Chapter 10:
Author's Note: Okay. So this long overdue, and it's still not quite what I want. But enjoy anyway.
And also, an enormous thank you to everyone who continues to read, review, favourite and like this fic! You're my heroes ;p
The screaming stops after a while, but it's not a relief. At least when d'Artagnan's screaming it means he's alive, and capable of making noise. Silence whatever made him scream has stopped. In reality it usually means that someone is either gagged, unconscious or…. Well. That last option is simply unthinkable.
Through the screaming (five short bellows of pain, they've all been counting) they never once heard any words. Just meaningless outcries of agony. In their own cell, the musketeers have remained silent, listening in their own worlds of mental agony. Even Athos has held his tongue after his initial scream for d'Artagnan. They haven't even looked at each other.
"Well then." Aramis whispers, voice slightly hoarse from when he was throttled, "We'd best see how we get out of here."
Both Porthos and Athos look up at the sharpshooter. Where Athos' face is stoic, Porthos looks like he's about to be sick.
"You hurt?" Porthos asks, unfazed by Aramis light-hearted words. He heard the soreness of the man's throat loud and clear.
"I'm fine," Aramis croaks, then casually adds, "I just jumped over a cliff. With my horse. It was amazing."
"My horse collapsed, lost my boot and then had a wild fight with someone else's foot to get his boot." Porthos is smiling.
"The body part that you fought with, was that your face by any chance?" Aramis asks with a gesture to his friend's forehead.
Porthos scowls and presses gingerly to the bruise at his brow. Quickly changing the subject he turns to ask Athos, "And you?"
"I fell off my horse and surrendered." Athos replies dryly, leaving out any heroic details. He needs his mind focussed on finding a way out.
"You surrendered?" comes a chorus from his friends.
"Yes. One of you was supposed to stay free and get me and d'Artagnan out." Athos says, smirking at his friends' cries of indignation.
They're doing this with ease, bantering between them. Still, Athos knows both Porthos and Aramis also feel the emptiness behind their words. All the words do is remind them a certain Gascon's sharp tongue.
Looking down at his heavy shackles and the thick door that keeps him from freedom Athos feels, not for the first time, absolutely helpless. It strikes him that now d'Artagnan is out of their reach and in danger, the irritation towards the Gascon has also tapered.
D'Artagnan was right about that at least, some time apart did cool their tempers. But Athos can't feel any relief about that. He would rather have d'Artagnan alive, well, and angry with him than in the situation the Gascon is now.
He needs to fix this. To apologise. To explain. To get d'Artagnan out of here alive.
He just doesn't know how.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
The cell turns cold as the autumn weather finally catches up with France. D'Artagnan shivers, his skin contracting in goose bumps. White air puffs from his mouth and hangs above him like a misplaced cloud. Once in a while a shiver goes down his spine, rattling his broken body.
The remnants of the fire pokers are almost a blessing. Their burns heat his body inside and out. Sure, they hurt. They hurt. But they're a shield against the frigid air.
Teeth chatter. Chains rattle.
A scorching shiver. Time crawls and races by.
Numb agony.
D'Artagnan almost finds himself wishing for a white-hot poker. For warm blood down his back.
Anything for some warmth.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Chassroi sits in his study. The fire here blazes hot, the walls are lined with the deep purple that he calls his own. A tapestry hangs by the door. It depicts a bloody battle, corpses littering a field of death. Even that seems friendly in the homely firelight.
Seated in a plush chair, staring at the flames, the man tries to find a solution to his dilemma. He needs to find out where that letter is. He needs to intercept it and destroy it before the King can ever be warned.
When Chassroi heard that musketeers had come to the manor he had attacked only weeks prior, the nobleman immediately sent someone to find information about these elite soldiers. Since then he's learnt that the four men he has in captivity are in fact the 'Inseparables'. A group of tightknit friends… and a tag-along.
The Gascon had been described as brash, hot-headed and naive. The perfect target. Easy to break.
His man in Paris has neglected to tell him that the brat is also intelligent, loyal and stubborn.
And isn't that where the problem lies?
The Gascon will not break, and Chassroi is not arrogant enough to think that he can break the best of the King's elite with torture alone. If he plays his cards right, though, he may be able to use the men against each other.
It is with this thought that Chassroi calls up his guards, "Bring the young Gascon to the cell that holds his friends."
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
D'Artagnan is roughly pulled into the cell, two men gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise. As much as the Gascon wishes they would let him walk, he knows he would probably just keel over if they did. Really, he has rarely felt as weak as he does now.
