Chapter Three

Fractured images assaulted his senses.

A rocky precipice...

Searing pain in his leg...

Fingertips pulling at the stony ground...

Hands grabbing him...

Pulling him back…

Aramis opened his eyes.

He could not make out his surroundings for a few seconds. Everything looked grey. Some of the grey was lighter. The light grey had a defined edge to it. As his vision focused Aramis followed the lines created by the light grey. He found a long narrow window high on a grey wall. The defined lines were being created by sunlight streaming through the window.

Aramis turned his head as his world began to take form and make sense.

He was lying on his side on the floor. He moved his hand and lay it flat in front of him. The floor was stone. It was not cold. Cool. But not cold.

He looked across the floor and found a door. A heavy wooden door broke up the monotony of grey stone. The walls were all uniform grey stone. The room looked new. Or at least well maintained. There was no discernible warp to the wood of the door. The narrow window had a smooth surround, with no chips or chunks taken out of it.

The grey room was unremarkable. There was no furniture.

The only thing in the room, apart from Aramis, was a bucket near the door, and the chains and manacles around his wrists.

He looked at his right wrist. The manacle was looped around his wrist, he looked at the hole where the key would go. He idly wondered where the key was. A chain ran from the manacle and led to somewhere behind him.

Aramis rolled onto his back. The action caused pain to shoot through him from his right leg. He screwed his eyes shut and gasped. He reached his hand towards the source of the pain. The weight of the chain leading from the manacle slowed his movement.

When he could settle his breathing and open his eyes Aramis eased himself up to sit. The action made him feel nauseous for a few seconds. He looked at his leg. He did not recognise the breeches he was wearing. He undid them with fumbling fingers and pushed them down far enough to reveal a bandage wrapped around his thigh. Tentatively he brushed his hand over the spot where the pain was worst. He hissed. The bandage was clean, there was no sign of bleeding. The injury to his thigh had been tended to. The clean bandage indicated to Aramis that the wound had been cleaned as well.

He pulled the breeches back up. He realised none of the clothes he was wearing was his. The shirt was dark blue, it did not appear to be new but was of reasonable quality. A similarly dark doublet made of thick material covered the shirt. The doublet was similar in length to his leather doublet but of plain design with deep pockets. His captors had even replaced his stockings with a grubby grey pair. Simple leather shoes finished his change of attire.

Lifting his right hand, he looked at his palms and fingers. He realised his skin was clean. He remembered being dirty, covered with dust and splashes of muddy water. Aramis found it disconcerting to know he had been stripped, his injury tended to, and his body washed whilst he was unconscious.

His captors had cared for him. He was no good to them dead.

The image of the precipice and his decision to end his life flashed across his mind.

His failure.

His gaolers may have cared for him in the immediate aftermath of his capture, but to what ends?

Aramis went back to looking at the manacles and the chains. Each wrist was manacled with a chain stretching to the wall on the opposite side of the room to the door. The chains were attached to sturdy metal loops set into the grey wall. Aramis was close enough to the wall to be able to reach out for one of the loops. He tugged on it for a few seconds; like the rest of the room, the loops were well maintained. He would not be able to get free by pulling the chain loose from the wall.

He looked at the length of the chain before looking back at the door. The prospect of getting to his feet crossed his mind for the first time since he had woken. Aramis looked at his injured leg. His memory of the injury was hazy. He remembered feeling the pain of getting shot but had no idea how bad the injury was. There had been minimal padding on the bandage which indicated to Aramis that the wound was not severe. It was painful but might not have been as serious as it could have been. He wondered if he could stand.

Using the loops of metal in the wall to steady himself, Aramis eased himself to his knees. His leg hurt but there was no screaming pain. With time and effort, Aramis got to his feet. He leaned against the wall for a while with his eyes closed. He rested his hand on his thigh for a few seconds before pushing himself off the wall. He gradually put more weight on his right leg until he could not endure the pain anymore. Aramis nodded to himself; at a push, he could walk, but his gait would be more of a shuffling limp than the elegant march he usually prided himself with.

