There were voices he didn't recognize.
There were words he didn't understand.
But the tone, he knew that tone; insistent but not warm, urgent but not supportive, a tone that was cruel in its demands whatever they were. Athos felt his eyes twitch as a fading memory of a vice grip on his arm and a voice he hadn't heard in nearly over a decade echoed about him; touched his mind in flashes of dark narrowed eyes and wide green ones as the walls of the hallway in his home at Pinon blurred around him. He could feel the younger man pull him along...
"Thomas,"
"Who?" demanded the voice, "Who is that?"
He shuddered.
There was a chill in his flesh that trembled in pain and cold and he blinked against the sweat clinging to his eyelashes. The bright light left him flinching. A shadow fell across his sight and cut off the single golden beam that was spilling into the room.
"Who is Thomas?"
Cracked lips parted as he squinted at the face looming closer, the features he didn't recognize but that tone, the last he had heard from his little brother was the same.
"Thomas," he breathed.
"Who is that?"
He shifted where he sat and stilled with a choked gasp. Pressed his arm against the side of his chest and felt something shift beyond the skin and muscle. The pain like a rusty blade taken to his bones spiked anew and he thought he heard a rustle of cloth, a hint of pale blue just out of the corner of his eyes.
"There was a woman. She died by my hand."
"You murdered her?"
"I loved her."
Another prison came in his thoughts, another time when his brothers had pulled him out of death's claw even as it had closed around him. But they didn't know where he was, even he didn't know where he was his mind corrected him. Athos licked his lips, feeling hot and cold at the same time as the ache in his head pounded a vicious rhythm.
"Who is Thomas?
"My brother," he said.
Lifted his aching head off from where his chin rested on his chest and let his eyes roll in an effort to take in his surroundings; a room, high roof, grey walls and shackles lying on a grey stone floor across from him. He shifted on what felt like a chair under him and felt the metal weigh on his ankles and his wrists. Someone grabbed his arm and he looked up, for a second he simply stared at the blurred face of his little brother as the younger one dragged him along because you must see this Athos you must see who she really is – Athos blinked and the face changed to a dark eyed man.
"Your brother leads that patrol?" the man asked.
Athos looked away, glanced down to the side and felt his breath catch and his eyes widen. He shook his head, heeded the voice in the back of his head that told him this was left in a time past, this was not happening now. But the pain of loss and betrayal was new all over again; sharp and cutting like a blade between his ribs as he stared at his brother lying dead on the floor.
He shook his head and shivered. Sweat rolled down his spine and the mirage of his dead brother shimmered.
"Is it your brother then?" asked the man before him. "Is he the one leading these patrols?"
He couldn't pull his gaze away even as the sputtering image left him feeling dizzy.
"My brother is dead," he said.
Dead like the Musketeers he had led into battle ever since this war started, dead like the soldiers who had been shot down because he didn't know the right answer. The room churned in his view as his eyes rolled in his head. His orders, his mistake...
"She died five years ago now, by my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderer, so I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."
Thick fingertips dug in his cheek and yanked his face straight. The dark eyed man glared at him, spoke words that Athos didn't hear, his attention and gaze sliding back to the side, to the body that flickered in and out of his sight. The hand on his face shook it hard.
"Who leads the patrol on the supply routes?"
His jaw hurt.
"What patrol?" Athos frowned.
The sound of boot scraping against stone was his only warning before a fist connected with his face and pain burst in red and gold on the back of his eyelid. His breath stuttered as another hit his stomach once, twice until he was gasping and curled forwards; the metal edge of the shackles around his wrists cutting into his flesh as he folded in on himself.
He thought he heard a woman's laugh, not just a woman's but her laugh, light and breathy as the scent of the blue flowers woven in her hair.
"How does it work?" demanded the voice, "how many people are there?"
Was she there Athos wondered, shivered in the cold that had taken home in his flesh even as he felt too warm. A sluggish thought brought him to a distant cross road and his numb fingers rubbed over the ghost of her glove. His mind twisted around the thought, reminded him that she had had left; had finally left him alone hadn't she? Where were Porthos and d'Artagnan? Had they left him too?
"How do you defend your supplies?"
His face throbbed, there was a coppery tang in his mouth and Athos could feel it dribble past his dry lips as he swiped his tongue over a loose tooth back in his jaw somewhere. He forced his wandering mind back, found it bucking his control in that odd combination of shivering and smoldering that had settled in him. It took an unhealthy amount of effort for him to lift his head again, the dark blob he assumed to be his captor shifted in his sight like a spot of oil in water. Athos gathered his breath; pursed his lips against the sharp pain that jolted from his side at that action.
"How do you defend your supplies?"
"I don't," he said.
He was aware of the fist coming to his face although he couldn't see it clearly. As it knocked his world to black Athos thought he heard a gunshot pierce the air and a denial screamed in another voice that he hadn't heard in years.
Death and violence had been his companions from even before he had a proper scruff on his chin.
