Hurt & Comfort
Porthos could feel his heart thumping. He did not know which of his brothers he should be most concerned about. Aramis, who was lying unconscious a few feet away, bleeding, bruised and battered after a sustained attack by the madman that had captured them. D'Artagnan was taking shaky breaths as he tried and failed, not to show how much pain he was in from the kick to the knee he had received from the same madman. Or Athos, who was the unwilling participant in a lethal game of chance initiated by their captor.
The mad man - Fabron - was selecting another gun. He pointed at the one closest to Giles' hand. The young man picked it up. Porthos could see Giles was still shaking. Perhaps the man had never taken a life before. The fact that only four pistols were remaining on the table implied that Giles would be taking a life within the next few minutes. The question that had yet to be answered was whose life would end.
The madmen or the Musketeer.
Fabron or Athos.
Athos had maintained his outward visage of stoicism. At least he had maintained it to all but the well-trained eyes of his brothers. Porthos could see the fear. Athos might not have been fearful for himself; if he was dead, he was dead. But what fate would befall the rest of them if Athos lost the deadly guessing game?
Fabron had time to kill before he needed to hand over his prize of a Musketeer to his paymaster. Fabron was taking that literally. He was prepared to see three of them die. He had beaten Aramis unconscious when the trained marksman had spotted that the guns were not being loaded. Aramis had been beaten to stop him from speaking up. If Aramis' injuries were serious and he succumbed to them, and Athos lost the game he was reluctantly playing with Fabron, that would only leave d'Artagnan and Porthos for Fabron to toy with.
Porthos wondered what value the leader of the gang would place on his remaining captives. A young Musketeer who might not know what the paymaster wanted, or a seasoned veteran. Would d'Artagnan be on the receiving end of Fabron's madness next?
Giles stepped up to Fabron, who nodded. The young man raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Porthos noticed he did not look as he fired. Perhaps not wishing to see the outcome if the pistol was loaded.
Fabron was not dead.
Three guns remained.
The insane man nodded to Athos, who took a slow breath. Porthos knew it was a ploy to keep his outward calm showing.
'The middle one,' said Athos.
Fabron had insisted that Athos pick a pistol to be fired at him each time it was his turn. Athos either instructed Giles to make the choice or specified which gun he wanted to be shot with. Somehow both men managed to avoid the loaded weapon.
But with three guns left and two more turns to take the odds were stacked against Athos.
Giles aimed and fired. Athos remained where he was. The Musketeer had neither flinched nor faltered the entire time the farce had been taking place.
Fabron was sneering again. The man did not smile. He only sneered.
'The one on the left,' he said, not taking his eyes off Athos.
Porthos glanced around as Giles picked up the penultimate gun. A few of the gang members were creeping ever closer. They had started to appear after the first couple of rounds of the deadly game. Porthos saw a few whispering to each other. The men knew their leader was insane. Some were, according to another gang member, considering a coup. It looked as though that coup might take place at any moment.
Giles returned to his spot between Fabron and Athos. Athos chanced a glance at Porthos. They looked at each other. Porthos wondered, not for the first time if he could have done something to prevent what was potentially about to happen from happening.
He had pulled at the ropes binding his arms until his wrists were too sore to move. The ropes were tied too tightly. He knew there was no point trying to talk to the mad leader of the gang. He might have only brought about a swifter end to the farce of a game he was playing with Athos.
Porthos was sure there was nothing he could have done. And yet, he still felt consumed with guilt.
Was he about to watch one of his best friends die?
A man who had saved his life more times than he cared to remember.
Giles raised the gun, aiming at Fabron who took a deep breath.
Giles fired.
Fabron stumbled back.
The gun had been loaded.
Giles stared at Fabron before looking at the gun in his hand, still smoking, no longer lethal. The young man dropped the gun on the ground and looked around. The men that had been watching the events unfold were reacting in different ways. Some were staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Others had turned and disappeared. Porthos could hear urgent conversations going on behind him. Some of the men took tentative steps forward.
Fabron was leaning heavily against a big tree. Its trunk cradling the injured man. Blood was staining his dark doublet from the small entry wound in the middle of his chest. He was taking gasping breaths. He looked down at his chest. He touched the wound with a shaking hand, looking at the blood on his fingers. Disbelief spread across his face. He looked back up at Giles, who took a step forward before stopping and shaking his head.
