d'Artagnan stared at the cellar door. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Knowing.
Watching. Watching for any sign—for a potentiality in truth— that he could escape under his own powers. He knew his brothers would never begrudge him for the inability to escape, but his Gascon pride was still boiling within him. It pushed him to struggle against his restraints until his wrists were shredded—bloody and bruised beyond recognition. So, in watching, the youngest recruit proceeded to have a one-sided staring contest with the wall, hoping in vain his glare could penetrate the obstacle between him and his freedom.
Waiting. Waiting in the absolute likelihood his brothers would find him, for, he knew, that no matter their condition they would still attempt to find and save him. Their brotherhood was a pact that bounded them closer than some blood relations. When one was missing the others would relentlessly search until their lost brother was found—or until the dreaded alternative, no matter how unconceivable a notion, was proved. He knew this as a fact. If any of his brothers were missing he would be driven to the same extreme. So, here d'Artagnan sat, waiting with the full expectation of a rescue.
Hoping. Hoping this was not the end of his journey serving at the glory of his sovereign, the King of France. That he would have another chance to see—and feel—the love of his life. That he would be able to whisper her name in a soft exhale and see his love—passionate through all else—reflected in her eyes. That he would once again be able to carry Athos home after a long night of drowning his sorrows. That he would once again be able to watch with glee as Aramis escaped from the irate husband of his most recent escapade. That he would once again be able lose at cards to Porthos, who would always gather his earning with a boisterous laugh. Hoping for the chance at more memories and adventures with his brothers.
Knowing. Knowing that despite his wounds—sluggishly bleeding and burning with infection—he could hold out until his brother arrived. When Athos would lead the way to his confinement with an impassive face, but eyes a murderous storm of rage and concern. When Aramis would race to his side, eyes filled with worry and prayers falling from his lips, but hands gentle as they efficiently sorted his injuries. When Porthos would raise hell with barely contained anger—a force no one wanted to recon with—and yet still carry him to safety with the gentleness that belied his enormous presence. Yes, d'Artagnan was steadfast in his faith that his brothers would travel to the ends of the earth to find him. And, with this faith, the young Gascon was content in knowing that he would soon find safety in their presence and comradery.