Thanks for all your reviews, which are like little messages of love when I log on to see if anyone is reading! You have no idea (unless you also post, in which case you will definitely know) how encouraging it is to get reviews. So if you're reading and haven't commented yet, don't be shy: a two word message even in your own language just means the world! Bit thanks to the guests who I can't reply to individually: Debbie, Sarah, Beeblegirl, Chris, the unnamed Guest who used about 30 "o"s in reviewing chapter one, and also merci beaucoup à Elys03!
A shorter chapter here as we start to hear things from d'Artagnan's point of view. We're getting towards the heart of the darkness that he lived through so please don't read if you are upset by themes of abandonment and despair, for that is certainly what d'Artagnan starts to describe here and in the next chapter. Um... nor should you read if you are squeamish about bodily functions.
Chapter Seven: We Sit and We Wait and We Drown There Part II
A soft sound brought Athos' attention back to the present day. With some surprise, he looked around the d'Artagnans' room, realising it had got quite dark while he'd been talking. Porthos had chipped in to begin with but for the last part of the story Athos had been speaking alone, lost in the memories of that time when they were searching for d'Artagnan, hardly daring to hope that he would still be alive.
Porthos had gone to sit by the fire, stoking it up and staring into the flames. Aramis sat quietly, listening intently but at the same time watching d'Artagnan closely. d'Artagnan was standing by the window, staring out at the darkened courtyard below. He'd left Constance sitting at the table on her own; she'd been watching Athos as he talked and the sound he'd heard had come from her.
She looked around the room, finding all eyes suddenly on her, and flushed. "Sorry – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just... I was picturing you both, waiting to see if he would recover. I know it's stupid – he's right here now, I know he survived. But I could just see it – just see him." She looked over to the window where d'Artagnan stood, motionless, apparently oblivious to her words or the others in the room.
"Oh, what am I doing? I'm talking about you as if you're not here," Constance whispered, suddenly realising.
d'Artagnan stirred, turning to face the room for the first time in a while. His countenance, just for a moment, looked so bleak that Constance recoiled slightly, but he caught her movement and his expression softened and he moved swiftly to her side, reaching for her hand and catching her eyes with his.
"My fault, Constance. I was miles away." He turned to face Athos and Porthos, still holding Constance's hand as if for reassurance, and she wondered who was reassuring whom. "I hadn't really thought about what you both suffered when I was missing. I'm sorry, my friends. I should have been more aware of what you went through..." He got no further before Porthos had enveloped him in a hug so crushing that Constance heard the breath whoosh from his lungs.
"Put him down, Porthos, before you break him." Athos' voice was amused and Constance smiled as the tension was broken.
Porthos chuckled, patting d'Artagnan lightly on the back before releasing him. d'Artagnan drew in an exaggerated breath and glared at Porthos, but he too looked less uptight than he had in hours.
Only Aramis was silent, his feet still propped on the table (to Constance's secret irritation), arms folded, hat low over his eyes but - she was sure - watching d'Artagnan closely. Was he feeling left out because he hadn't been there to help find and rescue him? Or was there another reason for his silent watchfulness, she wondered?
d'Artagnan sat down next to Constance, running a hand over his face. She slipped her hand under his arm and drew him close, trying to convey her support and love by the warmth of her body against his. For a few moments the silence in the room was broken only by the crackle of the flames in the hearth, and the creaking of Porthos' leathers as he settled back down again. No one seemed in a hurry to speak, but Constance was bursting with questions, and when Athos stirred and leaned forward to replenish everyone's drinks, she couldn't contain herself, worried that one of them would decide they'd talked enough, and she would be left with all her questions rattling around her head and a husband who still seemed completely disinclined to open up.
"So," she began hesitantly, stopping as all eyes seemed to swivel towards her – except d'Artagnan who gone back to twisting and rubbing his fingers endlessly. She hesitated, but Aramis gave her a smile of encouragement so she cleared her throat and tried again. "So there are some things I don't understand." Many, many things. She didn't really know where to start, except that she knew she needed to hear about it from him. It was almost as if she couldn't believe it had happened to him unless he had told her himself. And she still didn't know what had happened, exactly. What had they done to him? How did he end up in the oubliette?
But she was worried about pushing him into silence again. So she asked what she hoped would be a straightforward question. "How did you survive five days in the oubliette, when Patrice did not?"
