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The whip seems the man's new favourite choice. That and the shouting. He shouted constantly in Porthos' ear. He seemed to think it would make him break, he was wrong. Every time the whip came down he thought of Aramis. He thought of his friend to stop him going insane. Soon the whip stopped. His back burned, half the skin been removed by the cruel whip. It wasn't the first time. He'd been whipped before. He used to protect the vulnerable women in the Court. The Red Guards didn't take kindly to it. It was easier now he wasn't hungry.
The whip had stopped. A bandage wrapped around him, his captor making sure to put as much weight as possible on his injured back. He hadn't given in. He allowed a wave of pride to wash through him, he wasn't going to break down. But as he was escorted back to the cell his spirits plummeted. It was silent and empty. They'd usually all be talking, moving around, reassuring each other. But it just felt empty. The people who'd usually be bustling around, bandaging people as well as they can weren't there anymore. And their absence was painfully clear. The team spirit has evaporated away, and all that's left now is the hard slog, the final stretch. And for some people, the finishing line was a bullet in the head. When they wouldn't have to suffer on anymore.
They beat the woman beside him. They knew it broke him more than when they punched him. She looked no more than thirty, her features sharp and her skin smooth. They didn't want to kill her just yet. Not when she was his only weakness. The knowledge that she was getting hurt because of him made him angry. Angry at himself, his captors, the whole of France. She was stronger than she looked, and still murmured those words. Stay strong. And he would stay strong. He wouldn't crumble. He wouldn't break down. He wouldn't give in. He would do it for Athos, for Flea, for Charon, for Treville, for France. He would do it for Aramis. And he would never let them down.
They chose the blind man today. He didn't know what was going on. Looked around wildly as his captors picked him up. The look of terror on his face. He didn't know what was about to happen, he didn't understand. Then the gun went off, and his vacant eyes rolled up into his head. He slumped to the floor. They lifted him out. There's no record of him here anymore. Like he never existed. No record of him and the death that didn't need to happen. Not to him.
He sat in silence and looked around. People moved silently, hugging the walls, trying not to draw attention. Their faces were haggard, exhaustion and hunger making their eyes sunken and their faces pale. The horror that they witnessed made their eyes wide, the torture making them flinch away from sudden noises. The bruised woman walked among them. She stood tall, murmuring her message to the people she passed. Stay strong. The message ingrained itself on his mind. Stay strong. Stay strong for the people who his cruel captors murdered. Stay strong for the King. Stay strong for your family. Stay strong for your friend. How could two little words mean so much? Stand for so much bravery through so much heartache. Represent the people who watched their friends die, but still held their tongues when tortured. Stand for the true heroes.
In his head Aramis would turn his horse so that it would push Jaques of the hill. He would accidentally shoot him, thinking he was an intruder. He would accidentally send him into a bear cave. Accidentally push him into a river. It would be an accident. Anything to stop his moaning. He was hungry it seemed. They hadn't been able to hunt anything where they had camped. He hadn't stopped complaining since. Aramis suddenly thought of Porthos, and his past. A sword went through his heart. He could feel it piercing his chest and coming out the other side. It left his gasping for air. Athos had noticed, levelling his horse with Aramis' so he would catch him if he went unconscious.
Porthos had never really spoken about his past, only saying he had come from the Court. That was until, Aramis had saved a little bread and meat for the mangy dog that seemed to follow them around. He had lived a sheltered life, in a quiet little farming village. He hadn't known of the horrors of growing up with nothing on the streets of Paris. Never thought of a child eating what the rats left behind, going without food for days. Of not knowing if your friends will survive the ice of the Winter, or the diseases of the Summer. Not knowing if you will. Porthos had told him that day. Told him that he was one of those children once. What he would've given for a crust of bread and a scrap of meat. He would never complain about being hungry. He would be looking on the bright side, making jokes and laughing. Saying they had warm clothes and blankets. Saying they had each other for company and muskets for protection. His optimism had got Aramis through many the cold night and trying mission.
And it never would again. Never would they sit by the fire, swapping stories. Never would they laugh, never would they pull jokes on unsuspecting Musketeers and sit calmly and watch it all unfold. Never again would he stitch up his friend, would he drink with his friend, would he lose at cards with his friend. Because his friend was gone.
He wasn't on a horse anymore. He was lying on the ground, trying to stop his shallow breaths. A concerned Athos kneels over him. He doesn't want concern. Concern won't bring Porthos back. Won't magic Jaques away, and replace him. Won't make ache go away. Concern couldn't help him. Nothing could. He got up, holding his horse until the world stopped spinning. He mounted again, and started to ride. Athos joined him. Jaques' horse was galloping to keep up. The blade was still there, protruding from his chest. The speck of blood was still on his hands. His heart was still heavy. And he ached for his friend to return.