Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Three: X4auth0r, Deana, MashiMoshi, Rosey Malone, pallysdeeks, Arlothia, twaxer, Aednat the Fourteenth, Grantaire32, UKGuest, IrethOfMirkwood, Guest, SnidgetHex, enjoyedit, and ImaginaryArtist17
Special shout out to Grantaire32 for naming the song the chapter titles belong to! If you figure it out, put it in a review/comment and I'll give you a shout out.
Chapter Four: In My Weakness I Am Strong
I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at.
Maya Angelou
March 29, 1625
Musketeer Encampment, Savoy
Aramis watched as his men practiced their swordplay. His own rapier was still tucked away in its scabbard. His turn at this drill would come soon enough. First, however, his priority was making sure the men he'd paired off were properly matched enough for the exercise to be beneficial to both parties.
He was studying Alain and Eric as they moved when snow Aramis had failed to notice falling caught on his eyelashes, forcing him to blink. When his gaze found the dueling pair again, their clothes were bloody and torn and both wore masks that hid their faces.
Aramis took a startled step forward, but another blink and the blood and masks were gone as if they had never been there at all.
"You failed them."
Marsac's voice was cold and hard, a tone Aramis had never heard from his brother before. He turned sharply, worried he had done something to anger the other Musketeer.
Marsac's face was covered in blood.
"You failed me," he accused angrily. He lunged at Aramis with a shout, a black mask flickering in and out of existence over his face.
Aramis retreated several stumbled steps, hand flying to his sword. But his fingers grasped uselessly at nothing but air. He looked down in confusion to see his scabbard empty. Likewise, his main gauche and pistols were missing.
The sound of crunching snow brought his gaze back up and he stared in horror as he was surrounded on all sides by men in masks.
"You failed us all, Aramis!" Marsac's voice rang out.
Aramis gave a start as they all abruptly vanished. He was suddenly alone in the trees with nothing but the early morning fog.
"Marsac?" he called out.
There. Movement in the trees. He saw Marsac staring at him.
"Marsac, what's happening?" he asked, starting towards him. But Marsac just stared at him. "Marsac?"
With a slow blink Marsac turned and started away from him.
"Marsac?!"
Aramis made to step after him, but pulled up short when two blades crossed each other with a ringing of steel just in front of him. He stumbled back, away from the duel, and turned. There was a battle raging around him. The sound of steel on steel rang loudly in Aramis' head, which now pounded painfully with every beat of his heart. He stumbled as his legs abruptly threatened to go out from under him and pain blossomed on his side even as he became aware of the warm wetness of blood soaking his shirt.
The pain in his head magnified as the sounds of battle grew louder, almost deafening…
Aramis woke abruptly, eyes flashing open at the sound of clashing steel.
He surged drunkenly to his feet, numb hands finding the hilt of a fallen sword by instinct alone and bringing it up in defense. He parried clumsily, his legs threatening to give out. The world swam around him, the snow a dizzying array of white and red.
He swung the sword, sure he was moments from being skewered.
But no blade fell. No point pierced his frozen skin.
He stumbled, boots catching on something soft, and he fell, the world going momentarily black. When his vision hazily returned, he drew in a shuddering breath. The sounds of battle had faded, perhaps never having been there at all.
Clumsily, he tried to move his legs, lifting his throbbing head to see what had tripped him.
Another boot was tangled with his. He blinked blankly, unable to process what his eyes were showing him.
He followed the boot up the leg it was covering, across a bloody torso to a bloody face.
Jacques.
Energy surged through his veins like a bolt of lightning. His hands dug frantically into the snow and he pushed away from the unseeing eyes of his friend. He scrambled backwards through the snow until his hands met resistance.
He twisted, eyes widening as his realized he'd retreated into another body.
Lamar.
Nausea that had been lingering like a predator waiting to pounce overcame him and he was violently sick. When he finally forced his heaving stomach back under control, he dragged a shaking hand over his mouth and tried to catch his breath.
He raised his gaze then, taking in the gruesome scene around him.
The dead were everywhere.
Like a shot from a pistol he was suddenly moving, numb hands resting on the chests of the fallen, feeling for movement, feeling for the rise of breath. He knew already his icy fingers would not be able to feel the pulse of blood through veins. But as long as there was breath, there was life.
One by one, he stumbled from body to body. Twice more he expelled the contents of his stomach, though there was little to be rid of but acidic bile which left him painfully heaving only air.
