Aramis paced. He walked the length of the chain, turned, and walked more. The daylight hours were slowly turning to night. A guard left a bucket of water hours ago, and while they had been hesitant to drink from it, Porthos tried it first and after feeling no side effects, the others partook. Aramis felt his heart race as his anxiety increased with each passing hour. The silence was bone crushing, and every time he heard a bump, a rattle, or even a squeak, he turned back toward the cell door and waited.
It had been over ten days since they had left Paris. Seven of those in a cell: waiting, listening, watching. The guards were thorough the locks were solid, and the chains a reminder of their limitations. It could be weeks before Treville sent a search party for them, and the thought of dying in a dirty cell caused their hearts to ache. They wouldn't speak of it or acknowledge it. Instead, they would continue to have hope for something… anything. But they thought about the possibility that this was the end of them… that everything they had done until this point would be what they were known for… if known at all.
Porthos rubbed the heels of his palms. Bruises slowly appeared after spending hours pounding, twisting, and pulling on the O-ring that held him in place. Sweat had beaded his brow, and he'd wiped his forehead with the dirty sleeve of his shirt. He sat against the wall, rubbed his thumb against soft tissue, and tried to control his breathing. While he didn't react to every sound, he wanted to. He lost himself in the idea of what it would take to kill their captors and how he wanted to do it. Peaceful resolutions be damned, he wanted revenge. He wanted this to be over.
D'Artagnan pulled at the thread that threatened to unlace at the hem of his blouse. Once it pulled free, he wrapped it tightly around his index finger, watched the tip turn red and felt it pulsate. His chest hurt, his mind would not stop thinking about their predicament, and he hated not being able to do something. Anything. Like Aramis, he had paced, and like Porthos he had pulled and attempted to release the O-ring. He listened for hints of life, for the click of the door latch, the familiar squeak of its hinges, and the haunting steps that followed. He looked toward the wall to his right, the vacant space, and the chain that lay abandoned in the straw.
Aramis stopped, looked at his hand, and shook his head. Bloodied bandages, now covered in dirt and grime, stared back at him. He knew without looking that an infection lingered. He could feel the swelling, throbbing of battered tissue, and the tightness of skin as he tried to close his fingers and failed. If he was lucky, he'd be able to lance it, remove what he could to prevent the red lines that would eventually travel up his arm as the infection grew and poisoned his blood.
"Think he's alive?" d'Artagnan asked and swallowed. He glanced toward the ceiling, bit at his bottom lip, and then pinched the bridge of his nose.
Nobody answered.
Instead, Aramis continued to pace.
The mouse came out of his hiding spot, ran along the seam of the wall, and paused when he felt eyes upon him. He turned suddenly, twitched his nose, stood on two hind legs, and ran his front feet across his face.
D'Artagnan watched him. His air of confidence, lack of concerns, or even his alertness to those around him. The mouse jumped forward, collected more straw, and sniffed for something better: crumbs, the remnants of an apple core, and a speck of cheese. He halted, looked to the left, and then darted back from where he had come from.
D'Artagnan paused, frowned, and then stood. "Someone's coming," he said, and stepped forward. His heart froze, and he held his breath.
Porthos grumbled and shook his head. "You hearin' things now?"
Aramis paused in his steps.
The door latch echoed, the hinges squeaked, and footfalls hit the cobblestone floor.
Aramis sighed in relief and nodded toward d'Artagnan who inhaled deeply and closed his eyes in relief when they spotted Athos. He looked exhausted, sweat dampened hair clung to his brow and fell heavily around his face. His shirt was dirty with sweat marks below his arms, down his back, and along his front collar. They had not shackled him.
A guard opened the cell door, and Athos was pushed forward where he fell back against the wall and slid to the floor. A guard grabbed his right arm, pulled him toward the wrought iron wall and shackled his wrist to an iron bar.
The guards chuckled, slammed the door, and walked back toward the exit.
Athos shifted into a more comfortable position within the corner. He raised his knees, rested his head back, and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and shifted his right hand. The metal clanged, and he winced. The sound was grating.
"What happened?" Aramis asked and watched Athos close his eyes. He stepped closer and squatted. "Athos?"
Athos kept his eyes closed.
"Are you injured?"