When he didn't answer straight away she tried again, her voice trembling a little but her expression determined. She had to know, had to understand. "d'Artagnan, please, if you can, talk to me. Did this all surface yesterday, when you spoke to Borel, because you were left without food and water, like the people in the siege of Salas?"
Both were reasonable questions. They were also questions d'Artagnan had been dreading. He'd put everything associated with his capture behind him, two years ago. When he returned at the end of the war he was a different person, but still, he hoped, recognisable enough as the man Constance had married to enable them to resume their relationship. He'd lost his naivety, that was certain, but somehow he'd regained his moral compass and, against the odds, his faith in humanity; and he'd been sure he could be the d'Artagnan she expected him to be.
Borel had turned all that on its head. d'Artagnan had believed in the man, had faith in his goodness if given a chance: and it had ended in disaster. It was not talk of the siege itself but what it represented – utter cruelty, inhumanity, ruthlessness – that had brought his own memories flooding back and kept him from sleep last night. But he had no idea how to begin to explain any of it. And he desperately didn't want to have to.
For a moment he wondered what they would do if he simply rose and said he'd had enough for one day. If he left, would someone follow? Would Constance feel hurt? His friends would surely help her... The lure of the cool evening air was pulling at him and he suddenly craved solitude, yearning to be away from the questions and the pain of talking and remembering. He found himself looking at the door and planning how many steps it would take to reach it. He would tell them that he would return; they would understand...
A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he subsided into his chair, only then realising that he must have started to rise. Aramis patted him once then released him, but the intensity of his gaze was mesmerizing. He tried to look away but Aramis nudged him gently. "You can do this, d'Artagnan."
d'Artagnan dragged his eyes back to his fingers and swallowed, feeling sick.
"'e doesn't 'ave to talk, Aramis. It's 'ard for 'im. You weren't there, remember?" Porthos sounded edgy, and Aramis flinched slightly but met Porthos' gaze.
"I've been through it myself, remember?" he said lightly, but in the echo of Porthos' phrasing his challenge was clear.
"Not the same, Aramis an' you know it."
Constance drew a sharp breath. Porthos was really pushing Aramis. To try to belittle what he'd suffered in Savoy – for it was clear that was Porthos' meaning – was plain wrong, as well as hurtful. "It's not a competition, boys!" she reprimanded them, before either could say something they would regret.
Porthos crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out his cheeks, glancing from Athos to d'Artagnan then back to Constance but pointedly ignoring Aramis.
Athos was watching d'Artagnan closely, seeing the reluctance written clear on his face and feeling helpless, as he remembered feeling so often after rescuing d'Artagnan from captivity.
Then Aramis spoke again, delicately. "My intention was not to compare our experiences, for you are right, Porthos, the circumstances were completely different." Constance silently complimented him on his skilful approach; the words "you are right" immediately deflated Porthos, even if they only applied to a tiny portion of what had been unspoken between them.
Aramis hadn't finished. "What we do have in common, I believe, is the effect those experiences has had on us." He looked at d'Artagnan again, as if waiting for a signal before continuing. d'Artagnan seemed lost in his own thoughts, but then Constance felt him draw in a deep breath and let it out, slowly, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch.
It seemed to be what Aramis was waiting for, because he immediately carried on. "You all know how hard it has been at times for me, when something triggers a memory. To begin with I would lose days, sometimes, lost in ... despair. At first all that rescued me was you two – and later you, d'Artagnan. Knowing that you understood was – liberating. It meant I did not have to explain myself, or justify how I was behaving. It was enough for you just to drink with me, or sit with me. You stayed with me more times than I can count, and each time I found my way back with your help."
He was glancing between them all, including all of them, but his eyes stayed longest on Porthos, willing him to understand what he was trying to say. He paused, then turned to d'Artagnan. "My friend, you know why I'm reminding you of this. You know you cannot fight this melancholy alone, and Constance is right; she needs to understand – everyone does, or we cannot help you."
There was another silence in the room, broken as Porthos sighed gustily then nodded. "'e's right, young 'un. Maybe it is time you talked to us. Properly."
d'Artagnan stirred, finally, and caught Constance's hand, bringing it to his lips in a fleeting kiss. "My love, are you sure you want to –"
"Yes," she interrupted him, firmly.
He gave a wry smile, then rose, walking around the table towards the window, squeezing Porthos' shoulder as he passed. Once at the window he crossed his arms, propped a shoulder against the wall with his back to the room, took a moment, and then, finally, began to talk.
