We are living through exceptional times, dear readers. I send you all my very best wishes for your health and happiness. There is light at the end of this journey. Things may change, but the human spirit will prevail. Be kind to each other and remember; We Are The Garrison.

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92. DEEP, DARK WELL

Athos woke to the smell of apples.

At the sight of his friend, awake at last, Aramis rose and padded across to the fire.

"I'm not staying here," he heard, as he ladled warm liquid into a pewter mug.

Smiling to himself at Athos's disdain for confinement in the Infirmary, he turned and carried the mug back, holding it out with a gentle smile and a raised eyebrow.

When Athos eyed the mug suspiciously, Aramis pulled the chair closer and brought it to Athos's hands, still stubbornly laying at his sides.

"You don't have to stay," he replied. "Just today. Stay here and gather your strength and then we'll see."

It was his turn to be eyed suspiciously.

Unperturbed, Aramis nudged the warm cup toward Athos's hand, and after a few moments, Athos released him from his gaze and dropped his eyes to it.

"What is it?" he murmured, cautiously.

"Warmed cider," Aramis replied, as he wrapped Athos's fingers around the cup, his own hands lingering until he was sure he had it.

"The apples have been plentiful this summer," d'Artagnan said, from the doorway. "They needed using up." He had helped Serge's lad press a barrel of apples a few weeks ago. It was something he had done on the farm in Lupiac many times. They had fermented nicely and had begun to supplement the ale that had taken a hammering over the hot summer. Athos didn't know that, of course, as he had been missing for four days and they had only just brought him back.

Athos turned his head to look at his visitor. d'Artagnan pushed off the door frame and strode into the room, tossing his own apple between his hands.

Athos brought the cup to his lips with shaking hands.

The beginning of Autumn had brought a sudden chill to the evenings. The cold had seeped into his bones and he had the sudden thought that he may never be warm again.

Being left to die at the bottom of a deep, dark well had a way of doing that to a person.

Having a bullet wound in his arm didn't help.

oOo

36 hours earlier:

Athos had not given up hope, but it was getting harder to control his thoughts. They had swung from determination to the murmurings of unease at his confinement.

He had spent the first night walking around the circumference of his prison; an abandoned dry well. At some point, it had started to rain and the hard packed earth beneath his feet had softened. He had welcomed the rain, and had caught some in his hat, which had been thrown in after him. However, it meant he could not sit for long. It was cold enough standing, hence the hours spent circling his domain, hand running along the damp, slimy stones, looking for purchase; finding none.

oOo

He tried to sleep, not least to still his thoughts, which now veered toward a niggling despair. He had slept on wet ground before, but had the fortune to be able to seek out the odd dry spot.

When dawn broke, a weak shaft of sunlight filtered down. It would not warm the well but at least it may help the earth to dry.

At some point, he spent a good while picking at the mortar of a loose stone, being careful not to fully dislodge it in fear of the whole lot falling on top of him. Fortunately, it was double thickness and he was able to ease the stone out, before shifting it back in at one end, thereby making a seat of sorts. It took the ache from his back muscles and he was able to perch on it for a little while, before feeling the need to get moving again.

He had never really experienced panic. Well, only once perhaps, but the sight of Thomas's blood soaking into the carpet had been tempered with a strange dissociation. Later, he would think how he had functioned, but it was as if someone else took over. Breeding did that to a person, he thought. Emotions had not been allowed to take root in formative years, and so could be cast aside in order to get business done. Nowadays, he doubted he would act like that. His heart had been prised open somewhat of late. Hence his struggles now, facing an isolated end.

oOo

The day was interminable.

He collected dripping water into his cupped hands, and then, into his upturned hat, sending thanks to the milliner for the good quality leather he had used. He vowed to look after that hat, looking on it as a friend, such was the state of his mind.

His stomach rumbled, but he barely acknowledged it. Food had never been much of a draw for him, taking much of his sustenance from the grape. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost taste his favourite wine, the deep ruby colour; rich flavour and strong aroma.

In much the same way, he held conversations with people.

