beckons. A pure, child-like sleep that is such a luxury, it's almost worth the infirmity. Almost.
The heat isn't too bad, either - at first.
That's only because he doesn't become aware of it until it is too bad. The cave of blankets has collapsed into a crushing weight; the once-soothing darkness grew thick, threatening layers and the night feels like the gaping, cavernous mouth of a frightful monster. Kicking and pushing to get free is no use: the cold returns in a most cruel manner for it does not dispense with the heat - how? - instead, it feels like ice over his temples and hot vapour in his lungs, drenched nightclothes over prickling skin and sweaty palms.
(How can hair hurt?)
Too many pillows.
Right. Left. On front. On back. Pillow under one leg? No. Kick it down.
Everything aches in the most unexpected ways: the flesh over his shoulder bones, the upper arms and elbows, aching with a bruise, as if gripped and ground mercilessly by a pair of huge claws; the hips, legs and knees, as if the limbs have been wrenched out and then put together wrong. Everything feels wrong. His heart is galloping furiously as if it has somewhere to be, but where can it go and why so much effort? The air is too short, an invisible pair of scissors above snipping at each inhale as if to nip the habit in the bud. Who bears such discontent towards him? Who's pulling these strings - and why?
A voice - his own? - as he tosses and turns, frustrated and helpless like a child's doll as time slips. Minutes pass like decades and hours jump over them like rabbits; seconds tick by in extreme brightness and then... he may have existed for centuries.
The light is grey. Morning, dull. He is too heavy to move around, too tired, aching too much. The silence is oppressive; a fist is pressing down on his stomach with increasing force and his ears throb.
The ceiling swirls.
He is alone.
Deliver him now.
To the other side of this, to the good side. Deliverance. Enough. He can't take any more of this.
Please.
A pair of watchful eyes meet him on the good side. A greeting nod and an amiable 'hey'. The light in the room is dim but vibrant with life; sunset has left a crimson streak on the wall.
Deliverance.
He's reached the other side.
Gratitude flows out of him quietly, streaming towards a familiar unknown. Between the returned awareness and the pull of healing sleep, the few moments in-between are not enough to contemplate the real object of his thanks.
And he's fine with that.
Batting away the hand reaching for his forehead, he turns away, breathes deeply, and sleeps.