Dispatched to Hell

Chapter Ten

Swing sweet Seraphim.

Take me back again, or watch me make messes of men.

Days passed, possibly weeks, Aramis could not be certain without any windows in his cell to reveal the outside world. He had remained in his one room prison, healing and regaining his strength as young men in robes brought him food and occasionally a bucket of water and rags in which to clean himself. The only time he was let outside was for exercise.

Chained at both wrists and ankles, he was walked around the empty stable by a large contingency of guards. It wasn't much, but Aramis appreciated the opportunity to not only stretch his legs, but also survey the grounds in search of an escape. After a few times where he was caught gazing intently into the distance, the guards began blindfolding him.

It was no matter, Aramis knew he would never escape. There was no way he could get to d'Artagnan, and he wouldn't leave without him. But knowing that, he still hadn't been able to stop his innate need to keep searching while he'd had the chance.

On the day Pellisier finally arrived to speak with him, Aramis was more than willing to engage in conversation, something that had lacked during his time with the attendants and guards.

Pellisier had brought his chair into the room along with a small table. Robed attendants brought in two cups and a wooden decanter of wine, but Aramis refused to imbibe, stating he only drank with friends.

"I see you are looking well," said Pellisier.

"As well as my friend?" asked Aramis, sitting on the edge of his cot languidly playing with the cuffs of his shirt.

"D'Artagnan, that is his name?" asked Pellisier. Aramis didn't answer. "Well, it is," he said, matter-of-factly. "And I'm sure you will be pleased to hear he has been rewarded for your obedience, and has received a bed so he longer has to sleep on the cold floor."

Aramis bristled. "I don't need him to be pampered," he spat back. "I need him to be free and safe!"

"He will always be safe as long as you co-operate."

Aramis stood and paced the width of his cell. "Right," he said, letting out a long sigh. "As long as I obey." He stopped in front of the table and rested his eyes on Pellisier, his shoulders staunch as he watched the man all too comfortable in his chair. "Obey what? I haven't exactly been doing anything? What are we waiting for? Am I not here to fight?!"

Pellisier laughed then drank slowly from his cup, licking his lips afterward as if savouring every drop. "Eager, aren't we?"

"Not eager," said Aramis. "The sooner we get on with this, the sooner it will be over."

"Then I have come at the right time," said Pellisier. He pushed the empty cup across the table. "Drink with me."

"I have no need for your wine," replied Aramis, turning away.

"It is an order," said Pellisier, but his voice was not ardent. It was almost questioning. "But it doesn't have to be."

Aramis turned back. "What are you talking about?"

Pellisier pulled out a vial from an inside pocket of his robe and shook it gently in the air. "Remember how you felt that first fight? I can bring that back to you. Make it so you don't have to think, let your inhibitions run wild without the consequences of remorse."

Aramis eyed the vial. A small voice inside him urged him to drink it and be damned with all of this, but he looked away before the thought could fully establish itself. "There is always remorse," he said. "You cannot hide from your demons, no matter how much appalling substances you put in your body."

Pellisier poured the liquid into the empty cup, watching Aramis as he did. "Not if you keep consuming it," he said. "We are still learning the effects of this rare cocoa substance, but so far our tests have been promising."

"Cocoa?" asked Aramis, taking on a pensive mien. "I've heard of this. Botanists brought it back from the Amazon?"

"You are a man of many wonders, Aramis," said Pellisier, his expression depicting his surprise. "A man of the world."

Aramis answered without thought. "And of books," he said.

"Do you know of medicine?"

"Yes," said Aramis. "But what does this have to do with anything? I'm here for my prowess in the ring, obviously not my mind since you seem so hell bent on destroying it with that concoction of yours."

Pellisier turned thoughful for a moment, his eyes looking to the far corners of the room as he switched his legs to now cross the right over the left. "Hm," he said.

Aramis dismissed his captor's speculative pause, figuring eventually he would choose might over mind, and not spare him duly because he was educated. "Am I to fight this evening or not?" he asked, drawing Pellisier's attention back on him.

Pellisier sat up straighter in his chair. "Right," he said, then cleared his throat. He pointed at the wine on the small table, offering it to Aramis. "A toast to this evenings' event, and the coin that shall sustain my enterprise."