He gave voice to his many stored-up frustrations with a certain Cardinal, though he stopped short of including his King in that. Even down here, alone, that still seemed a step too far and his honour would not allow it. No, those particular thoughts could reside in his head.

He lost track of time. Only the light shifting across the bricked shaft told him that life went on above ground. The cold seemed a constant thing, the stones imbued with it, the moss always wet to the touch. He had found the moss fascinating for a short while. It was life after all, but the fascination soon paled, once he knew every stone and crevice that supported it.

And so, he passed three days, judged by the light above him. He was not sure which was worse, the light where he could see his predicament, or the foreboding blackness that swallowed him whole.

His arm had long since stopped throbbing, but it was now quite numb. If it was still bleeding he could not tell. He had not been able to loose his bonds, and could perform only the basic functions. Luckily, that including scratching his beard, which now irritated him to the point of distraction. Everything else could be scratched on his stone "seat," which, in the end, he was quite proud of.

He did not know when he first started to lose his awareness. He was only aware when he opened his eyes, not realising he had done that. It seemed very repetitive, seeing the same stones swim into view time and time again, and then … less frequently.

He continued his one-sided conversations, but they were now confined to his three brothers.

oOo

When there was a sudden movement above, followed by a scraping sound, he hardly registered it. He had long ago sunk down into the wet mud, but he used the last of his strength to pull back into the shadows. Whoever was up there must have seen his legs before he drew them up. If they realised he was alive, they would no doubt finish him off, and he was not ready to give them that satisfaction.

When a voice called his name, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, forgetting to respond. It was not real, and he wanted to conserve the last of his energy.

Suddenly, there was someone in front of him, and he did not look up, waiting for the final bullet to end him.

Instead, he felt his bonds being cut, and opened his eyes.

d'Artagnan was peering at him, his expression tense.

"He's alive," he shouted, making Athos flinch.

The voice was closer now, sounding achingly familiar …

"Open your eyes, I need your help," it said.

"d'Artagnan? Is it you?"

"I'm here. We all are," d'Artagnan said.

Athos, with great effort, did as he was bid, and d'Artagnan swam into view, his face close.

d'Artagnan swiftly cut through his bonds, and grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him forward while he dropped a looped rope around his shoulders.

"Can you lift your arms?" he asked.

With great effort, Athos managed to, but stifled a groan as his arm protested.

It was then that d'Artagnan discovered the wound. There was nothing he could do at the moment, the priority being getting him up to the surface. He busied himself slipping the rope under his arms and around his chest, his fingers beginning to tie what seemed to Athos like a complicated knot.

Athos was watching the concentration on d'Artagnan's face as he worked.

Finally, d'Artagnan looked up and they eyed each other silently.

d'Artagnan suddenly leant forward and kissed his temple, fast and with purpose.

"Nearly done," he said.

When Athos looked down and frowned, d'Artagnan smiled.

"Boyhood hobby," he said, proudly.

Athos did not respond, but reached up and placed the flat of his hand on d'Artagnan's chest in a show of gratitude. The icy fingers sent a chill through the young man.

Athos was losing focus now, and d'Artagnan leant forward.

"Come on," he urged, "Try and stand. We're keeping Porthos waiting."

"Porthos is here?" Athos mumbled, while beginning to move.

"Told, you, we all are," d'Artagnan replied, as he wrapped Athos's cold hands round the rope that now snaked above them.

"Ready!" he shouted upward, as he helped Athos to get his legs under him.

"Gentle pull!" he yelled, and the rope went taut, helping Athos find his feet.

"Hold on," d'Artagnan said gently, as he steadied him, before looking up once more, and yelling "Pull!"

The rope shifted and Athos bit back a groan as it took his weight. Then, with the combined effort of Porthos and Aramis, Athos started to slowly ascend.

Being left behind was a sobering experience for d'Artagnan. The walls were damp and shiny. Moss spread out across the bottom third and the lack of sunlight left him in deep shadow where he stood. The only light fell on one side, which would no doubt move across as the sun tracked across the sky. At this time of year though, the sun was weak and already d'Artagnan felt the cold prickling his bare forearms while he waited for the rope to descend for him.

