SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Fourteen: Blood and Buttons
Drip. One hit stone. Drip. Two hit dirt. Drip. Three. The trail began. Every droplet was minute — disappearing, blending and mingling with the muck after slipping down an inventor's arm. They traced the contours of his cream-colored flesh, just to roll off the tips of his slightly curled fingers. Some of the moisture will never add to the filth that two pairs of boots and a pair of ladies shoes trod over. Instead it stops shy and soaks into white, pink and gray cloth as a weakened man and two woman press against a cold wall, resting and waiting for their next moment to move.
In the wake of the movements that lead them to their current resting place, shouts come. The musketeer was now the hunted, sought by figures in crimson coats that moved so swiftly they missed the details that would lead them to their quarry. Jacqueline had searched frantically with her eyes, surveying each corner, each alley as they crept undetected. The burden around her shoulders grew heavier by the minute, even more so now that they were stationary. 'But at least his head is still up and his feet still moving,' she thought gratefully, stealing a quick glance at Siroc's shallow face. It was within that glimpse she caught his sister's questioning orbs.
Why she trusted this 'man' with her life, Sancia would never be able to answer. She barely knew 'Jacques' and had only had a brief conversation with him. But although their interactions were limited, when Jacqueline took her brother's other arm — as if it wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last — a surge of relief flooded her soul. She was glad to see her brother's feminine friend. Of all Siroc's friends, Sancia couldn't have picked a better person to help her, and the musketeer's presence gave an answer to the panicked questions raging through her head. 'Where will we go? What will we do? Will he survive?' The same three echoed even now as she pleaded with her golden eyes for answer to these questions.
With a gesture of her head, Jacqueline indicated a monastery that was small and not over decadent. It looked holier than the larger cathedrals that were dressed up more as pronouncements of the 'church' under the guise of being God's houses. Its simplicity gave it a beauty that outdid even Notre Dam. "We'll need to go around to the back entrance. I don't want to chance being seen," she whispered, using her masculine tone.
"How do you know they'll help us?" Sancia asked, weary of the church and all who dwelled within the realm of religion. She still had faith and belief in divine assistance, but she questioned God's servants — after all they were only men and as sinful as any other human — after her parents had been executed, an action she viewed as murder given recent revelations.
"Brother Antoine is a friend, San," Siroc answered, lifting his head slightly to meet her eyes. His eyes were glazed over from pain and blood loss. "He's helped the musketeers before."
A sharp inhale and brief acknowledgement was all she could manage in return. Despite her twin's claim, it had to be more than a scratch. The hollow look, darkened eyes, ghost-white complexion were all signs she had seen before in the faces of the dying. 'Wouldn't I feel it if he was slipping away?' she wondered. But she doesn't sense end, only his pain. 'Yes, he'll be all right,' she consoled herself just as Jacqueline signaled that they were going to move again.
The three crossed the unoccupied street as the neigh of horses and distant shouts grew closer. They had to get inside before the guards closed in. Jacqueline's life was safe for now. No one had seen the musketeer come to her friend's aid, but these two were on dangerous ground. So keeping that in mind, the wanted murderess in men's attire led the pair down a narrow alley along the nearest side and then through a garden gate to the rear door, knocking once before shoving the solid wood door open with her free hand and stepping into a narrow hall, illuminated by soft candles.
The thump, thump, thump of human steps marred the quiet. But it wasn't the first sounds or the last that would break the still. The sounds echoed as two men met, joining up and rushing in the direction of the other noises that were causing them great concern.
"Did you hear that, amigo?" Ramon asked as he caught up to d'Artagnan, both men running with rapiers drawn. The Spaniard was unsettled, mumbling curses under his shallow breaths. The moment the sounds had drifted on the wind to meet his ears, he had turned and bolted back in the opposite direction, calculating each twist and turn he took to meet up with the legend's son.
