Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and I was especially happy to hear from the many Athos and Porthos fans out there. Back to d'Artagnan and Aramis in this next one to find out what happened after d'Art's capture. Enjoy!
A heavy fog had descended on them that afternoon, and evening seemed to come even earlier than normal, the twilight mingling with the mist around them to bring a darkness that seemed oppressive in its completeness. The bandits appeared to know where they were going and hadn't gone far, returning to the road they'd been travelling parallel to and following it further toward Le Havre before stopping at a dense copse of trees where they'd obviously established their camp. It wasn't much, but they'd erected a couple of small canvas tents, dug a fire pit and set up an area where the horses could be tethered for the night; it made d'Artagnan wonder just how long the men had been lying in wait for their arrival.
The men wasted no time in starting a fire, another taking care of the horses while others gathered additional firewood or began to prepare food. Through all of this, d'Artagnan sat on the damp, cold ground, his arms tied awkwardly behind him around the trunk of a tree. He shivered, stifling the groan that threatened as the motion pulled at his dislocated shoulder and he could feel the heat from the swollen joint throbbing angrily, thinking ironically, that it was the only part of him that felt warm. They allowed him to keep his doublet and cloak but stripped him of his weapons, although he doubted he was much of a threat in his current condition, the pain of his injury wearing him down. The only consolation in his misery was the knowledge that Aramis had escaped. No matter what happened, the bandits would be frustrated in their objective because d'Artagnan would not divulge what he knew and Aramis would safely deliver the package to the ship in Le Havre.
d'Artagnan snorted quietly to himself, wondering idly when forfeiting his life had come to equal victory. He, like all of the Musketeers, knew he would likely die one day in battle, but death in exchange for a package seemed a poorer reason than some. Regardless, it was not his choice; the day he'd accepted the King's commission, he'd given his life over to the man and it was now the royal's right to do with it as he wished. He did not regret it, not really, but he did regret the fact that he was leaving Constance behind. It seemed like they'd just finally found happiness in their love for one another and now it was to be cruelly ripped from their grasp, leaving Constance alone and mourning.
The thought made him ponder escape. He wasn't sure if it was even an option, but considered trying regardless until he reminded himself that Aramis needed time; time to reach Le Havre and the ship that waited, and time that only d'Artagnan could buy for him by keeping his captors occupied rather than allowing them to chase after his friend. It seemed a better reason to die for and the Gascon decided that it was one worthy of his life. So resigned, he waited for the men to come and question him, Pritchard's earlier words leaving no doubt in his mind that the men would turn their attention to him soon enough.
His prediction came true within the hour as the men first took their time to rest and eat an evening meal, none of which was offered to the Gascon, and he scowled bitterly at the men, his stomach sitting painfully empty after not having eaten in several hours. Pritchard meandered over, his stature almost casual, belying the seriousness of the situation. d'Artagnan steeled himself as the man stopped in front of him, flanked by two hard looking men on either side. The bandit crouched down on his heels, being careful to stay just out of range of the Gascon's feet, unaware of the fact that the young man had no intention of trying to escape. "Are you ready to talk now?" Pritchard asked, the grin on his face a reflection of the confidence he felt.
d'Artagnan considered staying quiet but knew he had to keep the man's attention; if it became apparent too quickly that he was merely stalling for time, they might just kill him and ride out after Aramis. "Depends on the question," the Gascon returned, doing his best to mirror the man's casual demeanor, even though it was harder to pull off while bound to a tree.
The grin on Pritchard's face widened, seemingly amused by his captive. "What is the name of the ship you're to meet in Le Havre?" The man's French, while grammatically correct, was accompanied by pronunciation that made it painful on the ear and d'Artagnan cringed internally at listening to the man speak.
"There are many ships in Le Havre this time of year," the Gascon conceded. "What makes this one so special?" He had no idea whether the bandit would reveal any of what he knew, but d'Artagnan figured it was as good a way of passing the time as any other, and it was just possible he might satisfy his curiosity before he was killed.
"I'm certain you have a better idea of this than I do," the bandit retorted, his tone remaining conversational.
"And I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about," d'Artagnan parried, unwilling to give anything away, especially so early in their game.
