Thank you again for sticking with me on this journey - your feedback has been awesome!
This is the summation of my warning: These next two chapters are a bit more uncomfortable to read... they were very difficult to write (I hate writing the trauma/hurt portion of stories - I actually think it's why it takes me so long to get there... Oh well).
Posting early again today since I don't know what my afternoon will look like.
Grab that walking stick and let's get this story back on the road!
The hall remained quiet for the next day, except for the delivery of vegetable soup, and buckets of water for drinking. Aramis paced the length his bonds would allow. He grumbled beneath his breath, and snapped responses to simple questions. Porthos had tried to release the hook that kept him bound to the wall and found himself bloodied as the shackles sliced into the tender skin of his wrists. His back caused him pain and his sore rib reminded him of his weakness. D'Artagnan listened and continued to watch the mouse sneak from its hiding places when they all grew quiet. Athos stretched tightened muscles and had managed to climb the wrought iron enough to look out the window that faced the stables.
The sun slowly set, and the torches were once again lit. The turnkey, a gangly man with trimmed salted brown hair, a short mustache and goatee, delivered two more buckets of water. He still wore his simple brown robe, tied at the waist, with keys that hung from his belt. He removed the empty broth bowls and nodded toward them before he locked the door and departed.
"Do you think they've lost interest?" d'Artagnan said. He stood and paced a few lengths before he leaned against the wall. He rubbed his forehead, pulled stems of straw from his hair, and tossed them aside. "If we get out of this —"
"Not if," Porthos corrected, "when. I'm not dyin' in some baron's cell surrounded with rodents an' piss stained stone." He rubbed his wrists and pulled torn flesh from the scrapes he had caused earlier in the day. The blood had dried and flecked away as he continued to rub.
"You really shouldn't do that," Aramis said, he took a seat against the wall and crossed his ankles, "you could cause it to bleed worse — open it up to infection — cause permanent damage to the tissue."
Porthos clenched jaw and turned to look at him. "I c'n still wrap my 'ands around your throat."
Aramis leaned his head back against the stone and pursed his lips. "Where would the fun be in choking the life out of me, Porthos, besides why do their job for them," he said, and looked toward the light of the moon through the windows. He carefully tested the strength of his fingers, and felt his middle finger protest to the movement, and his palm tighten. "I'm surprised we haven't seen anyone — we can always hope they all died in their sleep." He rested his elbow on his raised his right knee.
"Which would mean we're stuck 'ere," Porthos said. He grasped the chain and yanked for good measure.
"Perhaps they've brokered a deal to sell us to the Spanish?" Aramis took a deep breath and quickly wished he hadn't as he exhaled. "The Spanish have contemptible devises for torture —"
"An' the French don't?" Porthos said with a huff.
"We do," Aramis said, "but we're more civilized about it."
D'Artagnan chuckled and shook his head. "I think the situation has turned your brain soft."
Athos chuckled, but said nothing.
"Perhaps," Aramis said. He leaned his head back again and whistled a short tune.
The heavy door clicked opened, and footsteps once again echoed down the hall. The turnkey opened the cell door and met each of their eyes. He pulled a napkin from his pocket. "I have food," he said. "Please don't harm me." He bent at the waist and offered them each hardened bread and cheese. "It was all I could grab without being caught." He stepped back and sat on the floor near the door.
"What's your name?" d'Artagnan said and then nibbled on the bread. He wanted to savor it, and he allowed the cheese to melt on his tongue. It wasn't nearly as good as what Felix had brought them the night before, but this was something.
"Urbain, Monsieur," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest. "The baron hired me when I was a boy." He bounced his knees out of habit rather than nervousness. "I help him manage his prisoners."
"Prisoners?" Porthos cocked an eyebrow and finished his bread. "How many prisoners 'as he hel' up 'ere?"
Urbain shrugged. "They're all vandals, looters, thieves… he even had a man try to steal his best stallion years ago — he was hanged for his crime." He looked over his shoulder and glanced down the hall.
"Where's the baron now?" Athos asked.
"Still overwhelmed with madness… he locks himself in his room when it overtakes him — sometimes it lasts for weeks," Urbain said with a shrug, "other times it's just days." He giggled and stopped suddenly.
