The pieces of realization were falling into place in Aramis's mind. He knew Porthos' fear of being trapped in the forest during another storm—the only part missing were the dead bodies.
Both d'Artagnan and Aramis breathed a sigh of dread and braced themselves mentally for what could be a very long and difficult night ahead.
Later That Night:
As the hours passed, it was obvious to all the men that the storm was not going to dissipate as they had hoped. The terrible storm seemed to have parked itself over the Musketeers as if some greater force of nature was playing deliberate and cruel tricks.
To Athos, the lingering storm was an irritation because it put them severely behind schedule. To the others, however, this unplanned stop posed a threat neither man could put a finger on.
To Porthos, especially, the storm presented itself more like the myth of Pandora's box, containing all the particular evils of his darkest dreams. Somehow the large Musketeer knew this storm—in this forest—was going to bring with it adverse and far-reaching consequences.
It seemed, oddly enough, as though they were caught in the current of a fast-flowing stream. Once caught in the current's grip, one would be carried away with it downstream; being pulled under the surface, tumbling to and fro at the mercy of the water.
Tonight, they were at the mercy of fate.
"We will bivouac here," Athos said while assessing the area, looking all around in a full circle. "Looks like this may the best place," he said. "The ground is dry and the wood appears dry so we can start a fire for light. It's going to be pitch-black dark in here very soon."
"I'll go search for firewood," Aramis offered.
"I'll come wit' ya." Porthos followed, joining his friend in the search.
"D'Artagnan, why don't you secure the horses to that log over there," Athos pointed. "Make sure they are tied down very well so when they are spooked by thunder they cannot run away."
"Sure thing," answered d'Artagnan. "The last thing we need is to lose our mounts and get stranded out in the middle of nowhere miles from home." The young Gascon muttered to himself as he went about tying up the horses.
Aramis and Porthos returned with a good armload each of firewood, dropping their loads to the ground at their feet. "There's more scattered around here and there," Aramis said to Athos. "We're going to get every bit of loose wood that we can find—just to be safe."
The two Musketeers headed back into the trees to gather up more wood and kindle to start a fire. With each passing moment, it was getting harder to see as the light faded away.
After a fire was successfully started, the men gathered around the warm flames. The light of the fire was reflected in everyone's eyes as they stared at the dancing flames, each lost in their own thoughts.
"I don't suppose anyone thought about packing food for the road?" d'Artagnan brooded. "I'm hungry."
"Yeah, me too." Porthos grumbled just as his stomach gave a loud growl, as though to prove a point.
The three turned to stare at Porthos, trying hard not to laugh.
"Told ya I was hungry." Porthos muttered.
"Hey, I have some hard biscuits in my saddlebag!" Aramis jumped up as he remembered having packed them at the garrison.
"We also have that bottle of Champagne. . ." d'Artagnan suggested with some hesitation.
"No, we will drink the Champagne when we're at home-after this mission is over." Athos rejected the suggestion. "Besides, we need to keep our heads clear tonight. We will all take turns keeping watch during the night. I want someone awake at all times, should anything happen."
Aramis returned with a bag of hard biscuits and a flask filled with water. "Well, it isn't much but, at least, it will take the edge off."
"It's time to turn in," Athos ordered. "I will stand the first watch. We will each keep watch for two hours, at which time you will wake the next person for duty. 'Mis, I will wake you first, so try to get some rest."
"Great," Aramis huffed. "Why am I always first?"
Athos walked around the bivouac area, looking far into the trees in every direction to make sure nothing lurked in the dark. An occasional clap of thunder made him jump, despite himself. The bright flashes of lightening illuminated the forest, creating strange shadows that played tricks on even this experienced, well-trained Musketeer.
On one particularly loud and sudden crash of thunder Athos gasped aloud, his heart pounded heavily in his chest. "Pull yourself together, dammit," he ordered himself.
He walked over to the horses, taking softly to them while gently petting them as if to calm them. . . to calm himself. Another loud clap of thunder caused him to jump again. His mind wandered back to Torfou, "I got four. . . there was one more."
Aramis' horse, Belle, stood on a twig, snapping it in half. Athos pulled out his harquebus, his eyes wildly scanned the forest for raiders.
"Athos?" Aramis called softly from a distance, being careful not to startle the man. "Athos. . .?"
Athos blinked hard at hearing his name. The memories faded, leaving him standing with his harquebus lowered by his side; his chest heaving and his head hanging down low with relief. "Aramis. . ."
