Athos stood when he heard the familiar click of the door unlatching, and the heavy squeak that followed. He pressed his head to the wrought iron and watched three men push Aramis forward. He stumbled, but caught himself. Blood continued to seep from his hand, drip down his arm, stain his shirt and smear across his chest.
Athos stepped back and tightened his jaw, when a guard raised the pistol toward him, and cocked the hammer.
The guards pushed Aramis inside once the iron door was opened. Porthos stood, and winced when his ribs and back protested at the movement. D'Artagnan yanked on his shackles and felt his flesh tear. The chain was lifted off the floor and reattached to Aramis' shackles. He was shoved forward against the wall where he turned and slid to the floor.
"How bad is it?" Athos asked. He ignored the pistol and looked toward the blood that continued to drip. "Porthos?" He heard the guards chuckle, the cell door locked, and then footfalls as the men left.
Porthos ripped at the skirt of his blouse and tore a narrow strip from the bottom hem. He knelt beside Aramis. "Le' me see," he said, and grasped Aramis' wrist and slowly pulled it away from his chest.
Aramis grimaced, and then slowly relaxed his arm and his hand. He allowed the wound to be exposed. All but his middle finger curled toward his palm. He rested his head against the wall and felt a chill as sweat continued to dry. "The finger's out of joint," he said, and groaned when pressure was applied.
"Let's stop the bleedin' first, brother," Porthos said. He met Aramis' eyes and nodded. Porthos placed the torn strips on Aramis' palm and wrapped it around his hand. Blood continued to seep. It penetrated the fabric and spread. Porthos tore another strip from his shirt and added additional padding. "It needs stichin'."
"Keep his hand elevated," d'Artagnan said, stood behind Porthos, and looked over his shoulder. "It will slow the flow."
Porthos craned his neck. "How woul' you know?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "Farmer," he raised his shoulders and eyebrows, "water slows at an incline — why wouldn't blood?" He shook his head and adjusted his hands.
"He's right," Aramis said, as Porthos finished wrapping his hand. "Just…" he sighed, "put the finger back where it belongs."
"You, ah, wan' me to count to three?"
Aramis breathed through his mouth and swore in Spanish. "I despise you right now," he said, and winced when he felt his finger move.
Porthos chuckled, tightened his hold on Aramis' wrist, and said, "One."
Aramis yelped, swallowed, and turned his head away from his hand. He tried to control his breathing as his hand ignited in pain. The fabric only aggravated it, even the air sent spears through his fingers to his elbow.
Athos watched from a distance. He sat on the floor with his elbows on his knees and pulled on the fabric of his breeches. He tightened his jaw, and watched Aramis shift uncomfortably, and groan.
Porthos sighed, held Aramis' arm, and kept his hand elevated.
"What happened?" Athos asked. He swallowed, watched Aramis lower his right leg to the floor, and take several deep breaths. Bloody splotches spread across his shirt and chest. His sleeve was red and was slow to dry despite the warmth in the cell.
"I informed them I was not the king's financier, and did not know when, where or by whom his taxes are collected and delivered." Aramis sighed, relaxed his right arm, but unintentionally yanked on his left. He raised his right knee again and rested his elbow on it while Porthos continued to monitor the bleeding. "Tomas is insane…" he wrinkled his brow, and squinted against the discomfort, "he's not right in the head… and capable of anything."
"How bad is the cut?" Athos asked.
Aramis raised his right shoulder and wiped sweat from his brow. "If I had a needle and thread." He paused. "It wouldn't be a problem."
Athos ran a hand over his face, felt the stubble along his chin, and inhaled slowly. He looked toward the window. The sky darkened as the day turned to night. "Can you feel your fingers?" There was trepidation in his voice and he looked toward Aramis, who swallowed and then nodded.
"Other than the pain… I think so," Aramis said. He caught his breath in his throat and closed his eyes.
D'Artagnan yanked again on his restraints and returned to his place on the floor. Porthos held strong, kept Aramis' hand elevated, and checked for bleeding.
Despite the pain, Aramis dozed, and never felt the shift of his hand to his chest, or Porthos' secure hold on his arm relax.
Athos stood, paced several times, and clutched at the links between the shackles on his wrists. He grasped the O-ring that decades before had been pounded into the wall. He ran his fingers along the surface where the sledge hammer had struck and damaged the iron. He tried to pull, twist, and bend the shaft near the ring, but growled in defeat and yanked on the chains. His wrists were red, swollen, and scraped. He looked toward d'Artagnan who continued to watch the mouse that hopped and jumped along the seam of the floor and the wall. Porthos eventually leaned back and relaxed his shoulders as Aramis continued to sleep.