"Yeah," he acknowledged through shortened breaths, his agitation only hidden by his labored respiration. Half of Paris heard those yells and the explosion of flint and powder. Different scenarios played in the Frenchman's head and each ended with one of his friends hurt or dead. But as much as he prayed it wasn't Siroc, Jacqueline or even Sancia, he also begged God for confirmation that it wasn't Vesey either. There was no way even Duval could help Siroc if he had killed a man to free a slave.
As the musketeers cleared the side street, stepping from shadow to light, their eyes met an eerie sight — two men down, alive but bleeding, and no sign of Vesey. But the slick of a man who once owned their friend wasn't far away. His hiss slithered behind the calls of searching guardsmen.
Ramon grabbed d'Artagnan's shoulder, swearing under his breath. The brown surface of the road was tinged black from the blood. Even in the flickering yellow light, the aftermath of their friends' struggle could be seen. 'But who got the worst of it?' the poet questioned silently. Watching the men struggle to their feet awakened something within him — a realization of how little he knew his closest friend. The fire that must have boiled the inventor's blood to drive him to such measures spoke of passion — a subject Ramon understood perfectly. Protecting his sister was the first thing outside of Siroc's laboratory he had seen create such a spark in the blonde. But passion can also lead to fear, and what Ramon feared now — as he pulled d'Artagnan back into the shadows to avoid detection — was what else this newly seen emotion would drive Siroc to do.
"We need to find them, compadre," Ramon said quietly just before two guards passed their shadow cloaked forms.
"Agreed and soon," d'Artagnan replied once the guards turned the corner. He gestured to the men now suffering verbal abuse from their employer, who was clutching his bleeding wrist. "Neither of those men was shot, Ramon, which means it could be…" He didn't finish the thought. Letting the words sink in, he smacked the Spaniard on the chest with the back of his hand. "Come on, they're clearing off. Let's see if we can track Siroc and Sancia."
"What about Jacques?" Ramon asked, worried about their other amigo as much as he was about their older friend.
"You heard the yelling too. More than likely he's already with them," d'Artagnan said, trying to sound reassuring. "Let's go," he finished before moving out into the midst of the messy roadway and praying, 'God, please let her be safe.'
In a small room with only a bed and a nightstand, Jacqueline and Sancia dropped Siroc's weakened form gently onto the bunk. But instead of lying down, he let his back fall against the wall the bed was pressed up against. "You need to stop the bleeding, Jacques," he said weakly, blinking several times at the motionless forms in front of him.
"I know that, but I'm no good at this so you better keep talking," she shot, before sending a pleading look to Brother Antoine for help. She felt completely helpless. Siroc was the one to patch up people when something happened, not her. He's always been the one to pick up the pieces — at least medically. But she's tended the sick before. 'How different could this be?'
God's will was sometimes mysterious, even to those who have studied the Bible's poetic verse. The burdens that every man and woman carry can lead them down dark paths, and the Catholic holy man could not help but wonder what path led these musketeers to their currently situation — for if the wound was merely from the course of their duties, this trio would be at the garrison and not in his humble quarters. But the brother had made it a point to assist those in need, if only to counter the disparagement and corruption that seeped from the leaders of his faith. And he made it a point to assist these particular musketeers, especially Jacques in matters of spirituality, with whatever he could. "I'll be right back with what we'll need to stop the bleeding and clean the wound," he informed after catching the look in Jacqueline's eyes. He leaned in before exiting the room so that only the musketeer can hear and whispered, "Get his shirt off and put a dagger into the fire. As bad as he's bleeding we're going to have to cauterize it." He put his hand gently on the female musketeer's shoulder and squeezed, announcing that all would be well with the expression on his face. He hoped.
"You're going to have to cut it off," Siroc said as if he overheard the brother's words — or read his mind. "I can't move my arm," he added, wincing with pain as Jacqueline pulled the baldric off.