"Hmm, I had thought you might say so," Pritchard admitted, slowly rising to his feet. As he turned away, he spoke to his men, "Please show our friend why it would be in his best interests to cooperate." He walked back to the fire and sat down while the other two moved forward, taking turns striking his face and torso. The mistreatment didn't last long, only long enough for Pritchard to down a glass of wine and then he was back, talking in reasonable tones as if d'Artagnan was the one acting irrationally. "Anything you'd like to share with me now?"
The Gascon turned his head to the side, spitting out a mouthful of blood that had pooled from a cut inside his mouth, his teeth having sliced into his cheek after a vicious backhand. He panted carefully, doing his best to slow his breathing and not wince after the men's treatment had reawakened the pain in his bruised ribs. His shoulder ached as well, his body having been thrown sideways several times from the force of the blows that had struck him, tugging mercilessly at the injured arm which was held fast by his bindings. Swallowing carefully after he'd emptied his mouth of the coppery liquid, d'Artagnan met the man's gaze as he slowly answered around a rapidly swelling lip, "Not sure I remember the question."
"Surely you know that your only value to us is in the knowledge you possess?" Pritchard countered, an eyebrow raised questioningly.
"And surely you know that a few punches are insufficient motivation for me to betray my mission," d'Artagnan replied evenly.
The Gascon's words had pulled a chuckle from the bandit and he nodded to one of his two men, who walked back to the fire and out of the young man's sight, Pritchard blocking his view. "I had thought they might be, but it was worth a try. Fear not, we have other forms of persuasion."
d'Artagnan kept his features neutral as he tried not to think about what forms of persuasion awaited him, fearing that he would have first-hand knowledge all too soon. Pritchard, for his part, gave nothing away, standing nonchalantly a few feet away as they waited for the man to return. When he did, he handed the leader a knife and for a few seconds the Gascon steeled himself for the pain of having his flesh cut. The two bandits moved forward and pulled his cloak away from his chest, doing the same with his doublet and yanking at the collar of his shirt to expose the skin beneath. d'Artagnan found his breath speeding involuntarily and he clamped his jaw down hard as Pritchard stepped forward, a maniacal grin on his face.
He pressed the knife to the Gascon's torso, holding it there for a count of five before pulling it away and observing his captive's reaction. d'Artagnan's nerves were on fire. The blade that had touched his skin had ignited such heat that he'd barely contained his cries of pain and surprise as the knife burned his tender flesh. He'd been expecting to be cut and the shock of the scorching metal had nearly undone him as his brain was overwhelmed by the signals it was receiving. Now, he found himself gasping, his head tipped low to his chest, nostrils assaulted by the smell of burnt flesh causing his stomach to roil dangerously. Forcing himself to look up, he met Pritchard's gaze and found the man completely unmoved by the pain he'd just caused; if anything, the man wore an expression of satisfaction at having shaken the Musketeer.
The bandit now held the knife up to the firelight as though examining its smooth surface, "A far more interesting use of a blade, wouldn't you say?"
d'Artagnan glared at his tormentor, his mouth firmly closed against the curses that threatened to break forth. Pritchard's henchman returned to his side, swapping a freshly heated blade for the one in his leader's hand and he held d'Artagnan's eye for a moment before pressing it firmly against the Gascon's chest. The young man had no sense of time as he fought against the searing sensation, jaws clamped so tightly together he was certain his teeth would shatter from the force. When the knife was removed, d'Artagnan found tears leaking from his eyes as he pulled desperate breaths against the agony that continued to burn despite the blade's removal.
As though knowing the Gascon's thoughts, the bandit spoke, "That's the fascinating thing about burns – even when the heated object is removed, the flesh continues to burn and throb for hours." d'Artagnan felt tremors throughout his body at the onslaught of pain he'd endured, but he still managed to scowl defiantly at the man. Pritchard wasted no time in stepping forward with another hot blade, finding a new spot of unblemished skin on the Gascon's chest and the young man again felt the exquisite agony as more of his skin was burned, his entire body stiff and straining to pull away but completely unable to do so in his current position. As the seconds ticked by without relief, a shout of pain was forced from his chest and finally he felt the offensive object removed, slumping forward immediately as far as he was able, too weak to hold his head up.
