It was nearly impossible to take a breath, his strength was utterly spent as he swayed slightly in the aftermath of his most recent beating. He could feel dried blood, sticky in the midday sun down the side of his face and drying in his no longer well-kept hair and beard. His breathing came in gasps, before he had occasionally managed to grasp the rope which bound his wrists, and raise himself up so that he might take one uninhibited breath, but one of his crueller captors had noticed one time, when the blow came it was so unexpected that he had dropped, his full weight caught with a cruel jerk on his wrists.
He believes his right shoulder is dislocated, and his medical knowledge, so vitally needed when one of his friends had been hurt, now seemed like a curse. He knew that hanging like this, his full weight on his arms stretched above his head, wrists bound, one shoulder dislocated could easily mean permanent damage to the ligaments in his shoulder; his dominant shoulder. If the damage was permanent, it could mean a loss of mobility in his right arm, it could mean a discharge from the musketeers. Aramis heard footsteps approaching and the apprehension and fear had built to such an extent that if he had had the strength in his body he would have flinched.
Instead his stomach muscles do a weird twitch as the footsteps get closer. They don't want him dead he reminds himself, not yet. But still he finds himself reciting the prayers he had learnt from childhood, parched lips soundlessly twitching through the familiar Latin as he repents for all he is worth. Suddenly a solid surface appears beneath his feet and he struggles for several seconds before he can convince his feet to take his weight. His body is still stretched taught, his feet cannot quite lie flat on the surface, but he can breathe again.
When the rope stretching his hands above his head is lowered, to his shame in his weakness he cannot keep his balance, but there are strong arms behind him, holding him up, and a water skin is lifted to his lips, he drinks greedily. How long has it been since he last had water? A day? More? He thinks that he only passed one night like that but as he slowly suffocated the world had turned grey and it was hard to tell. The men are speaking but he cannot quite focus on the words. The voices are unfamiliar though, and as his vision returns he realises that this is no rescue, the cruel faces of his captors still surround him, ardent in their hatred of him.
The water is taken away too soon and a knife cuts through the rope at his wrists. He believes that the knife nicks his wrist slightly. There is a fiery pain when the rope is removed but his wrists were so torn and abraded from his own efforts to free himself that it is difficult to tell if the knife cut him or not, impossible to see, there is far too much blood for that.
The arms behind him that had been holding him upright release him and give him a light shove. Probably, he muses, intending for him to step down of the crate he had been standing on, but in his weakness and to his shame he finds himself falling face first into the mud. After a day bound in a painful position his arms are beyond useless and he is unable to catch himself. The impact jars him painfully, and he once again that his ribs are merely bruised or possibly cracked, not broken. If they are broken and he cannot escape then it is almost certain that one will puncture a lung, and that is one thing that there is no cure for.
Someone is kicking him, he realises through a haze of pain. Trying to persuade him to stand up, but his strength is spent and it is all he can do to lie still on the ground. Someone grasps his arms and pulls them behind him, tying his wrists again, although less tightly this time, then he is being by his shoulders, his right shoulder screams at the abuse and he thinks that he cries out, but is unsure. He is being half dragged, half carried between two men. He struggles to get his feet beneath him, and when he manages it, it relieves a little of the pressure on his injured shoulder. He is walking between them, faster than he is truly able to, towards Emilie's tent. His senses are returning to him now and he begin to push through the weakness and once again think like a soldier. They enter the tent and come to an abrupt stop. It takes a couple of seconds for Aramis to adjust to the dimmer light, but when he manages it what he sees makes his heart jump into his throat in horror, yearning and a multitude of other swirling feelings that he cannot quite understand.
Two Days earlier…
"She's sick she's touched in the head." Porthos was saying.
"She fainted while we were speaking with her, apparently she has had this affliction since she was a child." D'Artagnan added.
"Some people call that the sacred affliction. Perhaps she's genuinely blessed." Aramis added, he disagreed with his brothers here, war with Spain could be disastrous, and he could not believe that the lynch mob running around Paris murdering Spaniards but if God truly was speaking through this girl, he did not want to help the king cast her aside before ascertaining the truth.
The other men in the room looked at him sceptically, he stood to join them at the table, defending his point. "With faith, anything is possible. You should all try reading the Bible once in a while."
"Alright, Aramis." With the Captain's hand landing heavily on his shoulder Aramis realised that he may have said the wrong thing. "As you're the expert on God, you can deal with her. Go to the camp tonight, gain her trust, find out what her weaknesses are."
