Relief. That was the overriding emotion he felt when Porthos and Athos withdrew from the room, leaving him once more alone. He could feel the fine tremors that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his bones ever since his supposed rescue. A flush of guilt rose at that, but he fiercely pushed the feeling away, too confused and fragile to deal with more than one powerful emotion at a time.
He exhaled slowly, mindful of his sore ribs, which burned hotly during every waking moment. Porthos had offered him a pain draught, but he'd refused, panic flaring at the idea of being drugged again. Dragging in a slow breath, d'Artagnan closed his eyes tightly, only for them to spring open almost at once when flashes of his captivity assaulted him. It took several long seconds for him to realize his breathing had increased to the point of causing him pain. Grimacing, he focused on the controlled movement of his chest, determinately slowing it down despite feeling like he was suffocating.
It took several painful minutes to return to normal, by which time his face and body were uncomfortably drenched in sweat. Shuddering, he dragged in another inhale as he reflected on how terrible he felt. It wasn't simply the unrelenting, full body ache, but the mix of heat and cold that alternately assaulted his senses. From one moment to the next, he fluctuated between a fire that seemed to consume him to chills that had him shivering almost uncontrollably, despite his body being covered in sweat. His physical ills never abated quite enough for him to fall into a proper, healing sleep. But that didn't mean he remained awake.
On those occasions when his body simply shut down, no longer able to deny the weariness that pervaded each sinew of every muscle and every inch of his mottled skin, he would dream. His nightmares were filled with terrifying, disjointed images that were impossible for his muddled brain to comprehend. Sometimes he dreamed of men assaulting him, unable to move away with his arms pinned by invisible bonds which he was unable to break. Those instances had him startling awake, looking for the phantoms that haunted his dreams while he felt the pain of every blow his mind had conjured.
Other times, his nightmares were simply black. Those instances were worse, leaving him nothing to fight against and no enemy to identify. When those dreams struck, he felt trapped in a cocoon of nothingness, where emotion overwhelmed his senses, and desolation and pain ruled. He feared those nightmares the most, and almost wished for his friends' reassuring presence to chase his demons away. Almost.
He couldn't ask for the help he so desperately needed, wondering even now if what was around him was real. Hearing that the Cardinal was dead had shaken him, badly, leaving him questioning what else his befuddled mind had imagined. Despite that, he would have normally welcomed the care being thrust upon him, at least to a point. But in this instance, being told what he could and couldn't do, being told when to eat, drink and sleep - it was all simply an extension of the lack of control he'd suffered during his captivity. Whether or not he spoke was the only thing remaining in his complete control, so he'd simply stopped responding. Part of his brain knew this wasn't the answer, but another part, the part ruled by irrational emotion, gained satisfaction and a measure of comfort from his small act of defiance.
Shifting slightly, his body reminded him once more what a bad idea that was, and he bit down on a groan of pain. His discomfort had been steadily growing, feeding an ember of fear deep in his heart that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He had no idea what, but instinctively knew that that he wasn't feeling the way he normally felt after an encounter of this kind.
The thought had him snorting, a faint smile adorning his lips for a heartbeat before his face once more grew sombre and weary. Momentarily forgetting about his broken arm, he brought both hands up to scrub at his face, remembering at the last second about his injured appendage. Sighing, he let both arms drop gently into his lap, letting his head rest against the wall at the foot of his bed. He'd been siting in the same position since Athos and Porthos had left, not having enough energy or motivation to do anything else. Plus, there was the ever-present twine wrapped around his leg, which Porthos had adamantly refused to remove.
He tried his best to let his mind drift, not wanting to think lest he be drawn back into the nightmarish reality that marked the last few days of his life. Sadly, as soon as he gave his brain free reign, it immediately returned to the feelings of panic and confusion he'd begun to experience soon after he'd been kidnapped.
He groaned, releasing some portion of his misery in the low, guttural noise, but it did little to lessen his mental anguish. Knocking his head against the wall behind him once, and then a second time, he became aware of an itch lodged deep beneath his skin; it felt like fire ants were crawling over him, and he could barely stand the horrible sensation. Staying still for several moments, he tried to will the feeling away, moaning loudly when it became apparent that he could not.
"Argh," he groaned, hands fumbling at the twine that wrapped around his ankle, his efforts to untie it hampered by his broken right arm. He was mindless of the pain he was causing himself, his entire focus on simply getting free so he could move. With a last frantic tug, he yanked the string from his leg, letting it drop from his fingers before scrambling to rise.
The movements caused the pain in his body to spike higher, but he was oblivious to the increased aches he was causing himself. Staggering upright, his chest heaving in uncontrolled inhales and exhales, he lurched towards the door, unaware of the fact that he was in nothing but his braies and linen shirt. As he flung the door open, swaying with its inward swing, he absently noted the empty hallway as he exited the room, his gaze firmly fixed on the stairs that led to freedom.
The room across from d'Artagnan's was a stark contrast to the frenzy gripping the young man's mind. While the Gascon sought to escape, Aramis and Porthos sat in companionable silence, neither wanting to disturb the older man who'd taken the marksman's place on the bed.
Following his arrival and subsequent conversation about d'Artagnan, Aramis determinedly pressed Athos for information about his injuries and refused to let the matter rest until he'd examined the injured limb. The older man had subsequently been relieved of his weapons and doublet, forced to consume a light meal and a pain draught, before being practically tucked into bed by an amused and apologetic Porthos. All in all, the former comte had taken his friends' fussing relatively well.
"Looks peaceful when he's sleepin'," Porthos remarked softly, sipping from the glass in his hand.
"Mmm," Aramis responded, taking a small drink of the brandy the larger man had procured. "Where on earth did you find something so divine?" he asked after he'd swallowed.