The light in this dungeon is dimmer than in the hallway, but there is light, which is already an improvement from his own cell. Three figures lie prone on the ground, chains snaking from their arms to the walls. D'Artagnan recognises them just as they yell out his name in a chorus.
"D'Artagnan!" And there is so much relief in their voices, that he feels something warm and friendly well up in his stomach, something that he thought he might have lost with his ill-timed argument.
Aramis. Porthos. Athos.
Of course they're here. Of course they came for him. D'Artagnan doesn't think he's ever felt so much relief and so much trepidation simultaneously. Because he needs their support, but he cannot bear the thought of them getting hurt, or of them seeing him in this state.
Chassroi enters with that gliding walk that d'Artagnan has come to hate, and he smiles an abhorrently coy little smile.
"Ah," he murmurs, "It is always so much fun to see a reunion between good friends." Four cold stares pin him with a promise of enough blood to last them all a few lifetimes. No one denies their friendship or questions how the man knows about it.
Aramis lets his eyes glide appraisingly over d'Artagnan's figure. The Gascon is half hanging from the hands of the two men that hold him, unsteady feet constantly shuffling over the ground. The clothes he's wearing – not his own as far as Aramis is aware – are stained with blood in some places, and Aramis does not want to think on what that means.
Face marred by bruises and pain-lines, the young man still manages to shoot him a reassuring smile. Or, that's what Aramis supposes d'Artagnan attempts to do. In reality, it looks like a pained grimace that does little more that drive home how battered the Gascon really is.
Not for the first time since they learned of d'Artagnan's kidnapping, Aramis feels and immeasurable amount of guilt pool in his stomach. He is aware, in retrospect that his single-minded focus on the queen and the dauphin caused him to neglect the Gascon. At the time it had seemed natural, especially given the argument they had had. Now, eying the hunched and pale musketeer, the argument seems childish.
Retrospect is never very useful, Aramis muses.
Through the hairs on the back of his neck, Aramis can feel Athos' stare on him. The man undoubtedly wants to know Aramis' medical opinion on d'Artagnan. That's not really something Aramis thinks he can handle right now. Porthos, he notices, is alternating angry glares at Chassroi, and reassuring glances at d'Artagnan. Neither seem to be having much effect.
Before he truly realises what he's doing, Aramis finds him mouth open and running, "It seems like your looks have deteriorated since we last saw each other, my friend." He grouses, "Undoubtedly through lack of guidance on my part. I should have told you blood-red was not your colour."
The joke falls flat, and Aramis almost winces at his own words, unsure of why he uttered them. Then d'Artagnan quirks the corner of his lip in a very Athos-like fashion, and a weight lifts from Aramis' heart. It's good to know that, even when he's barely upright and looking half dead, the Gascon still has an atrocious sense of humour.
"I think that is quite enough catching up, for now." Chassroi cuts through their silent conversation.
The lord stalks d'Artagnan, moving closer with the sure step of a predator who knows it has its prey cornered. When he briefly touches the Gascon's hair, Porthos lets out a growl, while Athos pulls futilely at his chains, teeth grinding together loud enough for them all to hear. D'Artagnan doesn't move, he merely faces Chassroi coldly. He doesn't utter a single sound.
"Now, you will tell me where the letter is." Chassroi murmurs, hand catching one of the welts on d'Artagnan's back.
"What letter?" Three voices reply in unison. D'Artagnan smiles and only just manages to keep in a snort when Athos turns puzzled eyes on him. The Gascon shakes his head. This is hardly something he can explain without speaking, and he will not break his vow of silence. Chassroi will not get that pleasure, no matter what torture the lord puts him or his friends through.
"I will rip you all apart if that is what I need to do to find that letter." Annoyance is clear in Chassroi's voice. He has heard that answer one too many times. To illustrate his point, he slams a fist into d'Artagnan's ribs, making the Gascon's legs give way. If he were not being held up by Chassroi's men, he would certainly have fallen.
"You shall never find it." Athos drawls in an attempt to draw the attention away from d'Artagnan, "Even if you do, it will be too late."
"What do you mean?" It's a scoff, arrogant and sceptical.
"It has been at least five days since we found Vasser. We've sent our survivors to Paris, a three-day ride from here." Chassroi looks surprised at this, and Aramis prays to God that he is right, and that he has not just betrayed his fellow musketeers. D'Artagnan's head snaps up as well, dark eyes suddenly sparkling, as though daring to hope.
