Athos
Aramis kneels on the wooden cart. The gun is aimed at his head. Suddenly the shot is fired, and his friend falls forward. It is too dark to see blood… and Athos' heart is shattering into a million useless shards. It is beyond repair.
This scene was repeated mercilessly each time he touched the edge of. consciousness.
He recalled what he had said to Porthos. And he knew he had been right. The bullet that had killed Aramis was really only a formality. The Aramis he knew had already died.
Athos knew exactly when it had happened. It had not occurred when the whip cut the medic's flesh-nor when the hot iron had been pressed into his skin. It had happened when he had been made to plead for the abuse. Duval had not seemed to be interested in men-or in Aramis particularly-but he had been interested in humiliating the musketeer. He had known Aramis' worst fear, and had forced him to beg to be abused….for Athos' sake.
Athos felt as if he had delivered the lethal blow himself...as if Aramis had been dead by his hand long before the bullet had actually hit his head.
A jolt of pain unexpectedly shot through the musketeer's body. He fought to stifle a moan.
"Easy, Athos… breathe through the pain." The voice was so far away...too distant to be recognized.
Something cold touched his face, and a drop of water teased his parched lips.
"Mis!" he moaned.
A muffled sob was the only answer he received. Then a strong hand lifted his head a bit, and a cup was put to his lips.
"Drink. Slowly. It will help with the fever and the pain." The person who was not Aramis was doing his best to be reassuring.
He drank. It was bitter and awful, just as Aramis' draughts usually were.
"Aramis?" he whispered. He needed to hear his brother's voice. He was not sure why that need had become so desperate.
"Sleep, Athos. You need to rest," came the reply. The voice sounded so sad.
"I need Aramis!" he protested.
A sob.
Silence.
Athos struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids would not obey him.
What's wrong with me? Am I dying? What is happening?
"Aramis!"
Steps. Someone left, silently closing the door.
"Mis…" Athos mumbled pleadingly.
"Shh….you'll be fine…" The voice was younger. It was a familiar voice, but not the one he needed to hear.
"Where's Mis?"
"Not here…"
"Why?"
"He's busy."
"When will he back?"
"As soon as he can."
"I need him…"
"I know." He felt a timid, but soothing, touch on his cheek.
"You're not him…" Athos whispered, disappointment overwhelming him.
Aramis! He had returned. He was finally here. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then in two quick paces was at the bedside.
Athos relaxed a bit as Aramis sat down on the stool next to the bed. The medic looked worn out. He took his hat off, and Athos gasped. The whole back of the hat was covered in crimson, and Aramis' hair was sticky with blood.
Memories crashed down on him.
"You're dead!" he cried.
Aramis smiled serenely.
"Yes. It's better this way, brother. I could not remain as I was… you of all people should know that once one crosses a certain border, it is impossible to carry on… Now I can say that I miss you. Back then, the only thing I missed was the end of the pain. They did break me… but to be honest, I'm glad they finished me off. So… don't feel guilty… I'm fine. I'm truly fine."
"NO! Aramis!"
Athos desperately seized Aramis' hand, but his fingers passed right throughout it.
"No… no… no…! I cannot… I cannot… without you, I cannot!"
"You have to, Athos. You're strong…"
Athos felt tears slowly trailing down his cheeks. His heart felt so hollow… so dead.
"I'm not strong… you were my strength!"
"Now Porthos is your strength."
"He cannot stand to be in the same room with me. And he's right to feel that way. I was the one who murdered you!"
"No. You are blameless in all of this." Aramis bent down and gently kissed Athos' forehead.
A goodbye.
A benediction.
"I need you! Don't go!"
"Shhh…. Athos… hush… brother"
Athos opened his eyes, and D'Artagnan immediately leaned over him.
"Athos? I need you to drink this. Doctor Lemay left it for you."
Lemay… the name sounded familiar. Now that Aramis is dead, they had to find a physician for me. I failed to protect my brother… I don't deserve to live.
He turned his head, evading the cup that d'Artagnan tried to touch to his lips. A few drops of the draught wet his cheek.
"Athos…" d'Artagnan voice was pleading.
But Porthos is not here. He hates me...and he has every right to do so. I killed his brother…
Aramis is dead.
This thought was like turning a knife in a wound. A searing pain. A pain which would accompany Athos every day for the rest of his life-until his end. He could only hope that the time of his death would not be too far away.
What little strength he had left his body, and he went limp, closing his eyes. He heard a panicked gasp, and felt D'Artagnan's fingers searching for his pulse. A sigh of relief followed when the Gascon found it.
You should not be so relieved, my friend. I'm your brother's murderer.
Thomas' face, covered in blood, appeared before his eyes-then slowly transformed into the face of his Musketeer brother.
One more brother that I've killed.
"Athos?", Aramis nonchalantly leaned against the door frame, light dancing in his eyes. He looked much younger-and much happier. His hair was longer, and bound in the way that had been his custom before the disaster of Savoy.
"You're an inconsiderate, selfish boy-and if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit it," Aramis said, his manner now serious. "We cannot just leave Porthos and d'Artagnan on their own. They need you alive. You cannot just abandon them in order to follow me."
"You left!" Athos said accusingly.
"To be honest, a bullet in the head did not give me much say in the matter."
"To be honest?! You are being anything but truthful. You wanted to die!"
"Do you really think so little of me? You think that I would have, of my own free will, left my brother at mercy of his captors?"
"You said your farewell to me!"
"Not for the first time."
"But for the last. And that is what counts!" Athos did not attempt to hide his anger and bitterness.
Aramis' smile vanished, and the marksman slowly approached him.
"Forgive me, brother, please… forgive me for abandoning you in your hour of need." His voice was full of remorse and guilt.
"No, Aramis. Death is unforgivable. No one gave you permission to leave this earth without us," he replied harshly.
The Spaniard bent his head in despair.
After a silence filled with grief, he said softly, "Take care of Porthos…"
"No. That was your job-and you've failed him, because no one will do it for you!"
Aramis nodded, then vanished. The air was thick with guilt.
In a fit of fury, Athos shouted for Aramis, desperately wanting to stop him. To force his friend to wait for him.
It was like losing him all over again.
He launched himself towards the door but someone caught hold of him. He desperately struggled to get free, but darkness finally took him.