Dispatched to Hell
Chapter Twenty
As the carriage escorted by six Musketeers and an honour guard moved through the French countryside, Athos sat next to d'Artagnan at the reins, watching him closely. The Gascon had suffered many torturous weeks while in-prisoned in the school, and Athos feared the young man might come undone if he tried to open a dialogue - hence the silence between them since leaving the estate.
Eyes focused on the road, the reins hanging from loosely curled fingers, d'Artagnan seemed far removed from reality. Athos considered he might not want to talk, but the questions plaguing his mind demanded answers. He raised his hand to place it on the young musketeer's shoulder when the carriage rocked heavily to the side.
Athos grabbed the low rail beside him with one hand while grabbing d'Artagnan with the other.
"Aramis! Calm down!" boomed Porthos' voice from below.
The carriage rocked again to the side and before Athos said anything, d'Artagnan pulled back on the reins, the procession taking heed and also stopping.
"Get down here! I need help!"
At Porthos' frantic voice, Athos jumped off the side of the carriage then swung open the door. Aramis lay twitching on the floor with Porthos on the bench trying to hold his friend steady.
"What's happening?" asked Athos, his eyes darting between the two men.
Porthos looked up with wide eyes, his face covered in sweat and splattered frothy saliva. "He's havin' a fit," he said, pushing Aramis' shoulders against the floor. "Help me get 'im out of here. He's gonna hurt himself."
D'Artagnan arrived beside Athos and together they reached into the carriage and dragged Aramis' body out, depositing him on the ground at the side of the road to give Porthos room to jump out behind him.
Athos knelt beside the marksman, his own hands trembling while trying to revive his brother. "Aramis," he called, tapping the marksman's face. When Aramis didn't stop convulsing, Athos vigorously shook his brother's shoulders while calling his name louder. "Aramis! Aramis!"
A hand on his shoulder calmed him and he let go of Aramis.
"Give him room," said d'Artagnan, easing Athos back. "There's nothing we can do… Just make sure he doesn't hurt himself."
Athos restored his senses with a deep breath as d'Artagnan continued to rest his hand on his shoulder. Athos cursed himself for letting his panic overwhelm him, but the tension and fear riddling his body over the past weeks needed an outlet.
"So we just leave him?" asked Porthos, his hands poised over their brother's body as if waiting to grab him when given the word. "This don't seem right."
"I had a cousin prone to fits," said d'Artagnan. "Trust me, there's nothing you can do until his body settles down."
Porthos shook his head as he released a deep, guttural growl.
"I'm inclined to believe you," said Athos, watching with frustration as Aramis continued to twitch beside him. "I'm more familiar with fits than I care to be," he continued. "But I've seen the right touch, or the right voice break the spell that traps their minds." The words true, Athos did not put his advice into practice. So tired and weary, he let Porthos place his hands on Aramis' cheeks.
The full body spasms of the marksman settled into minute shudders as Porthos spoke into his ear. Athos dropped his head, relieved. "What happened in that school?" he asked d'Artagnan, keeping his face hidden by staring at the ground by his feet.
"I don't know," replied the Gascon, dropping to his knees beside the swordsman. "I never saw him."
Athos looked into the young man's eyes and saw both grief and confusion reflected back at him. "Why did Aramis attack you?"
"I don't know."
"Can you fashion a guess?" asked Porthos, wiping the spittle from his brother's mouth with the back of his hand. "You gotta at least have a clue?"
"I don't know!" yelled d'Artagnan, pushing off the ground. He paced behind his mentor, one hand on his forehead, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know," he said, his voice softening with each repetition.
"Who did you see?" asked Athos. "Why were there so many dead men in that cave?" He pushed off the ground and spun to face d'Artagnan. "Why were you spared when Aramis was not?"
D'Artagnan's face paled, his mouth hung agape. "Spared?" he asked. "You think I was spared?" He turned away, throwing his arms in the air.
"Then tell me what happened to you?!" screamed Athos.
D'Artagnan turned back smiling and shaking his head. "What do you want to know Athos? That I was chained to a wall? That no one spoke a word to me the entire time I was there? That they nearly drowned me twice." He paused and dropped his head. "Or that they beat me randomly while a man sat by and watched?"
The blood drained from Athos' face, his insides turned hollow and words failed on his lips.
"Wait," said Porthos. "They tried to drown you? How?"
"How?" asked d'Artagnan. "How they tried to drown me concerns you?"
Athos raised a hand, his palm facing the Gascon. "D'Artagnan," he said, his words calm and cautioning. "If we're to help you, both of you," he said, glancing back at Aramis, "we need to know what happened. Perhaps they did the same to him. How did they try to drown you?"
