Notes
Apologies again for last chapter's cliffhanger (although… well… you'll see...)
I wanted to do a shout out some very inspiring short tales:
of things despaired of by cherryfeather (wonderful cliffhanger) and The Gambling Man by Evergreen (a perfect supernatural tale). They are both available on AO3.
And a big thank you to Deana for some very helpful suggestions and musings that were incorporated into chapter 5 ^_^
Hope you enjoy this one!
Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been visible before,
and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard as unreal.
~ The Pit and the Pendulum - Edgar Allan Poe ~
Athos presses his cheek against the cold stone wall as he listens intently. The air is clear and chill up here, the snaking spiral of the abbey stairs rising above the low lying mists.
Upon exploration they had found the basement levels to be crumbling and indefensible. He, Pothos and Luce had therefore climbed higher, following the twisting stair. Only one floor had been scaled, Athos leaning heavily on Porthos, before Luce declared her predicament.
Athos had looked with chagrin to Porthos, hoping the other man's varied upbringing had given him more experience with children's needs.
"Not to worry," Porthos had declared with a wink. "It's not far down. Let's count the stairs."
"Is Athos coming?" Luce asked.
"Athos can stay up here for a little rest," Porthos had said, ushering the girl back down and standing guard at the base of the tower as she relieved herself.
Athos shifts his weight, grateful for this moment alone to let his composure slip. With a grimace he slides a finger into his boot to relieve the pressure. The edge is pressing uncomfortably on the wound behind his knee, and it takes considerable effort to resist taking this opportunity to slice into the leather. But he remembers Aramis' words, and restrains himself.
Instead, with the stone digging unrelentingly into his tired limbs, he allows himself the deep breath he had half desired, half feared. As expected, the glorious breath is followed by a tightening of his throat, and a vicious racking cough that sets off further pain in his back and neck.
The sound echoes through the silent abbey, leaving him with his own sober reflections. But it would be perilous indeed to dive into that deep well here. To acknowledge that he now knew what it was to face execution at the hands of loved ones - even when falsity guided their hands. To ask himself whether the Marquis had known the significance of his actions.
"It's us," Porthos hisses as he and Luce return to the base of the stair.
"Twenty steps," Luce reports, hauling Athos' reflections out of the mire and onto dry land.
"Time for another floor?" Porthos asks, giving Athos a searching, knowing look.
Athos nods, levering himself up with a smothered groan and throwing one arm over Porthos' ever-reliable shoulder.
The twisting stair snakes upwards to a narrow ledge where the floor has crumbled away on both sides. Beyond the ledge is a wider stretch of sheltered passage, with only the stair stretching upwards.
"This will do," Athos declares breathlessly, unable to contemplate another floor. "That ledge will be an effective barrier should we need to defend it."
"I don't like it," Porthos frowns. "It feels... exposed."
"Less so than the lower floor," Athos says, but silently agrees. Despite logic telling him otherwise, with the cold air rushing up from the stone below and the moonlight clear above, the position feels open and vulnerable.
It's at that moment that the shouts cut through the silent surrounds. They are familiar and desperate, and Athos and Porthos find each other's eyes in the dark. Luce looks up at them in fear.
"How do we know if it's real?" Porthos asks, his tone doubt and urgency in equal parts. As the cries sound again, he winces in recognition of Aramis' voice, though the words are indistinguishable.
"Go," Athos says, with bitter recognition of his own crumbling resolve. "We cannot take the chance. Find them."
With a sidelong glance at Luce, Porthos nods. "Here. Let's get you safe and sound first." He lifts the girl with ease, stepping confidently out onto the precarious ledge and depositing her safely on the other side.
"And shall you carry me too?" Athos asks flatly, to hide his trepidation at crossing the narrow path.
"I've done it before," Porthos quips, eyeing Athos like a sack a grain. "Though never while conscious."
They cannot not walk side by side on the narrow way, so instead they shuffle sideways, each tentative step making Athos more grateful for Porthos' support. His leg takes his weight, but not with confidence.
When they are both comfortably situated in the alcove, Porthos places Luce's dolls down beside her - the soldier and D'Artagnan's carved figurine. He kneels down, letting the girl equal his own height. "Be a good girl an' look after Athos," he says. "He's good at getting into trouble."
"I'm in charge," she nods solemnly to accept the duty.
Athos' raises an eyebrow, but does not dispute it.
Porthos offers his sword to Athos. "I'll find them."
"I have my knife," Athos says, feeling behind him to be sure.
"Take it," Porthos says with a meaningful glance at Luce. "It's your best chance."
Athos accepts, feeling as though the act is drawing his friend's very lifeblood.