One by one, he found his brothers dead.
Until Remy.
It was so faint he almost missed it, but the movement of his ribs was there. Aramis shook the unconscious man and calling his name.
"Remy!" he shouted, voice hoarse.
There was no response. He scanned his brother's body, finding a deep bloody gash in the man's temple but no other injury. His hand drifted to brush across his own throbbing head and he was startled to find a bandage there. He didn't know who had tended him, or where that person was now, but at least it spurred him into action. He tore a strip off his own shirt, carefully winding the cloth around Remy's head. He frowned worriedly when there was a faint give beneath his fingers as he brushed across the place of Remy's wound. He did not know what that might mean, but he knew that there was little he could do regardless. He reached for a nearby abandoned bedroll and spread the blanket over the fallen Musketeer.
Having exhausted what little he knew of tending injuries, he sat back, at a loss for what else to do.
"I will return, brother," he promised the unconscious man before rising on unsteady legs to continue his search.
He was disappointed six more times before he found another rising chest.
Michel.
The gaping wound in the man's gut had Aramis wondering how he still managed to cling to life.
"I'm here," Aramis assured quietly as he ripped more of his shirt, binding the wound as best he could. He retrieved another bed roll and covered him as he had Remy. He was just mustering the strength to keep searching when a weak moan had every one of his muscles locking up.
A glance at Michel's face revealed fluttering eyelids and faintly parted lips. Simultaneously energized and terrified by this development, Aramis crowded closer, hovering over his comrade and lightly touching the side of his face.
"Michel," he called gently, urging the other man to consciousness.
He was rewarded by a glimpse at Michel's green gaze. A moment later, the fallen soldier managed to force his eyes open more steadily, blinking blearily at Aramis through a haze of fresh moisture.
"A'mis?"
"Yes, I'm here, brother. You're going to be fine," he lied, not daring to let his gaze drift down to the bloody, deadly wound on Michel's gut. "You'll be fine," he assured again, careful to keep his voice gentle and calm – betraying none of his own fear and anxiety.
"H-h'lp m-m-me…" Michel pleaded in a soft, broken voice, breaths stuttering with pain and weakness.
"Of course I will," Aramis promised, lifting Michel's hand from the ground to wrap it between both of his. "I'll help you and you'll be fine."
Green eyes stayed locked on him, never straying, barely blinking. Aramis did not dare look away.
"H'lp-p m-me…" Michel begged again, voice fading even as he spoke.
Aramis swallowed thickly, tightening his hold on the hand between his.
"I will," he vowed when all he wanted to say was 'I'm sorry'.
Michel's gaze relaxed slightly, losing a bit of focus as he stared at Aramis.
"You'll be fine," he lied again even as his heart cried out 'I don't know what to do.'
He felt the feeble strength in Michel's fingers trickle away to nothing and watched, never looking away, as the spark of life faded from his eyes.
"Michel?" he whispered when something eerily still stole across the fallen soldier's features.
But Aramis knew there would be no answer. Michel was gone. Stolen away to rest forever with his brothers.
"Lo siento, mi hermano," (I'm sorry, my brother,) Aramis whispered raggedly, reaching with a shaking hand to gently close Michel's eyes. "I'm so very sorry."
It took a long time for him to force himself to move, to relinquish Michel's cold hand and continue his search. And even as he moved on, leaving Michel behind, he could not forget those green eyes, locked on his, or that shaking voice, begging for help.
Help he could not give. Help he did not know how to give.
Four more dead Musketeers and his search ended.
There was no one else. Whichever attackers had been killed, those who survived had apparently spirited away the bodies of their comrades.
There was no one else.
Except…
"Marsac?" he spoke the name uncertainly, reviewing the faces of the dead in his mind.
No, Marsac had not been among them.
He pushed to his feet, stumbling a step before his balance betrayed him – whether it was the head or knife wound that made him weak didn't really matter. Either way he was on the ground again.
"Marsac!" he called out, throat tightening painfully. There was no response to his shout, no stirring in the trees, no movement in the snow.
He was alone.
Except he wasn't – Remy.
Aramis scrambled back towards his only surviving brother. Once there, he searched the area. Finding an abandoned doublet in the snow, he shrugged into it and wrapped the worn leather around his body, shivering against the cold.
"Remy," he called, touching his brother's shoulder. "Estoy aquí, hermano." (I'm here, brother.)