D'Artagnan drew in a deep breath then let it out slowly. "Water torture," he said.
"Oh my god," said Porthos, dropping his head forward.
Athos stepped forward, placed his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders. "I'm so sorry," he said.
D'Artagnan stepped back, shrugging Athos' hands from his shoulders. "What's done is done," he said. "Let's focus on Aramis. We've no idea what they put him through."
Athos deeply regretted the truth to d'Artagnan's words, and promised himself to rekindle this conversation later. He turned back to Aramis and Porthos, then cast his gaze up and down the length of their injured brother. "Based on those clothes, I'd say a lot," he said, running a hand down his face.
"These aren't his," said Porthos, peeling back the stained white shirt and exposing Aramis' torso.
Air rushed from Athos' lungs. He staggered back into d'Artagnan's arms. With barely a patch of skin left unbruised or smeared in blood, Aramis' body resembled a corpse. Mud and blood stained bandages hung from torn-open wounds like scraps of cleaved skin from his body.
"I'm gonna kill whoever did this to 'im," growled Porthos. "And there ain't no law that's gonna hold me back."
"My god," whispered d'Artagnan. "Is that all from fighting?"
His legs now steady beneath him, Athos returned to Aramis' side and pulled the shirt from Porthos' hand to cover his brother. "You know more than we do," he replied.
A small shake of Aramis' head made Athos' heart jump in anticipation of another fit. But the marksman's body remained still, allowing Athos to breathe easy again.
"I think he's waking up," said Porthos, moving his hands back to their brother's cheeks. "Come on, Aramis," he said. "Come and say hi to ole Porthos."
Aramis opened his eyes, fluttered his lids then closed them again.
"It's progress," said Athos.
Porthos moved to pick up his brother by scooping him in his arms. "Let's get going," he said. "I don't like being out here in the open."
"He needs a doctor," said d'Artagnan.
Athos climbed the carriage, paused mid-way and glanced back over his shoulder. "The Captain said there is one waiting at the garrison," he said. He made sure to connect with d'Artagnan's eyes before saying the rest. "Where you will be checked over as well."
D'Artagnan replied with a tight-lipped nod, then walked around the carriage.
"No," said Athos. "You ride with Porthos and Aramis. If he wakes up, you two need to sort this out."
Porthos blew out a puff of air. "You sure that's a good idea?" he asked.
"No," replied Athos, swinging onto the coachman's bench. He gathered the reins, turned back around and looked at Porthos standing by the open door of the carriage. "They need to sort this out, and Aramis might be the only one who can get d'Artagnan to talk. However volatile the situation may turn out to be, I'm sure you can handle it, Porthos."
"You know I"m standing right here," said d'Artagnan.
Athos looked at him. "I know."
~The Musketeers~
Aramis lay across one of the benches, his knees bent upward and his head resting on a sidewall due to the small space. D'Artagnan and Porthos sat across from him with the latter bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
The large man's body rocked with the bouncing of the carriage, but his focus never wavered from his friend on the bench across from him. D'Artagnan sat back, keeping his chest as upright as possible in order to stifle a nagging cough in his lungs. The smallest movement, or even a few words, could cause a worrisome coughing fit he didn't want distracting Porthos from Aramis.
A long trip back to Paris still lay ahead and d'Artagnan wondered how much longer he could hold out before passing out from exhaustion and falling on the floor of the carriage. He needed to stay awake, not burden his brothers more then they already were, so he gently cleared his throat and prayed talking would not rattle his lungs too much. Aramis had accused him of leaving him behind, which led d'Artagnan to wondering.
"Aramis said I left him behind," he said.
"Yeah," replied Porthos, in a distant voice. "Don't worry 'bout it. We know you didn't."
D'Artagnan shifted on the bench. "No, I mean, Aramis knew I was there."
Porthos looked back at him over his shoulder. "Why would he know about you, but not the other way around?"
D'Artagnan shook his head. "No clue."
A moment of silence passed where d'Artagnan closed his eyes and rested his head against the back wall of the carriage. He felt as if he could melt right into the bench, sleep forever, but with Porthos' interest piqued, the big man wanted to keep talking.
"So they kept you chained to a wall the whole time?" asked Porthos.
D'Artagnan opened his eyes. "Except when they hid me from you," he said.
"I'd like to hear how you escaped."
Behind Porthos, Aramis rolled his head. "Maybe later," said d'Artagnan, directing Porthos' attention to their friend. "Looks like he might be waking up."