And firearms had become an extension of his self, an attempt to control and hone the bloodshed, a way to defend what he held dear without causing too much pain or spreading the suffering. One clear, clean shot, a piece of himself turning to cold stone as he took a life and saved another, or a few.
But some shots fired were never silenced, their reverberations forever echoing around his essence.
The shot that took his mother's life had been one; the one that killed James, stilling his grin during the siege of Montauban was another; he couldn't ever shake off the sound of shot that had torn through Hugo when his friend had stepped before him in Rochelle – that shot had passed through his friend and still found home in his shoulder; he couldn't forget the din of shots that had laid waste of his comrades in Savoy and he had could still feel the jolt of the shot with which he had ended Marsac's life.
Aramis pressed his forehead against the rough surface of the pole and closed his eyes, the shot that had killed Alois still ricocheting around in his mind.
He pressed harder, grit his teeth and leaned into the support that he was bound to. As the tiny splinters from the coarse wood of the canning pole pricked his skin deeper he tried to ignore the descending sun that still shone too bright. The afternoon had dragged on with the sun blazing its finest at its peak. Slowing his breathing he pulled away from the thought of the sweat that trickled down his face and neck, trailing a path of fire across the torn skin of his back. The blood collected at the rim of his breeches itched as it dried and he flexed his bruised knuckles where his hands were tied above his head.
He had screamed, only once.
In that second Alois had hit the ground.
And then he had fought like a man possessed.
Opening his eyes he squinted against the glare of sunlight over the stone covered courtyard and noticed that someone had cleaned the pool of blood where Alois had died. One more wrong decision that he had made that had again left behind destroyed lives; another notch in his conscience that would bleed until it couldn't and heal only to seep again when he defenses were lowered. His oversight had cost that man his life, a man who had trusted him, who had a son awaiting his visits– Aramis flinched at the thought and straightened, bit his lip from crying out at the pull it caused his back.
The pain cut through his thoughts and brought him back to the situation, cleared away the last of the fog that had settled in his mind when the canning had first began. Pulling in a steady breath he eased the weight off of his arms and forced his knees to take their share, the move leaving him standing a touch straighter even if it felt like his back was getting ripped all over again. He had lost a man in his command, he had lost a friend – traded one life for another the vicious voice in his mind corrected, sneered at him for becoming the man who believed he had the right to decide who to save and who to kill. Aramis swallowed thickly, felt the burning wetness in his eyes and tried to remember that Alois had made his choice joining his group, tried to bring to the forefront of his thoughts the true purpose he was doing this, had been doing it for nearly four years now. He had lost a friend but his work was not done. Grief would come, would rip him apart together with all the other monsters he carried in his mind, but he could not allow any of those that freedom at the moment.
It was a luxury he could not allow.
Aramis blinked away the sweat that rolled in his eyes, refused to acknowledge the wetness as anything else and turned his attention to the chateau he was in. Tied up in nearly the center of the square courtyard he had a clear view of all the windows and doors that opened there. There were four floors in all with two that had open corridors bordering the inner courtyard; he had seen the staircase on his right as Devereux had dragged them across the main room and out into the courtyard.
He wondered where the man was even as he glanced over his shoulder at the south of the building that had collapsed in on itself some time in the past, had left a mass of stone that may have been a rubble once but time and rains had washed away what it could leaving only large blocks of what had once been walls. Looking back to the front he caught sight of the men playing cards in the first floor corridor that connected the east and west wings of the building.
Somewhere in this place was Athos.
He would need to locate him, preferably without his friend knowing that he was there and pass on the information to Devereux so that the man can escape with him. Running his gaze over the men patrolling the corridors he knew it would not be easy, but if he could find out where Athos was or what it was that the Spanish knew about him then he could use that knowledge to get Devereux 'the Spanish soldier' to escort the Captain of the Musketeers out right through the main door.
Aramis dragged in a deeper breath, the motion stilling halfway as it stoked the agony on his back but the sound of footsteps pulled at his attention before the pain could swipe it away. His gaze shifted from tracing the shadow that fell on the ground to the man who cast it. A slow smirk pulled at his face as Bert came closer; his broken nose uncomfortably crooked under the swelling bruise that had left his eyes sunk deeper into his face.
"How's the arm," Aramis asked, refused to acknowledge the pain he was in because of that particular arm, "I would ask about the face but I can see it's an improvement,"
Bert's lip twitched in a snarl that his face wouldn't allow for the pain. He glared at Aramis.
"There's still some blows left in it," his voice came out thick as he rolled his shoulders, "don't think you've got much skin left on your back though,"
Aramis tilted his head a little to the side and raised a brow in mock concern.
"Are you sure you can pull in enough air for another round?" he asked, "with that swelling you'll faint from the lack of air by the second blow,"
"I can arrange for someone to take over,"
"Now I really don't feel special," Aramis shook his head in a gesture that would have been rueful if not for the blatant scorn in his tone, "is that because I'm not branded?" he asked.