"What survivors? The paralysed man I left in the mud? He can hardly have gotten far." The smugness that emanates from Chassroi is almost insufferable. Porthos can feel a snarl building in his chest, but before he can let it out, d'Artagnan is pulling at the iron hands that hold him with a growl. It's the first noise they have heard him make, and Porthos is glad to know the Gascon can still speak.
"Did I hit a nerve?" Chassroi simpers.
"They will have reached the palace, and broken the news by now." Porthos interrupts, grabbing the attention away from d'Artagnan again.
"I'm sure the King is paranoid enough to believe his musketeers, with or without a letter." Athos adds, equally desperate to keep the Gascon from the other man's wrath.
"Then everything has failed." Chassroi challenges, "There is nothing holding me from killing you all."
"Oh, there is one little thing." Aramis sing-songs, "The King will want to know who was in alliance with the earl."
"Information, I am sure, that is held within the letter you so desperately seek." Athos adds to Aramis' statement.
"The lord of the chateau, Antoine de Mausin, doesn't know who attacked him." the words sound so smug that Athos wishes he could cut the smile from Chassroi's face.
"He doesn't?" Porthos asks in a sweet little tone, adding his bit to his friends' net of lies, "Athos, tell me, how many nobles in France have their men where a purple sash as a uniform?"
"Only one that I'm aware of." Athos intones, "The du Beloucher's of Chateau Rouge."
"Which is where again?" Aramis asks.
"In this area, I would imagine." Chassroi eyes narrow at Athos' answer.
"Do you think de Mausin would know this?" Porthos continues.
"Naturally, he has been educated in these facts. As any nobleman is."
Chassroi seems to pale in the dim light, though his expression remains thoroughly impassive. His eyes flit between the men, landing on the youngest, still hanging between his guards. Even half conscious, he still imagines the captive to look smug at his friends words.
"You are lying." He tells the cell in general, voice flat and eyes smouldering.
"Ah," Aramis murmurs, "But are we?"
"I know that if it were my name in that letter, my downfall, I really wouldn't want to take the chance." Porthos finishes for Aramis.
Athos stares the man down, trying to find a weakness, a sign of terror in their captor's façade.
"Very well, I will make sure to find that letter," Chassroi murmurs finally, then, with a cruel strike to d'Artagnan's throat, he continues, "And I will not stop tormenting your friend until one of you divulges its location."
The sneer is back on Chassroi's face, as the three men squirm in their bonds. They open their mouths, seethe at him, but he has eyes only for the youngest of the group. d'Artagnan had shot up when he spoke, then gone practically limp, choking on the punch Chassroi threw.
"Bring him." He orders, exiting the cell and slamming the door with an ear shattering bang.
D'Artagnan is hung from the ceiling, once more. The chain that connects his hands is attached to a hook in the ceiling that slowly goes up, and up.
The cause may be lost, Chassroi thinks, but he will keep is name clear. And if he does not manage that, he will take all those damned musketeers down with him. Actually, he ponders as he readies a whip, he knows he's going to kill them all anyway.
These musketeers have been altogether too much of a menace.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
D'Artagnan wonders how long it has been. He had expected torture, harsh blows and menacing whispers. Instead, Chassroi had stood before him, whip running through his hands, whispering all the pain he would bring the musketeers. Threatening to strangle Aramis, to brand Porthos, to whip Athos until he begs.
Now the images won't leave his mind.
After an eternity of nothing murmurs in the dark, he finds himself back in his old cell. The one without his friends, without hope. Well, maybe not entirely without hope. They're all alive after all, and if his friends are telling the truth, the King's life is no longer in danger.
Constance's life is no longer in danger.
Isn't that a fresh breeze of hope?
Of course, if his friends are telling the truth, then d'Artagnan doesn't know half of what is in the letter he carried. (What letter?) And if Chassroi believes his friends that means only one thing for d'Artagnan right now. The man will hurt and hurt him until he either breaks, or dies. Then, he'll move on to the other three. There is no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind about that.
So he needs to hold out. As long as possible, to save his friends from pain and himself from indignity. There is no dignity in death, after all. There is also no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind about something else. He will not break. If it is the last thing he does, he will glue himself back together and ask the only question he possibly can.
What letter?
Even if the question is no longer relevant.
Even if his sanity is gone.