Remy didn't stir. Aramis pressed his palm to Remy's chest, holding his breath until he felt the vague rise and fall against his hand. He lowered his throbbing head to rest against Remy's arm, keeping his palm pressed against the injured man's ribs as darkness consumed him again.
A faint flutter against his palm drew Aramis back to consciousness and he forced his eyes open. His head was down, forehead pressed against something cold but soft. Another stuttering movement against his hand brought a hazy memory fluttered through his mind.
Remy.
His head snapped up so fast his vision swam drunkenly and it was all he could do not to once again heave up food he didn't have in his stomach.
When his vision steadied, he studied Remy's face, pressing his hand harder against his chest.
Another vague stuttering breath, a pause, a faint exhale, then…nothing.
"No…" Aramis tightened his hand into a fist, twisting it into Remy's shirt. "NO!"
He could only stare, eyes wide and disbelieving.
His gaze shifted to the makeshift bandage on Remy's head, puzzling over how it got there. And as he wondered about that he started trying to recall how he had come to be at Remy's side. His recent memory was a stilted, broken thing. Few events remained in any semblance of order and those that did were muddled and hazy.
He drew in a slow controlled breath. He had to focus. If Remy had been alive, there could be others. Remy couldn't be the only one to survive.
He would check the others for signs of life.
He slowly climbed to his hands and knees, then pushed carefully to his feet.
He stumbled from body to body, checking patiently for other survivors. He found not one. He collapsed numbly to his knees in the middle of the carnage, gaze shifting slowly from body to body.
His heart started to pound harder within his chest, increasing the throbbing in his head.
The roaming of his gaze grew more frantic as the truth of his dire situation started to make itself known.
He was alone.
Alone in field of the dead.
Where was Marsac?
Had he found his body?
Confused thoughts tumbled together, making his head throb even worse.
"Dead," he whispered as the light around him dimmed. "Todos muertos…" (All dead…) he mumbled.
All dead. All but him.
The light in the forest dimmed further. Had night fallen so quickly?
Cold wetness seeped into his back and he realized he was on the ground, staring up at the dimming sky.
Or maybe it wasn't the sky that was dimming after all…
March 30, 1625
Musketeer Encampment, Savoy
When he woke again, it was to darkness.
He rolled his head to the left, gaze landing immediately on the bloody face of a fellow Musketeer.
He scrambled to sitting, limbs heavy and numb with cold. His breath crystallized before his face as he looked around the camp, eyes skipping from one body to the next.
Dios mio… (My God…)
The field was painted in red, the bodies of his fellow Musketeers scattered around him like leaves fallen from a tree. He crawled frantically through the snow to the nearest of the bodies, pressing his hand hard on the fallen man's chest, feeling for signs of life.
There was none. His eye caught sight of a bandage wrapped around another fallen soldier's head. His leg would not support him long, but he managed to make it to the man's side.
Remy.
His search found no vital signs, but someone had put that bandage there, hastily applied as it was.
He raised his gaze again, searching the immediate area.
There was no movement but that of the trees rustling in the wind.
But someone had to be here, someone had to have treated Remy's wound.
A faint, disjointed memory of Marsac walking through the snow rolled through his mind.
"Marsac," he whispered in relief.
Marsac was alive. Feeling a renewed sense of purpose, Aramis forced himself to standing. He snatched up a stick and grasped it as a cane to help him move towards his friend.
Marsac had surely gone for wood to make a fire, to keep them warm until help arrived.
Aramis made slow, painful progress through the field of battle.
"Marsac?" he called warily, picking his way carefully through the trees. He leaned heavily on his walking stick as he searched for his friend.
Marsac was nowhere near.
He had not responded to his calls.
The darkness had begun to give away to dawn by the time he stumbled back to the camp.
Aramis slowed to a stop when he saw the scene awaiting him upon his return.
Crows.
Crows were feasting on his fallen brothers.
Somewhere deep within, he found the strength to run.
"Hey!" he shouted, waving his stick like a blade. "Leave them be, demonios!" (devils!)
The birds scattered at his shout, fleeing with panicked caws.
When the last one had disappeared into the sky, Aramis felt his strength leave him.
He melted to his knees, eyes scanning the unmoving forms of his brothers.
Had any survived? As he pressed his hand to the chest of the one nearest him, his eyes settled on the fallen soldier's face.
The skin had gone beyond pale, had shifted to an odd tinge of blue.