Bert snorted and winced, his glower darkening when Aramis snickered. His captor took a step towards him and Aramis raised a brow in challenge, silently urged the man to spill the words already, to point him towards something that would lead him to Athos. It took every shred of his control to not sag and relieve the burning pull on his back as the man grabbed him by a fist full of hair and yanked his head back, the blade in his other hand a glint in the sunlight.
Aramis stilled, the edge of the cool steel grazed his neck
"By the time I'm done with you, you will wish you had been branded," Bert growled.
Resisting the need to flinch, to pull away from weapon at his neck that pressed deeper in a taunt, Aramis pushed back any fear that threatened to show itself as he gave his captor a bland look.
"Really?"
There was every bit of derision he felt for the man in that word and he was rewarded with a pull in his hair that burned down his taut spine. His captor's beady eyes glinted with dark glee and Aramis was sure that the warm drop that trailed down his neck was not sweat.
"You see with the branded we have to be careful. Make sure they live long enough to tell us all they can, we can't afford them getting too damaged; but you," Bert's face twitched in an effort to grin, "I don't have to be careful with you. You're dispensable, a surplus for our entertainment. You're not essential for any information that you may have."
"And how do you judge what I know or don't?" he smirked.
The sunken dark eyes narrowed and Aramis dared not swallow lest he cut himself further, it was just a scrape he reminded himself but he was not oblivious to how quickly that graze could deepen. His gaze remained steady under the scrutiny until Bert let him go with a shove, the side of his head connecting hard with the pole he was tied to.
The impact spread out in flashing tendrils of pain that turned into white cracks behind his eyelids. He let the pole take his weight for a moment and willed the fissures before his closed eyes to fade away. A sour taste filled his mouth and he breathed through his nose to keep it at bay. Someone abruptly cut the ropes keeping him tethered to the pole and his world slumped suddenly. Hands grabbed him as the voices came as if from the bottom of a well.
"I'll take him,"
The words hung in his mind and Aramis blinked rapidly, stared up at the man pulling him to his feet in a grip that was firm not harsh. He wriggled to tug his arm away and Devereux yanked at it, a glance his way acknowledging the need to put on a show yet his pinched expression silently begged Aramis not to. With a glare and shaky knees Aramis let the man pull him along; past the guards he tried to note the number of, through the main room that he marked for entryways and up the stairs. It was there that he staggered, stumbled and nearly fell to his knees as his leg connected solidly with the edge of a marble step.
"C'mon, get up," Devereux's voice was gruff.
But the hands that grasped at his shoulders were not. Aramis pressed his numb fingers against the smooth surface of the stair before him and pushed up on his hands that were still bound together in front of him. When Devereux eased him straight it was with a mummer of encouragement in French. Aramis cast a hasty glance up and down the staircase, relieved to find it empty save for them. He looked back at the dark eyes going over his state and met the man's gaze head on.
"Alois –"
"I will take him to the monastery tonight," Devereux said.
Aramis nodded, read the grim determination and a soldier's grief in the eyes that held his, but most of all there was an understanding there; deep and somber. And suddenly he remembered the time when he had ordered this man into a boat despite his reluctance and the conversation between them after that. As if hearing the echoes of that same conversation the other man nodded.
"You are not apologizing," Devereux said.
"You wouldn't have boarded if you had really not wanted to," Aramis echoed.
And found himself steadier for it. He turned his attention back onto the stairs and pushed himself to lift one foot after the other. Ignored the sick feeling churning in his gut and turned his mind towards finding Athos.
"He's alive and hopefully not too harmed," he murmured, "I still don't know where they're keeping him,"
"I've agreed to go on a scouting mission with them," Devereux whispered as they neared the landing, "I'll gather what I can about him,"
"Take him in under orders from a General at the front," Aramis said, searched for names and information stolen from the Spanish camp that he had hastily went over before setting off, "Orders from General Ramiro, he knows about these secret posts. If they ask why –"
"I'll ask them when a General had ever answered that for a lowly soldier," Devereux nodded.
Aramis swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth and raised his bound hands to wipe at his forehead, stopped abruptly when his back protested painfully. He looked up at the stairs left and wondered for a blink how he was supposed to do this. The overwhelming uncertainty that he had locked away when he had sat alone in the night with Treville's barely drawn plans scattered before him seeped out again; that distant night when he had just killed two of the people he was supposed to lead came flashing to the forefront as a shot reverberated in his mind, Alois' eyes freezing in eternal shock –
"Captain?"
And brutally Aramis wrangled it all back in its place, behind that door in his mind he never intentionally opened.
"The south wing, it's collapsed," he turned to Devereux, ignored the worry in his face as they half stumbled half ascended the last of the stairs, "If all else fails, take him through there, have a horse ready and slip out with him."