With a cautious glance and steady hand, Aramis reached for the bottle. But he did not pour the wine into the cup. He raised the wooden decanter to his lips and drank. When he placed it back on the table, he smiled and tilted his head. "As you wish," he said.

After a deep sigh, Pellisier leaned forward and grabbed the wine. He poured a generous amount in Aramis' cup then sat back.

"No," said Aramis.

Pellisier rested his hands in his lap, his expression brooking no argument.

"No!" said Aramis. "I wish to remain in full control of my faculties. I deserve penance for what I'm doing."

Pellisier narrowed his eyes.

The small voice urging Aramis to drink from the cup and allow his body to function without censor niggled its way back into his thoughts. It had been near rhapsodic to fight so unencumbered from morals and righteousness, to let loose what he had kept locked deep down inside for so many years. With each passing moment of contemplation he leaned closer to the table, his right hand twitching.

No! He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head, clenching his biceps as hard as he could as he crossed them over his chest. This should not be easy!

"Aramis."

He looked up and into Pellisier's eyes and knew there was no longer a choice in the matter. It was now an order.

Based on that alone, Aramis reached forward and grabbed the cup. He poured it down his throat as fast as he could then threw the cup across his cell. "Are you satisfied?!"

"Another."

Aramis stared at him, eyes fierce and forehead furrowed, creating a wedge between his brows. How could he make him do this? How in good conscience could Pellisier force him into a state of frenzied violence?

Aramis drew in a deep breath to consolidate his strength, employing d'Artagnan's mercurial state as his bedrock, then strode across the cell with authority and retrieved his cup.

Pellisier took it from his reluctant grasp and poured into it more of the concoction from the vial. Then he filled the rest of the cup with wine and passed it back to him.

Aramis drank it in one gulp then placed it on the table. Before he could retract his hand, Pellisier was pouring more.

~The Musketeers~

D'Artagnan thought the cot was a marvellous thing, until he learned it would be accompanied by sleepless nights. After hours of watching the quill fluttering about the room, moving closer to him at times and further away moments later, he had taken to the cot out of tiredness and boredom.

That was days ago, and since that short nap he hadn't slept.

"Stop! Just spot! Please! I beg you!" D'Artagnan rolled toward the wall, smothering his ears with the soft parts of his arms, anything to drown out the banging and clanging reverberating in the near empty room where he was sequestered.

The guards smashed pots, rang bells and screeched what sounded like rusty bows across the strings of an out-of-tune cello, taking turns when their arms grew tired or they could no longer stand to listen to the ungodly racket they were making.

D'Artagnan had no escape, and his yelling only served to mildly temper his frustration but never the noise. It had been three days since he'd heard peace, and hours since he'd last been able to doze, albeit fitfully.

Whenever he was capable of pushing the clamour out of his mind and drift off, one of the guards would shove him awake, then continue on with whichever instrument of oratory torture he was assigned.

"Take the cot back!" he screamed, rolling onto his back, his hands barely muffling the noise as he squeezed them against his now fragile ears. "I don't care! Just stop!"

He'd already offered up his clothes, his rations and even volunteered for another beating, but every sacrifice was ignored, along with his pleas.

His head pounded, but not in rhythm with anything, for the devilish orchestra was playing without rhyme or reason. His inner ears vibrated to the point of pain, and his heart was hammering in his chest at an ungodly pace. Even his wrists were raw and aching from tugging and pulling on the chains in an effort to break from the wall and strangle the noise makers.

He could no longer stand, his legs were too weak from lack of sleep. No more tears could be shed, for he'd shed them all out of sheer fury and exasperation. Food and water had come, but was left untouched. D'Artagnan could not stomach anything as his frustration mounted to a nauseating level, causing his body to weaken faster and magnify his aversion to anything one could possibly put in their mouth and swallow.

"Why?! Why?!" he screamed. His throat and mouth had become so dry, he could barely form words, but he continued to beg and plea, barter and bribe until there was nothing left of his voice but a hoarse whisper.

Dear god, make it stop! What have I done?.. Please help… Why can't I remember my prayers!

