I KNOW
By Deana

My entry for the May 'Fetes des Mousquetaires' contest: Betrayal.

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"Aramis? Aramis?"

The words seemed to drift through a sea of muck, but he heard them. He heard the words, but he couldn't respond.

"Aramis! You're awake!"

He heard the words, which were obvious by the pain that gripped him, but he couldn't respond.

"Aramis, how does your head feel?"

He heard the words, he felt someone's gentle touch, but even though he wanted to, he couldn't respond.

"Aramis, do you know who we are?"

Aramis knew, of course he knew, but he couldn't respond.

"Do you know where you are?"

That question gave him pause, and he was unsure of the answer at first, but still, he couldn't respond.

"Aramis? Drink this."

He heard the words and felt someone lift him up slightly. He felt the pain in his concussed head and his stabbed side from the movement, but he couldn't respond.

He did, however, drink. It was his special pain-killing tea, and his first reaction would've been to thank whoever had given it to him, but he couldn't respond.

"Aramis, are you hungry?"

He wasn't, but he couldn't respond. He occasionally let them feed him soup, but that was all.

"Aramis, are you cold?"

He was; he felt freezing inside and out, as if he'd never be warm again, but he couldn't respond.

"Aramis, do you remember what happened?"

He did remember, but he couldn't understand why it had happened, and so, he couldn't respond.

"I've never seen you this quiet since the day we met," someone said. "Can you say something, Aramis? Anything?"

Aramis didn't even try to speak; he couldn't respond.

The sun rose and the sun set as time slowly passed. Minutes, hours, days…he had no concept of time; he simply couldn't respond.

"Aramis?"

"Aramis?"

"Aramis?"

No matter what they said, it didn't matter; he simply couldn't respond.

A pair of arms suddenly wrapped themselves around his aching body, and Aramis smelled something familiar. He knew this person…he knew him very well.

A handkerchief touched his face and he blinked; finally, finally, able to react to what was happening around him.

"Don't cry, Aramis, please don't cry."

Porthos. His name was Porthos. The strong arms that held him belonged to Porthos, and the handkerchief belonged to Athos.

Athos; the person who he suddenly realized was squeezing his shoulder.

Porthos' hand started rubbing his back, and Aramis closed his eyes, melting in the embrace. They'd asked him how he felt so many times, he remembered, but he hadn't been able to respond...until now.

"Betrayed," he whispered, his voice scratchy from weakness and disuse. "I feel…betrayed."

Porthos' arms tightened around him. "You're not in Savoy anymore, Aramis. You're home. Marsac betrayed you, but we never will. You know that, right?" The arms squeezed him even tighter. "Right?"

The handkerchief wiped at his tears again, and Aramis reopened his eyes to see Athos watching him; his usually-expressionless eyes showing his true feelings, for once.

"Aramis?" said Porthos, squeezing him again.

Aramis realized that he was waiting for an answer. "Yes," he whispered. "I know."

THE END