Athos grunted and shook his head. He rubbed his brow, felt his pulse slow, and his heart stop its heavy pounding in his chest. "No," he said.
Aramis didn't sound convinced, but nodded. "You need to drink."
"I know," Athos said, and looked at Aramis skeptically. He heard Porthos huff. Athos shifted his right knee against the wrought iron and felt the frigid chill of sweat against his back as he slumped further toward the floor.
"Athos — the water's not tainted — we've all partaken," Aramis said. "Please, brother."
Athos swallowed, shifted his position to get more comfortable, and then glanced toward Aramis. "What's done is done, Aramis — leave it alone."
Aramis bit his bottom lip, turned back toward the wall, and sat a couple of feet from Porthos, who shrugged and shook his head.
"Give him time," Porthos said.
The room grew quiet again except for the subtle and regular sounds of chains clanging, the routine sounds of breathing, and the occasional clearing of a throat. The light of the sun shifted to darkness as the hours continued and sent the cells into darkness. While the light of the moon glowed, it did little to brighten the space.
When the door lock clicked, and the hinges squeaked, d'Artagnan raised his knees, and continued to twist stems of straw. "I hate that sound," he said, and rested his head against the wall.
Porthos continued to doze and opened one eye when the footfalls echoed. Aramis rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers through his filthy hair.
Felix shifted the basket to his right arm and worked to open the cell door. He struggled with the weight and finally placed the basket on the floor near his feet. He turned suddenly when he thought he heard something. Felix stopped for a moment before he grabbed his lit candle and stood on the balls of his feet to light the torches on the wall behind him. He turned back toward the cell door and tried once again to open it.
"I'm much more adept at cooking and bookkeeping than I am at manufacturing keys for old locks," Felix said as the lock released. He pulled it open, shifted it enough so it wouldn't squeak, and entered the cell with his basket. "I'm sorry, gentlemen." He paused, looked at each of them, and swallowed. He reached beneath the cloth and slipped his hand into the basket. "This was all I could find." He handed a leather pouch to Porthos, who took it.
Porthos unlaced the leather bindings and opened the small kit to reveal a file, several items to be used as picks, and a long thin blade. He chuckled, smiled for the first time in days, and nodded. "You did good, Felix," he looked up and met his eyes, "you did real good."
"The key I tossed to you earlier will fit into the cell door," Felix said and shrugged. "The baron is confused, he doesn't understand what is happening. I've informed him of the situation, but his mind… is shattered." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "The keys to the shackles…" he shook his head and met Aramis' eyes, "I couldn't find. I believe they are all in the keeping of the guards and Tomas."
"Thank you," d'Artagnan said, and watched Porthos look at the tools.
"The guards are growing bored," Felix said. He tightened his grip on the basket and then handed d'Artagnan an apple and a roll. "Two Spaniards have arrived… I believe," he glanced at Athos, who had not looked toward him, but kept his eyes closed and head against the wall, "they are here to fight him."
A voice echoed down the hall, which caused Felix to jump and turn suddenly. He held his breath, clutched the basket, and stood before Porthos as he quickly wrapped the tools and hid them within his boot.
Footsteps grew closer, and Tomas chuckled. "Felix." He stopped in front of the cell. He chuckled again and slipped his arms through two squares of the cell wall next to the door. He clutched his fingers, relaxed his stance, and met Felix's eyes. "The little man who has made a living as a church mouse… always sniffing around, hiding in corners, and listening in. What is it you've done now?"
"Food, Monsieur," d'Artagnan said, and held up the roll. "But why would you care if your prisoner's ate?"
Tomas licked his lips and nodded. He turned toward his right and looked down the hall as a lantern flickered and then returned his gaze toward them. "I could hang you for this," he looked toward Felix, who took a step backward, "but Omar depends on you."
Felix swallowed and tightened his grip on the basket. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I could not allow them to go hungry when we have so —"
"Stop," Tomas said. With a shrug and shake of his head in disbelief, he said, "Your impropriety will one day be the death of you, small man." He watched two of his guards walk down the hall toward him. Each carried a bucket of water. "Please, Felix, don't stop in what you were doing… I'm sure you've got an abundance of foods in that basket of yours — Porthos needs to eat if he's going to stick my head on a spike."