This man was dead…had been for hours now, or days.
Aramis looked around in confusion, hand drifting to his head. He drew it back in shock when his numb fingers brushed a bandage, igniting new pain in his already throbbing skull.
Had he been injured? When had he…?
He shook his head slowly in confusion, looking down again at the near frozen body next to him.
How many times had he checked this man for life? How many times had he stumbled from body to body, hoping to find a brother alive?
Vague, blurred memories floated through his mind.
Todos muertos…
He closed his eyes in sorrow. His head injury was severe, that much had just become clear. Any of his brothers that may have needed his help had not gotten it. He'd been too lost in his own confusion to be of any use.
But there was one thing he could do for his fallen brothers.
He carefully took the nearest hand he could find into his own and ritualistically touched the man's forehead with the other.
"Go with God, Alain," he murmured before closing his eyes and offering a brief prayer. It was not much, as last rites went, but he was so very tired. He did not think God would fault him for the brevity. He had an entire camp full of brothers to perform it for, after all.
And so he slowly made his way through his fallen comrades, offering up one final prayer for their souls, until he found himself at Michel's side.
As he stared down at the murdered Musketeer, a whisper of a memory fluttered through his mind.
"H-h'lp m-m-me…"
A flash of fading green eyes appeared before him and he watched for a second time as the light in them was snuffed out. And once again, he felt the weight of his helpless failure.
"Go with God, Michel…Lo siento mucho." (I'm so sorry.) He closed his eyes and drew a breath, saying the final prayer for his last brother.
He would die here, among them. All men must die and his day had come.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes, turning them towards the heavens, drawing in a breath to do his best to prepare himself for death. But something just on the edge of his vision caught his eye.
The remnants of a fire.
He blinked and cast a curious glance back up at the early morning sky.
A sign from God?
Perhaps it was not yet his day to die after all.
He blamed the wound on his head for not thinking of it sooner. Pushing to his feet with a frantic sort of determination, he stumbled through the trees with the aid of his walking stick, retrieving as much wood as he could carry in one arm.
Perhaps a fire would bring the enemy back down upon him, but it hardly mattered now.
Without it, the cold would claim him and he'd much rather die by the sword.
It took a pitifully long amount of time, but eventually he had a fire burning.
He curled as close to it as he could without setting his skin alight and prayed to God that it would be enough.
Death may still come for him yet, but he would not greet it willingly.
This was not his day to die.
March 31, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris
Porthos idly dug the point of his main gauche into the top of the table as he sat in the yard. Most others were on duty at the moment and he was scheduled to relieve Pierre at the palace in an hour.
Aramis had been gone now for two long weeks. He was not due back for two more.
The Garrison was lonely without him; quieter too.
For as much as he'd known Aramis was a beacon of light amongst them, he hadn't truly appreciated it until the other man was gone. It was as Porthos imagined it would be had he never met Aramis at all. He was alone and adrift amongst his supposed brethren.
Things had improved in some ways. Aramis had been right, that night in the tavern, when he'd encouraged Porthos to see the positives in being left behind.
He had proven his place here. He had gained the respect of those that remained, when it came to his duty at least. He'd worked long and hard and had done his best to show them his worth.
They no longer looked at him as if he did not belong among them.
But neither did they invite him to their tables or offer any other overtures of friendship. His own attempts to bridge that divide had been brushed aside or politely declined.
They accepted him as a comrade, but did not want to be his friend.
He had Aramis, though, and that would be enough.
Thoughts of the marksman had him thinking of the letter Treville had shared with him several days ago. The first half of it had been a proper report and update on the training mission. But the second half had all but glowed with the bright energy that was Aramis.
He'd told jokes and stories about the trip so far. As Treville had let him read it, Porthos had nearly been able to hear Aramis' light laughter rising off the page.
The marksman finished the letter with an earnest plea for Treville to have Porthos look after Esmé, who had tweaked her leg on a loose cobblestone only moments after Aramis had ridden her out of the Garrison. She'd been returned to her stall and a replacement mount had been saddled. Aramis had fretted over her for as long as he could before he'd been forced to be on his way.
Porthos had looked in on her several times, assuring her in as soothing a voice as he could manage that her master would be home soon. She had looked at him oddly every time, as if Porthos had no business bothering her during her convalescence.