"I survived five days... I didn't know how long it was, I'd lost all sense of time by then. But I think I survived... because I was prepared to do things that Patrice wouldn't, or couldn't." Constance was aware of her heart thudding. What things did he mean? Did she really want to know?
d'Artagnan's voice was low but matter of fact as he began to describe the days immediately leading up to his rescue.
"We walked there from the first camp one afternoon; they were in a hurry and on horseback, and they didn't have much patience."
Sun beating down on the red hills as they left the first camp. Hands roped in front of them, each tied to the pommel of a saddle. Jeers and catcalls. Weaving from exhaustion, not to avoid the stones that cut their bare feet. Trying to call to Patrice, to encourage him or just to hear a word of his own language, but his mouth was too dry, his tongue too big. Neither of them sweating much, anymore: they were too dehydrated. If they fell, the ropes tightened and the horses sped up, so they were dragged along the red-dusted path, stones tearing at their skin.
"We travelled through the night." The endless night, leaden feet, legs all over the place, not obeying him. He couldn't remember by then how it felt to stride out or just stroll. Had he ever walked without thinking about each step? Every moment sure he couldn't keep going any longer, but always telling himself to take one more step, just one more, or they might as well shoot him now.
"We reached – that place, the hillfort – the next morning."
Four leagues between the two camps, Porthos remembered. At least twelve hours walking at a normal pace, but they'd set off in the full afternoon sun, so it must have taken them more like fifteen. Tough for any soldier, let alone barefoot, with no water.
"They tied us in the courtyard. In truth, I don't remember much about that day. Except that Patrice collapsed, eventually, from the heat, and I had to beg for water."
They'd made him beg for everything. His mind shied away from the memory of the first time, when they'd encircled him, laughing and pointing, first prodding him with their boots, then kicking him when he refused to beg. He'd curled up as much as his chained wrists allowed, trying to protect his head and stomach as the kicks rained down on his back and legs. Eventually a voice had barked a sharp command and it had stopped, instantly. He couldn't even remember now what he'd asked for – water, no doubt – but he remembered that the next time he'd asked, and they'd told him to beg, he had done it straight away, head held high, eyes staring steadfastly between the legs surrounding him, careful not to look at anyone so he could pretend he was asking Serge for another jug of water instead of begging on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, repeating the Spanish words they made him recite amidst their laughter.
"Two days later their Captain, Ortega, arrived back with a couple of riders, and they all packed up in a panic."
One of their own patrol had come across a group of Spanish riders, Porthos remembered. They'd given chase, losing sight of them in the olive groves around the foothills, but a couple of days later, after they'd found LeVente's body in the first camp, Athos had remembered the report of the encounter nearby. It had been enough to send teams searching in that direction and, ultimately, to finding the second hillfort.
"Ortega gave the command to move out. I wasn't sure if they were going to take us with them again. Didn't think either of us could walk far by then. But Bautista ... waited until the last minute, then pointed at us. And Ortega ... he just shrugged."
d'Artagnan's words had been getting slower, as if he was searching for the right words in a foreign language, and now he just stopped. Constance couldn't see his face but she heard him swallow, and closed her eyes for a second, hearing the bleakness in his voice. To have one's fate decided, not by logic or passion, but with a shrug? She couldn't comprehend how that must have felt to the two Frenchman as the Spanish troops started to leave. Lost in a sense of outrage she almost jumped when he started to speak again.
"Bautista – he was the man responsible for most ... most of our..." He faltered again and Constance held her breath, longing to go to him but sensing that he would reject her comfort right now; he needed to get through this on his own.
He tried again. "Bautista was our ... tormentor." He stopped, as if checking the description was sufficient. Seemingly satisfied, he hurried on. "He told Ortega he would kill us and catch the others up. But he didn't kill us. I don't know why..."
His eyes distant, he paused, his breathing fast and shallow, before admitting quietly: "No, I do. It was to make us suffer a bit longer. Killing us would have been too quick. Too easy a death."
His matter-of-fact tone was at odds with his words, which quite simply shocked Constance to the core.
When Athos talked about where they'd found d'Artagnan she'd assumed it had been a mistake. That perhaps the Spanish had literally forgotten them when they fled in a hurry. She had not contemplated that it might have been one last, deliberate, act of cruelty.
"He waited until everyone had moved off, then he came and untied Patrice."
Patrice was sobbing, hands shaking as he babbled incoherently, mixing French and Spanish, pleading. d'Artagnan shouted at him to be strong, not to be afraid, that he was here and would not leave him... but Patrice was beyond reason now and d'Artagnan could still hear him as he was dragged across the courtyard and through a gap in the crumbling wall. A moment later he heard a scream and then a terrible silence, and the blood rushed to his head as he knew that Bautista would be coming back for him...