As Porthos turned back to Aramis, d'Artagnan moved to the edge of his bench, but stayed back a few inches. No one knew what type of reaction Aramis would have, and being stuck in a small carriage could make things complicated.
"Aramis? You with us?" asked Porthos, resting a hand on their brother's chest. The marksman's head rolled toward the voice and a moment later his eyes opened.
Porthos dropped to his knees, exposing d'Artagnan. The Gascon swallowed and tensed, but as Aramis looked between the two of them, the muscles of his face remained relaxed, his lips slightly parted as he blinked at both of them.
"You're safe now," said Porthos. "We're going back to Paris."
"Paris," murmured Aramis, furrowing his brow.
Still wary of a violent outburst from their brother, but needing to rekindle their closeness, d'Artagnan slowly moved forward on the bench. "Do you know where you are?"
"D'Artagnan?" asked Aramis, reaching out a blood-stained hand.
Feeling unthreatened, d'Artagnan took his brother's hand between both of his own and smiled. "Yes," he said.
Aramis turned their hands over, his brow furrowing deeper. "I'm sorry," he said, rubbing a thumb over the bandage wrapped around d'Artagnan's left hand. "I did this…"
"No. No, you had nothing to do with this," said d'Artagnan, moving to his knees beside Porthos. "Those men did this to me."
With more strength than d'Artagnan thought possible, Aramis pulled their hands to his chest and rested them over his heart. "You payed for my mistakes," he said.
"No," repeated d'Artagnan. "Just rest. We'll talk later."
Aramis shook his head and fell asleep with his lips open as if to say something. D'Artagnan blew out his breath in a single huff, relieved to see peace encompass their brother instead of anger.
"What'd he mean by that?" asked Porthos.
"I don't know," replied d'Artagnan, shaking his head. He removed his hands from Aramis' flaccid grip, sat back on the bench and motioned for Porthos to do the same. Porthos nodded and followed his lead, but took up their brother's hands still resting on his chest.
"Well, he doesn't seem to want to kill you anymore," said Porthos.
After a long sigh, d'Artagnan smiled. "That's always good," he said. "But who knows how he'll feel the next time he wakes."
~The Musketeers~
Stars twinkled in a dark sky above Paris as the King's Honour Guard led the procession toward the city's main gate. Athos found no comfort in the celestial bodies, feeling more in-tune with the dark, empty spaces between them. A night sky this brilliant usually brought comfort to travellers, especially when they shone so brightly above their home, but Athos could not find peace while two of his brothers suffered so terribly.
Knowing they rested safely in the carriage beneath him eased his heart, but the ache of not knowing what happened to them still consumed every other part of him. Anticipating a long physical recovery for both d'Artagnan and Aramis, he knew answers would not come quickly which would only prolong their suffering, as well as his.
Stop being selfish, he reprimanded himself, carelessly flicking the reins held tightly in his hands.
The horses jerked in response but Athos reined them in before they charged forward. Again, he reprimanded himself, and drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves. To distract his maddening emotions, he focused on the nearing gates of Paris, furrowing his brow when the procession slowed before the large break in the wall wherein several Red Guard moved to block their path.
Athos longed to charge through them, but when he saw no ill intent on the Guards' faces, he slowed to a stop. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked.
A Red Guard approached the carriage, his lips pressed into a thin smile, one hand over his heart. "My apologies for stopping you," he said. "But I am under orders from the Queen to divert you to the Palace."
"Our men need to see a physician," said Athos. The opening of a door beneath him halted his words and he turned to see d'Artagnan leaning out of the carriage.
"What's going on?" asked the Gascon.
"Stay inside," ordered Athos, his regret at using a harsh tone causing him to grimace. "Please. Everything is fine," he said.
D'Artagnan ducked back inside the carriage and Athos returned his attention to the Guard.
"There is one waiting your arrival," said the Red Guard. "The Queen has requested I send word as to how many are injured, or…" He cleared his throat. "Dead," he continued.
Athos felt the man's fear deep within his own heart and replied with a nod. "Two injured," he said. "The dead are to follow."
The Guard swallowed, leaned to look into the window of the carriage. "Did you find any of our brothers?"
Athos shook his head. "Only two Musketeers," he replied. "Captain Treville remained on scene, perhaps when he arrives he will have good news."
"Yeah, maybe," said the Guard, stepping away from the carriage, his demeanour lacking the optimism which Athos hoped to provide. "My men and I will remain here till their arrival."
With a flick of his wrists, Athos moved the carriage forward, diverting his eyes from the Guards standing at the wall as he passed through the gates. With no answers to give them, he feared the heavy guilt for only finding Musketeers would show on his face, diminishing any hope they might still hold for their brothers.