Porthos grinned, sharing the marksman's poor assessment of the tavern below them. When he remained silent, wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Aramis pressed. "What's so funny?"
His grin widening, Porthos replied, "I'll tell you in a minute. First, let's drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours." Raising a somewhat surprised eyebrow, Aramis nonetheless complied, emptying his glass.
"Well?" the marksman prompted once Porthos had refilled both their cups.
"I planned ahead, of course," the larger man replied, reaching beneath his chair for a small, fabric wrapped bundle. "Happy Birthday, 'Mis."
Aramis' expression morphed from astonishment to gratitude as he realized the reason for Porthos' thoughtfulness. "You sneaky bugger," he said fondly, shaking his head at his friend's gesture.
"I know we said we'd celebrate after this mission is over, but I didn't want to wait until we got back," Porthos explained. "Open it."
The larger man leaned back in his seat, an expectant look on his face as he waited for his friend to unwrap his gift. Aramis took a moment to set his glass down on the floor next to his chair, before turning his attention to the bundle waiting for him. Unfolding first one side and then the other, the gift inside was revealed. "Oh, Porthos," he breathed out.
Nestled in the soft fabric was a small, but wicked looking blade, its thin steel belying its deadly nature. The haft was made of a dark wood that had been diligently polished until it nearly shone, while the metal edge had been sharpened to a fine point, gleaming in the light of their room.
It was a smaller blade than a main gauche, possibly better suited to a woman than a man, but it was the perfect weapon to hide on one's person and would be easily missed by anyone doing a quick search meant to disarm. Given their luck, it was the ideal gift that could mean the difference between life and death, imprisonment and freedom, and Aramis was again touched by the thought that had gone into its selection.
Lifting the blade in one hand, Aramis took measure of its weight, noting how well-balanced it was. Lifting his smiling face to his friend, he announced, "It's perfect. Thank you."
Porthos flushed with pride at the man's response to the gift, offering a murmured, "It's nothing," in reply.
Aramis knew his friend was both pleased and embarrassed by his reaction, so he simply nodded and rewrapped the small knife rather than contradicting the man's statement. Leaning sideways to pick up his glass, the world lurched beneath him, the concussion once more making its presence made. "Whoa," he groaned, unaware that Porthos had leapt from his seat and caught him before he could topple over.
Several long seconds later, the ground righted itself, and Aramis opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. Porthos was standing over him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady until his equilibrium returned. "You alright now?" the larger man asked, concern clear on his face.
Nodding carefully, the marksman was pleased to find his vision remaining steady. "Yes, sorry."
Porthos snorted as he cautiously released his hold, waiting a moment before moving back and out of his friend's personal space. "Nothing to apologize for."
Aramis began to nod in agreement when a loud crash came from the hall. Porthos was moving towards the door before the marksman had even risen from his seat. Stumbling over his first steps, he followed in Porthos' wake, ignoring the confused words coming from a now-awake Athos.
Swaying against the doorframe, Aramis peered into the hallway, his vision shifting and blurring in rebellion at his quick movements. Squinting, he watched Porthos cover the length of the hallway, stopping momentarily at the top of the stairwell before charging downwards. The large man's disappearance provided all the motivation he needed to get him moving, and he kept one hand on the wall as he traversed the distance between himself and the stairs.
A guttural shout came from the stairwell, causing Aramis to grit his teeth in frustration as he pushed himself to move faster. He barely noticed that Athos had joined him, hobbling as quickly as he could with the support of the opposite wall. Reaching the top of the stairs at the same time, both men stopped in stunned amazement at the sight below.
Porthos was lying at the bottom of the staircase, and it was difficult to tell from their vantage point if he was even breathing. Blood was pooling beneath his head, the viscous fluid slowly spreading into a macabre halo of red. Partway up the stairs, two men grappled, and it took the two Inseparables a moment to recognize one of the fighters as d'Artagnan.
The two combatants were locked together as they fought for the upper hand, each man pushing and pulling at the other in the confined space. With a deft twist, the unknown man gained the advantage as he forced the Gascon to a lower step. A heartbeat later, d'Artagnan's attacker landed a vicious backhand to the young man's cheek, causing him to stagger against the wall.
"d'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted, readying himself to move to the Gascon's aid. Their eyes pinned on the young man as he tried to recover from the blow, they momentarily missed his opponent's actions, the man pulling a knife and readying to throw it at Athos.
"No!" d'Artagnan's voice was filled with outrage and fear as he threw himself forward and upwards to tackle the other man. The Gascon's cry gave his target the time he needed to prepare for the attack, causing him to shift his stance and meet the injured Musketeer head on.
As d'Artagnan moved upwards, his opponent stepped down to meet him, his hand driving deeply into the young man's belly. The Gascon cried out at the impact, his knees melting beneath him to drop him to the ground. His attacker immediately turned again to his initial target, hesitating a moment later at a sharp pain at his throat. Reaching a hand upwards, his eyes widened in surprise at the warm fluid he felt there. His arm felt limply to his side a moment later, the rest of his body following as he collapsed.
Athos turned wide eyes to Aramis, shocked at the blade the marksman had unerringly thrown to slice into the unknown man's neck. Aramis glanced back, offering a slight shrug as he answered the unspoken question. "Birthday present." With that, he turned back towards the stairs, moving downwards to check on their downed friends.
To be continued on Sunday...
A/N: The following lines are from the movie "The Princess Bride" from a conversation between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Vizzini:
Dread Pirate Roberts: "What's so funny?"
Vizzini: "I'll tell you in a minute. First, let's drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours."
Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting all my mistakes, and thanks to everyone for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.