Thanks for all the great reviews on the last chapter and apologies for the cliffhanger - please note the writer is not responsible for any nail biting, sleepless nights, or other neurotic or addictive behaviours which may have occurred as a result. :-) Thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!
It was a noise that woke him, tugging at his unconscious mind in an effort to bring him to awareness. The sound was repeated again, lifting his consciousness to another level, and he waited for it to be repeated once more. When it was, it seemed to resonate from deep within his chest and it dawned on him that what he was hearing was a moan. This piqued his interest and again brought him to greater awareness and this time when the sound repeated, he recognized that it was his own voice he was hearing. The realization baffled him and he unknowingly frowned as his muddled brain tried to understand why he would be moaning. He lay quietly and extended his senses to gather more clues as to what was going on. First, he tried to make sense of what he saw, confused at the blackness before comprehending that his eyes were closed. The lids seemed too heavy to prise open and after only a half-hearted attempt he left them closed. He could smell something that reminded him of the fires they'd had back on the farm when they'd celebrated the end of harvest with a large bonfire, which all their neighbors would attend. While the smell was familiar, the memory didn't seem to fit, and his brain discarded it as a possible explanation for the scent. Next, he became aware of his arms, which seemed to be gripping tightly to something, to the point that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to release whatever he held, his limbs seemingly frozen in position. His chest was warm and felt heavy and, as d'Artagnan took a deeper breath, the pressure increased and caused him to cough.
The coughing awoke him like nothing else could, sending spikes of pain through his back, shoulders and neck and causing his eyes to tear with the pain the convulsions awoke. When the coughs passed, he kept his inhales shallow and forced his eyes to open, fully awake now but still unable to recall the circumstances of his situation. Opening his eyes did little to improve things and for several moments the Gascon blinked repeatedly to confirm that he had, in fact, managed to open his eyes. Finally, he was able to distinguish that the blackness that surrounded him was only slighter lighter than the full dark of his closed eyes, confirming that he had indeed opened them and was not blind. Turning his head to the side sent another jolt of electric pain through his skull and into his back and he panted through the intense sensation, which reminded him again of the weight on his chest. Forcing numb fingers to move, he identified fabric beneath his hands, covering a warm, soft shape that seemed almost melded to his own body. Phillipe his mind supplied, some of the scattered events from before surfacing like individual puzzle pieces that had been carelessly cast about.
"Phi…." His attempt at voicing the boy's name ended abruptly as his dry, smoke-ravaged throat prompted another round of weak coughs, beginning the vicious cycle of pain and shallow breathing once again as his body protested the jarring of sore and tender parts. Concentrating, he managed to slow his breaths enough to stop the coughs and regain control over the pain. Wishing desperately for a drink, he gathered all the saliva in his mouth and swallowed thickly, attempting to lubricate his throat before speaking again. "Phillipe," the name came out as a whisper of air and d'Artagnan prayed the boy would hear him. Worry for the boy's condition spiked as he received no response and the Gascon decided to try rolling the boy off of himself and onto the ground so he could examine him properly. Shifting minutely, d'Artagnan attempted to roll to his side only to find himself pinned in place, an unidentified weight pressing against his right shoulder and hip. The realization prompted a second attempt at moving, this time forcing additional strength into his limbs to push against the resistance that held him in place; the result was the same. A surge of adrenaline swept through his body and his next attempt was fueled by its effects, but the outcome was no different; whatever held him, held him fast, and unless he could wake the boy and get him to move on his own, d'Artagnan was well and truly stuck. The realization had his pulse racing and his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps as his still clouded mind recalled images of a similar time when he'd been trapped in the dark, unable to wake his companion. "No!" his mind screamed, this was not the same. "It's different," he gasped, trying to convince himself that he was not once again trapped underground, endeavoring to push his fears away lest they consume him. "Not back there," he panted, "got out." His chest seemed to be squeezed tight, preventing him from taking a full breath, his vision tunnelling and spots appearing before his eyes. With a last gasping inhale, darkness pulled him into its grasp once again as he hyperventilated and fell unconscious.
The fact that they had managed to sleep until after mid-day was a testament to how truly fatigued they had been from the previous night's events. As it was, when they first awoke they were content to remain in the nest they'd shared on the floor, choosing not to move until Porthos grumpily announced that he had to use the chamber pot, pushing Aramis' arm gently off his chest and removing himself from where he was pressed against Athos' back. They'd been awake now for a while, but none of them had been motivated to rise, given that they were facing the first of many days without their youngest brother.