"I will,"
Aramis nodded, lips pinching close as his foot missed the last step and he hit the floor, landing on his hands before Devereux could catch him. His leg throbbed where his knee had connected with the cold stone edge. Distantly he heard footsteps and even as he blinked he was hauled up. The sudden change left him wincing and he tried not to reel into the man holding him up. There were words exchanged in quick Spanish until someone snickered.
"Cosme?" asked the voice.
"Yes," Devereux said, "I am to take him to Cosme,"
"The old maniac was getting bored," said the voice, "this'll cheer him up."
And Aramis felt new hands on him, pulling him along before he could get his feet under him properly. He was still trying to keep a count of the men in the corridor and the doors he had passed when they came to a stop; the soldier ahead of him kicked open a door and dragged him inside.
The rancid smell hit him like a slap to the face.
And Aramis pulled to a stop on instincts. His gaze adjusting to the dim glow of the single beam of light that slanted from above the door they had entered. And there in the center of the room was the device. He shivered and heard a sharp inhale from his side. It was that, the sound of fear in the man under his charge that reminded him of his place, of his position as the man in command, the one who had to see things through.
"Cosme! Cosme! Bert finally sent someone up for you!" shouted the other soldier as he moved further into the room, past the contraption.
Aramis stamped down the shudder that threatened to break forth and glanced at the man at his side. Devereux's eyes were wide, hand hovering over the pistol at his side and Aramis had no doubt the man would shoot his way out of here as he dragged him along. It was this thought that gave him strength. His still bound hands shifted until his numb fingers had grasped the other man's wrist. Dark eyes met his and Aramis shook his head. Denied the silent protest in Devereux's features and tilted his head slightly towards the door.
"Go," he whispered.
Devereux shook his head; angry and mutinous and determined.
"That's an order,"
It was low and soft, words barely forming under his breath, but the iron weight he had learned to put behind his words did not disappoint Aramis. The man before him nearly growled and stepped back with a nod, his face softening when Aramis offered him half a smile. Then he watched his friend in the Spanish uniform turn and walk out of the door.
And Aramis turned to face the rack.
The sun was red.
Dipping close to the horizon and streaking the sore blue sky with streaks of aching pink. Porthos wiped a hand down his face and looked away from the distant camp below. The Spanish hadn't started an offensive; even though he had been half expecting it he was not surprised by their reticence. If what he had heard the previous night was any sign of the mess the enemy camp had been in he was sure that they were in no shape to start an attack, not even defend properly if the sound of explosions that had reverberated in the dark was anything to go by.
His gaze roamed over their own camp and his mind reminded him of their own losses, of why they couldn't take this opportunity and push the enemy back. And they needed to push them back, to cut through them and reach Douai. Porthos bit back a sigh as his gaze settled on the figure by the supply carts. Long rows of cleaned and oiled muskets were set before him as the younger man bent to add another into the neat line.
Even from the distance Porthos did not miss the hastily concealed swaying when his friend straightened. And from a distant memory another young man came in his thoughts, another hurting friend who had found solace in the armory of the garrison when rage and grief had become too much. With a shake of his head Porthos pulled his thoughts back to the present, trying not to grimace at remembering him again he made his way over to the friend he still had at his side.
D'Artagnan didn't look his way, hadn't looked his way or approached him ever since the younger man had thundered out of General Garth's tent that morning. Porthos had hoped that d'Artagnan would have calmed by now, had hoped that he would give in to his wound and exhaustion and find some rest. Glancing up at darkening sky Porthos realized that rest would have been helpful to his young friend since they would be heading out soon now – not as soon as he would have wanted but they would finally be able to get to Athos.
His brother hadn't liked the delay, the disappointed look that d'Artagnan had sent his way flashed in his mind and Porthos winced. He had thought that the younger Musketeer would understand; had assumed that he would see that they couldn't abandon the men that were now under Porthos' command. Coming to a stop at the edge of the neat lines of the muskets Porthos looked to the man who was ignoring his presence.
"You could have asked some of the others to help you," he sad.
"Don't need it,"
"There are too many,"
"There were,"
D'Artagnan wiped down the barrel of the musket in his hand and turned to the ones he had laid on the ground; the crates in the carriage that had been carrying the weapons to them were empty. The younger Musketeers bent to set the musket in his hands with the others, swaying again as he straightened and Porthos grasped his arm to steady him.
Brown eyes met brown.
Stubborn met stubborn.
And Porthos saw what they had talked about often among them when this man had yet not become a Musketeer; at the time when he had started become a fixture in their lives even before he had earned a commission in their regiment. He remembered how the three of them had jested that there was something of each in the lad and – Porthos swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat and looked away.
"The scouts will be back soon," he said.
"They'll only confirm what we know," d'Artagnan stepped out of his grasp.
He had been there when Porthos had sent out the men to locate what could be a Spanish post somewhere near Douai.
"It's a confirmation I need," he said, "I can't go off on my own and I can't lead the Musketeers away from the front without any proof. They would follow me without it but I can't –"
"Not with the position you are in," d'Artagnan said.
He looked to him even as he nodded and Porthos was surprised to find a grim sort of acceptance there.