"Don't look like that," Porthos half grins. "I'll leave all the fancy swordplay to you and Aramis." His eyes harden at speaking their friend's name. "All I need is my fists."
"Stay safe. Trust nothing," Athos says, letting his hand linger on the other man's shoulder as he turns away. The inadequacy of the words is eclipsed by the echo of their friend's cries in his mind.
As Porthos descends, pushing into the dark like their companions before him, Athos is struck by the strangeness of being left alone with the child.
Perhaps she senses the change, for she glances down at her toy soldier and asks, "Are you a captain?"
He shakes his head, listening distractedly for any further sounds of Aramis and D'Artagnan.
"Why not?" she asks, taking him off guard. But before he can answer- "Is D'Artagnan a captain?"
"Not he either."
"Is Porthos..."
"Luce," Athos interrupts, seeing where the course was leading. "Perhaps you can tell me more of what has been happening in your village. What do your parents say?"
He felt her shiver, the fright returning to her eyes.
"I would make a good captain," she asserts instead.
Athos sighs inwardly but lets the child talk. Better to keep her calm. If she chose to run from this place, he would not be able to follow.
"I can count. I can give orders," she lists. "And I can shout. Paul says I can shout louder than any girl in the village."
"All good skills," he agrees, a little afraid that a demonstration might follow, but unable to prevent a smile at the words. "But there is other qualities that might be useful."
When she looks at him questionably, he indulges. "Patience, and bravery. A captain must always look after his men, must never show his fear, and must always have a plan up his sleeve."
She glances at his sleeves.
"What else?"
"Honour," he adds sincerely, drawing her back under the cover of the alcove.
As they settle back to wait, Porthos' sword resting across Athos' knees, Luce gathers a rock from the ground and carefully scratches at the wall, picking out the crumbling mortar between two bricks. "What is honour?"
He considers that, but the sudden howling of wolves eclipses the thought.
Porthos.
He gently nudges her further out of sight, scooping her dolls from the ground and pushing them into her small fingers. "Hold tight to your captain. We will see this through."
D'Artagnan's knees scrabble for purchase on the shifting rocks. The mist curls about Aramis' ankles, the drop beyond a sea of swirling white, and together they teeter on the edge of the unknown.
A soft step behind - and a shadow falls over them. With dawning helplessness, D'Artagnan watches Aramis' panicked gaze slide upwards. He had thought the Marquis gone in search of their friends, but knows now that the creature stands behind him.
A cold hand brushes his cheek.
He jerks, the intimate touch a frightening reminder of their vulnerability. The temptation to free one hand to defend himself is almost overwhelming, but his knees slip another inch, and instead he tightens his grip. The action causes both men to groan as their injured hands are further forced to support Aramis' weight.
"Help us," D'Artagnan breaths, breaking the silence with his reluctant entreaty.
At any moment he expects the Marquis to thrust a blade between his ribs from behind. That would be the end of them both. But the creature does not act, and simply watches them struggle, standing so close behind D'Artagnan that the Gascon can hear his breath
"What kind of victory is this?" Aramis gasps, succeeding in latching his other hand to D'Artagnan's.
D'Artagnan shrinks away from another touch from behind, briefly squeezing his eyes shut to endure the provocation. The slow slide of something ice cold against the side of his neck sends shivers creeping down his spine, and the deliberate, protracted act grates against the urgency of their situation. It's almost a relief when the sharp point of the blade slides into his vision.
"Would you prefer I slit his throat?"
D'Artagnan forces himself to stillness, his own breathing loud in his ears as Aramis falls silent. He holds his friend's gaze, anchoring himself to it even as he anchors the other man to the earth. D'Artagnan did not contemplate death often, choosing instead to rush into the fray and letting speed and exhilaration wash away fear. But he is no stranger to the shrinking helplessness that now curls in his gut. Vadim had forced it upon him. Others too. But the blade shifts away, and D'Artagnan takes a tentative breath.
"Call to your friends for help," the Marquis orders softly.
D'Artagnan turns his head, yearning to see the creature's face - judge its intentions. His mouth is so dry. Could he raise his voice even if he wished to do so?
"Why?" Aramis asks, his face having paled at the creature's request. "You could simply steal our voices."
The Marquis does not respond, and D'Artagnan senses some silent exchange is taking place behind his back.
"We'll die anyway-" Aramis says, and D'Artagnan knows the words are meant for him. "We'll not take our brothers down with us."
D'Artagnan feels a surge of determination at the pact, until the cold steel bites gently into the side of his neck.
"It is surprising what a man will do for one more breath of life."
Notes
Cringes… another cliffhanger… apologies!… but the shorter chapter allowed for a faster update.
Would love to hear if you enjoyed this one. Hopefully it had a few good bits for all the boys.