It seemed that their host, Alain, had a keen sense of hearing and within minutes of Porthos' movements around the room, followed shortly by Athos, a knock sounded at the door. Porthos plodded over to answer, opening it to find their host holding a tray of food. Raising it slightly, he said, "I thought you might be hungry." As he waited for a response he took note of the haggard appearance of his guests, Aramis still sitting on the floor with his back against the narrow bed, his legs tangled in the blankets, Athos on the single chair and scrubbing a hand through his tousled hair, and Porthos with lines of tiredness and sorrow clearly etched on his face.
It was Aramis who finally responded, remembering his manners, "Thank you, Monsieur, you are too kind."
Alain walked forward to place the tray on the dressing table, correcting the Musketeer, "Alain is just fine."
Aramis nodded in thanks, pointing to himself and then the two others in turn when he realized that they had not introduced themselves the night prior, "Aramis, Porthos and Athos."
Alain tipped his head in greeting to each of them before moving back to the door, "We will be helping the Brazeau's rebuild the inn but nothing is to be started until you're able to return to the site…" he paused, considering his words, "to help in the search."
Aramis' face blanched and Porthos inhaled sharply; only Athos' face remained stoic as if made from stone. "We will be there shortly to assist," he said, ensuring his tone betrayed none of the emotions he was experiencing at having to go back and search for the body of their lost brother.
"Oh, your clothes are over here," Alain explained, pointing to a spot next to the dressing table. "I had them laundered so you might have something to wear today."
Porthos clapped the man's back, touched by the thoughtfulness of the man's gesture, "Thank you."
"It's nothing," Alain replied. "I'll accompany you when you're ready."
Porthos closed the door after him, leaning on it for a few moments as he considered his friends. They were all still reeling from the loss of the Gascon and the idea of looking for his body was horrific, but he knew that none of them would be able to rest until he was found and properly laid to rest next to his other fallen brothers.
As they dressed and ate, they moved around the room as ghosts, hollow shells of themselves as each was lost in the memories of watching their friend running to his death. When they were ready they fell into step with each other, Alain rising to follow the men back to the destroyed inn. The Musketeers walked three abreast, Carre following a few steps behind and, as they walked, more of the townspeople noticed them and fell in behind them. By the time they'd traversed the few streets that separated them from the inn, there was a large crowd of people following them, all respectfully quiet and waiting for a sign of what to do next. Monsieur Brazeau was already there waiting for them, and he solemnly grasped each man's hand in their shared sorrow as they prepared to try and locate two bodies.
At a nod from the innkeeper, the townspeople moved forward to help clear a path forward, through the crumbled remains of the building in front of them. Athos led the way, followed by his friends, all of them ducking beneath a partially burnt beam that had come to rest across a portion of the doorway. A few steps in they stopped, taking in the carnage that lay ahead of them. The inside of the building was nearly unrecognizable, and had they not been able to visualize it from their time there, they would have had little idea of what each room held before the blaze. Moving carefully, they picked their way through some of the thick oak beams that hadn't been completely consumed, but which had been weakened enough that they'd fallen either from collapsed walls or the second floor that used to be above them. Brazeau followed them in, tears welling in his eyes as he viewed the destruction and imagined the fear that his grandson had faced as he'd been trapped inside, waiting for a terrible end.
Aramis was standing stock still, his brow furrowed as he examined something in the floor. "Monsieur," he called to the innkeeper, "what's this?" The other men joined him in contemplating what looked like a large hole in the floor.
Brazeau rubbed a hand across his face, "That was the old cellar. This used to be a much smaller house but we added on to it when we decided to open the inn. My wife didn't like the location of the kitchen so we turned it into the common room, building a new kitchen in the newer part of the building. A new cellar was dug beneath it, and the old one – this one – was covered up with wooden planks and left unused. I had honestly forgotten about it until now."
The men spent the rest of the day searching through the building for any sign of their friend or Phillipe, the townspeople helping by clearing out some of the half-burned furniture and rubble that prevented easy access, as well as shoring up the remaining walls and ceiling to keep everyone safe. After a few hours, it seemed clear that they would leave empty-handed, and Aramis stood again at the lip of the old cellar, a hand on his chin as he stroked his beard in thought. Porthos came to stand next to him, knocking a shoulder against the other man to get his attention, "What are you thinkin'?"