"I understand Porthos," said his friend, "you're a General, you have responsibilities and people to answer to, a way to do things, I see that – I just –"
He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
"You don't like it," Porthos said, "and neither do I."
Because somewhere out there Athos was waiting for them, if what the Spanish rebels who had freed their prisoners where to be trusted, it seemed that their brother had been alive and taken to some hidden post for questioning.
"But you need some clear reason to order the men who were under General Lavelle's command," d'Artagnan nodded more to himself than anything.
He stepped further back and leaned against the cart, not bothering to hide the wince as the stitches in his side pulled at the move. Porthos followed his example and stopped at his side to let his weight rest against the cart as well; crossing his arms before him he let his shoulder brush his friend's, relieved when the other man did not move away from him.
"They don't like being thrust under my charge and I don't trust them, not like I trust the Musketeers;" Porthos said, "it makes no sense, I don't know most of the new Musketeers sent too us any more than I do General Lavelle's men and yet I –"
"You haven't forgotten General Pierre's men," d'Artagnan said.
Porthos' eyes widened as he looked to the man at his side. And even if his friend was still staring ahead at the French soldiers sorting through the food supplies there was a hardness in the lines of his face that Porthos noticed for the first time. He hadn't considered what d'Artagnan was implying, hadn't wanted to touch upon the fact that someone back at Paris was making decisions of sending them criminals to watch their backs. It was a battle on all fronts for them and he hadn't realized how deep that insecurity resided in him. Yet he couldn't believe the Minister of War would allow such deployments knowingly, the man he knew and respected wouldn't allow that.
"You trust Treville," d'Artagnan said as if he had read his thoughts, "You trust him to send you men that he sees fit to be Musketeers and you trust his judgment enough to trust those men. The others are not vetted by him as he still does for the Musketeers. "
Porthos snorted; there was no levity there.
Just the bitter realization of how jaded they had become, even the younger man at his side.
The sound of hooves against the ground had him looking up and Porthos felt the corner of his lips tip upwards. He glanced to the side and grinned wider when d'Artagnan turned to him wide eyed. There, making their way towards the French camp were soldiers, marching under the same banner as theirs but looking far stronger and bright than those who now stood staring at the procession.
"Reinforcements," d'Artagnan murmured.
Porthos' nodded and turned to his friend fully, head tipping to the side.
"Four hundred men strong," he said, "something I'd have told you about if you hadn't been sulking all morning,"
"You knew about them,"
"General Garth told me about it while you were unconscious,"
"You were waiting for them,"
"Among other things," Porthos nodded.
"So as soon as your scouts return with the confirmation–"
"Which they will in an hour at most," Porthos cut in as he pushed away from the cart, "and then we'll go bring our brother back."
The pain blinded him.
Settled upon him like a burning mist that muffled the world until all there was left was the sound of his heart, beating fast and wild in his chest like a bird in search of an escape. His shoulders burned, the joints screaming or was it him? Aramis clenched his jaw shut; teeth snapping close against the agony.
"You are the Musketeer named Aramis?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I have a message from the cardinal."
"From beyond the grave?"
"In a manner of speaking,"
There was a groan of metal.
He gasped.
His back was on fire.
"You will tell me all you know,"
Aramis blinked, wondered when he had closed his eyes even as they rolled in his head; the world a grey swirl around him as he tried to search for the person speaking. Another prison grew around him, a face he hated with a vehemence he had hadn't thought possible floated before his eyes. The man who had threatened everything he held dear leered at him from the corner of his mind.
"I'm not going to lie to you Aramis. Your life cannot be saved. But there is still hope for the Queen. In exchange for a full confession from you, the King will divorce Her Majesty, disown the Dauphin, and allow both to live in exile. You can save her, Aramis. Just speak the truth."
Truth.
It was an ugly twisted thing. A tangle of roots that couldn't ever be possibly deciphered, a jumble of realities each as genuine as the other even when they contradicted each other.
He loved the Queen like no subject should; that was a truth.
He loved his friends more than he had ever loved a blood relative apart from his mother; that was a truth.
He had committed the highest treason; that was a truth.
He would never regret it; that was a truth.
He longed to return to the life he had left behind; that was a truth.
He could never go back to the life he had left behind; that was a truth.
He cherished the bonds of brotherhood he had had; that was a truth.
He had destroyed the bonds of brotherhood he had had; that was a truth.
"Not ready to talk yet?"
A gravelly sound like a rustle of dry rocks floated through his mind, it was him he realized. It was his own dry chuckles echoing in his ears.
"What's going on?"
"You created this mess. Tell them."
"Tell me, tell me all you secrets little spy."
His secrets?
They weren't his really. Not solely his at least. If they were his he would give them away, all of them, just to be able to breathe again. The sat heavy on his chest, winded around him in a manner to contraption could. Aramis sucked in a breath that didn't come, his taut muscles wouldn't move, wouldn't expand as they should. He coughed and the pain nearly wiped out his consciousness.