But two days ago something had changed. Porthos had gone to see her before breakfast and she'd been nearly frantic in her stall, kicking at the door until she had finally worn herself out. Porthos had stayed with her a long time after that, trying to coax her into eating, but she refused.
She'd been in the same depressed state ever since, though he'd been able to convince her to eat an apple here and there.
When he had mentioned the odd behavior to Treville, the man had frowned and then shaken his head.
"She's always been temperamental. She misses Aramis, that's all."
And she wasn't the only one. Porthos was not ashamed to admit he missed the other man as well. Even Treville seemed to feel his absence. Porthos had seen him, more than once, look to his side and open his mouth, only to shut it when he realized no one was standing at his shoulder.
Porthos was startled from his thoughts when a horse came through the gate at a fast canter, coming to an abrupt stop as the rider vaulted from the saddle.
"Captain!" the man shouted as he ran up the steps to Treville's office.
He made it to the door just as Treville opened it.
Porthos watched, wide eyed as they both disappeared inside.
Something sour settled in his stomach.
Something had gone terribly wrong somewhere. He could feel it.
Not more than two minutes later Treville came bursting from his office.
"Porthos!" he shouted as he all but flew down the stairs.
"Captain?" he replied, instantly rising.
"Gather your things and pack your horse. Demonte! Gaston!" The two men Treville shouted for appeared from the stable. "Pack your horses! We leave immediately!"
"Where are we going?" Porthos asked before he could reign in his tongue.
The look the captain sent him chilled him right to his core.
"Savoy."
In ten minutes' time they were riding hard out of Paris. They barely slowed until the horses tired. Then, they simply exchanged their mounts for fresh ones at the next town and continued their frantic pace.
It wasn't until night had deeply fallen that Treville slowed and ordered them to make camp.
Porthos, Gaston, and Demonte obeyed immediately, all of them exhausted. They saw to the horses and quickly made a fire, tearing into their rations and reclining on their bedrolls.
Treville sat pensively on a fallen log and stared into the flames.
"Captain?" Gaston prodded carefully. "What's happened?"
Treville shook himself, as if waking from a trance. He took a deep breath and met each of their eyes in turn.
"I received an emergency dispatch, carried by a pigeon to the palace and then brought to me." He shook his head and rubbed at his beard. "I'd sent a scout after them, something in my gut not letting me rest."
"After Aramis and the men?" Demonte questioned.
Treville nodded.
Porthos felt his mouth go dry and his rations suddenly lost their taste.
"What did the dispatch say?" he asked warily.
Treville met his eyes across the dancing flames of the fire.
"Our men in Savoy were attacked, massacred in the night."
The blunt statement seemed to forcefully draw the air from Porthos' lungs.
"All of them?" Gaston gasped, face gone suddenly pale.
Treville nodded solemnly.
"The dispatch said no survivors."
Porthos collapsed back onto his bedroll, staring up at the stars.
Twenty-two men, gone.
Aramis.
Aramis and his kind eyes and teasing grin. Dead.
Porthos turned his head, looking at Treville with horrified eyes.
The captain was pale, eyes fixed on the flames once more. He spoke again without looking at them.
"We ride hard. We exchange our horses in whatever town is convenient. When we near Savoy, we'll commandeer a cart." Treville's voice broke as he went on. "We'll bring them home."
Porthos raised his eyes back to the heavens, thinking of the cross Aramis always wore around his neck, of the God his friend had always spoken of with reverence.
What God did this? What God robbed the world of twenty-two honorable, brave men? No matter their treatment of him, he knew without a doubt that not one of them had deserved such a fate.
And Aramis…
What God put a man who shone as brightly as Aramis into the world only to snuff him out so cruelly?
Out of nowhere, Porthos thought of Esmé.
She would never be the same after this. She would never be ridden again. She would never eagerly poke her head out of her stall at the sound of her master's voice. She'd lost the only friend she had in this world.
And she had known it days ago. Her frantic behavior made sense now. Her depression even more.
She had known he was gone.
Hot tears stung his eyes and threatened to fall. He did not bother to hold them back, instead he just rolled away from the fire so the others did not see.
Esmé had lost her only friend.
And in that moment, it felt that so had he.
April 3, 1625
Musketeer Encampment, Savoy
"Mamá…" Aramis mumbled as consciousness sluggishly returned. Her voice, carried to him on a gentle breeze, whispered through his thoughts as he clutched at the memory from his dream. He'd dreamt of her – of her smile, her voice. He dreamt of her arms around him, warming him. Of her lips on his brow, kissing away the pain.