Aramis pulled his eyebrows together in concern as he watched Urbain's actions. There was something about him: his erratic movements, nervous giggles at inappropriate times, the twitching of his hands and feet, and even the way he looked at them — an uncomfortable familiarity. While the turnkey had arrived daily to deliver water, he had never stayed: was always moving, quick to enter, and quick to leave. But now, he looked more relaxed, more content, if not unpredictable.
"What causes it?" Porthos said and wiped his hands on his shirt.
Urbain shrugged. "I do not know." He chewed on his thumbnail, yanked a hangnail out with his teeth, and looked at them more carefully. He met d'Artagnan's eyes and then glanced toward the dirty bandage on Aramis' hand. "What happened?" he met Aramis' eyes.
"An unfortunate argument with a butcher knife," Aramis said. He inhaled deeply and appeared to close his eyes, but continued to watch through the darkness of his lashes.
Urbain nodded. "Evan… he's," he licked his lips, and grabbed a piece of straw, and twisted it. "He likes to watch people bleed."
Athos frowned, watched the erratic movements of Urbain as he sat twisting stems of straw. He flicked his wrist, adjusted his seat, and shrugged his shoulders. He shifted constantly, looking over his shoulder, glancing from the ceiling to the walls and then to each of them.
Urbain shook his head and pushed up the sleeves of his robe to expose long scars that ran from his wrist to his elbow. "They're going to kill you," he said, and looked toward Athos. "I heard them talking." He hunched his shoulders and giggled again. "They think I'm dumb." He tapped his temple and then grabbed another sprig of straw to twist. They think me odd because of my actions — because of my irregularities." He licked his lips and then pulled dried skin from his bottom lip with his teeth.
"What are they doing now?" d'Artagnan said and shifted to cross his ankles.
"I do not know." Urbain said and met his eyes. "I'm just the turnkey."
Porthos pushed himself up and helped himself to the water. He drank several ladles and turned toward d'Artagnan who nodded, and took the ladle from Porthos who replaced it in the water when d'Artagnan finished. He offered some to Aramis, who shook his head.
It was cold, refreshing, and d'Artagnan wished he was back in the river fishing — even if he wasn't a good angler. To be free of the stench of the cell, inhale the fresh air, and scent of the water after a cool breeze, or even the pine trees. He would even settle for the scent of fish cooking over an open flame.
Athos said, "Have men been wrongly imprisoned?"
Urbain shook his head and licked his lips. "The baron is weak of mind, not soul," he said, "he's never accused anyone wrongly. You're here for crimes against him, of that I'm sure." He nodded, pursed his lips, and tossed the straw to the floor. "Tomas has imprisoned many… he's killed many," he looked again at Athos, "I've heard even children."
"Then why is he not imprisoned?" Athos said. He squinted, flexed his jaw muscles, and looked toward Aramis, who shook his head and rolled his eyes.
Urbain frowned and contemplated the question. He looked to each of their faces and shrugged. He grabbed another stem of straw and wrapped it tightly around his finger.
"We've never traveled though Nivernais before, nor have any of us met the baron… how can we have committed crimes against him?" Aramis frowned and leaned forward.
"Tomas hates you," Urbain shrugged, "thinks you aren't telling him the truth — he'll let you go if you tell the truth."
"What truth?" Athos said.
Urbain frowned, paused in his movements, and watched Porthos lean forward. "The gold — you're hiding… the king's gold… how to get it." He paused and pointed toward Aramis, "Your appearance," he said, "are you Spanish?"
Aramis groaned, muttered under his breath, and then said, "I'm French."
Porthos chuckled and lowered himself to his back. He placed his hands on his chest and exhaled. "You do have a look about you, brother."
Aramis kicked Porthos' shin.
Porthos grunted. "It's alright — people think I'm from Africa… fools." He inhaled and exhaled deeply as he looked up toward the ceiling. "I don't even sound like I'm from Africa." He allowed his eyes to slide closed while he listed to their voices.
Urbain shrugged and looked at his thumbnail as he continued to pick at the nail. "The Spanish come… they leave."
"We're not Spanish spies… Porthos doesn't even speak the language." Aramis rubbed his head and leaned back against the stone wall. "This conversation is getting us nowhere," he said. He looked toward Athos, who rubbed his face and nodded.
"You think me dumb?" Urbain said and looked toward the floor.
"No," Aramis said, "but this conversation isn't productive." He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the stone. "What I would give for a hot bath, clean sheets, and a soft woman."