Fabron reached out his bloody fingers towards the young man who backed away.
'Giles, let's go,' came the voice of Simon, the pale young man that had been standing behind them during the game.
Giles looked over the captive Musketeer's heads. He nodded once; he was shaking and pale. Porthos watched as Simon approached the shocked young man; he was still roughly aiming the gun at the captives. He swept it towards Athos, who had not moved from his spot in front of another large tree trunk.
More of the gang members were disappearing. Porthos heard the whinny of horses somewhere to their left. He guessed the gang were busy grabbing anything they could and retreating. There had been talk of a coup. But with no leader to rise against, there could be no coup. The gang had fallen apart within seconds of Fabron's fatal injury. He may have been insane, but he was the glue that had been keeping the gang together, however weak that glue was.
Simon hooked his free hand around Giles' wrist and led him away. The gun was kept on the Musketeers until the pair were out of sight, lost in the surrounding trees.
Porthos risked looking around. He spotted gang members hastily packing bags. Low conversations were taking place; the occasional glance was being thrown in the direction of the captives. But none of the men approached the Musketeers.
Fabron was still alive, but he would not be for long. He slid down the tree trunk to sit, one leg bent up the other straight in front of him. His head was lolling forward. Bubbles of blood popped around his lips. His breaths were long and shuddering. They grew further apart.
As the sounds of the mass abandonment of the camp decreased, the breaths also ceased.
Fabron was dead. His gang disbanded.
Porthos looked up as Athos hurried over to them.
'You alright?' asked Porthos, eyeing his friend with concern.
Athos looked a little unfocused. He glanced at the body of Fabron a couple of times before nodding.
'I… er… I did not know how to…'
'You had no choice. There was no way out… you had to do it,' said Porthos.
Athos was about to untie Porthos.
'Check on Aramis first,' said Porthos. 'We can wait a few seconds.'
Athos nodded. Porthos did not like his friend's need to be directed. Although, as Athos had survived his ordeal by luck alone, perhaps it should not have surprised Porthos that he was a little distracted.
With all necessary care, Athos looked Aramis over. He untied Aramis' wrists and eased him onto his back. Their friend was covered in darkening bruises. There was blood over his face where the grazes caused by the initial kicks to his head had bled. The blood had congealed over the time it had taken Fabron to play out his fatal game. One of Aramis' eyes was swollen shut, and the other was not far off. He had a split lip and scratches, cuts, and grazes to any exposed skin. His wrists were circled by bruises and grazes.
Athos lay his hand on Aramis' chest, feeling for the shallow breaths. He nodded before feeling along Aramis' chest.
'I cannot feel any breaks to his ribs, but he is not a well man,' remarked Athos as he sat back on his heels.
Porthos detected something of the normal Athos. Perhaps now that the initial shock of what he had survived was wearing off he was able to think for himself again.
'We need to get away,' said d'Artagnan before wincing and screwing his eyes shut.
'How bad is it?' asked Athos, who was steadying the younger man as he rode out the pain his slight movement had caused.
D'Artagnan took a few seconds to reply.
'Bad enough that I'll need help,' he admitted. 'I don't think I can walk unaided.'
Athos nodded and looked at Porthos.
'I'm fine, just uncomfortable from the ropes,' said Porthos to the unasked question.
Athos spent a few moments untying them both before wandering over to the body of Fabron.
'Is he really alright?' asked d'Artagnan quietly as he rubbed his bruised wrists.
Porthos shook his head, 'don't know. We'll have to keep an eye on him. He just spent some time expecting to die almost constantly and being reprieved. I can't believe he'll be able to just carry on as if nothing happened.'
Athos was crouched by the body of the mad leader of the gang, searching through his pockets. Porthos left his friend to his search and turned his attention to Aramis who was showing no signs of coming around.
'There's water over there,' said d'Artagnan, pointing at a bucket that had been left in the shade of a tree.
After retrieving the bucket and ensuring it was relatively fresh, he and d'Artagnan cleaned their wrists and washed away the worst of the blood from Aramis' wounds.
'We cannot stay here for too long,' said Athos as he re-joined them. 'Whoever the paymaster is could be here at any moment.'
Porthos nodded his agreement, 'we need to see to Aramis' injuries properly and d'Artagnan isn't going far.'
D'artagnan nodded reluctantly. There was no time for any pretence that they were fine.
'There are a few inhabited areas dotted about,' said Athos. 'We will have to seek help from a local resident.'