And then, maybe his friends will be right, and the King will have sent a party to look for the letter. And then maybe they will look for him, as well. Him, and Porthos, Athos and Aramis. And then maybe they will get out of this alive.
It's the only hope that d'Artagnan holds on to as the cold takes hold again.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
They need out. D'Artagnan needs out. And they need to do it now. Their little plan, the one that Porthos and Aramis had perhaps gotten a little too carried away in, has failed spectacularly. And now their Gascon is on the line. Again.
Porthos feels the ache in his head spike. D'Artagnan should not have been caught, they should not have split up. Actually, that bloody earl should have just kept his Scandinavian hands off of the French throne. A shake of his head has Porthos wincing, still tender from the boot that hit it. With a sigh he wonders at the at the events that led to this. The discourse between d'Artagnan and Athos, the argument that left them all with cold shoulders and a pained heart.
They could have handled that better, all of them. D'Artagnan had been obnoxious and down-right rude at the time. But then, they all had. The implications that d'Artagnan could not handle himself seem unfounded now. It is clear that the boy knows what to do in a fight, knows his duty and his honour, and they had all known that. But worry had blinded them, and later anger.
Of course, that's just the tip of the ice-berg, Porthos knows. Something was said during that night in the pub with Athos, and judging from Athos' increasingly guilty silence, the comte has remembered. Whatever was said, Porthos does not need to know. What he does need to know is that Athos gets to apologise, and d'Artagnan gets to forgive the man.
Because Athos will drown himself in bottle after bottle of wine in d'Artagnan dies. But it the Gascon dies before their argument is truly resolved, it will be a river that Athos drowns himself in.
And Porthos may just follow him.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
D'Artagnan is burning.
There's fire in his veins and it's consuming him. the burns feel like the hot poker is still on his skin, still scorching its way through flesh and blood. His back burns too. Red agony on every welt. The old gash on his side excretes filth that boils his very skin.
The darkness in the room is suddenly suffocating, filled with ghosts and memories he wants to forget.
What he wouldn't give fro some reprieve.
A breeze. A cool carafe of water. Freezing snow.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
As he paces the length of his study, Chassroi waits. He waits for his men to return from their reconnaissance mission. He waits for his messenger to return from Paris confirming the death of the King, or at least the death of the musketeers who bring the news that will save the monarch's life. He waits, for anything to prove what the musketeers said wrong.
On a primal level, he feels that they are right. That the birds have flown and that the King will continue to live and rule. He also knows that if his family's name is indeed written in that letter, that he needs to destroy it. The King will have his head for this treason, otherwise. Of course, they may be coming for him anyway, if the musketeers are left to live.
With a frustrated growl, Chassroi rips a purple cushion from a chair and throws it into the fire.
Bloody musketeers.
A tentative knock sounds at the door, "COME IN." Chassroi shouts.
A guard slips quietly into the room with the air of a man who severely regrets losing a bet. Closing the door behind him, he turns back to his lord and bows deeply.
"Monsieur, I am here about the prisoner." The man all but whispers.
"Of course you are," Chassroi sighs in exhasperation, "What have they done?"
The guard looks around in terror, eye falling on murderous tapestry, and his eyes grow wide. He gulps momentarily, eyes flitting back to his leader. Weighing his words as though every one costs a pile of gold, he says, "They have not done anything, really, monsieur."
"Then what is the problem?" Chassroi snaps.
"The young one, the Gascon, he seems to have developed a fever. 'S not doing so well… I thought you might want to know." The guard says quickly, already moving towards the door again.
"He has a fever. A grave one?" Chassroi asks, friendlier this time.
"Yes, Monsieur." The guard nods.
The feeling of satisfaction at causing the Gascon enough harm to let him develop a fever disappears as soon as Chassroi truly realises what that means. D'Artagnan could die of this. And with him, the only leverage Chassroi holds over some of the King's most talented men.
"Fetch a physician." Chassroi orders.
"Du Boiseur?" the guard asks tentatively, "You had him executed when your brother passed away, monsieur."
He did, didn't he. What kind of doctor are you if you cannot heal a sick man? He eyes the guard for a moment.
"Didn't that healer woman from the village save your wife's life?" Chassroi questions.
The guard nods.
"Fetch her, then." With those words, Chassroi goes against everything he wants, and chooses to save d'Artagnan's life.