"I never meant to keep any secrets from you. But you must understand why I had to."
"Do you love her?"
She's not the only one he wanted to say – had wanted to say.
Aramis felt his head roll on something hard, there was a fire in his bones and it was burning his muscles. He wondered where he was; wondered if the footsteps around him were Rochefort's. Was he finally at the mercy of that man? At least the others had saved Constance, he could never be thankful enough for that. He wished his brothers were safe, wished that Rochefort would not reach them, wished that he had told them that the Queen wasn't the only person in his life that he loved.
He loved his brothers too.
He loved his brothers.
"A brother?" the voice demanded, "was that man your brother? The man Bert killed?"
Bert?
"If you really love her, there's one thing you can do to prove it. Deny it ever happened."
"No," his voice rasped past his throat.
"No?"
Deny, deny, deny, for the Queen, for the Dauphin, for his brothers, deny.
"He was not your brother?"
The pressure had eased slightly, his ribs could move a little and air flowed through its old pathways into his lungs. Aramis squinted at the weathered face hovering over him, tried to place it in his mind, let his gaze roam over the bent old figure as far as it would go.
"He was your brother? The man who was with you?"
"No,"
"Then who was he?"
Aramis frowned; where was he?
The wheel turned; the chains pulled.
"You have deceived the court. But worse, you have betrayed the King, the man you are sworn to serve, in the foulest possible way. No doubt you hoped to save your lover, the Queen, but you have only condemned her and damned your own soul. You are to be taken from here to await execution in a manner appropriate to your heinous crimes."
That had happened, but not the execution.
A lavish corridor and a stumbling figure flashed in his mind, a wide eye left forever open, a woman's voice denying it closure. This was not his execution and Rochefort was dead.
"I know you Musketeer, what you are and what you have done."
"If the Queen comes to any harm, you will pay for it with your blood."
And he had, Aramis had delivered on his promise. But he wasn't alone in that, he wasn't alone then. But he was now; it was a certainty deep down that he couldn't comprehend, a dark presence in his mind that simply radiated the assurance that he was on his own, alone in a way he hadn't been ever since he had met Porthos and Athos.
He knew they weren't coming for him.
And the metal strained again.
"What if the cardinal knew about the dauphin? I couldn't protect Adele. What if I can't protect my son?"
"You can't blame yourself for this."
"Who else can I blame?"
And the sound of a pistol shot echoed through his mind, the shock on the man's face etched eternal as he fell dead played again before his closed eyes. Grief and guilt buried a path through his heart. It was his fault. His decisions had brought him where he was; had put those he cared for in danger. It came to him in a wave, the fear for the lives of the people he loved, the weight of the shackles on his wrists, the guilt of making his friends fugitives from the very crown they served.
"The Queen?"
"Alive; no thanks to you."
"And the others?"
"Gone to help Porthos."
He had to help them, had to save them. Under the layers of pain that had blanketed his wits he searched for that purpose; the one thing that had kept him going. The reason he had turned his back and walked away from his friends.
"You have nothing to share?"
His truths were all he had left; he could not let them go.
"Why do you not confess?"
He would take the secrets he carried to his grave.
"Is it duty holding you back? Does the little spy thinks he is being honourable in his silence?"
Aramis' eyes flew open.
"So you deny the charges?"
"I do."
"A confession might have kept some small part of your honour intact. Instead, you disgrace yourself with these outrageous lies."
No he was not there for honour, he hadn't any left. Had surrendered that to save all the lives he held dear.
"I'm resigning my commission and retiring at the monastery at Douai."
He was at Douai he remembered but not at the monastery, he was there for Athos.
"What did he say?" a thick voice demanded, a voice that seemed to have trouble breathing.
Aramis blinked against the sweat and haze; his mind screaming at him to pay attention.
"What did he say?"
" –thos, I believe,"
"Athos?"
Aramis couldn't stop the way his eyes slid to the man's face at sound of that name. And the triumphant grin that stretched on Bert's face twisted his gut into a knot, the man knew something, he was planning something and Aramis had learned at a high cost just how bad it could be.
"Release him,"
It was his only warning before the wheel spun and Aramis couldn't stop the rough scream that wrenched from him. The sudden loosening crashed into him like a gale and left him a shuddering, shivering mess on the rack. He lay there gasping, dimly aware of the conversation around him until he caught the sight of something too bright from the corner of his eye. It was the glowing tip of a blade.
"Looks like you'll finally get your wish," Bert said.
And the new touch of pain burned out the remnants of his consciousness.
It was dark.
The heat on his skin did nothing to warm the chill in his flesh. He shifted slightly, the cold stone of the floor a blessing and a menace, he wanted its cool relief but he hated it, he was too cold, too hot and the thumping ache in his head wouldn't let up. Athos moved again, heard the rustle of chains that held the manacles around his wrists as he rolled onto his back. Felt it hit the wall behind him and pushed himself up, stopped with a gasp when his ribs protested.