"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, gently taking the pistol from Athos' trembling hand. "You want to talk?"
Athos shook his head. "No, I'm fine. . . just tired." He walked to his place by the fire and lay down, turning to his side to face the fire.
Aramis shook his head, sadly watching after his tormented friends. What in the hell happened in that forest?
Aramis was startled by the sound of talking and leaves rustling. He looked to the fire to find Porthos writhing in his sleep, muttering questions and commands to the ghosts of the Torfou Forest.
Here we go again.
"One. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . there were five! One is missing. . . bloody hell, one is missing!" Porthos panicked in his sleep. "You're not going to get us! Where are you, dammit?"
"Porthos. . . Porthos" Aramis called softly.
The yelling and commotion awoke Athos. He sat up, instantly surmising where Porthos was in his dreams and who he was yelling at.
Athos moved beside Porthos and placed a hand on his shoulder to wake the dreaming man. Before Athos realized what was happening, Porthos had twisted the Musketeer lieutenant around and held him tightly around the neck in a vise-like choke hold. "I go' you now, you wretch. You won't hurt nobody. . . I won't let ya."
"Porth's. . ." squeaked Athos.
"Porthos!" D'Artagnan jumped up, his jaw dropped open in shock. "What the hell? Porthos, let him go!"
"Porthos, you don't have a raider; it's Athos you're strangling. Let him go." Aramis ordered while trying to loosen the arm around Athos' neck, but it was too strong. "Porthos, he can't breathe. Porthos, let him go!"
Athos struggled against the arm holding him tight, cutting off his air, but the grip was just too strong. His face began to turn a dark shade of red as he struggled unsuccessfully to breathe.
Porthos was deeply lost to his nightmare in the forest-believing he had captured the 'missing' raider ambushing his hiding place under the rock.
Athos continued to struggle against the arm holding him hostage, but he was quickly losing strength. He was losing the strength to even stay awake. Soon, black circles danced around the edges of his vision until his whole world faded into darkness.
Athos' hands dropped limply to the ground from Porthos' gripping arm; his body went completely still.
"Athos?" d'Artagnan yelled. "Athos?" The young Gascon was frantic at seeing his mentor hanging limply in Porthos' grip. "Aramis, we have to do something!"
"Porthos, listen to me, it's Aramis! It's your brother, 'Mis." Underlying fear in his tone conveyed a distinct sense of alarm. "You have to let go of Athos! He is not a raider; you're having a bad dream! Wake up!"
"No," Porthos growled. "I'm not letting this bastard go. He's not going to hurt Athos anymore."
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out above them, the sound echoed and reverberated deep into the trees. "Dammit!" Aramis visibly jumped at the sudden and unexpected sound. The medic looked up to see d'Artagnan holding his harquebus, still smoking in his hand.
"Porthos, wake up!" d'Artagnan yelled, dropping the pistol to the ground as he dropped to his knees beside his friends.
Porthos startled awake from the gunshot to find a limp Athos in his arms—yet he couldn't remember how he got there or what happened. "Athos? What 'appened?" Horrified, the large Musketeer loosened his hold on Athos and allowed Aramis to pull him away to safety.
Aramis immediately put his fingers to his friend's neck, searching for a pulse. He waited, his eyes closed, until he found the familiar beat softly vibrating under his fingers. The medic cried as he breathed out a sigh of relief. "I've got a pulse. . . he's alive!"
"Thank God," d'Artagnan's constricted voice squeaked. The Gascon's throat was tight as a sob threatened to escape.
Porthos' eyes grew wide at the realization of what happened to Athos. . . and who caused it. "Oh God, no!" he exclaimed with horror. Falling over to his side, Porthos buried his face in his arms and sobbed, "I didn't mean it. . ."
D'Artagnan moved beside Porthos, pulling him close to his chest. He wrapped his arms around the large shoulders, shaking with the heavy sobs, and rested his chin in the dark curls. "It's okay, Porthos," he soothed. "We know you didn't mean it—it's not your fault. Athos is going to be okay."
Aramis pulled away the scarf wrapped loosely around Athos' neck and unbuttoned his doublet, checking the neck for injury. Gently and carefully, he ran his fingers over the patient's neck and throat, now red and swollen. He tilted the lieutenant's head back to open the swollen air passage and allow for easier, unrestricted breathing.