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D'Artagnan doesn't know what it is exactly that wakes him. The instincts of a soldier maybe? Or perhaps the constant fear that thrums through him. Whatever it is, when two rough hands turn him over, his fist is ready and slamming into soft cartilage. What follows is an incredulous cry of pain and a string of curses that would put even Porthos to shame.
The world spins, grey and red and yellow, oozing at the corner of his eyes.
A new voice cuts in. It's higher, commanding. A woman, d'Artagnan's mind eloquently supplies.
The wold spins again as two sets of hands pull him upright. Keep him from falling.
Grey turns greyer, turns to rain. Voices speak and Alexandre d'Artagnan dies in the mud, bleeding out in his son's arms.
"What have you done to him?" a disapproving voice mutters over the rain.
"WE didn't do nothing but follow orders, ma'am." Another voice, one d'Artagnan knows, and associates with the whistle and the slam of a whip.
"Well Chassroi is mad if he thinks he can just break a man and expect me to mend it. This man is a human, not a toy!" Smaller hands probe forward, calloused and rough. There's a smell of pine trees and d'Artagnan remembers another wood.
With a dead man. With screams and broken bones, and Moreau and Vasser's blood saturating the ground. A forest without Porthos. Or Aramis. And certainly no Athos.
"I refuse to help a man just to let him back into your 'custody'. I am not a murderer." The female voice again. He thinks Constance would like her, they have that same fire in their voice.
"Remember why you are doing this. To save France. To make it better." That's Chassroi. Disgust wells up in d'Artagnan as he hears the voice. Liar! He wants to shout, You failed! The King will survive, and you will be killed in his place! But words fail him.
"Torturing men and slaughtering kings is better?" The woman replies vehemently.
There is nothing for a while, low voices and burning in the dark.
"I will save this man, but make no mistake, I do it because it is not yet his time. Not for your whims." A kind hand settles on his forehead, and he opens his eyes to foggy faces and bright light.
Fire. Ice. Cold water and deep darkness. Burning flesh. And rain. Always rain. Always falling, never feeling.
Cries of death.
A whisper, voice unknown, yet so familiar.
"Do not give up." It comes in a cool exhale of air.
Three other voices, deeper, even more familiar. Somewhere in his mind.
A kind voice, burdened by prejudice and a terrifying past. You're a stubborn brat, you can make it. Stubborn. Mouth shut. What letter?
A soft voice, charming and laden with the words of thousands of scribes. I know I told you of heaven, but no is hardly the time to test it. Latin. Pater Noster. Hell, now. Fire.
A noble voice, once betrayed but still trusting and trustworthy. There is no dignity in death. Remember that. Dignity. Honour. Life.
Life.
And d'Artagnan fights.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Athos tears at his doublet. The one advantage of his surrender is that he was allowed the dignity of his doublet, while those of Aramis and Porthos have been stripped. Of course, all other weapons have been stripped of him as well, but the metal hooks that keep his breeches attached to his doublet are still intact. He pulls at them, tearing through the fabric in attempt to get them loose.
Just one of those hooks, and he can pick at his manacles, get them loose and get his friends and himself out of this horrid place. It provides something to focus on. Something besides Aramis' laboured breaths as air whistles through his swollen throat. Something other than the intermittent hisses of pain that come from Porthos every time he moves his head.
Something other than the overwhelming lack d'Artagnan's voice.
Athos does not know where the Gascon has been taken, or what is being done to him, but at this point he's almost hoping for a scream that will tell him the boy is still alive. That is all he needs, alive, the rest they can heal, and apologise for.
With a final hard tug on the hook, it comes free from the leather of his doublet. Shooting out slightly too far with the force that Athos used, it embeds itself shallowly into the comte's skin. With another yank, more careful this time, the hook comes free. Athos slowly sets to work bending the hook. Though not nearly as good at picking a lock as Porthos is, Athos is capable of getting himself free.
He just needs some time, and luck.
Though honestly, Athos sighs to himself, Lady Luck does not seem to have taken a liking to him at all.
After hours of picking, the manacle is loosens. Porthos and Aramis look as it slides from his left arm. One to go. Then the hands of his friends. A smile graces Athos' lips, pulling at the growing beard on his face.
D'Artagnan barely had stubble, even after almost a week. Feeling around in the lock on his manacle, Athos thinks of the taunts that Aramis will let out of that.
His smile widens, then falls.
Be alive, d'Artagnan, he begs, Allow me to apologise, to explain that we would be nothing without you. Just be alive.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
It is cold and dark.
D'Artagnan wonders if this is what death feels like.
TBC
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