Porthos chuckled and said, "I'll eat after." He looked at Tomas with hardened eyes and winked.
Felix turned slowly and met Aramis' eyes. He removed another apple and roll and handed them to Aramis, and then some to Porthos, who nodded, furrowed his brow, and held his chin high.
"What else do you have in that basket… financial statements, a recipe?" Tomas said and watched his guards enter the cell.
The guard on Felix's left dropped his bucket and sent splashes of water over the edges. He then grabbed the basket from Felix, tossed the cloth aside, and dumped the remaining food. "Oops," he chuckled, and then grabbed Felix by his shoulder, stepped on the roll, and shoved him from the cell.
"Please, Monsieur," Felix said and tried to push away. "This is my doing — I've always fed the prisoners, it's a kindness that should not be ignored." Shoved forward, he fell against the wall outside the cell. He caught himself and slowly pushed himself upright. He straightened his doublet with his back to the wall.
"What about water?" Tomas asked and turned to his left to watch Felix shift uncomfortably. "You give them water too… or just wait for Urbain to remedy it?"
Felix swallowed and shook his head.
"Did you like to watch?" Tomas chuckled and glanced at his men who laughed. He raised his pinky and wiggled it. "Did Urbain accomplish what you wanted? You with your tiny feet and hands, and your small dick?" He looked toward Athos, who shook his head and glanced toward Felix. "What about you, Athos? How far did Urbain get with you before you bashed his head in with a bucket?"
Porthos suddenly stood and charged to the end of his shackles. He growled, flared his nostrils, and squinted his eyes. "I will kill you… alive or dead, I will hunt you down—"
"Porthos!" Athos said, and shifted against the cell grate wall. He yanked on the cuff of the shackle, looked toward Porthos, and shook his head. "Don't."
Tomas chuckled.
"Please, Monsieur," Felix said, "I meant no harm."
"You are an unfortunate mole on a woman's bosom. Annoying to look at and an unimportant part —"
"When did you become what you hate?" Athos asked. He shifted against the wall and looked toward Tomas. He again yanked on the shackle that kept him secured to the wall. "Before or after you realized you were one of them all along?" He looked up and met Tomas' eyes. "You want to believe what you do is noble — taking money from the wealthy and using their greed and pride to pit them against one another — but that's all you are…" he glanced toward Felix, "a pawn in their game, just as corrupt —"
"Athos," Aramis warned.
"— and ruled by greed, wealth… power."
Tomas tightened his jaw muscles, pursed his lips, and narrowed his eyes. He stepped past his guards, motioned with his head for them to take Felix and leave, and then stepped into the cell. "I understand now why my employer hates you so… why the musketeers are as much loved as they are hated." He picked up a bucket of water. "Thirsty, Athos?" He asked and tossed the water at him.
Athos involuntarily flinched as the water splashed against him. He wiped his face to clear his eyes and shook his head. He looked toward Tomas with bored eyes.
"Athos don't," d'Artagnan said, and tightened his hold on the apple. He could feel his heart racing, his chest tightening, and his nerves were ready to pounce without a place to land.
Tomas squatted. He watched the water collect beneath Athos and frowned. "You'll fight tomorrow… your friends will die — I'm going to hang that one," he pointed toward d'Artagnan and winked, "those children," he met Athos eyes, "may die as well… and you," he turned and looked toward the others, "none of you can stop it." He shifted on the balls of his feet and removed the coin purse from his vest pocket and squeezed the bulk of the bag in his hand. "Sleep well, musketeers," he said, stood, and left the cell.
His footfalls echoed down the hall. The torches crackled and the room grew quiet.
"Athos? Athos, are you alright?" Aramis said and broke the silence. He held his apple in one hand and the roll in the other. He looked toward Athos. who rested against the wall and leaned his raised knees toward the wrought iron bars.
Athos exhaled, watched the flames flicker, and smelled the scent of blood as the water soaked the cobblestones where Urbain's blood had spilled. Despite the cleanup, the odor was sickening. "No," he said, and exhaled slowly.
"Here," Porthos said, and tossed his apple toward Athos. "You need to eat."
Athos caught the apple, nodded in thanks, and adjusted it between his fingers. "No matter what happens," he said, "get those chains off."