Of course, Athos would have discovered this. He had had time to map out his prison. They would soon find out how long he had actually been down here. It would be unbearable down here in the height of summer, or indeed in the midst of winter. They should be thankful on Athos's behalf that it was between the two seasons.

oOo

Present

Athos brought the mug to his lips and took a small sip.

His eyes fell on Aramis and then d'Artagnan, who both looked at him expectantly.

Athos settled back into his pillows, cradling the warm vessel.

"It's very good," he smiled for the first time. "I had forgotten ..."

"You must have had apple trees at Pinon," Aramis replied, fondly.

"Orchards," Athos responded, a little wistfully. "And not just apples."

"Did you help press them, as a boy?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No," Athos replied, quietly. "I wanted to ..."

"But it was not your job," Aramis finished Athos's sentence, as Athos's voice trailed away.

Athos pulled his distant gaze back to Aramis.

"No," he replied, looking away. "It wasn't."

Aramis sensed Athos was not comfortable with the conversation and before d'Artagnan could ask any more, he reached out and tapped the cup.

"Enough of this idle chatter," he said. "Drink up, before your blood freezes."

"Yes, maman," Athos replied, his face softening.

They watched as he drained the cup, a little colour now in his face.

"Rest now," Aramis said, as he passed the empty cup behind him into d'Artagnan's hands.

"I'm not staying," Athos murmured, as his eyelids began to close.

"I know," Aramis replied softly, pulling up the blanket.

oOo

Earlier

d'Artagnan dusted off Athos's damp hat and placed it reverently on his own head. He then retied the rope around his torso and planted his feet on the brickwork. As Porthos pulled, he began to walk his way carefully upward, saving Porthos the effort of bearing his weight.

On emerging into daylight, Porthos huffed out a low laugh and took charge of Athos's hat as he heaved himself over the rim of the well and dropped down onto the packed earth around the well. As he did, he saw the discarded well bucket that had been thrown into nearby bushes. That must have been how they had lowered Athos down into the depths of the well, for he had no broken bones that indicated a fall. He had shouted that fact up to Aramis and Porthos when he had first crouched down in front of his mentor.

Ahead of him, Aramis was holding a water skin for Athos to drink, though it seemed to be very one-sided. Later, they would haul him up to sit in front of Porthos where he would succumb to exhaustion and cold on the way back to the Garrison.

On arrival, they would manhandle him down and it was then Porthos's task to carry him into the infirmary, where life would be rubbed back into his limbs and sustenance put into his belly before being bundled up in heavy blankets and allowed to sleep, for they doubted he had done much of that, if the state of his hands and fingers were anything to go by.

The smooth, damp condition of the stone that made up the walls of the well were not conducive to scaling, merely shredding skin and palms, which Athos would have soon discovered. They could only imagine he had spent the rest of his predicament walking around in circles to maintain what body heat he could.

oOo

There were two choices that Athos could see; instant death or imprisonment with a vague chance of rescue; much dependant on the skills of his brothers. He was not a betting man but if he were, he would keep his money in his pocket and walk away.

The eventual descent was precarious and he entertained the notion that the rope that held the iron bucket that he had been forced to stand in could be released at any moment. He held the rope with both hands stretched above him, leaning backwards to keep the bucket away from the wall. If it hit the wall too often, the bearer of his weight may grow tired and release his grip, leaving him to plummet down with the certainty of broken bones, not least from the iron bucket which would land in the same place as he would.

Compliance was therefore key.

As was the intelligence he had gathered on his mission.

His assailants had been numerous, but were not interested in the strategic movement of their King's regiment or the intelligence gathered by his spies. They had just wanted him out of the way as they continued their sortie across the fertile lands of a nearby baron, who they aimed to teach a lesson for his greed and cruelty.

Not that they were not cruel themselves, preferring to let a serving soldier of France die a terrible death at the bottom of an unused well.