Late into the night, a clear path to the palace greeted Athos as he steered the carriage through the winding streets. The clip clopping of the horses' hooves on stone echoed in the still air, and didn't stop until the ground underfoot changed to the gravel road leading through the gardens of the palace.
Nearing the front of the Palace, a Guard directed Athos to take the carriage around back. Familiar with the layout, and knowing the quickest route to the guest quarters, Athos followed the directions without question. At the side of the Palace, the Honour Guard took their leave, heading for the stables, but the six Musketeer escort dismounted and moved to the carriage.
By the time Athos put his two feet on the ground, Aramis was amongst his brothers as they carried him inside the Palace. Still standing by the door of the carriage, d'Artagnan watched after them, his keen focus never straying from their retreating backs.
Athos approached with an arm raised to wrap around the young Gascon's shoulder. "Come," he said, then led d'Artagnan into the Palace.
~The Musketeers~
As Captain, Treville stood tall and unshakeable as he roamed the halls of the estate. His men saw a man in complete control of his faculties, a man undeterred by the horrific situation around him. But by not letting his real emotions out, Treville held his body hostage, making his limbs continuously tremble and his heart flutter. He didn't want to break the damn holding everything in place for fear of everything rushing out, and his men witnessing his collapse.
With the caves cleared of bodies, left in rows beside the stable for families and Red Guard to claim, Treville stepped slowly up the main stairwell of the estate with two Musketeers at his side. With so many rooms and so much evidence to gather, he saw no end to the amount of work that lay ahead, but it would keep his mind distracted.
At the top of the stairs he paused to wipe his brow. "Check all the rooms and mark the doors when cleared," he said, before walking down to the end of the hall.
An open door to a lavishly furnished room awaited him. He presumed the room once belonged to Pellisier, the mad man in charge, based on the large, ornate desk.
Treville crossed the room slowly, his eyes trained on the single item left on the desk, a feathered hat. He picked it up, smoothed out the feather. "Aramis," he said, with a sigh as he looked around the room.
He moved to the open wardrobe to his right when he spotted his musketeer's uniform. Fearful of unshackling his restrained emotions, Treville hesitantly reached for the leather doublet. Once his fingers wrapped around the collar of the uniform, he moved quickly to remove everything from the wardrobe. He threw the doublet over his shoulder, tucked the pistols into his belt and carried the belts and sword with him as he left the room.
His precious cargo secure, Treville made his way back outside to his horse where he packed away Aramis' equipment. Before turning back in to the estate, for his job remained unfinished, he braced his hands on his saddle and stared at the ground beneath his feet.
His head felt too heavy to lift, his hands trembled as they rested on the saddle and a slight weakness in his legs caused his knees to buckle. Treville drew in a deep breath, steadied himself then turned around to face the estate. A Red Guard passed by escorting a prisoner, and Treville stepped forward to stop them.
"Where's Pellisier?" he asked, grabbing the collar of the robed man. He leaned in, face red and jaw muscles tense. "Where is he?!"
"He left," replied the man. "He was the first to go."
Treville released him with a shove backward and the guard holding him smiled as he harshly got him back under control. "Where did he go?!" asked Treville.
The robed man smiled in response then shrugged his shoulders.
Treville sensed this man knew more, as did many others who refused to talk. As scared of capture as they were on their arrival, their loyalty to Pellisier proved unwavering. Not one of the robed men spoke of the man in charge, nor did any guard still capable of speech disclose their leader's plans.
"He is a good man," said the man in robes. Treville looked at him sharply as he continued. "France will thank him one day for all he's doing."
"Killing innocent men?!" asked Treville, stepping back into the man's personal space.
"For the greater glory of France, yes," replied the man. "And your man, Aramis, was significantly responsible for most of these men's deaths. You should feel proud to have such a fierce and dedicated warrior amongst your …"
Treville never heard the man's last words. He unclenched his fist and shook it as he stared at the robed man, unconscious on the ground. "Get this man out of my sight," ordered Treville to the Guard.
As the Guard dragged the man away, Treville let out a breath and called after him. "Keep him separate from the others," he said. "And anyone else who seems to have something to say."
"Yes, Captain," replied the Guard. "I'll see to it they receive extra-special attention." The Guard bent down, grabbed the prisoner's wrist and dragged him across the field toward the wagons.
Treville turned away, then with his hands braced on his hips, he slowly raised his head to scrutinize the outside of the estate. After a deep breath which he used to numb his senses, he started toward the main door wondering what other atrocities lay waiting.
To be continued…