With gritted teeth, Aramis managed a few shuffling steps across the room. He reached a point level with the bucket before the chains became taut. He huffed and shook his head in amusement. His captors had given him enough chain to reach the bucket but not enough to get to the door. He looked at the bucket for a few moments. He wondered if he could break it and use the parts as a weapon. But the bucket did imply his captors intended for him to be given food and water. Aramis decided to leave the bucket as it was for the time being.

He hobbled back to the wall and eased himself down to sit on the floor. There was no means of keeping himself warm in the room. He had not been left with a blanket, and there was no hearth for a fire to be lit. The sunlight streaming through the window indicated the room faced the south. Perhaps the sunlight would be enough to keep him warm. The grey stones would remain warm for a few hours after the hot sun's rays had touched them, but Aramis suspected he was in for a chilly night.

Would he remain in the grey room for that long?

He closed his eyes and listened. He slowed his breathing and tried to make out any other sounds.

Some birds were chirping outside. But there did not appear to be any sounds coming from within the building.

Aramis opened his eyes and looked at the heavy door, then up to the narrow window. He wondered if he was in a cellar. The position of the window implied the room was low. Was the heavy door usually supposed to keep something safe in the room? Expensive wine perhaps.

He leaned his head back again; the shaft of sunlight had moved across the wall. When he had woken the bright light was stretched across the floor. Now it was creeping up the wall as the sun moved across the sky.

How long would he have to wait before they came? Before they came to ask him about the information he had. Before they came to try to force the information out of him.

Aramis wondered what they would do. Inflicting pain was the obvious answer. But they had tended to the gunshot wound to his leg. They had cleaned him up and cared for him. Although, they had not left him any food or water. Perhaps that was how they would start. Perhaps they would starve him for a couple of days, weaken him until he was more susceptible to whatever they had planned.

Something moved in the corner of the ceiling. Aramis refocused on the corner; he smiled. He was not alone. He had company.

A spider.

The brown spider had speckled markings, its eight legs were bent up close to its body. One leg was stretched slightly forward. Aramis smiled. He had spent hours watching spiders as a boy. The outstretched leg was waiting for the trigger of something agitating the tangled sheet of a web that had been created covering the corner of the ceiling.

Aramis wondered what might fly or wander into the web in the otherwise spotless room. There had to be enough to sustain the spider.

The spider was no threat to Aramis; he saw no need to bother it. Not that he would have been able to reach that corner of the room anyway.

His curiosity was piqued. He scanned the rest of the ceiling and found a rival spider settled in the other corner of the opposite wall. In a near mirror of the first spider, the second was motionless with one leg extended, waiting for something to become snared in its web.

The light in the room dimmed for a few seconds. Aramis looked at the window as the light returned. He realised that if the day became overcast, he would not see the passage of time as the light from the sun travelled across the room. He had only been aware of his natural clock for a few minutes, but already he did not want to lose it. Particularly as he had no idea how long he would be kept in the room before his inevitable interrogation began.

Once they had weakened him, what would their tactic be, Aramis mused as he watched the fading light slip off another of the grey stones on the wall.

Would they beat him simply punch him and kick him? Or would they use more traditional means of torture? They could restrain him and whip him. Perhaps dunking him in water would be their method. Or they could leave him in an uncomfortable position and let time and gravity do the torturing for them.

Aramis thought of the times when each of those methods had been used on him and his brothers. He had nothing, other than the motionless spiders, to distract him from his thoughts.

MMMM

'We have no information.'

Aramis tried to look up, to see the reaction on Athos' face. The stoic Musketeer had watched silently for several minutes as the two thugs systematically beat Aramis in an attempt to get Athos to speak. They both knew it would not work.

Aramis wondered how long it would be before the men holding him would be ordered to turn their attention to Athos. Playing them off against each other was a classic ploy…

MMMM

Aramis smiled; he did not know anyone else who could act as disinterested in what was going on as Athos. But he was always observing. Taking in every little detail. Ready to act when the moment was right.