Head pressing back against the wall he cracked open the eye that was not swollen shut.
Flinched against the pale beam of moonlight that had slipped into the room.
A soft laugh floating in the air had him trying again and he waited until the blurred grey of the world around him slowly sharpened. The room was the same, the shadows cutting darker for the watery glow that was slanting in from the window above the door. There was whisper of cloth over stone, a barely there sound that reached him again and his eye sluggishly moved towards the far corner.
She stepped out of there, her steps silent as her blue dress swished quietly at her ankles.
"I'm dreaming."
"Drunk, perhaps, but not dreaming."
Athos frowned, this conversation had happened before.
"Why are you here?"
"To erase the past. To destroy it completely..."
He blinked.
Watched the woman smirk as she stepped closer to him with an eerie silence; came closer until she stopped in the pool of moonlight. Her green eyes were half lidded but there was a glint there. Her secrets played at her lips, the smirk teasing, knowing. Athos watched her, part mesmerized part cautious. This was not Pinon, he was not there and she was not here.
Her lips twitched as if she had read his thoughts, as a figment of his imagination he was sure she had.
And still he gazed at her as she turned, the hem of her dress a light swirl in the still air, and his wavering sight followed the tip of her head.
His breath caught.
And didn't return as the wide dark eyes from across him met his gaze. Athos' eye flicked lower, settled onto the pointed burn mark on the front of the man's shoulder before it traced his limp arms that ended with the shackles around his wrists that lay in his lap. He was shackled to the wall opposite him, pressed against it as if he was too terrified to breathe and give away his presence.
"You," Athos exhaled, "you."
The other man didn't move, didn't flinch, Athos wasn't sure if he even breathed.
"How was my funeral?"
"The Captain had some very nice things to say about you. Porthos even shed a few tears."
"I'm sorry to have missed it."
Of course it was him, it would be him.
" 'm not dead," Athos said, "not yet,"
He didn't so much as blinked, like a statue carved out of flesh the man stared back at him. Athos looked up at the woman in the moonlight, tried to offer her a smile but the hot, tight skin on the side of his face left him somewhere close to a grimace.
"Makes sense," his words stuttered as he shivered, "you two coming to say goodbye,"
He blinked, or maybe it was him Athos thought, his eye watering as the ache in his head sharpened. The world darkened around the edges, shadows stretching and shifting until his eye slipped close. The cold and the heat weaved a thick mesh over his senses, closed around him and kept the world at bay.
"I killed Thomas to save our love."
"You killed him because he discovered the truth. That you were a criminal who lied and tricked your way into my life,"
"He was a fool and a hypocrite. He deserved to die. I thought you would understand that."
Not this argument again.
Athos groaned, his head shifting where it rested against the wall and he was sure he should have felt the stone scrape against his skin. But his entire face felt like a pulsing bruise and it was an effort to open his good eye again. The light was dim; a thin strip that was slanting into the room and somewhere in the back of his mind Athos realized that time had slipped from his grasp. It didn't bother him as much as it should have.
It took him long to realize that he was staring at him, the man who was probably looking back but Athos couldn't see the features in the darkness that had grown. But it didn't matter, it wasn't as if he had forgotten what he looked like – he had tried, done his best to forget the man who had been the first to breach his walls, the person who had been relentless in pursuit of friendship with him, something that Athos still couldn't understand.
But there, in the dark, suffocating and chilly room he could confess to himself that it had meant more to him than he had ever let show. It had changed him in ways he hadn't thought possible, he had been always about honour, about duty but he had broken all those rules that had dictated his entire life.
"...It was my duty. It was my duty to uphold the law. My duty to condemn the woman I love to death. I've clung to the belief that I had no choice..."
A snort from the corner had him looking that way as she emerged from the darkness again; hate blazing in her eyes.
But he couldn't deny that the moment he had known of his doings the first thought in his mind had been to protect; to save the foolish, idiot humanbeing who he had suddenly realized in that moment was a brother to him – not just a friend but someone who brought out those old instincts of an older sibling that he had believed to have died with Thomas.
Athos looked to the man again.
"You're an idiot," he rasped.
And coughed, curled into himself despite the pain it caused him. But the coughing didn't stop, it jolted through his aching body and rattled his ribs, gasped and coughed harder at the lancing pain it stoked. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe and it only added to the misery he was in. Somewhere he thought there was a clatter of chains but the sound of his own gasping drowned it out and the world muffled into silence.
"Athos, these people have no other protection; only us," Porthos reasons.
"This is not your fight,"
"It is now," d'Artagnan counters.
And at his side is that man, inappropriately cheerful.
"And I like it here," he says.
The sound of teeth chattering brought him around.
The room was completely dark, a grainy murk that gave vague edges to the shapes in the room. The soldier in him was aware he was not alone; his imaginings were still with him his mind reminded him and Athos wondered if they would stay with him to the very last. It would be a comfort he realized to have familiar faces around when death took him. He shuddered and found that it was his own chattering teeth that had pulled at his attention.