As he held his hands out to be tied, they were in such a hurry they did not see that he had his locket tightly between his palms. Nor did they see, as he made a show of leaning over and looking down into the depths of his prison, the drop of the memento on the ground, at the very foot of the brickwork. Hidden from their sight, but not, hopefully from the keen eyes of his friends, who would know his orders and would follow his route and search the building and, hopefully, the land around it. And, after all, his assailants had left his scarf in the house, having decided against using it to tether him, after finding a rope was a better option.

And so, he had a little hope when he first let go of the rope and stepped out of the bucket, moving quickly aside as it was yanked immediately back to the surface.

What he had not counted on, however, was his assailants firing three musket balls down into the shadows as they left, and, although he had pushed his body back against the brickwork, one had still found its mark in his upper arm. There was nothing he could do about it, as his hands were tied in front of him, but it felt like a through and through, which was one thing. The fact he could feel his sleeve growing damp was another.

oOo

Present

When Athos's eyes flew open, he expected to see dark stonework before him.

He had spent the night lost in nightmares, as his mind resettled itself.

He raised a hand to swipe at his eyes and felt the tightness of the bandage wrapped around his upper arm, and the bite of the stitches that no doubt adorned the entrance and exit wounds.

He had lived through the descent once more, though of course, in his dream the well had been deeper, darker, and menace lurked in its depths. He had stared into an abyss and felt real fear. He did not recall being lucid but his arm had been re-bandaged, so he had not been alone. He felt a twinge of embarrassment that his brothers may have seen and been privy to his darkest thoughts as he relived his incarceration, and now looked around the room to see who may have witnessed it.

But he was alone.

He spent a few moments catching his breath, before his eyes alighted on the table next to him. There, in a shallow wooden bowl, was his locket. That was therefore a question he did not have to ask. Across the room, hung on the back of a chair, was his scarf. And, his hat.

He closed his eyes and sent thanks for his vigilant brothers. It was unlike them to not be present when one of them woke from a mishap, but he suspected that they had allowed him this, in order to gather himself.

For the first time in days, he felt an inner warmth spread through his chest.

During the night, his mind had rid itself of the horror of his imminent demise and he once more wondered if he had moved on sufficiently over the last few years to a stage where, if faced with the real despair of the loss of his former life again, he would manage it better.

It was something he would never know nor wish to test. Though he knew that, but for the love of his brothers, he may be that same man, quick to judge and to condemn, heartbroken though he was; detached though he became. It was they who had doggedly pursued him, refusing to abandon him.

They were still doing it.

All for One. And One for All.

"You look rested!" Aramis said, as the door suddenly opened and the men in question tumbled in.

"I'm not staying," Athos replied, but when they looked at him, he allowed a smile to cross his face.

It was a reward in itself, that smile.

"Just stay long enough to do justice to all this food," Porthos said. "Or I'll 'ave to eat it myself."

"We can't have that," Athos said, pulling himself up against his pillows.

"How are you feeling?" d'Artagnan asked, tentatively.

They had all borne witness to his nightmares, his wild eyes reflecting the inner torment. Unable to wake him, they had been reduced to merely keeping him safe. It had been a night none of them wished to repeat, although they all knew they were each the fodder of bad dreams, such was their lives.

"Better," Athos conceded after a few moments thought.

"So, All's Well That Ends Well," Aramis quipped.

Athos rolled his eyes, and Porthos shared a grin with d'Artagnan.

"It would seem so," Athos said, putting an end to it.

"And you are well?" Aramis added, over his shoulder, as he poured wine.

Athos sighed. He knew where this was going.

"Enough of the 'well' references," he growled.

They all turned back to the table, busying themselves, pushing and jostling each other.

He was really quite fond of them.

All really was definitely, well," he thought, as he watched his friends prepare their mid day meal.

oOo

Thanks for reading!

A/N Fermenting apples to make cider goes way back in Normandy. The Greek geographer and traveller Strabo (64/63 BC – 24 AD) mentioned "zythos," a precursor of cider, and the profusion of apple trees in the region. Celtic Gauls and Romans provided the know-how and Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Emperor of the Romans (the "Father of Europe") had standing orders for brewers to continuously provide him with cider, which involved expanding the planting of apple tree in the 9th century.