"I heard Patrice fall." A pause. "We managed to talk, later, and he told me he broke his leg when he landed, and passed out." Another pause. "I was lucky; the companion in my cell had not been there as long as Patrice's, and was still soft enough to break my fall."
The body in the dark pit where they'd found d'Artagnan had stunk, Porthos remembered. God alone knew who had put him there or even what nationality he had been. Perhaps a Spanish deserter; he hadn't had the look of a Frenchman, but to his shame he had paid the body little attention other than to curse that he could not get close to d'Artagnan without kneeling on putrid flesh.
For the first time since beginning his account, d'Artagnan turned to face the room, his eyes finding Constance's immediately, searching her face for something. Reassurance, she decided, as he stumbled over the next words.
"Bautista was ... He enjoyed being in control. " He swallowed, shutting his eyes for a second, then forged on. "He... Oh God. I can't tell you everything, I ... but he... He pissed on me." His breathing had quickened and Porthos took a step forward as if to speak, or stop him, but Athos shook his head fractionally and Porthos stopped.
d'Artagnan carried on after a moment, his voice a little stronger now, as if drawing strength from having got this far. "He stood looking down the hole, laughing and pissing on me. And all I could think was that he had won; he'd finally got me where I couldn't fight back, couldn't resist... and I ... " His hands were twisting rapidly again, clawing at his fingers, pulling the skin tight as if trying to rip off his own flesh. "I couldn't move. I was winded from the fall, and I couldn't seem to move... He was aiming at my face, knowing I couldn't move away, so I ... did the only thing I could think of." He hesitated, again seeking out Constance's eyes. Seeing what he needed from her, he drew in a shaky breath and finally got the words out. "I drank it."
There was a shocked silence. A log shifted in the hearth and an ember rolled out but no one took any notice. Constance couldn't take her eyes off this man she loved so much, who'd been so degraded that the only way he had left to rebel was to drink the bodily fluid of the man tormenting him. She couldn't get her head around it, but he was talking again and she forced herself to concentrate. She couldn't miss a word: she knew, with utter certainty, that he was unlikely ever to speak of this again.
"I didn't think it through at the time – it was just a way of showing him that ... I was not beaten. It was only afterwards that I remembered you telling me, Aramis, that you can drink a small amount of urine without harm, if you need water. So when I had to relieve myself, the next morning, I caught as much as I could in my hands and drank that, too."
Porthos made a small sound and shook his head, muttering to himself. d'Artagnan watched him, carefully, searching his face for an expression of distaste, or revulsion, but all his saw was compassion mixed with fury, and he was not so far gone that he didn't know where each emotion was directed. So he carried on.
"Bautista left after that." It hadn't been straight away, actually. He'd stopped long enough to spit on d'Artagnan, taunting him to swallow that, too, and to tell him how slowly death would come for him, how his tongue would swell and his eyesight go but he'd still be able to hear the rats eating his flesh... d'Artagnan shook himself, literally, pushing the words back where they belonged, to the very back of his memory where, he fervently wished, they would stay.
A touch on his arm brought him back to himself and he looked up into Athos' eyes, calm grey in this light. He offered d'Artagnan a goblet, keeping hold of it as d'Artagnan wrapped his fingers around it until his hand had stopped shaking long enough to hold it without spilling. Nodding his thanks, d'Artagnan tried to control his trembling fingers, resolving to finish this god-awful conversation as quickly as possible.
"That's how I survived. That was the only difference between us, except..." He bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood. "The first night I... don't remember much. I was calling to Patrice most of the day, trying to get him to talk to me but he was quiet, most of the time. I knew he could hear me – I could hear him when he cried in pain – but he wouldn't answer me." His face was bleak again, remembering that feeling of helplessness, and Constance shivered, knowing there was more to come in this nightmare d'Artagnan was sharing with them.
Author's Note: I'm sorry, in a way, to be posting this now: it feels very bleak at a time when there is so much real-life trauma and drama going on with floods and earthquakes and the threat from North Korea. But maybe it helps to divert our minds to a safe fictional world, one with a band of brothers to help you through the dark days. Or maybe I should try comedy next time!
Drinking urine, by the way, is a recognised but last-ditch survival mechanism. Also, apparently, a new health trend based on an ancient health practice. Urotherapy. Who knew?