Aramis' brothers sat around their table discussing their options in looking for the missing marksman. Taverns would, of course, be high on their list, because so many tongues wagged a little too freely under the influence of alcohol.
They knew they needed to go out to the Comtesse's estate, and at least see if she exhibited any guilty behavior. They knew that if they directly asked any questions of her, she would probably have recourse to Louis, who would, of course, side with her. She knew he would, and they knew it.
They needed to track down Villefort, but highly suspected that wherever he was would probably be where their brother was, as well.
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Aramis groggily came awake, everything in his sight blurry.
When his eyesight finally came clear, his heart dropped. He was still in the bare room, still bound.
He had been having dreams, all of them with his brothers having rescued him. But that is all they had been-dreams. The harsh reality surrounded him.
Every time he had awakened since he had been here, the same two men had come in and drugged him again. Sometimes, it was right after he had awakened, sometimes it seemed like hours later.
They had begun to vary their method of knocking him out, though.
It seemed like every other time now, they forced liquid from a small clear bottle down his throat. He had at first tried clamping his mouth closed, but a swift punch to his stomach would cause him to gasp, giving them the opportunity to pour the liquid in. Within moments, he would be out.
He didn't understand why they had kidnapped him, only to keep him unconscious most of the the time.
They had made no attempts to question him about anything. Indeed, they didn't talk to him at all.
But the past several times when he had come to, he felt bruises to his face, his torso. 'Had they beaten him while he was unconscious?'gain, he wondered.
He had no clue as to how long he had been here, or where he was at. He wondered how long he would be left awake this time.
He didn't think he had been given any food, as his stomach growled continuously when he was awake.
He had been given small amounts of water, though. For one thing, someone couldn't go longer than about three days with no liquids. But it must be very small amounts, as his mouth was always very dry when he was awake.
His wrists and ankles had long ago gone numb from being kept bound. He felt dirty from lying on the dirt floor and not bathing. His hair hung in straggly pieces, oily from not being washed.
What did they want with him, his mind returning to the unanswered puzzle. But it couldn't give him the answer sought.
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The Musketeers were tired and very frustrated as they returned to the garrison after a several days of searching.
So far, the taverns hadn't yielded any information, just blank looks or disinterest to questions.
They headed out of Paris to pay a call on the Comtesse, but it went as they had suspected, with the noblewoman denying knowing anything about Aramis' disappearance.
"I have better things to do with my koitime than seeking vengeance upon a lowly Musketeer," she had said, her tone of voice that of one highly superior to someone of much lower rank than herself. Athos could have disabused her of that notion, but he never enjoyed bringing up his former status, even though it would proven him of higher rank.
Passing through the garrison gates, instead of seeking supper together, each of them headed for his own room and bed, the lack of any leads dampening any appetite they might have had.
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Alain sat at a small, rickety old wooden table, looking over at Georges.
"Are we just going to keep drugging him? For what purpose?" he asked, knowing he hadn't received any explanation when he had asked his companion before.
Georges started back at the younger man, not answering him yet.
When he did, it was much the same answer as he had given him before.
"We don't question. Our job is to carry out orders," he growled. "You don't want to question the man who gives the orders. Bad things tend to happen to all who do."
Alain heartily wished he had never agreed to this work. He also wished he had never been left to fend for himself in his teen years, when his mother had abandoned him in the Court of Miraclez, and he had desperately turned to the only recourse he could see -a life of crime.
But he had something that got in the way of his illegal activities-a conscience.
It was why he couldn't help bringing the subject up again with Georges.
But he could see that his fellow kidnapper felt at all.
'Imay have to do something myself if this goes on much longer', he thought.
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Aramis was left totally alone for what he surmised was most of the day, before once again the scrape of the bolt being pulled across alerted him to their coming again
He tried to calm the dread he felt whenever they came, knowing that he was about to be forced into unconsciousness once again.
Sure enough, in walked the two hooded men again.
He knew it wouldn't probably do any good talking to them, but he had to try.
"I won't make any sound. You don't have to do this," he cringed inwardly at the note of pleading that he could hear in his voice.
As he was afraid they would do, they ignored him.
Then, a few moments later, the big man on his right, the one who always had the drugs, laughed, as if the comment had been a jest. Pulling the folded cloth and the small brown bottle from his pocket, he very slowly poured the liquid onto the cloth, deliberately prolonging the process.
He laughed, saying, "There's nothing you can do to prevent me," leaning down towards Aramis' face, cloth in hand.
Aramis could smell the nauseating fumes of the drug. As every time, even though he knew it was useless, something made him try to fight it, beginning to feebly struggle.
His shoulders were easily held down to the dirt of the floor, the cloth yet again tightly covering his nose and mouth until his struggles ceased.
Alain, very reluctantly doing the dirty work, vowed as again to himself, 'I have to get myself'...stopping his thought, adding 'and this poor man, too.'
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Again after his two men left the building on an errand he told them to run. Villefort unlocked the door to Aramis' makeshift cell. Strutting over to the prone figure, he drew his leg back and kicked him hard.
Not satisfied yet, he used both his booted feet and his fists on him, leaving only when he felt somewhat satisfied.
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Alain watched his employer leave out the front door to the building, saying he had some business he needed to conduct. Thinking to himself, 'I have to do something now,' he got up and made his way back to the cell at the back of the building. Grabbing the keys from a hook they hung from on the wall, he unlocked the cell door. Moving swiftly to their captive, he pulled up short when he saw his condition.
Aramis was curled up in a ball facing the far wall, face and body covered with heavy bruising and blood. He was not conscious, and wouldn't have felt the beating, but Alain felt even more guilt rising inside of him.
Trying to lift him wasn't possible now.
He had to go to the Musketeers garrison quickly. There was no telling what Villefort might do the next time he 'visited' his prisoner. At the moment, Alain didn't care what happened to himself when he revealed the situation. All he knew was he didn't want to be responsible for the death of this man.
Leaving the room and locking the door behind him to allay any suspicions, he strode quickly through the building and out the front door. Once out of sight, his pace quickened, heading through the streets of Paris with only one thought on his mind, preventing a killing.