Aramis softly tapped Athos on the cheek, trying to arouse the unconscious man. "Come on, Athos. Wake up now! Enough sleeping," he appealed fervidly. The Musketeer lieutenant didn't hear the alarmed appeals of the medic but, rather, continued to lie still. His breaths were raspy and labored but, at least, he was breathing.
"Talk to us, Porthos." D'Artagnan's voice was thick with disquieting sadness. At the same time, however, his tone was laced with anger and impatience over the worsening nightmares. "What the hell happened out there that would cause you to react like this?"
"This ends tonight, Porthos." Aramis said from his place beside Athos, his jaw set hard. "Don't say that you're fine, because you're not. You are going to tell us what happened, and we're not moving from this spot until you do. This is going to stop. Tonight."
"I-I don't. . . I can't. . ."
"Porthos, you almost strangled Athos," d'Artagnan stated, incredulous. "These nightmares have gone beyond a frightening nuisance; they're becoming violent. The nightmares are not just affecting you anymore, they're affecting all of us—and they're only going to get worse."
"Something severe happened in that forest, Porthos." Aramis added, fervently. "Unless you talk about it—completely unbury the memories—the nightmares will continue haunting you. The memories will hasten you to madness and violence—you've already seen what your nightmares are driving you to do."
Porthos remained quiet. Through watery eyes, he stared into the face of his unconscious friend, taking a limp hand into his own.
"Porthos, trust me, it's not good to keep the horrors you've experienced locked away," Aramis said, softly. "The memories will eat away at you, gnawing constantly at your mind, never allowing you peace until you face your fears. By letting us help you, you are letting go of the nightmares that grip you in your sleep and hold you hostage."
"I-I'm not sure where to start," Porthos hesitated.
"Aramis and I know nothing of what happened after we were attacked on the road by the forest. Only you and Athos know that," d'Artagnan prompted.
Back to the Beginning:
"Both of you were unconscious," Porthos began. "Athos had you, Aramis, and I had you, d'Artagnan, and we rode hard and fast with your horses tethered to ours. It didn't take long for the raiders to gain on us. Athos knew they would soon catch up and we would all be killed. He ordered us into the forest, to try to lose them in the trees."
"Just like he ordered us into the trees to escape this storm today," d'Artagnan said.
"Aye," Porthos nodded. "Five of them followed us zigzagging through the trees; soon, they were gaining on us once again. They must have had problems with their weapons because they stopped for a moment. Athos seized the opportunity, taking us behind some large rocks. He ordered me to hand over my pistols and take you both to the Château de Chamarande while he held the raiders off."
Aramis and d'Artagnan traded emotional glances, understanding beginning to wash over each man.
"I didn't want to leave him there alone," Porthos wiped his eyes. "But we had no other choice, if we were to save the both of you."
"After I dropped you two off at the château, I later went back to the forest to find Athos. When he didn't return, I knew somethin' was wrong. I found the rocks where I left Athos, but it was almost pitch black so I had to light a torch to see. I found the bodies scattered around, almost in a circle, by the rocks." Porthos paused and took a deep, trembling breath.
"I started counting the bodies, following a grisly and bloody trail, until I got to the fifth raider."
"What happened, Porthos?" d'Artagnan whispered.
Porthos looked up, pain drowned in the tears laden with bad memories. "I looked to the right of the fifth body and found a sixth body-a dark pool of blood staining the dirt underneath him. I knew it was Athos and, sure enough, when I held the torch up I saw his doublet. I saw his pauldron," he shuddered at the memory.
"Then the storm hit, drowning out my torch," Porthos continued. "It was jus' like this storm—a sudden torrential downpour. I found shelter under the rocks; but without the fire I was sittin' in the pitch darkness. Only when lightening flashed across the sky, lighting up the forest, could I see anything."
Aramis and d'Artagnan remained quiet, waiting for Porthos to continue when he was ready.
"Each time the lightening flashed I counted the bodies. . . makin' sure they were still there. Makin' sure one didn't get up to attack us in the dark. I stayed there waitin' for the storm to pass—watchin' to see if the bodies moved."
"That's why we hear you counting in your dreams," Aramis said. He at last realized the horrors of Porthos' nightmares.
"Yes," Porthos nodded. "The lightening would flash and I'd start counting, one, two, three, four. . ." he paused. "Sometimes I didn't have eno' time to count the fifth body so I was ready. . . ready for 'im, if he attacked."
