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This must be Hell, Athos thinks as flames engulf him and claws rip at his flesh.
He cannot remember dying - not the moment it happened, not the slipping away, the plunge, the flutter of black wings. But he remembers what brought him to the edge, remembers the bite of a musket ball, the frantic, bloody digging it out of his chest, the struggle for air and the fever that followed.
At some point, his brothers, always present at his side with soothing voices and gentle hands, had begun to flicker and fade into a grey haze - the smoke pouring out of Hell’s mouth? It must have taken him, then, against their desperate efforts, against his tired will. Against it?
He’s not entirely sure.
Something in him had welcomed the tug of the darkness. As much light as Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan have brought into his life, Anne’s shadow never stopped haunting him. And the guilt never stopped scratching at his soul, like demons gnawing at the pillars that kept him upright - the Musketeers; the missions; his brothers. Swords drawn, arms over shoulders, side by side, they’d helped him keep the pain at bay.
Wine had helped, too. The devil’s red temptation. Red like the blood that had poured out of him when the musket ball had shredded through tissue and bone.
He is burning now. Black, red, orange, yellow. An inferno blazes around him, carries him along in howling triumph.
A shape forms out of curling smoke. Slender, feminine, feral. Feline green eyes impale him with their hateful stare, wild love hidden underneath. She’s a beast, a wonderful, terrifying spawn of Hell. She’s a fallen angel, doling out sweet, deadly torture.
Athos’ chest screams in pain as she punches right through his ribcage and grips his heart and squeezes.
“Athos! Breathe!”
Her voice… it’s not her voice. Instead, it’s a deep, resonant baritone. It’s a command and, soldier that he is, Athos complies. In spite of painpainpain, he draws in a breath that seems to scorch his lungs.
“Yes! Come on, breathe!”
A second voice, a melodious tenor. A second breath, less fiery, less painful. He feels his lungs fill with precious air. The colors around him dim and become less menacing. Anne? Her eyes darken, green bleeding into deep, warm brown. Her hand - someone’s hand - is no longer in his chest, but on it, gentle, careful, coaxing.
The smoke clears a little.
A face - tired, bearded, scarred, hovers above him. That’s—
“Ar-... Aram-...?”
Athos can’t bring out the name; everything hurts too much - his throat, his chest, his whole body charred by the fever. But he knows the man bent over him, knows the other two faces hovering at the blurry edge of his vision.
“Yes, it’s me,” Aramis says, in that calm voice that lays itself over fear like a blanket. “Keep breathing, Athos. Don’t talk. Save your strength. Just stay alive. That’s all you have to do for now.”
The fever still roaring, Athos sees the walls around him warp and bulge. Heat rolls through his body in waves. The wound is a hot poker in his chest.
But this isn’t Hell. This is the garrison.
Anne is gone.
His brothers are here.
Porthos. Aramis. D’Artagnan.
So Athos listens and keeps breathing.