MMMM
D'Artagnan concentrated on the rough ground in front of him. Each step was agony. His knee was bruised in such a way that even slight pressure on his right leg caused pain to spread out from the joint. Athos had a firm hold of him around the waist. His friend was offering encouragement and promising him that they could rest soon.
Porthos was walking alongside them. The Musketeer was weighed down with the unwelcome burden of their unconscious friend.
After wrapping makeshift bandages around their wrists and collecting any water skins they could find, they had left the gang's camp. With no idea which direction would be the safest to head, they had struck out over the most even ground.
'It will be dark soon,' commented Athos. 'We may have to start looking for shelter.'
'If you have to leave us to get help,' said d'Artagnan, 'then that's what you have to do.'
It annoyed d'Artagnan that simple bruising was causing him enough pain and discomfort to prevent him from walking properly. The well-aimed kick from Fabron meant he could not bend his knee fully. He hoped he would not be left permanently crippled.
'There,' said Porthos, who was a few yards ahead of them. 'A light. Looks like a house.'
D'Artagnan did not bother to hide the sigh of relief. Athos pulled him a little straighter and changed their direction by a few degrees towards the source of light.
As they got closer, they could make out a small house. The wooden structure probably only had one room where the inhabitants would eat, sleep and live. D'Artagnan wondered who lived in the small house. They had passed a few cows as they made their halting progress. Perhaps the house belonged to a farmer.
The door to the small building was standing open as they reached it. The light Porthos had seen was coming from a fire, which shone brightly in the darkness of the single room.
'Hello,' called Porthos as he carefully lowered his unconscious brother to the ground.
They watched Porthos cautiously approach the open door. He peered inside before turning back and shaking his head.
'No one there,' he said with a frown. 'Something is cooking on the fire that smells amazing.'
D'Artagnan looked around, being careful not to twist his injured leg.
'They cannot have gone far,' remarked Athos.
'He ain't gone far.'
D'Artagnan suppressed a yelp of pain as Athos forced them both around quickly. Porthos took a couple of steps away from the house but stopped with his hands held out in a sign that he was not a threat.
The man that had spoken was old. His wrinkled weather-beaten face was tanned from years of work on the land. Despite his age, the man did not look weak or timid. He did not look threatened by the three soldiers that had arrived at his humble home late in the evening.
No. The three soldiers were the ones at the disadvantage. They were the ones who were worried.
The old man was holding an equally old gun, and he was aiming at their injured brother. Aramis was oblivious to the danger he was in as the barrel of the gun wavered a few inches from his head.
'We're Musketeers,' said Porthos calmly, taking another couple of steps forward. 'My friends have been injured-'
'Get away from my house.'
'Please, monsieur,' said Porthos. 'We are not a threat to you. All we need is shelter for a few hours.'
'Get away from my house,' said the man a second time, enunciating each word carefully as though Porthos had not understood.
He pressed the ancient gun into Aramis' temple. Porthos stopped edging forward.
'Alright, monsieur,' he said. 'We'll be on our way.'
The old man nodded. After a couple of moments, he stepped away from Aramis, circling towards his house as Porthos circled the other way. The man watched Porthos' every move as he pulled Aramis over his shoulder again and straightened up.
Athos eased d'Artagnan forward to follow Porthos. They did not speak for several minutes.
'That gun would probably have exploded if he'd fired it,' remarked Porthos once they were out of sight of the old man's house. 'He would have killed himself as well as Aramis.'
D'Artagnan was concentrating too much on not whimpering in pain to respond. He was aware of Athos taking most of his weight. And Porthos would not be able to carry Aramis much farther. They were on borrowed time.
The surrounding area consisted of rolling hills with a few stands of trees. D'Artagnan could make out a dark shape looming up ahead of them. He remembered seeing the solitary rocky hill before they were captured by Fabron and his gang of thugs. They were heading towards it.
'There are a few… outcrops of rock,' said Porthos, who was starting to struggle with his unwelcome burden.
Carrying a full-grown man any distance was taxing, even for the fittest of men. D'Artagnan knew that Porthos would never abandon Aramis but he would have a limit to how far he could carry his injured brother.
A group of rocks rose out of the ground ahead of them, smoothed off over the years by wind and rain. A hollow that was not quite a cave offered them the shelter they so desperately needed.
