As a few persons wanted to know what was happening to d'Artagnan… I felt obliged to cast some light upon his fate.
My deepest thanks to you, Riversidewren.
D'Artagnan
Why was he still alive?
Why was he trying to open his eyes?
Why was he hurting so badly?
Why was any sense of personal dignity gone?
Why?!
"Mis, why?"
But Aramis was not here.
Aramis was probably dead by now.
Dead by his hand?
D'Artagnan was not sure.
He remembered his delirious fight.
But he also remembered Aramis' touch as they took him away.
Aramis' last whispered words.
He repeated them over and over again.
Did he hope to summon his brother with his words?
All the things that d'Artagnan remembered... they did not fit together.
One person cannot die in ten different ways.
What was the truth?
What was a hallucination?
The Gascon boy did not know.
He knew he desperately missed his friends. If they were dead, he wanted to be dead as well. He longed to meet them, whether it was in hell or in heaven.
Hell?
He was in hell now.
Devils had human faces.
That discovery should not have been a surprise.
All he wanted was to hear the voices of his dearest friends.
No…
It was better that they were not here.
Maybe there was still hope?
Which hope?
To die in Athos' arms.
To die surrounded by his friends.
Not by his foes…
His body still reacted with pain to the tortures inflicted on him. He could not hold back his screams. But his mind seemed distant, as if his brain had somehow become indifferent. Perhaps there was a limit on how much humiliation a man could feel-a limit that he had just broken.
Why was he awake?
A bloody piece of cloth was held near his face.
It smelled of blood.
It smelled of wine.
And sweat.
And powder.
It smelled like Athos…
"ATHOS!" he cried out desperately, his heart pounding with panic.
"You are right. It was on him when he received his death blow. And you also should recognize this shirt..." His captor showed him a large crimson rag.
D'Artagnan recognized it immediately.
It belonged to Porthos.
"Nobody is searching for you anymore, kid. All the people who wanted to help you-they are all dead. If you had just accepted the offer we gave to you in the tavern, they would be still among living…but now you're alone, pup. That was what they called you, wasn't it? Pup?"
No! No! No!
D'Artagnan lunged towards his captor, shackles clanging as he furiously tried to reach the grinning man.
The man simply turned and left.
The young musketeer struggled against his chains. He desperately called out his brothers' names.
Relentless.
Despairing.
Alone.
No reason to fight.
No reason to live.
The last thought.
The plea for death.
Not to wake up once more in this empty world.
The shirt smelling of blood and Athos.
The shirt smelling of Athos' blood.
He managed to grasp it with his hand.
He buried his face in it.
And cried until blackness claimed him.