He well remembered the day they had been grabbed off the streets by more men than they could handle. The incident could have turned deadly if Athos had not been paying attention to the details.

Aramis had only received a beating that time. It was true he had needed help from Athos to get back to the garrison, but it could have been a lot worse.

MMMM

Aramis was aware of the cadet flinching each time the improvised whip hit its target. Flinching as though that target was him when it was not. D'Artagnan had probably never expected to find himself caught by religious fanatics. But then again, it was a first for Aramis as well.

Athos could not help a cry of pain the next time the belt hit his back. The welts that crisscrossed his skin already looked painful as more were added...

MMMM

It was months since Athos had been hurt, but Aramis knew some of the marks from that assault were still visible on his friend's back.

Whipping a captive was a tried and tested method to get them to talk. It was not just the impact of the whip that would affect the victim. Any preamble from the villains and practice swings were sometimes enough to get a man to speak.

But, thought Aramis, his captors might want to take a less damaging approach towards his torture. They had tended to his wound after all. Maybe they would torture him in a way that did not leave him injured.

MMMM

'If you kill him, you definitely won't get the information,' said Aramis, who was trying to hide the worry in his voice but probably failing.

The brutish man looked at the weedy man who was giving the orders. The short man nodded. The brute switched from holding Porthos under the water to pulling him out of it. Porthos took a long, gasped breath. He glared at the weedy man for a few seconds before looking at Aramis. Aramis knew what Porthos was conveying with the look. He was prepared to put up with a lot more. They knew a rescue was coming, they just needed to hold on a bit longer…

MMMM

They had known help was on its way that time, years before, thought Aramis. He never told Porthos, but he still woke up from horrible vivid dreams of that event. He shuddered at the thought of the brutish man holding his friend under the water far longer than was necessary.

Aramis wondered if there was any hope that he might be rescued. His mission was secret and he knew he would not be missed for a few days, even with the urgency surrounding it. The men who had taken him captive would have plenty of time to try to pry the information from him before any rescue was set in motion.

And if they had time to work with, they might use methods of torture that relied on time.

MMMM

Aramis could see Athos' expression darkening by the minute. Porthos was practically ripping himself apart to get to d'Artagnan. The new Musketeer had tried to remain conscious, but the pain had won out.

Blood trickled down his wrists where he had struggled, and the rough rope had rubbed his skin raw.

Aramis hated to think of the damage that was being done to d'Artagnan's arms and shoulders. He had been left dangling by his wrists, his feet a couple of inches off the floor for what felt like hours.

The sadistic Comte was sipping wine, watching them. Waiting for one of them to give up the information to save their young comrade...

MMMM

The torture of d'Artagnan had been the hardest to watch. Aramis was sure it was the first time the young man had been on the receiving end of such attention. D'Artagnan had tried to remain aloof about it afterwards, but Porthos had ended up taking him off for a walk when it became obvious the memories of the event, he was trying to suppress were likely to overwhelm him.

Aramis knew that once their newest Musketeer had been through an actual battle, not a skirmish, but a full-blown battle he would be less affected by such events. Battles changed a man. They learned to box thoughts and feelings away, but they also learned to deal with them when the moment was right. They were soldiers, they were meant to be fighters, but they could also be stoic and calm when necessary. And just because they were all those things it did not mean they could not feel. They were human, after all. Emotional beasts. They just learned not to let the emotion, the memory, the pain of that memory get the better of them.

He wondered if he would struggle to deal with his current situation if he escaped. He knew he would feel he had let the Captain down by allowing himself to be captured. But he had done his best to evade that capture.

The sunbeams had disappeared from the cell as his thoughts of the past filled his mind. Aramis looked up at the window; the thin stretch of sky he could see was now a uniform grey, much like the wall of his stony cell.

There had been no visits. He wondered if his captors were waiting for him to fall asleep again before they started to work on getting the information from him.

Perhaps leaving him to starve slowly was the torture?

MMMM