"I thought it was only a scratch," Sancia reminded, her light voice sounding like a frightened child. She peeled his fingers from the handle of his blade. He had been grasping the hilt so tightly and with all the commotion, he had forgotten his weapon was still in hand.
"I may have exaggerated," he joked quietly, smiling lightly at his worried twin. He kept his eyes on his companions, knowing full well how much damage the bullet had done — in and out. He would heal, if the bleeding ever stopped.
"That's not funny, Siroc," Jacqueline interjected before Sancia could voice the same opinion. She held a dagger in her right hand, preparing to cut away the saturated cloth. "Hold still," she ordered before slowly cutting the front of the soiled shirt.
"You know shirts would be so much easier to remove if they buttoned all the way down," he noted absently, earning queer looks from the ladies. But even with severe blood loss and a hazy mental state the wheel works of the genius' mind didn't cease.
"Has he always been like this?" Jacqueline said, trying to take Sancia's thoughts away from her brother's addled commentary.
Sancia gently pulled the right sleeve from Siroc's arm, then handed the wadded cloth to Jacqueline to carefully remove it from the left side. "Pretty much," she answered, forcing herself to laugh but only to keep herself from weeping. The gravity of the situation was finally starting to hit her. He had come for her, but at what cost to himself, at what cost to the people Sancia had a duty to protect? What would she do now for him, for them? It was too much, overwhelming. And as she sat with her legs tucked under her staring at her brother's disoriented form, she fought to stop the tears that were forming in her eyes.
Jacqueline stood, moving toward the flames dancing in the fireplace and kneeling down in front of it. She watched the flickering light for a few moments then glancef at the blade in her hand, licking her lips once before setting the polished steel in the midst of the fire. The thought sickened her, what she was about to do with the heated weapon, to the point that she could feel the bile slowly rising. She already smelled burning flesh. But Jacqueline had to do it. She couldn't act like a squeamish woman; she had to maintain her masculine guise. So forcing out the air in her lungs quickly, Jacqueline rose and waited for Brother Antoine.
Just outside the door, the friar stood. His eyes washed over the imperfections in the wood before his mind drifted into prayer, quietly whispering a call for guidance, support and assistance in protecting the life that hung in peril. He crossed himself, forehead to navel, shoulder to shoulder, whispering, "In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," before shoving the door open and moving quickly to Siroc, who now sat as if heaped on the bed, his sister holding tightly to his right hand with both of hers.
The Catholic brother placed several pieces of cloth and a bottle of wine on the bed, and handed Sancia a kettle full of water. "Put that on the fire please, Milady," he said, using a formal address since he had yet to be introduced to the young woman. "Jacques, it looks like it went straight through. I'm going to clean the wound. Let me know when you're ready," he told her while busying himself with his own work.
"What are you going to do?" Sancia asked, her eyes darting between the two then back to her brother as she hooked the kettle over the fire and noted the dagger in the flames.
"They're going to cauterize it, San," Siroc told her, still keeping hold of his logical thinking although he wasn't a hundred percent sure that it was indeed their intent. "It's the fastest and safest way to get the bleeding to stop and seal the wound," he continued after her eyes went wide, sending her thin eyebrows up with them.
She sent a frightened look at Jacqueline, letting a single tear roll down her cheek. She fought to stay strong, to maintain a stoic state and hide her emotions like she always tried to do. But it had been hard the last few days. The unfeeling, indifferent exterior had been shattered the moment she had wrapped her arms around her brother, and the more she entangled herself with his presence, with concern for him, the more she slipped back into an emotional child — one that never held back thoughts, opinions or emotion. Sancia was not weak; she was strong. But in this case, she was two steps from breaking down altogether from the weight of their lives. She wanted Siroc to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be fine, like he did when they were children. But that wasn't going to happen.
