Ghosts

by Karri

Summary: s1e1 tag - a busy day should mean a good night's sleep, right? Not when there are ghosts waiting in the darkness.

oOoOoOoOo

"Adele! Adele! ADELE!" Aramis shouted. He knew in his heart it was in vain, but he couldn't quite stop himself. Gradually, though, Aramis grew aware of the amount of unwanted attention his shouts were garnering, and self-consciousness (as well as, self-preservation) overcame heartache.

Falling silent, Aramis turned away from Adele's apartment. He let his feet carry him toward the garrison more by habit than conscious thought, his mind too mired in swirling anguish to direct him.

It did not take much reasoning to comprehend what had happened. The cardinal had grown suspicious; thus, to alleviate his doubts, Adele had agreed to join him in the country. She left me! Chose the Cardinal over me!

"No!" Aramis murmured aloud, stopping abruptly. She did not leave me! She was stolen away! Just as Isabel was stolen away!

Anger replacing anguish, Aramis squared his shoulders and strode purposefully back to the garrison and to his quarters. The fiery spark had burnt out, though, by the time he stripped off his leathers. Between saving Athos and losing Adele, he was exhausted and flopped onto his bed, not caring that he was still mostly dressed.

Sleep found him quickly enough – nearly before his head hit the mattress. Rest, however, was another thing, altogether. His mind played relentlessly with the events of the day, mixing up the elements and piecing them back together haphazardly, until he'd tossed and turned his blankets into a tangled mess around him.

"Athos!" he shouted. The muskets were ready – aimed and cocked! They weren't going to make it!

Bam! They fired so near in unison that it seemed one sound as the shock of his failure rocked him back on his heels. He froze, only for a breath, though, and then more tumbled than ran the remaining feet to his fallen brother.

Gathering the limp body in his arms, Aramis ran a hand over Adele's curls, once so beautiful, now tangled haphazardly around her pale, lifeless face. She stared up at him with such shock, as though she'd never doubted he would save her. But he had failed! He had failed her!

Unable to bare the accusation in her dead eyes any longer, Aramis pulled her to him and wept into her wimple. The chill air seemed to seep into his bones as he cried, and soon his arms ached from the effort of holding the stiff, frozen body up off the ground. Laying her down gently, he gazed into Isabel's sweet, innocent face. She seemed so peaceful, so angelic. There was no accusation in those eyes, only love, so much love.

Love for him? How could that be? He'd failed her! She was dead because of HIM! How could there be any love left? He didn't deserve it!

Unable to bear it, Aramis, stumbled back…and fell gracelessly onto his rump as he tripped over… What was it?

His breath caught in his throat as he recognized it as a frozen arm. Scrambling away, he pushed himself to his feet and approached the frozen body, seeking a face to go with the arm. Cornay! It was Cornay! But he was supposed to find him! Bring him back! Cornay's dead eyes stared up at him from the frozen ground. He had failed! Failed again!

Spinning away from the accusation in those eyes, Aramis nearly trod upon another body. A scream rose in his throat as he turned a slow circle that revealed bodies all around him—snow-covered, broken and bloodied, shock and accusation in their frozen faces. He had failed! Failed all of them!

He tried to scramble away, but a hand caught at his boot. He followed it to another body; this one, different—not snow covered, but soot covered. As bleeding and broken as the others, this one was not yet lifeless or frozen.

"Aramis," a weak voice called as a quivering hand reached out to him.

But as Aramis moved toward the hand, another voice called from behind, "Aramis!"

He tried to spin, tried to see from where the second voice had come, but then came a third, "Aramis!"

He twisted around, trying to find them. They were dying! They needed him! He was failing…failing AGAIN!

He stumbled. Falling…bam! His shoulder was on fire! But they needed him! No, no! They were dead! They were all dead! He had failed!

Aramis woke gasping for air as tears trickled down his cheeks. I'm on the floor, was his first coherent thought. His shoulder hurt, and he rubbed it distractedly. I must have landed on it when I fell out of bed, he mused as he tried to rise.

Aramis quickly realized that his feet were too tangled in blankets. That is what tripped me, not a dead friend, he reasoned, hoping calm logic would banish away the last vestiges of the nightmare. But as he freed himself from the blankets and stood, his heart still thudded with residual panic, and he knew there'd be no sleep for him again soon.

Aramis raked a hand through his unruly curls as he considered his options. I could try to sleep. Even if it eludes me, I will still have some rest. But the notion of closing his eyes again with all those ghosts waiting for him in the darkness made him shudder.Perhaps a stroll and some fresh air…he decided. I'm already dressed, afterall.

He wandered aimlessly from his quarters, or at least that had been his intent. Yet he found himself, as seemed so often the case when his mind was troubled, at the supper table. This is foolish, he mused. The ghosts will find as easily sitting here as sitting in my quarters.

He knew, though, why his feet had brought him here – Old Serge. The old soldier knew what it was to be plagued by ghosts, and somehow, whether he spoke of them or not, that made Aramis's own easier to bear.

Yet, it is the middle of the night. No one, not even the Captain, will be wandering around for hours yet, Aramis observed with a twinge of loneliness. Athos is likely still curled up with a bottle. Porthos…he'll be curled up in his bed, if he's not found a card game to distract him from sleep.

He sucked in a slow, resigned breath. There'll be no escaping my ghosts tonite, I fear, not with Adele gone away.

"Aramis?" came a questioning voice that had him twisting around to find the speaker.

"Serge," he replied, a smile on his lips and more than a little relief in his voice.

"Want some breakfast?" the old soldier-turned-cook asked amiably, as though it were a common place occurrence to have men at his table in the middle of the night.

I suppose for a time, it was, Aramis acknowledged. He'd spent quite a few nights avoiding his ghosts by sitting at this supper table after Savoy.

"Nothing ready yet, but I can whip something up right quick," Serge added.

"No, thank you," Aramis answered.

Serge replied with a nonchalant shrug, but the look in his eyes said differently, and Aramis smiled a little to himself, knowing the old soldier was on to him.

"May as well make yourself useful, then," Serge replied. "Got a whole pile of turnips that need peeling and slicing before the sun comes up and these lads start clamoring for their breakfast. Come on," he urged. "Busy hands, thems the best cure for what ails ya…"

To which Aramis could only nod, as he pushed himself to his feet and followed the old soldier to his kitchen, sleeves pushed up and hands ready to work.

The end.