enduring is an art
(warnings for vague discussion of torture, and of dissociation as a coping mechanism)
. . .
Someone is screaming again. Aramis spares them a prayer, a hope that their spirit will not break, and that they will soon know peace again, whether it is in this world or the next.
It'll be his turn again soon enough.
He settles as comfortably as he can on the stone floor of his cell and tries to rest. There's little point doing anything else: they'd all known that capture was a risk and had planned accordingly, so his job is to endure until the others come for him.
Enduring torture requires a very specific set of abilities, which Aramis has had all too many opportunities to practice and refine, because there are many kinds of torture. War is torture. Long rides with no rests are torture. Watching the woman he loves from a distance is torture. Supporting a drunk Porthos home is torture. Sleeping outside in the rain is torture. Being kept in a dank-smelling cell and periodically beaten is just one variety of torture among many, and although it is particularly unpleasant, it isn't particularly different.
So he rests his body and his mind as often as he can, finding the least uncomfortable position to sit or lie in and reciting the prayers of his absent rosary.
He accepts his situation, acknowledging his suffering but refusing to examine it, and lets go of the desire for it to be otherwise. It will change, eventually, and time spent in anger passes no more quickly than time spent at peace.
And when they come for him, drag him from his cell and march him barefooted through the halls to a special room, chain his hands above his head to a hook in the ceiling and make him face the array of whips and cudgels laid out to torment him for information he will not give, he breathes in and out and reminds himself that all pain is temporary, and that cooperation will spare him nothing.
His interrogator selects a long, thin rod to begin with, and Aramis closes his eyes and starts to sing to himself.
He thinks it's been a few days since he was taken, but he isn't sure. However long it's been, he will be freed eventually, and whatever damage is done in the meantime will heal. All things are temporary; it may feel as though time has slowed to a crawl, and as though his pain will be eternal, but time is passing just as it always has and the pain will come to an end.
He breathes, in and out. As long as he is breathing, time is passing. As long as time is passing, this will end.
By the time Athos appears on the other side of the bars of his cell, Aramis has sunk deep within himself. He is aware of his injuries, of the bruising around his wrists and the deep ache in his shoulders as well as the rest of them, but they do not own him.
"Athos," he says. He hasn't spoken in days. He's only yelled.
"Aramis," Athos says, eyes hard and glinting. He holds up a ring of keys. "Ready to go?"
Aramis gets to his feet. Relief is nipping at his heels, threatening to shake apart the safety of his shell, but he can't afford to let it. Not yet.
Athos opens the door, and comes inside to take the manacles from Aramis' wrists. He wants to rub the skin as they come loose, to examine the bruises and feel how deep they go, but Athos catches his hands and holds them apart.
"Don't look," he says quietly. "Not yet."
Aramis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
He opens his eyes. "I'm ready."
. . .
to be continued in the next chapter