Pritchard moved closer twisting his hands into the Gascon's long hair, pulling his head up until he had no choice but to meet the bandit's eyes. "You'll find that I'm a most determined man, but patience is not one of my strong suits. I'll leave you to consider your situation for a while as I find the continued pain to be an excellent motivator. When I return, I'll expect you to tell me what I want to know; otherwise I'll have no choice but to end your life and go in search of your friend." Placing the tip of the knife against one of the burns, Pritchard slowly pushed until he'd pierced the ravaged skin, blood beginning to flow sluggishly from the small wound. "After the time we've spent together, do you really want me to become acquainted with your friend?"
Removing the knife, the bandit rose and walked back to the fire pit, leaving d'Artagnan gasping softly for breath as he tried to deal with the unrelenting pain that emanated from the three burns. His chest felt completely raw and the agony of being cut afterwards only intensified the sensation to the point where his vision had begun to darken. He'd been unwilling to pass out while the bandit tortured him, but now the bliss of unconsciousness beckoned him and he closed his eyes, giving into it freely.
Aramis had run; he'd pushed his horse to gallop for nearly two miles before the shuddering of the mount beneath him forced him to slow and he allowed the poor beast to walk, the quivering of the animal's overtaxed muscles shivering up through his thighs. He should feel elated at having escaped but his mind was consumed by only one thought – he'd left d'Artagnan behind. Although he knew it was necessary, he felt only guilt and shame at not having found a way to save the young man from the bandits who'd pursued them. Even though the Gascon had ordered him to go, Aramis could not reconcile the need to complete the mission with the sacrifice of his friend.
As the horse walked, he brought a hand to his side, the wound there throbbing angrily with its mistreatment, the pace he'd kept tugging persistently at the stitches that held his skin closed. He deserved the pain he now suffered; it was little enough penance for the sin of having left his brother behind. His hands twisted the reins in his hands while every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn around and find d'Artagnan, but he was torn between his orders and his conscience and nearly paralyzed with indecision. What would the others do, he wondered.
"The mission must be completed, no matter the cost," Athos' voice, with its low, comforting timbre resonated in his head and he knew his friend was right. As Musketeers, their first duty was to their mission, even if that meant the loss of one of their brothers. Treville was a fine example, after all, having lived for years with the death of twenty men on his conscience after the massacre in Savoy.
"Family is everything; without family, a man is like a ship cast adrift on the tides, with no tiller and no compass to guide him," Porthos' soothing tones reminded him and the words resonated with Aramis' soul. Porthos knew better than most the value of family, having been without one until he'd found the brotherhood of the Musketeers. As a result, the large Musketeer would do anything for any of them, his constancy like the reassuring beacon of a lighthouse in the dark.
"A man without honor is no man at all," d'Artagnan's naïve face appeared in his mind's eye, imploring Aramis to allow him an honorable death, in service to his country. For the Gascon, honor was held in high esteem, and the young man would not thank him for wasting his sacrifice by not completing the mission. In fact, he was fairly certain that d'Artagnan would berate him for his foolishness, and the thought almost had the Spaniard concluding that the most prudent choice was to head for Le Havre without a second thought.
Aramis groaned, his head throbbing with indecision as he scrubbed a hand angrily across his face. His friends all had their opinions, but he was the one who would have to live with his decision and, ultimately, be judged by God for his actions. He realized that the others would call him a romantic, putting his heart before his head, but he could not help but listen to it imploring him to go after his friend, the fear of the Gascon's fate twisting his stomach into knots.
Turning the horse to the left, he veered back toward the road that led to Le Havre, expecting that he would intersect with it within a half hour or so. When he reached it, he was surprised to find the muddied track heavily rutted with the hoof prints of multiple horses; his decision had been made for him and he crossed himself quickly with a nod of appreciation toward the skies above. He had many demons from his years of soldiering, but he would not add another this day. Regardless of what the others might think, he could not live with the young man's death and would do everything in his power to see the boy free. Wishing for his horse to recover faster, he kept an even pace, following the tracks and praying that they would soon lead him to the Gascon.