Urbain giggled. He ran his hand along the cobblestone and dug dirt from the seams. "You're here," he looked up and met Athos' eyes, "Tomas has a reason to hate you, perhaps it's because you lied or hid the gold, but he will kill you." Urbain shrugged and returned his gaze to the stone, and ran his thumb over the rough surface. "There's a story that the souls of men killed in prison don't rest," he looked up, and met Aramis' eyes, "is that true?"
Aramis shrugged and glanced toward Athos. "No," he said, "it's not true." He rubbed his face, shook his head, and said, "The dead rest just fine — it's the living who don't."
D'Artagnan leaned against the wall, closed his eyes as he listened to the even tone of Urbain's questions, and Aramis' answers. The flames continued to flicker, and the moon would soon be beyond range of the window. His eyelids grew heavy, muscles relaxed and twitched as exhaustion claimed him.
"How many men are here?" Athos asked and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced toward the window and then back toward Aramis, who shrugged.
"Including the house servants — those not sent away?"
"Yes," Athos said.
Urbain shrugged. "Fifteen maybe… Tomas arrived with several, but I'm not allowed by the stables, so I can only count those who have entered the house."
"Weapons?" Aramis asked and adjusted his arm on his knee.
"Pistols, swords." Urbain shrugged and shook his head. "I'm not familiar enough to know what you want me to say."
Athos rubbed his brow and closed his eyes. He licked his lips and glanced toward Aramis. "Why are you here?" Athos said.
Urbain shifted away from either man's reach and hurled himself against the wrought iron. "I only came to offer you food, fresh water… if you do not want it, I'll take it away."
Porthos' snore broke the moment of tension.
Athos shifted his feet, pushed himself off the wall, and paused momentarily. He stretched his shoulders, felt the tightness of under-used muscles and tendons, and breathed in the stale air. He took a drink of water, returned the ladle to the bucket, and then paced back and forth.
Urbain remained pressed against the wall next to the exit and watched them. The room grew quiet except for the subtle snores from Porthos, the shifting of straw against booted feet and cobblestones, and the clanging of chains as Athos paced.
Urbain grabbed a metal grate and tighten his hand around the iron. Knuckles turned white, metal dug into the palm of his hand, and he ignored the pain. He said, "Do you feel trapped… like a wolf caught in iron claws?" He giggled and watched Athos pace.
Athos bowed his head, cast his eyes downward, and shortened his strides because of the length of his restraints. He was tall, taller than Urbain first thought, graceful, determined, and elegant in a way the others lacked. There was an air about him that terrified and excited Urbain… not unlike the wolf caught in the trap… ready to fight until death.
Aramis frowned and watched Urbain. For a moment he looked like a hunter stalking his prey, studying movements, actions… searching for weaknesses. Aramis glanced toward Athos, who shifted his shoulders, rubbed his face, and tugged on the shackles at his wrists.
"I shot one once," Urbain said, and looked toward Aramis, "a wolf caught in a trap… it tried to chew its foot off… I thought it was because of madness, but then I realized it was because of desperation." He rubbed the fabric at his thigh and exposed scratch marks along his skin: red welts and mottled pink flesh. "Desperation causes us to do things… it changes who we are," he chewed his bottom lip, "it makes us stronger," he paused, "sometimes it makes us weaker."
"What are you talking about?" Aramis said.
"It's no use, Aramis," Athos said with a shake of his head.
"The wolf," Urbain said, "always hunting, killing… breeding… terrifying those that don't understand their elegance." He watched Athos slow his movements. "They have to be destroyed… managed… controlled." Urbain chewed on his bottom lip, rubbed his arms, and rocked back and forth. He watched them, looked toward d'Artagnan who had fallen asleep against the wall, Porthos who slept peacefully, and Aramis who watched. Urbain met Aramis' eyes. "The wolves are always to blame…" he said and then watched Athos slow his pace. "They will kill the horses… the foals — I've seen them do it." He looked toward Aramis. "The wolves need to be destroyed."
Aramis felt his heart flutter. "What are you talking about?"
Athos braced his hands against the wall, leaned forward, and slowly slid to the floor. He rested his elbows on raised knees and rubbed his brow. He found himself suddenly exhausted. Fog clouded his mind, his vision blurred, and his heart raced through his veins. It was an unnerving feeling as his body protested to his mind's needs. He lowered his hands to his lap the shackles rubbed sore skin, and clanged momentarily. He rested his head against the wall and felt muscles relax. Athos frowned, closed his eyes, and said, "What's in the water?"
