The site currently hates me, eating up the chapters I post. My apologies if you keep getting the new chapter e-mail - I suspect it sends one every time I need to re-upload. Ugh!

Heat

He could not recall how it was that he came here - here, stunned, packed earth beneath him, lying in the dust. Yellow and dust, and his body felt as if it had been locked in, as if submerged, too heavy. How did this happen, how has he-

"Athos!" That's Aramis-

Rushing footsteps on dust and Athos knew it was d'Artagnan.

"What happened?!"

An arm grasped his elbow with surprising gentility, and he felt himself being pushed up, another arm supporting his back.

Being upright was fine but keeping that way proved a challenge as he sagged sideways, yet another's solid presence bracing him, though with a faint, surprised rumble.

"Athos."

Aramis. Insistent. Athos tried to respond but his breathing wasn't cooperative, it was heavy and harsh all of a sudden. What is this? Where has this come from?

"What's happening?" d'Artagnan's inquiry to Aramis was full of confusion as he grasped Athos's elbow more firmly.

"Let's get him inside."

"Come on-"

Hands pulled him to his feet and he felt his weight drape heavily across another's body - Porthos - but his knees wouldn't lock in: his other arm was immediately drawn over another's shoulders and he was supported on both sides, making it considerably easier to not collapse. Then they were moving.

He could only see dust. Booted feet, hurrying. They crossed a threshold, hot dust replaced with cool flagstone; his right arm was beginning to go numb, nausea lapping against his insides like a taunting tide - then he was being lowered onto a hard chair.

"Athos." Harsh. Demanding.

Water was splashed to his too-hot face - cooling, nice-

"Athos, open your eyes. Snap out of it-"

They are open. He's - it's the ceiling rafters, it's a familiar view- he may have whined at the feel of a cool cloth at the back of his neck.

"Here."

A cup pressed to his lips. He tasted ale, but, distressed, he tried to push it away, turning his head to get away from it - the nausea was rising-

"Alright. Alright..." His own breathing, loud, panting; he's staring at the flagstones again, between what must be his own two feet. The heat rushing and engulfing his whole head, his neck, his hands tremble as they grasp the chair so hard that his knuckles turn white. There's a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from sliding down in a heap, and also, as he pants, another hand is rubbing circles on his back.

Is time passing, or has it stopped most cruelly, trapped him in this miserable loop of heat and sickness?

There is no warning before he lurches forward with a heave. That's the start of it - he heaves, and heaves, into a pot conveniently held for him, and there's only misery and sickness and shaking limbs and muffled voices in his ears.

"Alright."

He's done. He is done, he can no longer keep himself in this chair, he is sliding, completely spent-

Held close, shifted and moved. Then, thank God, thank God he is lying down. Thank God. His limbs are shaking but there's a pillow under his head and his doublet is gone. Someone's moving his arm from where it's draped over his eyes - the light, the bright, yellow light is hated - he wants darkness - his eyes ache and his head is being pressed in from both sides - "Alright," - The cloth on his brow that makes him sigh, the vague sensation of his boots being removed, the sounds dying down, and as the wave of sickness spitefully retreats, Athos falls into a cool, blessed dark.

I've been having a miserable week because of the heat, with no appetite, very bad sleep, and a complete evaporation of the ability to concentrate, and as I'm feeling no better today, I needed an outlet. A reminder of this summer, which, I think, at this point, I rather hate.