Thank you again everyone! More to come...
Porthos filed until his fingers bled, and then he filed some more. Metal shavings peppered his thighs, the floor, and around his wrists. He could smell the scent of it, the heavy iron as it heated. He had tried to pick the locks, but the mechanism was positioned in such a way that he couldn't pick it with his limited mobility. So he filed with hard, limited strokes that promised freedom. He just needed to continue. He looked up and spotted Athos trying to get comfortable on the floor. Unable to stand and stretch his legs, he remained seated with an exhale.
D'Artagnan had watched, given updates to Aramis and Athos, and watched the positioning of the moon as the night wore on.
Porthos wiped his brow, flexed his fingers, and slipped the file into the groove of the chain link. Once the file slipped through, he exhaled, took a deep breath and pried the piece apart. He twisted it enough to free himself from the wall and immediately filed at the link that kept his wrists bound.
"Let me," d'Artagnan said. He took the file, sawed at the link, and hoped the file remained strong enough to go through the metal.
Aramis watched, pulled at the corner of his mustache, and thought about escape. He thought about the number of guards they would face, the amount of weapons they may have, their determination versus their desire to flee. He glanced toward Athos, who rubbed his brow and yanked at the cuff that secured him. His normally stoic, quiet, yet assertive-self was crumbling. Exhaustion, hunger, pain, thirst, and desperation had them all snapping at each other, and growing quiet when they normally chatted about things that amused them.
D'Artagnan wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and continued to file. He bit at his bottom lip and watched the indentation increase with each passing stroke.
Porthos chuckled when he saw the file slip and fall through the link. He twisted the oblong shape enough to separate the shackles. He held his hands apart and smiled. Despite the blood that trailed down his fingers, he grabbed the kit and moved to Aramis.
"How's the hand?" Porthos asked and knelt beside him. He turned the shackles on each of Aramis' wrists to expose the locks and with his hands now free he worked to pick them.
"Sore," Aramis said. "It's getting light out," he met Porthos' eyes, "we don't have much time."
Porthos nodded, but continued to pick at the locks.
"Porthos!" d'Artagnan said and shifted to his feet. "Someone's coming."
Porthos groaned, met Aramis' eyes, and nodded. He shoved the tools back into the leather pouch and slipped it into his boot. He moved back into his position, hooked the link and the chain and covered the damage with his hands. Porthos leaned back against the wall, crossed his ankles, and rested his head against the wall.
"I hate that door," d'Artagnan said, as he listened to the lock unlatch, and the heavy squeak that followed.
Four men walked down the hall, the sun glared off their doublets, and they paused outside the cell. Andre chuckled, opened the door, and then walked toward Athos and unhooked him from the wall. He grabbed Athos' shoulder and forced him to his feet.
"It's a big day for you," Andre snickered.
Athos pressed his hand to the wall to steady himself. He looked toward Porthos and nodded once. Before he could be pushed, he exited with the guards and walked down the hall.
Aramis tightened his jaw, ran a hand over his face, and looked toward the windows as the sun peered in. "Wait, Porthos," he said, when he felt him shift, "just wait a few minutes." He glanced toward d'Artagnan. "If they come for you — just stay calm — we'll get to you."