Prompt: Damaged Vocal Chords
Connected to: Collared and Chained
Before they found him, before Athos came for him, he thought the numbness creeping over his tortured body was his death. He had lost track of how long he had lingered on the threshold of oblivion but it had taken time, a long long time, for his contorted limbs to move from aching to agony to nothing. A long time before his parched throat give up the attempt to swallow where there was no moisture. A long time before his head fell weakly forward, choked by the iron collar with only enough strength left in his body to fight for each labored breath. Death was taking an excruciatingly long time. Then . . . Athos's voice . . . and something stirred in his chest like a thread pulled taut, an anchor for his soul where it was trying to leave his body. He didn't have the strength to move, to react, to call out but when his head was yanked back, stretching his overextended limbs to the brink, he managed to open his eyes enough to know that Athos was not just calling out in his mind. He was there, claiming him, and though Aramis thought he had been beyond enduring any further abuses he found he could not deny Athos. You have something that is mine he'd said. The thread connected to Aramis's soul thickened. Aramis would not yield as long as Athos stood before him.
The pain had been unbearable when they first laid him out, finally releasing limbs that had been bound and twisted for far too long. As the blood shifted back through his body, it brought fire along every inch of him. He knew he had not been flogged but he still felt as if his arms and legs were stripped from a thousand lashes. He knew the men holding him, moving his body to lay prone, were his friends, his brothers, he knew the torture was over but the pain bloomed all over again. He wanted to tell them to stop but he was beyond words. Soft sounds came from his mouth but he was hushed and ignored as someone gently laid him fully on the ground. Something soft pressed at his throat, a light pressure that still was too much. And then that was gone and Aramis found himself looking up at Athos. Athos who had come for him, who had chained his soul and dragged it back from the abyss he was being sucked into.
You're alright, rest here a while. And Aramis obeyed closing his eyes and trying to ride out the pain as every muscle in his body seemed to cramp. It came in waves - an agony in his calves that receded to a hot ache before his arm would start to twitch with painful spasms. As that subsided another leg cramp so painful it caused him to moan shamefully, tears sliding down his cheeks. It didn't matter though. There were more hushed words, calloused hands with a gentle touch smoothing his hair, gently massaging his limbs, slowly putting out the fire in his body until the flames receded and instead he was simply and utterly exhausted. Then he slept.
Waking was not a singular event but a drifting in and out of a hazy limbo of ache and tired. He dreamed sometimes he was still chained there in the courtyard but then remembered as he lifted toward wakefulness that he was rescued, the hot fire in his legs a memory and what made his body shudder was actually a just a cramp or a muscle spasm. Mostly, he was whole.
Finally he gave in to wakefulness, pulling tired and sticky eyes open to blink in the early morning light. His mouth was dry as the dust he'd been caked in and his neck had a dull ache throbbing in his throat. He shifted his head slightly to the left to find Athos, feet propped on the bed, hat pulled low, napping in the chair beside him. He found a smile tug at his lips - crazy bastard was all vengeance and murder one minute and then nursemaid the next. Aramis was beyond grateful for both.
"Athos..." he tried to say, but all that came out was a rasping, hollow croak. Surprised, Aramis tried again, pushing air more forcefully through his throat only to produce another ragged and wordless breath. He tried then to call out, panic forcing air out of his lungs and causing his throat to strain and burn but still no sounds. Desperate now to speak Aramis tried to push himself up into a sitting position with arms that still refused to bear his weight. He flailed, pushing at the blankets that seemed too heavy to move, terrified of the sounds coming from his mouth, the pain blossoming in his throat, his inability to utter a single word!
Athos woke with a start to Aramis struggling wildly in the bed, trying, and failing, to get out from under the blankets. Desperate and terrified sounds rasped from his throat as he tried to call out in panic and fear. Athos righted himself in the chair and leaned over the bed, taking the marksman's shoulders and pinning him to the bed. It didn't take much strength as Aramis's muscles were still weak with exhaustion and overuse, but the plaintive sounds kept coming from his abused throat.
"Aramis! Stop! Stop it. You need to stop forcing it. Just breathe. You can't speak. I know you can't speak. Settle down. Just breathe."
Athos eased up his grip on Aramis as the marksman calmed down and sat on the edge of the bed. As he sought Aramis's gaze he watched it go from one of settling to a sudden flare of panic and worry, his brows furrowing in a question and distress and fear evident in his eyes. He was worried about something, desperate.
"It' alright. Settle, Aramis," Athos said, considering what it might be that Aramis needed to know. What was frightening him. It clicked in immediately, "Aramis, you were wounded. Your throat. It has to heal. That's why you can't speak. Athos took up one of Aramis's hands and laid it gently on the bandage around his throat, "Remember this? The collar? The knife?"