He blinked up at the branches above him, trying vainly to remember when he'd last felt anything but pain, the last time he'd been truly warm.
Sé valiente, mi pequeño aventurero. Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. Sé amable, mi pequeño amor.
"Mamá…" he called again as her voice floated through his mind.
Her final words to him, spoken thirteen long years ago, brought tears to his eyes.
Be brave, my little adventurer. Be strong, my little warrior. Be kind, my little love.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Lo siento mucho, Mamá." (I'm so sorry, Mama.)
The mixing languages fumbled off his tongue, drawing his wavering attention to the fact that he'd spoken both French and Spanish. This realization galvanized him to focus more fully on his situation.
Since he was a child, in moments of distress or pain, he tended to blend languages. His mother had been a full blooded Spaniard and had brought him up with that language on her tongue. But he had also been raised within French borders and had learned the native language hand in hand with the Spanish spoken within their family.
He was fluent in both, able to switch between them without a thought, often confusing those around him when the situation warranted it. It had been convenient, having been raised on the border of Spain, to be able to pretend to be whichever nationality suited him in the moment.
But there had been times in his life when he unintentionally blended languages, and what he'd learned from those events was that he only ever spoke Spanish without actually realizing it when something was horribly wrong.
He'd done this when he'd argued with his father that final time, years ago now. He'd been so angry, so hurt, by all that had happened. He'd not realized that he had been changing back and forth between French and Spanish until his father had yelled at him to stop speaking 'that cursed tongue'. The conversation, which had already been rapidly declining, had deteriorated even further. That fight had ended with him being summarily disowned. All that had made him René d'Herblay had been stripped away forever, leaving only Aramis. It had been a relief, in the end, to return to the name his mother had given him. To leave his father, his world of lies, and the d'Herblay name behind.
He'd mixed languages after the mess with Medina as well. Treville had found him, bleeding and dying from a musket ball to the chest, and he'd slurred back and forth between his two native tongues. He hadn't known it then, either, until Treville had quietly whispered that he did not understand. Treville, he later learned, had made it a point to learn the Spanish language after that.
He groaned and forced himself to rise onto his elbows.
His head throbbed, threatening to send him crashing right back down.
Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)
Stubbornly clenching his jaw, Aramis forced himself up the rest of the way into a hunched sitting position. Blearily, he looked around him.
A tin cup was on the ground next to him, the water in it – snow melted by his fire so he did not die of thirst – had frozen solid. He blinked at it and then shifted it back to rest in the coals of the fire.
How much time had passed? How many days had it been?
He did not know. He'd lost too much time, due to unconsciousness and exhaustion both, to keep track of when day moved to night and back. The effects of his head wound had slowly started to fade. He'd woken some time ago – days perhaps? Or only hours? – to a gnawing hunger. His head, though it still pounded mercilessly, had been clear enough to urge him to search for food. He'd huddled into a second doublet as well, and had the presence of mind to warm rocks on the fire – and keeping that alive through his unpredictable bouts of unconsciousness had been a difficult chore – and then wrap them in scavenged cloths, tucking them into his borrowed doublets to warm his chest.
He could not help but think it was all for nothing.
The horses – as he'd found during one of his more lucid times of wakefulness – had been slaughtered and left to rot where they lay. He'd considered walking for help, but no matter how he tried, he could not seem to remember where exactly he was or where civilization might be found. Wandering aimlessly seemed a foolish thing to do, wounded as he was.
So he was left to wait for help that did not know to come.
He would die here, alone but for those already dead.
He had survived so much in his short life; he'd faced more than his fair share of dangers.
To have survived Darío Medina, and before that to have survived the overzealous command of Captain Barteaux, and earlier still to have survived the cruelty and lies of his father's world…
And he was going to die slowly and alone in a snowy forest, surrounded by his dead brothers.
He was so tired. Tired of fighting to survive when it was for nothing. It was a losing battle.
Who was he to argue if God had decided today was his day to die?
Se valiente, mi pequeño aventurero. (Be brave, my little adventurer.)
Be brave. He wanted to be, for her sake, but he did not know if he had it left in him to be anything anymore.
A sudden snarl had the poisonous and desolating thoughts receding in a flash.
His gaze sharpened, senses straining to place the unfamiliar sound.
He looked to his fire again. It was all but burned out. The rocks hidden in his doublet had cooled some time ago judging by the icy feeling of them against his chest.