"Aramis…" the name died on his lips. Wherever you are, pray for me. You know how. Please, pray my torture ends.

He rolled back to face the wall, his whole body convulsing every time someone smashed a pot with an iron rod. The effect was so loud d'Artagnan felt the whole cot shake. Tell Porthos to beat the hell out of that man while you're at it!

Bang. Tap. Smash. Tap. Tap. Bang. Screech.

And tell Athos to get on with my rescue! I don't know how much more I can take…

The noise stopped.

D'Artagnan whimpered, bracing himself for an even louder onslaught of commotion, but there was nothing but silence, barring the incessant thrum resounding in his ears.

"My ears," he whispered, as he tugged viciously on his lobes, trying to dislodge whatever blocked them. "I can't hear."

He rolled into a seated position with his feet on the floor, his heart still hammering, his breaths ragged. A deep thumping echoed in his head, pulsating with each beat of his heart.

"Hello," he said, over and over again, unable to hear his own voice.

He looked up and saw the last of the guards leaving the room, taking their instruments of destruction along with them.

D'Artagnan took deep breaths, calming his overactive body so he could concentrate. "Hello," he said again.

He felt the air rush through his throat and past his lips, but heard no words.

Then he remembered he had no voice left and cleared his throat. He tried again, but still nothing. Spotting a water skin on the floor, he reached for it and guzzled its contents until his throat no longer stung.

He tested his voice again, grimacing as his once parched throat worked painfully to produce sound. "Hello?"

He'd heard it. Quiet and strained as it was, he'd heard it.

D'Artagnan slumped back against the wall and rubbed his ears. Everything echoed, and everything hurt, but at least he could hear again. And the noise had stopped.

For now.

In a few minutes, he knew his stomach would beg for nourishment, having been without it for too long, so he reached for the loaf of bread at the foot of his cot and placed it on his stomach for later. Right now, he wanted to rest, enjoy the relative silence of the room and wait out the noises still pounding in his brain.

He lifted a single eyelid, checking to see if the room was still empty and saw the quill on the floor by the window.

"You're still there," he said, both pleased at his discovery, and that he could hear his voice more clearly. He drank again from the water skin and cleared his throat, a dry needling pain at the back of his mouth made him wince. "I'll have you yet," he whispered, staring at the still out of reach quill.

"But first, let me rest," he said, sliding down the wall. He was asleep before he hit the cot.

~The Musketeers~

Aramis was a heaving mass of coiled violence when he entered the stable. He'd already knocked out one of the guards, leaving him with a bloodied nose and broken collarbone and writhing on the stairs leading up from the tunnels.

Aramis felt no compassion for what he'd done. He felt euphoric, alive, and more alert than he'd ever felt his entire life.

But he wanted something, something that was being kept from him across the stable floor. As each moment passed, his desire to destroy and unleash his pent up energy increased tenfold, making his heart flutter and his limbs shake with anticipation.

Aramis had an almost irrational urge to tear apart the man who stood before him, larger than life, over six feet tall and with biceps the size of Aramis' thighs. There were scars on his face, he could see them clearly from several feet away, crisscrossing his nose and bisecting his upper lip.

None of it worried Aramis, not even when the man pounded his chest and stamped his feet. He was nothing. A toy. Aramis didn't care what his name was, or why he was there, only to kill him by whatever means possible.

The man who stood before Aramis was nothing more than meat in clothes, and Aramis was starving.

He licked his dry lips, squinted his eyes and leaned forward, pulling against the hands holding him back from his prey. He'd kill those men too if need be, anything to just be released and set free before his heart exploded in his chest.

Aramis didn't hear Pellisier announce the fight, he only knew when he was let go. His skin tingled where hands had once been held him. A flush of heat swept through him as he crouched, fingers curling into fists. His pupils dilated, granting him clarity of sight that nearly hurt his eyes.

Everything after that moment of release was a blur of blood, pain, sweat and exultation. Aramis only remembered visions of swirling, vivid colours and feelings of greatness as he was brutally ushered back to his cell.

Thin streaks of fresh blood dripped down his arms as he was dragged through the tunnel, pooling on the back of his hands before falling to the ground. He watched the liquid flow off his fingertips, mesmerized by its slow descent as it dropped away, yet energized by the fact that he still lived while his vitality seeped from his body.