"Athos?" Aramis said and looked toward Urbain.
Urbain waited, chewed his bottom lip, and then shifted to his knees. Slowly, he crawled from his protected position near the exit, and moved toward Athos. Urbain grabbed the fabric of his robe and pulled it forward as he crept like a cat along the cobblestone. His movements were slow, silent, and unyielding.
"What are you doing?" Aramis shifted and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
Urbain didn't acknowledge the question, and unconcerned with Aramis' movements, he crept closer to Athos. He paused a moment, and just watched him breathe. Athos' Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed, and the tension in his brow slowly relaxed. Urbain pulled a knife from his pocket with a long thin blade that curved to a point at the tip. He looked at Athos' face and studied it. Urbain could feel his heart race he placed his hand on Athos' knee, and lifted the blade toward his neck. He traced the lining of his jaw with the rounded tip and listened to the sharp edge scrape along the rough edges of Athos' beard.
"Don't you dare," Aramis rushed forward, but was stopped by his restraints. "Athos!" He yanked on his shackles, felt his skin rub and tare beneath the pressure, and muscles protest as fear spread through his veins like wildfire. "Athos!"
Urbain touched the collar of Athos' shirt and gently ran his fingers along his exposed neckline. He watched the flicker of skin as blood pumped beneath the surface. Urbain chuckled and drew his finger downward. "I didn't expect him to be so fit… most who find themselves within these walls are soft." He exhaled slowly and caused Athos' long bangs to flutter. "Green eyes with dark hair…" he paused, "so rare." He adjusted the knife in his hand and cut at Athos' blouse to expose more of his chest.
"Athos!" Aramis yelled and yanked on his restraints. "Please, please, please!" His heart raced and slammed against his chest. "Damn it! Get away from him!" He struggled with his restraints and tried to stretch his arms. "Athos, please!" Aramis ignored the popped stitches of his hand and the blood that seeped from the wound and moistened the bandage. "Athos, please, brother, wake up!"
Urbain paused suddenly. He then pushed open the collar of Athos shirt and drew it past his shoulder. He traced his finger along Athos' collarbone and then flattened his hand against his chest. "His heart is strong," he whispered, "so tantalizing." He giggled, and then ran the backside of his finger from Athos' ear, down his neck, across his chest and finally toward his belt. He paused a moment, leaned forward and inhaled deeply. His exhale caused Athos' bangs to flutter again, and he smiled. "I wanted the boy," he glanced toward d'Artagnan and turned toward Aramis, "but he's even better." He pressed his hand to Athos' chest and lowered it.
"Get away from him!" Aramis shouted, sent spittle from his lips, and yanked again on the chains. "Athos… Please!"
Urbain stopped suddenly when he met Athos' green eyes.
Athos grabbed Urbain's head and snapped his neck. In a panic, he reached for the wooden bucket and then smashed it against Urbain's head. His heart hammered against his chest. For a moment he didn't breathe as blood ravaged through his veins like a burst dam.
"Athos!" Aramis fell to his knees. "He's dead, brother!" he pleaded, "Athos! He's dead!"
Athos never heard the words as blood splattered his face, his shirt, and the bucket broke beneath the force of the attack. He pushed himself backward, grabbed the chain that secured him, and yanked. He stood but stumbled and fell against the stone wall. Athos tightened his grip on the chain and tugged it with a combination of growls and wheezing gasps for breath. His wrists tore beneath the force, more damage was done as his fueled panic and rage manifested in ways of which he never thought he was capable.
"Athos!" Aramis continued, "Athos it's over!" He shrugged, shook his head, and slumped his shoulders. "It's over," he said, and leaned forward, "it's over. Please… it's over…"
Athos' palms bled, fingers grew slick, and his hold on the chain weakened. He fell to his knees, and tried to push himself to his feet, but he stumbled. He tried several more times, but continued to lose his footing and finally he collapsed to his left side as the adrenaline wore off and the drug took its full effect.
Aramis sighed, sat back on his haunches, and looked toward Porthos and d'Artagnan who continued to sleep and would until the drug left their system. He looked toward Athos' back, and Aramis bowed his head. Helpless, he stayed there, ignored the bleeding of his own wrists, his palm, and the tears of frustration that slipped from his eyes.