"How're we going to get out of here?" d'Artagnan said. He looked toward Athos, who had resorted to testing the strength of the wrought iron.
Porthos chuckled and shook his head. He ran a hand over his face and felt the shackles tap his nose. "If we knew tha', boy, we wouldn't be 'ere."
"Stop referring to me as a boy," d'Artagnan said, and met Porthos' eyes. D'Artagnan pursed his lips and tossed a handful of straw to the wall at his left.
Porthos chuckled despite the underlying anger in the air. The helplessness, exhaustion, hunger. "I'm not the one to be mad at."
"Then stop!"
"Enough!" Athos said and hit the iron with the heels of his hands. He turned, leaned against the wall, and looked toward them both. "Fighting amongst ourselves is not the answer."
"And beating the cell wall is?" d'Artagnan replied with raised eyebrows and chin forward.
Porthos chuckled. "Careful, boy."
Athos shook his head in irritation, hit the grate one more time, and looked toward the ceiling. He turned toward the door when he heard the faint sound of the latch opening, and then the squeak that followed with less aggression than it had in the previous days. He paused a moment, and tried to peer down the hall, but the torch lights did little to illuminate the darkened space.
Felix stepped out of the shadows. He carried a basket and rested it next to the cell door. He paused a moment, looked down the hall toward the entry, and waited. Once he was sure it was sound, he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. "I must admit," he said, as he struggled with the weight, "that my stature lacks what many deem necessary." He sighed, picked up the basket, and entered the cell.
"Who are you?" Athos asked and watched him step closer to Aramis and hand Porthos the basket.
"Felix," he said, and stepped back toward the center of the cell. "I'm Baron Serres'," he shrugged, "friend, confidant… I guess you could say I'm his personal advisor."
"Where is he?" Athos said. He didn't bother to stand, but instead, shifted his knees and rested against the metal grate wall.
Felix exhaled slowly, wrung his hands, and watched Porthos dig through the basket and remove bandages, thread, and a needle.
Porthos handed d'Artagnan a large portion of bread stuffed with meats, cheeses and a variety of vegetables. He also found apples and tarts. He looked toward Athos and said, "Catch—"
"— Wait," Felix said, and reached for the food. "I'll hand it to him — no need to have it tossed to the filthy floor." He took the food from Porthos and handed it to Athos, who nodded in thanks. Felix folded his hands together and glanced from Porthos to Athos. "The baron is ill, Monsieur, since Evan arrived with his men. They have him detained in his room, I'm only allowed to see him in the evening — when he's at his worst — his mind is… fragile."
"Who are they?" Porthos asked and gently squeezed Aramis' shoulder to wake him.
Felix shrugged, licked his lips, and took a step back. "They were," he swallowed, "friends of the barons, but I believe they are more friends to their desires than to those they have known for a great many years." He looked toward Athos, who bit into the apple, and watched Porthos carefully clean Aramis' hand, and start stitching despite the darkness. Felix winced while he watched Aramis' grimaces, listened to his gasps as the needle was inserted into skin, tightened, and inserted again. "Messieurs Evan and Tomas are marauders… I have been able to ascertain that they kill for money — Evan, under the direction of Tomas, has convinced the baron that you're all here to destroy him."
Athos exhaled, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. "The king has invited him to join his council," he said, and looked at Felix, "we have been sent to escort him to Paris."
Felix looked at the faces of those around him and exhaled slowly. "Oh my," he said, and pulled on the hem of his doublet.
"Tomas keeps askin' us for information about the king's taxes." Porthos glanced at Felix, who nodded.
"Yes," Felix nodded, "so I've heard." He looked to Aramis, who remained strong as Porthos tended his hand.
"Can you help us?" Athos asked. He swallowed a mouthful of bread and rested his elbows on his raised his knees.
"I'm sorry to report that my bravery is less than equal to my stature, Monsieur," he said, as he stepped toward Porthos and reached out his hand. "The basket — I must not leave it."
Porthos tossed the basket back and watched him leave the cell, lock it, and quickly exit. He paused a moment and watched Aramis grimace and hold his breath as the stitching continued. "Almost done," he said, tied the last suture off and then quickly bandaged the hand.
Aramis sighed, leaned back, and gripped his left wrist with his right hand. "He saw what happened…" he said and inhaled slowly. "I think he saved my life."
"Eat," Porthos said, and handed Aramis the food. "We need our strength."