Aramis

There had been a time when the steady warm presence at his side had soothed his pain. There was a time when he had accepted the comfort offered by touch-or by a soft voice murmuring stories in order to dispel the threat of silence. But this time, it was not to be so.

Aramis lay motionless. He was too tired to move. It hurt to keep his eyes open. However, he was denied the silken oblivion of unconsciousness. He was merely existing, devoid of any energy and barely having the strength to take in a breath. From time to time, he was forced into an upright position, and a cup was held to his lips. He was not thirsty, but each time he was offered liquid, his body greedily consumed it. He felt as dry as a parchment, but the act of drinking was truly exhausting. His mind told him that his body's reactions were probably natural for his condition, but the hollowness he felt could not be so easily explained.

He felt Porthos gently squeezing his arm.

"Mis, I must go. The King has summoned me. I've asked Calbert to stay with you. Please let him give you some herbs and water...and don't go anywhere!" His friend's voice trembled a little.

The marksman wanted to open his eyes and answer his brother's plea, but he had no strength to do so. He felt a hasty kiss on his forehead, and then a hand gently caressed his face.

"I'll be back soon...and you'd better be here."

Porthos reluctantly left, and the emptiness attacked the marksman with double force. Aramis wanted to curl up on the bed. He had the urge to check to see if any concealed weapons were within reach of his hand, but the void seemed to have sucked in the last bits of energy and will that were left in his body. As time went by, the void was consuming him in a slow, but extremely painful manner. The sense of hollow helplessness seemed to be extinguishing every thought with cold efficiency.

Suddenly Aramis felt a liquid on his lips. The position of his body must have changed, because this time he was not able to drink. The spilled water tickled his chin and neck.

Indistinguishable words spoken in an exasperated tone followed. Then he was moved into more of a prone position. The owner of the voice probably had remained in the room, but Aramis could not be sure of that. He might have left-or been consumed by the void as well.

A few times more water dripped from his mouth. He was unable to swallow, and the water seemed to find its way into every place except his throat. He had a nagging feeling that he should do something about that before he died, but to acknowledge such a thought meant to focus on it for a moment. As that degree of attention was impossible, the thoughts merely floated through his mind before they faded into oblivion.

Suddenly he was cold. Hands touched his naked body, and he froze. Everything in him screamed to fight back and to escape, but his body could not move.

Maybe I'm dead-and this is the punishment I've received for my sins. Am I doomed to have my body slowly rot while my soul remains trapped inside?!

Even if he had possessed the ability to move, fear would have paralyzed him. He found himself adrift in a void full of horrific memories. He was nothing-not even a plaything. He was just darkness-an empty space filled with pain and terror and bitter cold.

He remained there, his consciousness slowly dissolving into hurt.

Porthos...

A name.

A name which used to mean a lot to me.

A name that brings up the shadow of memories which are not frozen or terrifying.

The past.

Why am I calling out this name so loudly?

The pain that shot through his body broke into his thoughts.

"Damn it, Aramis! Listen to me or you'll regret it!" The voice was angry and desperate-and somehow familiar.

Anger and desperation-two things commonly heard in the voices of musketeers.

"Well, if you really prefer to pretend to sleep while your Porthos is dying, carry on!"

The words slowly sank into the marksman's brain.

Porthos dying?!

Those two words should not be spoken together. No…

And I thought I couldn't possibly hurt any more…

"He may need you before he dies!" the furious voice continued.

All Aramis wanted at this moment was to die himself. To fall into the abyss. Not to hear the horrible news, not to be aware of what was happening...

He could never pretend not to be lost before… but without Porthos, he was more lost than he had ever thought possible.

I will never abandon you!

The words he had spoken so many years ago hit him with a new force. He might be dead or dying-or some sort of restless ghost or demon sent back to earth to pay for his sins-but whatever he was, his place was at Porthos' side.

His last duty.

The marksman did not know how he managed to get to Porthos' room. His friend lay on the bed, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. His eyes were closed, and he looked deathly pale. Aramis took two unsteady steps, then found himself supported by someone. That person helped to lower him next to his brother.

The Spaniard heard himself asking what had happened, and realized that his voice sounded distant and strange.

"He went after Rochefort. They must have fought on the roof. Porthos was found unconscious, and it was clear that he had fallen from a height. The physician that examined him said that Porthos had internal injuries, and that there was nothing he could do. He left him here."

There was fury in the voice. It probably belonged to one of his fellow musketeers, but Aramis could not bring himself to take his eyes from his brother's face.

"I am so sorry, Aramis. It is truly a black day for all of us. When we finally find Rochefort, he'll pay for this."

That won't give me Porthos back…

Aramis gave a slight nod. He changed his position, kneeling on the floor so that he could lay his upper body next to Porthos. The marksman took his brother's hand in his.

Please, let me follow him. Please… let me be with him…

There was a commotion in the room. Someone was talking, but the words flowed over the marksman. He neither listened to nor comprehended what was being said. Something hovered over him. His instincts screamed at him to duck, but he remained motionless, and nothing seemed to happen.

Aramis wanted to ask if the physician had given any indication that Porthos might regain consciousness before he died. But to ask the question required effort, and the question itself seemed to imply that that his friend's death was a forgone conclusion.

There was no hope left in Aramis' heart. Neither was there any acceptance. There was only cold and pain, and both had consumed what was left of fear.