There is an innate instinct in women to comfort those in need. It stems from motherly intuition. And it was this instinct that Jacqueline warred with as she watched the inventor's sister. She wanted to hug her, tell her it would all be well one more time. But she had to stay strong, which meant keeping her manly disguise and pretending to have the resolve of a man as well. So taking a calming breath, she informed, "I'm ready, Brother Antoine," as she pulled the red-hot knife from the fire using a handkerchief and left the blonde woman fidgeting by the fire.
"It might be better if you lie down," Brother Antoine suggested, taking the bottle of wine from Siroc that the inventor had been drinking on and setting it on the floor.
Siroc slid down the wall until his right side rested on the stiff mattress and pulled his legs up. He took the piece of cloth Brother Antoine offered and shoved the piece in his mouth, biting down on it already as he anticipated the pain that was about to rack his body.
"The back first. It's bleeding out more than the front," the holy man suggested to both musketeers. Receiving confirmation with a quick nod from Siroc, he helped the inventor roll onto his stomach and gasped along with Jacqueline at the sight. Down his back, from shoulders to waist, were think scars, criss-crossing in every direction. Barely any flesh remained that didn't bare the welted marks.
Jacqueline hesitated for a moment. Vesey's shrill voice rang suddenly in her mind: 'That man is my property!' And although she had heard the words, it just now dawned on her that her friend had been a slave, just like his sister, and bore the scars of a life that was controlled by someone else. She forced herself to move forward, putting one knee on the bed as Brother Antoine held Siroc's tense form. The female musketeer closed her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest, and she wished that d'Artagnan or Ramon were there so that she wouldn't have to do it. But this was her task, so without another thought, she pressed the hot metal to scarred flesh.
When all was said and done — the wounds sealed, the blood washed away by warm water and a poultice applied to help heal the bright red dagger marks — Siroc rested with his head in his sister's lap, breathing heavily. His shoulder was wrapped to help hold the poultice in place with the shredded cloth the priest had brought in with him. The male twin wasn't quite asleep but he wasn't coherent either and the only sensation he was aware of was his sister playing with his sweat-dampened hair. She rambled on, talking about things from their childhood — fencing, their parent's parties, sneaking out in the middle of the night — in hushed tones.
Jacqueline wiped the blood from her hands. They shook slightly as her mind flip-flopped between what she found more disturbing — the fact that he didn't call out, meaning he was accustom to such pain, or the fact that she had to cause a friend a great deal of pain, whether he expressed it vocally or not. That pain he felt was etched on his face and in his inability to react coherently. It was there, and she had helped cause it. She never wanted to cause any of her friends pain. She loved them all like brothers.
Sighing, she wiped the blade. Her eyes were cast down as she considered her next move. She knew what she had to do next — find d'Artagnan and Ramon. But she didn't want to leave Siroc and Sancia. They were still being hunted and if she was spotted, covered in blood, all it would take was one stray guardsmen spotting her, following them, and brother and sister would be revealed. But she had to go. She had to find them and let them know what was going on. It was what would come after that frightened her the most. What would they do with their now wanted friends? They could not hide as she did.
Her revelry was interrupted by a gentle hand on her arm and a soft tone that Brother Antoine always used when offering spiritual guidance. "Sometimes we are forced into things that we wish he weren't. You did what you had to," he offered quietly.
She had not known this religious man for long, but he had always been there for her since they first met to lead her when her heart and mind disagreed on matters of spirituality. "I know," she said half-heartedly, her arms and shoulders sagging slightly. The weariness she felt was plain. "Will you look after them? I need to find our friends, let them know what's happened."
"Of course," he said, squeezing the musketeer's arm and then letting his hand fall away. "Dóminus vosbiscum," he added as she moved toward the door.
Jacqueline looked back over her shoulder, her lips pursing slightly and eyes revealing her fatigue. "And also with you," she responded, slipping out the portal into the darkened hall. She waited for a moment, a strange feeling encompassing her. It said not to go, but things must be done if the Marcellus's ever wished to be truly free.