Turning to look at his friend, Aramis motioned to the hole, "Don't you think it odd that we haven't found any sign of either of them?"
Porthos shrugged, "I've heard of fires that are hot enough to burn even the bones. Maybe that's what happened here?"
Aramis frowned, acknowledging that Porthos' words were true, but unwilling to believe that was the case here. "I think we should clear the rubble from this hole."
Athos had meandered over to stand next to them and had heard his friend's words, "You don't believe their remains were burned?"
Aramis shrugged, uncertain exactly what he believed, but not yet ready to give up hope. "We've seen enough left in here that it seems unlikely the fire was hot enough to erase all traces of them. This is the only place we haven't looked."
That seemed to be enough for his two friends and Porthos moved to gather some of the townspeople to help, knowing that the excavation of the former cellar would require additional assistance and equipment. Soon, they were lifting portions of plaster and oak beams from the pit. They started at the sides, attempting to brace the walls of the cellar, uncertain about the stability of a room that had been unused and abandoned for so many years. It was slow and tedious work that had the men's muscles aching in reminder of how they'd been overtaxed the night prior.
When they had a small section cleared and the remaining debris was outside of their reach, Porthos motioned for someone to bring the rope he'd arranged for earlier, intending to lower himself down in order to continue clearing the space. Athos placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head, "We've no idea how stable that is and the last thing we need is for someone else to get hurt. Let me go in your place." Porthos looked ready to disagree, but it would be hard to argue against Athos' logic and the older man was lighter than he was. Grudgingly Porthos gave a short nod of agreement, taking the rope from the man who held it and helping Athos secure it tightly around his waist.
Porthos and Aramis positioned themselves at the other end of the rope, nodding their readiness to the older man who began to lower himself down, moving further into the centre of the hole when his feet touched down. The top of the pit was only at Athos' shoulders because of the amount of debris beneath his feet, but Brazeau hadn't been able to recall the number of stairs that led downwards, and the Musketeers were unwilling to take any chances with their brother's life. Athos moved gingerly forward, testing the solidity of the rubble he walked upon before shifting his weight firmly forward. Soon he was shifting debris upwards to the townspeople, his two friends still holding steadfastly to the rope that secured him, unwilling to trust the task to anyone else.
As he pushed at a large and particularly heavy length of oak, his ears pricked at an unexpected sound. Stopping all movement, he put a finger to his lips, motioning everyone in the room to silence. The looks he received conveyed a mixture of confusion and annoyance, but a glare from Porthos had everyone obeying Athos' silent command. They stood quietly for several seconds, no one having any idea what they were waiting for, but the Musketeers trusting that their leader had a good reason for his request. Everyone watched as Athos cocked his head to one side, intently listening for something that only he could hear, suddenly dropping to his knees, startling his two friends until they realized the action had been deliberate.
"Athos?" Porthos growled softly, hating the fact that they didn't know what was happening and his patience fast running out.
Athos held a hand up indicating his need for silence, as he turned his head to the side, listening again. Moments later he lifted his head and called out, "Phillipe?"
Brazeau gasped as the Musketeer called for his lost grandson, clasping a hand to his chest in shock. Porthos and Aramis traded astonished looks and the medic moved to stand next to the old man, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as they watched their friend's actions.
"Phillipe, is that you?" Athos called again. A look of amazement crossed the man's face and his motions became more intense as he spoke, "Phillipe, we're here and we'll get you out. Are you injured?" Turning his ear toward the debris beneath him again, Athos waited for a reply. "Alright, just stay still and we'll have you out soon." About to move, the man arrested his motions, turning to listen once more. Athos paled at whatever he'd heard and he dropped his head toward his chest as he asked, "Are you certain?" Porthos could see Athos' hands clenching into tight fists, telegraphing the tension that Phillipe's words had wrought. "Thank you, Phillipe. We'll have you out of there shortly."
Inhaling raggedly, Athos turned toward his friends, disbelief written on his face as he stated, "He's alive."
The Gascon was overwhelmed with relief when Phillipe finally stirred in his arms. He had no idea how long it had been since they'd fallen through the floor and no way of knowing whether it was day or night, the darkness within the hole nearly complete. When he'd regained his senses after passing out earlier, the space was just as inky as before and the panic had welled within him, threatening to engulf him once again, but this time there had been Phillipe. The boy had apparently been awake for some time and only drew strength from the fact that he was not alone, a demonstration of bravery that the Musketeer was desperately trying to live up to himself as he battled his demons so as not to further scare the boy.