"I didn't become a musketeer to destroy an honest woman's reputation." Aramis protested.
"Would you rather see her march thousands of innocent people to a Spanish slaughterhouse?" Treville was adamant.
"What does the king say about all this? Will he meet her?" Athos's cultured tones came into the conversation.
"The king. He is busy, with affairs of state." Treville left the room, and Aramis resigned himself to his task.
"Go on then Aramis, after all, anything is possible with faith." Porthos was amused.
"Just because you choose not to put your trust in God, doesn't mean that I can abandon him so lightly." Aramis was on the defensive now, unhappy about the task he had been given.
"Do you think you can do it? I know you have a way with women Aramis but this girl is incredibly pious. A radical. You saw her this morning she ardently believes that God is speaking to her, no matter how irrational those delusions are. And you are saying that they might not be delusions? You were there this morning the girls mad! Besides it's quite clear that musketeers are not welcome in her camp." D'Artagnan was doubtful to say the least.
"You should go in as a deserter." Athos was the one for strategy as always. "It is well known that the king has refused to see her and that the authorities are hostile to her cause. If you go in as a musketeer, it is unlikely that you will learn anything of use. Claim that you were inspired by her words and claim to want to join her cause. Even if she doubts you a little a trained soldier is likely enough of a boon for her to accept you into the camp at the very least."
"A deserter?" Aramis understood the need for subterfuge but it made his stomach turn to think of abandoning his brothers, even as a ruse. But then, if D'Artagnan could do it so convincingly so could he.
"Indeed. Do you think you can report to us in two days, or would three be better? Allow you to further ingratiate yourself into the camp."
"I think three days, the longer I remain with her without making contact the more she will trust me. We should have a meeting place closer to her camp, just in case I feel I can learn more of interest by returning. Besides, the less I come and go the better I believe." Aramis was thinking strategically now, trying to put the moral implications of what he was doing aside for the moment.
"It's decided then I will ride with you most of the way tonight and we will set a meeting point. I believe it is better we do not set a meeting time, because there is no way of knowing what time you will be able to slip away." Aramis was grateful for Athos's professional attitude, especially as neither Porthos nor D'Artagnan were taking it seriously.
"Well then I will take my leave of you gentlemen and see you this evening." Aramis stood.
"Whose the lucky lady this time?" D'Artagnan smirked.
"A gentleman will never kiss and tell, but suffice to say that I would not want her to believe that I have stood her up, I would rather she still receive me when I return." And with that Aramis took his leave, intent on surprising Marguerite, and hopefully ensuring his welcome by explaining his absence for the next few days.
That evening…
Aramis and Athos rode through the woods at a light trot, leaving the path approximately thirty minutes walk before they reached Emilie's camp. They slow to a walk and keep going for about ten minutes before they reach a small clearing. There is a rocky outcrop at the edge nearer the camp providing some camouflage that would hide the light from a fire.
"You knew this was here." Aramis said as he dismounted, he removed the saddlebag and manoeuvred it so that it was over his shoulder but beneath his cloak.
"I did. This is the meeting place, it will take you approximately forty minutes to get here by road or if you cut through the woods, there is an animal trail that will lead you here in approximately fifteen minutes. I believe it is close enough to suit while being far enough away to be undetected."
"Well then, I shall see you in three days." Aramis said with a grin, as he passed his reigns to Athos, who was going to take her back to the garrison. Aramis turned to follow the animal trail towards the camp.
"And Aramis." Athos's voice rang out across the clearing. "Good luck." Aramis waved a hand in acknowledgement, before disappearing into the darkness of the forest.
Aramis followed the trail and found it emerged on the main trail, a couple of hundred yards from the river at the edge of the camp, but round a bend so that it was concealed from view. He raised his hood as he crossed the river, and was able to walk unnoticed through the men and women sharing company and food round campfires. He silently entered Emilie's tent. Meaning to explain how much he had been inspired by her words that morning. He never got the chance.
A man entered the tent, one he had noticed that morning, a fighter. He came at him, and Aramis was able to throw him aside, another came and Aramis's focus was completely on the fight, but as more men came, and he found himself facing more opponents at once hands, too numerous to belong to just one or two people were on his arms, forcing them back, restraining him, holding him in a position on his knees, torso bent forward, facing the ground. He strained his neck as he twisted to look at Emilie, who appeared shaken and startlingly young all of a sudden. His earlier words to the captain sprung to mind, I did not become a Musketeer to ruin an honest woman's reputation.