"It will heal Aramis," Athos's voice was quiet, calm, reassuring. He laid a hand over the one the marksman still had pressed lightly over his bandaged neck and gently pulled it away, "Leave it be now." Aramis obeyed, letting his hand fist instead in the blankets beside him.
"He's confused," Porthos said from over Athos's shoulder as he watched Aramis's eyes dart furtively around the room, "Athos, tell him where he is."
"We are at the infirmary at Saint Suplice," Athos explained to the marksman. Aramis's brown eyes widened in concerned, "Don't worry, you are not that badly off, my friend," Athos gave him a gentle smile, "Just it was too much for you to travel all the way across Paris to the Garrison in the state that you were in. This was much closer and the Brothers here were happy to offer you some rest." Athos's smile deepened as Aramis began to relax again.
Aramis's mouth formed the words "Thank you" but a rasping wheeze was all he could manage. His hand fluttered to his neck, rubbing lightly at the bandage. Aramis closed his eyes again.
"Here, leave that be," Athos said taking up the marksman's roving hand and laying it again by his side. He opened his eyes again, and there was something pleading about his gaze as his hand went again to his throat. Athos's brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what Aramis was asking for. He laid a hand on his leg beside him and squeezed gently.
"You are in pain?" Athos asked, "Your throat is hurting?" The marksman gave a small shrug that maybe said yes or no, but then his eyes roved again until they settled on something across the room. Aramis struggled to sit up again.
"He's thirsty," D'Artagnan said from across the small room. Athos and Porthos turned to where the Gascon was sitting on the other narrow cot in the room, leaning on this knees, hands clasped between them. He rolled his eyes as the other two looked at him in confusion. "He's thirsty," D'Artagnan repeated and gave a nod toward the table between the cots, "The water pitcher?" He said, looking at the jug sitting next to four earthen cups.
"The water, is that what you want?" Porthos said. Aramis rolled his eyes and nodded, his arm gesturing ineffectively toward the pitcher. Porthos sighed
"Well you could have just said," Porthos muttered as he reached for the pitcher.
Aramis looked stunned at Porthos's callous remark. Then he let out a small croak and Athos reached again for Aramis,worried he was going to start coughing. But Aramis was not coughing. His face was still showing his pain but his eyes were crinkled and his lips turned up in a smile. He gave a little croak again and they realized he was laughing. Even Athos had to admit the comment was funny.
Porthos returned with a cup of water and eased it to Aramis's lips. The marksman tried to swallow but after just two sips he pulled away with a whimper, face screwed up from intense pain.
"I'm sorry," Porthos quickly set the cup aside and placed a concerned hand on Aramis's shoulder, "I'm sorry. What did I do? What's wrong?" Porthos looked back at Athos, fear and worry evident in his glance as Aramis struggled to fight against whatever was paining him.
"It's too much," Athos said, taking the cup and a clean cloth. He dipped the cloth in the water, soaking it thoroughly before passing it back to Porthos, "Here, try this," he suggested.
"Put it in your mouth," Athos said as Porthos got the cloth into Aramis's hands and helped him raise it to his lips. Aramis bit down on it, "Just suck on that, it will be better than trying to swallow so much at once." Aramis nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. They could see his jaw was working as he forced the water from the cloth.
They were silent a moment as they watched him, helpless as a babe trying to nurse. A sadness passed over Athos to see his friend laid so low and by a man who had been trying to seek revenge on him for things done in a life he had tried his best to forget. Athos wondered if his past would ever truly stay buried or would it continue to rise up to not just haunt him but torment him through the pain it inflicted on those he loved. He could not keep doing this.
Athos felt a light touch at his knee and looked down to see Aramis's hand laid gently on his leg. He looked up to find the marksman's dark brown eyes full of worry and care and knew the touch to be one of comfort, not need. He put his own hand over Aramis's and gave him a nod. "I will be alright," Athos said softly, "So will you." Aramis nodded then closed his eyes again, his jaw still moving against the water soaked towel.
"I have something that might work a little better," D'Artagnan said, carrying a steaming cup from where he had been squatting near the fire, "Warmed milk and honey. The heat should help you and you need to eat." He was rewarded by a small nod and a gentle moan that they all understood to be Aramis saying he was hungry.
D'Artagnan brought over another chair and sat beside Porthos at Aramis's bedside. He held the cup and blew on it, "This is still a little to hot. Finish with that and then we'll try this, ok?" Aramis nodded again, but they could all see his strength was fading. Exhaustion was claiming him again.
As Aramis drifted off to sleep, Athos slipped the damp cloth from his mouth and laid it aside then Porthos carefully lowered the marksman back to a prone position on the cot. D'Artagnan set the milk and honey aside, covering the top so it would stay warm. They gathered at Aramis's bedside, saying nothing, but hearing each other perfectly as they waited for their fourth to wake up.