Nearly three days went by without Aramis waking up. He didn't show any signs of life, despite the slight rising of his chest. Athos tried to get some water into his companion, but only managed a few drops every now and then. He started to wonder when Aramis would lose his fight against death because of dehydration. The swordsman had once heard that a man can survive two weeks without food but only three without water. Aramis sweated a lot and drank nearly nothing. Three days were nearly over.
"You've suffered already so much, mon Ami. You shouldn't have to go through this, too." Athos sighed as he washed away the sweat on Aramis' forehead. The white skin was hot under his touch but not as hot as a day before. Maybe he got better, Athos hoped. Or maybe his body started to lose the fight.
No.
Aramis was strong. Stronger then he himself knew. Even though he hadn't show any will to live the past weeks, Athos knew there was something inside the marksman that wanted to live. Something strong and dedicated. Athos remembered the burning light in his eyes, the cheeky smiles and hearty laughs. The way he made everyone around him happy. The way he was always there for others in need. No, Aramis never seemed as someone who would give up easily. He wouldn't have survived Savoy if he would be weak. He was the strongest man Athos knew. He wouldn't stop fighting and he would win. He needed to win. The musketeers couldn't lose the last survivor to a fever. The death of Aramis would take away so much from them. Not only the happiness he had always brought with him, but all the strength and hope too. Each musketeer has already lost twenty-one of their closest friends, they couldn't bear to lose one more. The last one. Aramis was not only the lone survivor to them, but the last thing that seemed to keep the dead ones in memory. They shall not be forgotten. With Aramis they would somehow live on, too.
"I hope your god is as kind as you always preached. I hope he gives you the strength you need. You know, some of us have already turned to him, prayed for you and the others. I don't really believe in all of this, but if there's this god you always talked about, he will surly save you. He won't let someone like you die. I hope he won't." Athos stroked over the cover of the bible, that laid on the table behind him. He opened it slowly, confused as he didn't find only latin words in it but the French ones written above them in a scrawly writing. "You translated it?" Curious Athos started reading as it was the first time he truly understood what was written in the holy book. As a Comte he had, of course, learned some latin, but it was never enough to read or speak it fluently.
"But those who trust in the Lord will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not become weary, they will walk and not faint." Athos closes the book gently, looking as the weak body in front of him. "I hope that this is true and that your faith will give you strength. You're needed here, you know? Can't let us down now, Aramis. Not after everything you've survived, you can't die now that easily. Won't let that happen, no. You will see, you will live." Athos spoke, as he felt that Aramis' god gave him some kind of comfort and strength, too.
Darkness surrounded him, dull voices echoed in his mind but the words they spoke were meaningless. He tried to open eyes, to see where he was but his eyelids felt too heavy to being opened. His hands stroked the soft fabric beneath them, comforting him somehow. It wasn't snow he was lying in and blood neither. It felt kind of safe. Still, he heard screams. Panic filled his heart, which broke into a hundred of pieces as images of his slaughtered brothers popped up. Empty eyes looked at him, pleading for help. He wanted to run over to them, stop them from crying, save them. But he couldn't move. Something held him down. The fingertips felt like the claws of ravens in his skin. The screams got louder, shouting for his name. "Aramis!"
He needed to help his brothers, he can't let them die. Again. Aramis struggled against the hands that held him down, now aware that they wanted to keep him from hurting himself. Athos called his name again and again, hoping to wake his companion from his nightmare, but he just didn't seem to hear.
After minutes of struggling, Aramis calmed down, tears streaming down his face. "They're all dead." He whispered with a rough voice, his fingers clenched into the sheets.
"Aramis, you're safe. Can you open your eyes for me?" Athos let go of the body, as he was sure that he wouldn't start to struggle again.
The voice confused Aramis, as it seemed like a faint whisper to him from somewhere behind the darkness. Maybe there was light were it came from? He wanted to see light so desperately. He didn't want to be alone in the darkness anymore. He felt so lost, even his faith didn't seem to be with him in this horrible place. It was only he, his sins and the lost souls of his brothers. The brothers he couldn't save. "Aramis, come on open your eyes. I know you're awake."
The marksman tried to open his eyes again, his eyelids lifting just a little bit. But the burning light was too much, so he clenched them shut again. He heard someone cursing, some rustling as Athos closed the curtains and then something warm and comforting touching his hand. "Come on, try again. It's not that bright anymore, you can do it."
The gentle squeeze on his hand was enough to make Aramis try again. This time he managed to open his eyes completely, but his vision was still blurry. He saw someone sit beside him and after his eyes had focused he noticed Athos, relief written on his face. "Thought you wouldn't wake up again."
Aramis was still confused and tried to remember what had happened and why he felt so weak. The milk of the poppy, the fever. He sighed and as the world around him started to spin, a cup of water was held to his lips. "You need to drink." Athos lifted the marksman's head carefully, so he could take a few sips. As the cup was empty he laid him back down on the pillow.
"How long?" Aramis throat burned as he talked, caused by not drinking in so long. "Nearly three days." The medic sighed once again, closing his eyes for a moment. "I still feel tired." Athos nods understanding. "You can soon rest again. But for now, I need you to stay awake a little bit longer. Serge is making you some broth, we need to get something in you." As the marksman tried to sit up, Athos hurried to his help, lifting him and putting the pillows behind his back.
An hour later Athos had managed a whole cup of broth into Aramis before he fell asleep again. This time he seemed less dead and stronger than before. His skin was still hot, but now Athos was faithful that the fever would go away soon. God hasn't left Aramis.
Aramis fell into darkness again. At first it felt good, somehow comforting. But then ravens flew up to him, even darker as the blackness surrounding him. Their screams filled his heart with sorrow and fear. He felt them sitting on him. As he started to hit them, they just dug their claws deeper into his skin. Their sharp beaks ripped away some of his skin until there was only blood and flesh left. He screamed but no one seemed to hear him.
Aramis woke panting, as the ravens were about to rip out his guts. He, again, needed a few moments to recognize his surroundings. His breath slowed down, as he understood that it was just a bad dream.
The marksman noticed that he was alone in his room, but the door was opened a bit. He recognized the voices coming from the other side, Athos and Treville, but couldn't understand what they were talking about, so he started to focus on himself again. Aramis wondered when the nightmares would stop, when the lost souls would finally find peace, when he could overcome the incidents. And as he didn't find an answer to this, he started to wonder if he could ever get ripped from the aftermaths of Savoy. He wanted to forget so badly. To be himself again. But then he wondered if the old him was still alive. If he could ever get back to the old him or if would be this traumatized, lost and hurt man forever. He couldn't endure that. He needed to look into the mirror and see sparkling eyes again. He needed to feel the joy in his chest again, the love he felt for so many people. Oh how he missed the luck he had always felt. How he missed the faith he once had, the strength it gave him. He missed the tingle on his skin when he knew a fight was about to start and wanted to lose the fear the sounds of metal cursed.
He missed himself and feared that he would be lost forever.
I'm very sorry for not updating in so long, but I'm kind of busy and also concentrated on writing the one shots for "The musketeers adventures". I hope this short chapter still gave you some joy and that you keep on writing and reviewing!