Athos helped d'Artagnan to hobble to the rock face before leaving him to help Porthos get Aramis comfortable.
D'Artagnan eased himself to the ground, stretching his leg in front of him. He leaned forward enough to pull the leg of his breeches up. Even in the dimming light, he could see the angry dark bruises that covered the joint. He knew that by the morning, he would have even less movement in his limb.
'I am going to have a look for some water before we lose the light completely,' said Athos. 'Porthos is going to start a fire. I do not believe we will be bothered by any of the gang. They will all be long gone by now.'
D'Artagnan nodded, 'I can watch Aramis for a few minutes,' he said.
Athos and Porthos walked away. Porthos wandered towards a nearby spinney of trees and was soon stooping down collecting twigs and fallen bits of a branch. D'Artagnan watched him stretch his back each time he straightened up. The toll of carrying Aramis for so long was showing in Porthos' movements.
Aramis had been laid a couple of feet from d'Artagnan. They had settled him on his side in deference to the bruises he had on his back. The injured man moaned softly and moved his hand to his face. D'Artagnan was able to reach across and prevent Aramis from accidentally touching his injuries.
'What happened?' Aramis asked, his voice slurred and hoarse.
'Do you remember us being taken by a thug called Fabron?'
Aramis could not open his eyes, but d'Artagnan could make out him furrowing his brows as he tried to remember where he had been.
'He wasn't loading the guns…' said Aramis. 'At least not all of them.'
D'Artagnan nodded, before remembering that his injured friend could not see him.
'He forced Athos to pick guns to be shot with, not knowing which was the loaded one.'
Aramis was reaching forward with his right hand, searching for something. D'Artagnan wondered how focused his friend was. It was impossible to read his facial expression due to the bruising and swelling. But d'Artagnan could guess what Aramis might have been searching for.
'Athos is fine. Fabron was killed. The rest of his gang abandoned him. We were just left there.'
'I doubt Athos is really fine,' said Aramis, who seemed calmer after the brief update. 'If he was being shot at with all those guns. He must have had to prepare himself for the pain of death each time only to be left alive to do it again.'
Aramis coughed a couple of times and took a few gasped breaths as the pain in his chest stopped him from taking a full breath. D'Artagnan suspected being carried by Porthos for some time would not have helped his bruised chest.
'You're awake,' exclaimed Porthos, who had returned with a pile of dry wood.
He dropped the wood by d'Artagnan who went about setting the fire, finding a flinty rock amongst the collection of twigs. It took him a few minutes, but he managed to create the spark that caught on the small piece of fabric he had torn from his shirt.
In the time it took d'Artagnan to set the fire Porthos had helped Aramis to sit up and assess the extent of his injuries. It was obvious Aramis would need a lot of help. The swelling around his eyes would take some time to go down, leaving him virtually blind in the meantime. The injured man assured Porthos that his ribs were not broken, reminding him that if they were, the act of being carried probably would have killed him.
Athos returned with their water skins refilled. He was awkwardly holding his shirt in front of him. The billowing garment had been employed as a makeshift basket for a collection of berries he had picked near the stream he had found.
They sat around the small fire eating their berries as Porthos cleaned and dressed the worst wounds to Aramis' face. D'Artagnan tore a couple of strips of his shirt to dampen and lay across his swollen knee.
'I wonder what they wanted with a Musketeer,' asked Aramis, breaking the silence.
No one replied for a few seconds. The crackle of the fire provided the only sound.
'He described us as a prize,' said Athos, who was staring into the distance watching the last glimpses of the sun as it disappeared on the horizon.
'It's good to be wanted,' chuckled Porthos with a shake of his head.
D'Artagnan hated to think what Fabron would have done to the rest of them if his deadly game with Athos had gone the way he wanted. If Athos had been killed two more of them would have still been unwanted. Would the man have devised another horrific game to play with them? Eliminating one excess captive man at a time; whilst the others watched.
D'Artagnan would have preferred a skirmish over the torture of watching Athos facing gun after gun as the madman played his game.
They still had to find help and proper shelter, but the horror of those few hours was behind them, and they were all alive. They would work together to recover, physically and mentally, from the torment.
It was what they did.
The End.
Authors note: Whumpee: Aramis and d'Artagnan. (Athos for angst). Featuring: Porthos.
And that is the end of Whumptober 2021. I hope you enjoyed my interpretations of the prompts. I intend to expand on a few.
Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos/favourites.