That sunny day in Pinon was a lifetime ago. Its warmth no longer reached him, not the warmth of the bright sun that day and not that of the stubborn presence of his brothers at his side. They had searched for him and they had found him, in a matter of hours they had been there at his side. Athos let his good eye gaze lazily about in the darkness that gave away nothing, just a silhouette of the person he imagined opposite him.
"They're not coming," it was a whisper.
"They are,"
He jumped in his skin and peered across at the still shape in the darkness. He hadn't thought his mind would retaliate so loudly, or with so much conviction.
"They are not," he said.
"You'll see,"
And it was not just the certainty there but the voice his mind had chosen to use that brought a thick lump to his throat. Athos swallowed it down and tried to bury the ache in his heart that the words and the voice stirred in him. Of all the ways for his mind to argue it had to choose his.
"The accusation is a fine way to stop the tongues of outspoken women."
"She had the girls. She lied. She brought her fate on herself."
"You're being too hard on her. She was protecting the girl, not deceiving you."
Of course he would choose him to be the voice of compassion. That man was the best at looking for the best in people. And Athos hadn't had that at his side for years now, when he had desperately needed someone to lighten the grim reality they had been living in, the best person to offer that had left him.
"They are not coming," he said.
"They are Athos; they would never abandon you,"
"You did,"
There was silence.
Heavy and long and encompassing.
And for once Athos was the one to speak first.
"You started it," he said.
Glared at the darkness, dared it to reply.
"Have faith in your brothers Athos,"
"You're telling me this?"
"Please have faith in them,"
And Athos laughed.
He didn't care that it turned into a cough, he didn't care that the cough tore at his chest, he didn't care that he couldn't breathe and he didn't care how much it hurt. Athos was done caring for the world that slipped out of his grasp.
When he came around again the room was filled with light.
Bright and golden and a perfect nuisance to his good eye. It took him several tries to lift the lid off of his good eye and long moments to finally be able to see. His head ached as if it had never stopped, he was still chained up, he was too exhausted for the mix of shivers and sweat that clung to him and as he slowly looked around the room again Athos noticed that she was gone but he was there.
Looking back at him with so much worry and concern in those dark eyes that Athos had to look away, he could not face his own wishful thinking staring back at him. He was almost glad when the rattle of keys announced the door opening even though he was sure that it was not his rescue. The man who stepped inside was not one he knew, he was sure he would remember the face with a broken nose if he had seen him before.
"Spent the night sharing secrets then?" the man asked.
Athos had no idea what he was talking about.
"Good, good," the man went on, "of course you shared secrets. Now it's time you let me in on them."
Athos tried to sit up straighter against the wall, pressed his hands against the floor and pushed up, but his elbows buckled. Exhaustion threatened to sweep his consciousness away even as his vision blurred.
"Captain Athos," the man crouched before him, "what did your spy tell you?"
He simply stared, his mind scrambling to make sense of the man's words and somewhere in the room his wife chuckled. Athos' gaze flicked away to the side to glare at her for mocking him and when he looked back it was to the glint of a dagger in the grasp of the man crouched before him. But the man hadn't pointed the weapon at him, instead it was held snug in his other hand, the one that was keeping the dagger angled upwards, it's tip grazing the skin under the jaw – not Athos' jaw but his.
"What did your spy tell you?" asked the man.
Athos stared past him, at his face. The pale, haggard face that was too calm for someone with the sharp tip of the blade pressing under their jaw. He looked back to the man wielding the weapon and frowned. He couldn't understand how this man was seeing him, how was he threatening a figment of Athos' imagination.
Unless – unless –
"If you don't talk Captain this man will lose his life,"
Unless his captors had brought some other prisoner to get him talk like Luys had used the French soldiers. Athos looked back at him, there were red drops trailing down thick and fast along the edge of the dagger but the man hadn't made a sound. Or had he? Surely no one would sit quietly while they were being stabbed through the jaw - they would protest, they would try to move away. Since he was seeing and hearing people who weren't there it was possible that he was not hearing the people who actually were, Athos shook his head, cringed at the sickening pain the move left him in.
"Captain Athos," there was that voice again.
It didn't drown out her voice that was whispering in his ears, words that he couldn't understand. And then she was laughing at him – with him – he couldn't tell the difference. Athos swallowed hard, the swirling sensation hadn't stopped from his previous attempt to shake loose his thoughts and he could only manage to open a sliver of his good eye. The blurred view was no help and he was sure unconsciousness wasn't far away, he couldn't see him any longer and wondered who the poor man was upon whom his mind had painted his familiar face.
"You need to talk Captain Athos or your friend will die,"
"Kill him then," Athos breathed out, "he's not my friend."
TBC
Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite or review this story. Thank you dear guest reviewers; Beeblegirl, Jmp and Debbie thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me.
So they've finally met; well they were face to face at least; sort of; in a way... :)