"Which is why you attacked Athos," d'Artagnan surmised. "In your mind, you thought Athos was that fifth guy. . . and you only reacted as you would have that night."
"I didn't mean to hurt Athos. . ."
"Of course you didn't mean to hurt him, Porthos." Aramis soothed. "We understand now. My God, it's no wonder why you have had such terrifying nightmares."
"It's horrible you had to experience that alone, Porthos," d'Artagnan whispered.
"He wasn't alone. . ." a raspy voice whispered.
"Athos!" Porthos exclaimed. "You're awake! Thank God," he squeezed the hand he was still holding.
Aramis took Athos' other hand in his own and squeezed gently. "How are you feeling, my friend? How does your throat feel?"
"Sore," he rasped.
"I'm really sorry 'bout that, Athos." Porthos apologized sadly. "I'm so sorry. . ."
"It's not your fault," Athos whispered. "Anybody would have nightmares. . . after going through that," he paused, his throat feeling raw. "I remember only glimpses," he stopped, his throat too sore to continue.
"Well, evidently, it's enough to create residual terrors with you also, Athos," Aramis said. "Just before it was my turn to take watch, you looked like you were reliving some bad memories of your own from that night in the forest."
Athos closed his eyes, remembering the sounds—the lurking fears—that took him back to Torfou tonight while on watch. A tear escaped an eye and rolled down his temple, disappearing into his hair.
"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, noticing the flash of memory glance across his friend's face. He wiped away the wet trail of the tear.
Athos nodded slightly, keeping his eyes closed. He was so tired he just wanted to sleep, but Porthos needed to know he was not to blame.
"Look, all of us have been impacted by that mission to Orléans; we have all been touched, both physically and emotionally. We will carry with us the scars from Torfou for the rest of our lives." Aramis spoke to the group.
"But tonight, all the guilt; the fear; the terror; the nightmares; all the memories of Torfou; all of it ends right here!" Aramis said, his tone steeled with resolve.
"Tonight, we all just let it go," Aramis continued. "Let it all go—everything about Torfou—let it all go. We talked about it; we exposed it, and we've relived it. Enough! It ends for all of us—especially you, Porthos—it ends tonight! Don't let the ghosts of Torfou haunt your mind or your dreams anymore. It ends now."
"It ends now!" D'Artagnan nodded with determination.
"It ends now." Porthos said, his jaw set hard with determination. He has had more than his fill of these dreams and he was more than ready to let them go. . . forever. If he ever had another thought of Torfou, it would be too soon.
"All for one. . ." a raspy voice whispered.
"And one for all," the Musketeers chimed in together.
The corners of Athos' mouth curled with an almost imperceptible smile. He then allowed his head to loll to the side as he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Later, On the Road Home:
"I'm really sorry about what I did to you last night—choking you like 'at." Porthos apologized softly.
"Did you not hear Aramis last night?" Athos' gravelly voice whispered. "He said it was over. It's done; it's in the past. We will speak of it no more, Porthos. It's over." The lieutenant clapped his larger friend on the knee.
Athos' face suddenly lit up, his mouth curled into a wily smile. "Now, let's go home—our Champagne awaits." The lieutenant gently kicked his horse into a gallop, racing far ahead of the group—a silent challenge for his brother Musketeers to catch up.
The remaining three Musketeers exchanged determined glances. Kicking their own horses into a run, they accepted the challenge and raced to catch up to their leader.
"All for one..." Porthos shouted.
". . . and one for all," they replied together.
~§~
Post Script, At the Garrison:
The four weary Musketeers sat around the wooden table as the candlelight cast eerie shadows around the empty room. Athos poured Champagne into four cups then raised his cup in a toast. "Here's to uninterrupted sleep and sweet dreams."
"Here's to Champagne and no more nightmares," they echoed, touching cups.
"It's good to be home," Athos smiled.
Finis
A/N:
PTSD is a common after-effect of going through a traumatic experience; whether war, accident, natural disaster etc…
Nightmares and/or flashbacks are common occurrences and oftentimes will send the individual back to the experience in their mind. It can be so real it's as though they are actually re-living the experience-yet it's only in their mind.
PTSD is a sickness that is finally being studied and taken seriously; with victims of PTSD being treated with the medical care they so desperately need. Sad that this illness was not taken seriously before, considering it can affect others around the person suffering. We are seeing in several cases in which someone suffering from PTSD has a break-down and, oftentimes, the episode leads to violence.