"He looks Spanish to me, kill him!" The Mother said, her eyes cold and cruel.
"I'm French" He tried to say, although it came out slightly blurred as he realised that he had made a gross miscalculation and he was now going to die for his mistake. He heard the weapon being raised above his head, tried desperately to brace himself for the impact, knowing it to be too small to take his head off in one swing and more than likely his death would be agonisingly drawn out over several seconds.
"Wait." That was Emilie. The hands holding him loosened ever so slightly so that he was able to kneel up and look into the room
"This man is a kings musketeer, I recognise him from this morning."
"I'm a deserter" Aramis quickly tried to recite his story. "I heard you preach. I was inspired. I've come to join your cause."
"I'm sorry but I don't believe you. However, you are one of the king's men and I love the king. These people have gathered here for him. We cannot make an act of aggression against him by killing one of his soldiers." Emilie seemed indecisive about the best course of action to take.
"Take him away, find out what he knows and why he's here." The Mother cut in and Aramis found himself being jerked to his feet and away, he was marched towards the edge of the camp and found himself being bound to the trunk of a tree. The ropes around his wrists so tight he can tell that it is only a matter of time before he looses circulation. He glares defiantly up at the jeering faces surrounding him. This has gone very, very wrong.
They do not ask questions. Not at first. At first they kick him, repeatedly, in the ribs, in the legs. At first he kicks back but his ankles are swiftly bound together and to a stake that is driven into the ground, holding him, not completely still, there is some small movement, but not in any way enough for him to remain a threat to them. It is all he can to attempt to roll with the blows, it feels as though his body has turned into little more than one massive bruise. His attempts to reason with them are quickly stopped, by a gag being forced into his mouth, cloth, slightly moist and stinking of sweat. The taste alone is enough to make him gag, but when a particularly vicious blow across the cheek snaps his head round. The gag probably saved him from biting through his tongue.
The abuse is so continuous that he thinks they must be doing it purely for the sport of it. He has in fact, almost forgotten that they will ask him question until finally they stop.
"That musketeer." Sneers the man who seems to be in charge, a weather beaten face with features that could have been genial were they not twisted into a cruel sneer. "Is just a small warning of the pain that awaits you should you choose not to answer our questions." The man's mousy brown hair is very thin Aramis notices, although he could not have been more than mid-thirties.
The words send a frisson of dread through Aramis's heart. When he had been captured before, although it was not in any way a regular occurrence, having occurred only a small handful of times over his decade as a soldier, twice his captors had thought to torture him for information. Apparently nobody had told them that torture very rarely yields accurate information, instead the victim tends to say whatever the other party wants to hear. But both previous times the instigators had been military men themselves, if not professional investigators. Men who knew the human body in intricate detail and exactly how much it could take, how much pain they could cause while giving the least amount of permanent damage. This knowledge in itself was terrifying. But these men who had him now, they were not military, they were farmers seized with zealous loyalty. No doubt they intended to keep him alive, but these men didn't know the limits of human endurance, and it would be frighteningly easy, Aramis realised, for them to kill him inadvertently, to go too far without ever meaning to. He didn't want to die.
He realised he was being unbound from the tree, the gag removed from his mouth. He was held fast in place although in truth in his current condition it was unlikely he would have been able to take even one of them out, and was methodically stripped until he was simply in his shirt and breeches, his weapons, jacket, hat, cloak, even his boots were taken from him. His wrists were refastened behind him and his feet bound and he was dragged over the rough ground to the edge of the jetty where he was dropped unceremoniously into the river. To effectively bound to swim Aramis found himself sinking, unable to take a breath. Did they mean to drown him?
The cold water burned as it forced its way into his lungs. Then there was a hand in his hair, lifting him to the surface. He gasped for breath. The questions began.
"Why are you here?"
"What were you hoping to achieve?"
"Were you sent as an assassin?"
"Why won't the king see Emilie?"
The only question Aramis answered was the accusation that he was an assassin, which he vehemently denied. His captors didn't like that though, refusing to believe him.
The interrogation went on for what felt like hours, by the end Aramis was grey faced from the cold river water and shivering. He realised that should he live long enough he would be lucky to avoid pneumonia.
His captors seemed to tire of him, and he was slung, none too gently, beneath a tree, still bound hand and foot, and one man guarding him by aiming a pistol, his pistol he noticed detachedly at him. Dawn began to arrive and Aramis gave in to the merciful oblivion of sleep.