Phillipe's awareness had been a blessing in that it gave the Gascon another opportunity to try to relieve the crushing pressure on his chest, seemingly growing worse the longer they lay there. Despite the young boy's best efforts, he was no more able to move than the man below him and when he'd tried, d'Artagnan had cried out in pain, causing another round of coughing as he discovered broken ribs on his left side which were jostled with Phillipe's attempts to remove himself. He panted through the agony, coughing intermittently, trying to reassure the child with him at the same time though his air was limited, causing him to feel disconnected and lightheaded. When he'd recovered himself somewhat, he swallowed painfully, wishing once more for a drink of water to relieve his parched throat.
"Phillipe, it's alright now," d'Artagnan whispered, anything louder beyond his current abilities. Exhaling shakily, he asked, "Are you hurt?" The boy shook his head, his hair tickling the Gascon's chin as the child still lay tucked into the Musketeer's body. "Good," d'Artagnan breathed out.
"Do you think they'll find us?" the boy's small voice asked.
d'Artagnan had been wondering the same and, while he was certain his friends would not leave without a body to bury, the question was more of whether they'd be found in time. He had no idea how long they'd been trapped inside, but thirst was becoming a very real concern. There seemed to be enough air to breathe, so they would be alright on that front, although the Gascon felt increasingly short of breath and wondered if that was simply his imagination or because of something worse. What he wasn't certain of was how badly he was injured and whether he'd suffered anything fatal, his back, chest, neck and head melding into one all-encompassing throb that would have kept him laying quietly even if movement had been possible.
Licking his cracked lips with what little moisture remained in his mouth, d'Artagnan did his best to reassure the boy, "Of course they'll find us. My friends would never leave without me and I'm certain your grandparents feel the same." He had to stop to take several shallow inhales, doing his best to control his breathing and prevent another round of coughs. "Best keep an ear out and when you hear noise above us, call out." He felt the boy nod and sighed gratefully, knowing he would never be able to draw enough air to push a sound from his throat that would be loud enough for anyone to hear.
They'd fallen silent after that and both dozed intermittently, the Gascon painfully jerking awake each time as his nightmares returned and progressively grew worse, accompanied by hoarse coughing that seemed to rip at his chest. He was thankful that Phillipe didn't question him when he'd wake up gasping, struggling to fill his lungs until he'd calmed down enough to remember their current predicament; instead, the boy simply snuggled closer, offering what silent comfort he could to the Musketeer who'd treated him so kindly since their acquaintance.
They were both awake when Phillipe tensed in anticipation. When d'Artagnan noticed, he asked breathlessly, "What is it?"
The boy waited a moment, listening intently before he raised his head, "I hear something."
The Gascon swallowed with difficulty and replied weakly, "Try calling out."
The boy turned his mouth up as far as possible within their confined space and yelled as loudly as he could, "Hello!"
d'Artagnan cringed as the volume of the boy's shout hurt his aching head, but was gladdened that the child still had the strength to project his voice so strongly, greatly increasing their odds that they might be found in time. They waited several seconds, not having heard any reply, so the boy tried again. The Gascon closed his eyes momentarily as the child's yell sent a stab of pain through his fragile skull. He must have lost a few seconds for when he opened them, Phillipe was speaking excitedly. "I'm fine."
d'Artagnan tried to keep his breathing even, straining to hear over the thump of his heart in his ears, but the most he was able to make out was a man's voice, and he wasn't aware enough to make out the words. "What are they saying?" he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open against the weariness that seemed to be enveloping him.
Phillipe looked down at the man beneath him, wishing for more light so he might be able to make out his features, but the only clue he had to his friend's condition was the more frequent bouts of coughing and sleep, and the overly breathless and thready quality of his voice. "They know we're here."
"Good," the Gascon sighed. It was not his intention to fall asleep, but his lids closed of their own volition and Phillipe could sense the change in the man's body as the arms that held him relaxed around him.
"d'Artagnan's here too. I think he's hurt…I think he's dying." Phillipe waited for a reply from above, grateful when the voice indicated they'd be freed soon. With nothing more to do but wait, the child settled back down against his friend's chest, placing an ear above his heart, reassured by the steady beat he heard as he prayed that those above would reach them in time.