He realized, with a dangerous sort of apathy, that he wasn't shivering quite as much as he had been when he'd fallen asleep. In fact, he didn't feel nearly as cold as he should.
Another snarl had him raising his gaze beyond the smoldering sticks.
Glowing yellow eyes met his across the fading embers of the fire.
A wolf.
A demon, sent by hell to claim him.
Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)
This was not his day to die. Not yet. Not like this. He would be strong.
He slowly slid his hand into his doublet, retrieving one of the rocks. The wolf growled, it's lips drawn back in a snarl as it regarded him. With numb fingers, he grasped his rock tightly and then threw it with all his might.
It smacked the wolf right in the snout, eliciting a pained yelp.
"¡Vete al infierno, demonio!" (Go to hell, demon!) he shouted. "Go!"
The wolf snarled again, retreating a step. It eyed his frozen brothers, seeming to realize they were easier prey.
"Not while I live!" Aramis growled, snatching a fallen sword from the snow and lurching across the glowing embers of the fire. "You'll not have them either, demonio!" (demon!)
He slashed at the wolf and it bared its teeth, snapping viciously at him.
It was a victory, of sorts. He had drawn its attention away from his defenseless brethren and squarely back to himself. It circled, a feral growl rising in its throat.
"Come then," he taunted, leading the animal further into the trees, away from his brothers.
One benefit of the icy temperatures was that his body was mostly numb; whatever pain he should be feeling may as well not exist. It made keeping his leg beneath him a less impossible task.
"Veremos quien muera hoy," (We will see who dies today,) he snarled at the wolf as it circled him.
In response, the animal simply lunged for his throat. Aramis' waiting blade slid through the beast's chest, its weight bringing him heavily to the ground. The back of his head thumped painfully against the forest floor, sending sparks of white exploding across his vision.
For a long time he just laid there, the body of the wolf sprawled uncomfortably across his chest. When he finally did muster the strength and will to wriggle out from under the beast, it was only really because he was startled out of his apathy by the sprinkle of rain on his face. Even so, it took a pitifully long amount of time and more energy than he had to give.
By the time he was free of the creature's weight, Aramis was spent.
The rain continued to fall, heavier than it had before. And though the leather of his borrowed doublets would protect him for a time, it was not a permanent solution. He knew he needed to get back to his fire and erect some sort of shelter over it so the rain would not put it out. He knew if he didn't, his chances of survival fell considerably.
He found, though, that he lacked the strength to stand, much less walk. So he dug his elbows into the forest floor and dragged himself away from the wolf. He fixed his gaze on the sputtering flame and threw every last bit of everything he had into getting to it.
He hardly noticed the pulsing pain in his head. When the world started blurring around him, he ignored it. He didn't hear his own voice as he gasped out a desperate litany of practiced prayers in a mixture of languages. His focus was narrowed, intent only on his goal.
He watched through fading vision, still too far away to stop it, as his fire finally gave up the fight and sputtered out. Still, though, he clawed his way towards it. It was either that or give up and surrender to inevitable death. He'd never had it in him to give up on anything, even when he should. It was this ingrained stubbornness that kept him moving right up until his vision flickered out and consciousness fled.
End of Chapter Four
A bit early tonight because my oldest is staying the night at his grandparents so I had one less minion (I mean child) to put to bed.
So Treville and Porthos are on the way! Aramis is in bad shape, though, hope they're fast enough ;) We've been moving through days, as tracked in the 'time stamp' type notations at the start of certain sections. That should give you an idea of the passage of time. Tune in tomorrow for the next addition to this tale!
Drop me a line if you feel inclined. I love me a review to brighten up my days!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"Oh God," Porthos breathed, eyes stinging as he took in the bandages and the blood. Aramis had survived the attack. He'd been out here, alone, amidst a field of the dead while that cursed scout drank himself to oblivion.
"Here!" he called out hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He pressed his hand against Aramis' chest, already dreading the stillness he feared would greet him. "It's Aramis," he announced, voice tight. "He's…" he was ready to say 'dead'. The word had formed on his lips.
But then, so faint he'd nearly missed it, there was a weak rise of ribs against his palm. Sure he had imagined it, he leaned over, pressing his ear to the man's chest. A faint, but steady thump was his reward.
"Alive…" he breathed in shock. Then hope flooded him. "He's alive!" He shouted to the others.