In his own mind, Aramis was invincible. He could feel what blood he had left pumping through every artery in his body, hear the whooshing of air in his lungs as they expanded and contracted. He could taste liquid iron, bitter and metallic, as it coated his throat in a thick, viscous film when he swallowed.

The clang of his cell door opening resounded in the underground chamber, echoing in his ears like thunder during a spring storm. He was pushed onto the bed roughly, but he was on his feet instantly, running at the guards who'd tossed him aside like trash.

His left fist flew forward, making contact with the face of one of the guards. Aramis stood back, crouched and waited for retaliation.

He wanted them to try and stop him. "Come on! Take me!" he yelled, begging them to unleash their fury so he could fight back.

The guards would play no part in his physical overture, so when they locked him inside his cell with no one to play with, Aramis charged at the door.

Then he charged the wall beside his bed. Then the floor. He screamed like a caged animal, profanities coming out of his mouth in every language he could speak. He tore at the dirt of the floor and walls until he could no longer feel his appendages.

Aramis found no rest from his agitated state until the cell door flew open again and several guards entered, pounding their meaty fists into the palms of their hands while rushing forward. It took several blows to his head before he would stay down, and several more after that until he finally found respite in sleep.

~The Musketeers~

"You're threshold for pain astounds me, Aramis."

The voice was distant, but somehow it penetrated the thick fog surrounding Aramis. A heavy, unrelenting pressure pushed down on his limbs, rendering him physically incapable of movement but not of hearing.

"Time to wake up."

The voice broke through again, piercing his muddled thoughts with its familiar tone and condescension. Aramis knew that voice, hated that voice, but was involuntarily drawn to it despite his abhorrence of the man whom it belonged to.

"I see you twitching," said Pellisier. "Work your way through it and you'll be here with me shortly."

Aramis could picture the smile on Pellisier's face and wanted to cut it off for what he had done to him. The man had no reason to smile or feel proud, or talk to him in such a childlike manner.

Unable to control more than his throat, Aramis swallowed and groaned as he felt himself being pulled toward the palpable world. He had no control of his return to consciousness, and no ability to fight it, and all he wanted was to remain suspended in the thick fog and lose himself to its smothering effects.

"You are to be held accountable for your actions last night, Aramis," said Pellisier. "I had to make reparations because of you, and I promise, your punishment will be severe."

What have I done? He couldn't think straight, he couldn't remember anything past the wine. He just knew he was angry, and possibly… ashamed.

Coldness swept through him, turning every nerve ending to ice, but yet his skin burned as if he were standing too close to a fire. The contradicting sensations wreaked havoc with his body, and his head shot backward abruptly, the momentum pulling his chest upward until only his hips, head and shoulders remained touching the bed.

With what little energy he had depleted by that one involuntary action, Aramis collapsed onto his right side. His hands rested before his eyes, trembling and blood soaked. Their vibrations against the coarse material of the mattress scorched his skin with every minute movement.

"Your wounds were deep this time," said Pellisier. "Someone will be in to stitch you shortly. I trust you will behave."

Aramis heard the scrapping of a chair across dirt. It was typically a muted sound, but to his sensitive ears it was like nails on concrete.

"I have arrangements to make regarding you dear friend, d'Artagnan, but I will be back."

Aramis reached out a trembling arm, using what controllable strength he had to hold it up. No, he thought, still unable to form words. Leave him alone! If someone is to be blamed, it's me!

His arm fell down, dangling off the side of the bed with his torn and shredded knuckles scraping on the dirt floor.

"You disappointed me last night," said Pellisier. "I expected better from you. More control and a little less… un-caged brutality! You were to fight, give a show, and give me bodies I can work with! Not leave messes of men that not even my students can put back together!"

The sudden stillness in the room was jarring. Aramis knew nothing of what Pellisier spoke of, his only clues being how his body felt. But after hearing those words, his soul also ached.

"The deaths of those men were in vain," continued Pellisier, his voice softer but not any less full of conviction. "You killed without purpose and wasted lives. Reflect on that, Aramis, as you lay there in pain!"

To be continued…