Athos

The bitter taste of failure. It was worse than the horrible taste of the gag which had been forced into his mouth. The blindfold had plunged him into darkness.

His hands were bound tightly behind his back. They were already stiff and numb. His head pounded in rhythm with the motion of the cart, jolting with every lurch. There was a burning pain on his back that seemed to rise above the other aches that he felt. He realized with surprise that he was shirtless. Perhaps this was the reason that he felt so cold.

They had been captured. He had overheard a few snatches of conversation. It had been enough to learn that they were to be taken to Paris and executed with all the cruelty they deserved. Though he could not be sure if their execution would be approved by the King. It had been emphasized several times that the captives should be recognizable. Athos interpreted in those words permission to commit any atrocity, providing it did not disfigure them.

His heart was sick for Aramis. He knew the man was somewhere close by. He could hear laborious breathing, as well as a cough muffled by the gag.

The worst thing was that Athos thought that air deprivation might be a small mercy for Aramis, as a nearly suffocated man would be unlikely to be truly aware of torture.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were said to have drowned in the river, but Athos refused to believe it.

Sometime at the beginning of their brotherhood, Athos and Aramis had discovered that Porthos could not swim. They had decided that this would not do, and had spent every moment they could spare during that spring and summer to teach him.

Porthos had not been keen on the water, but he had understood why his friends had insisted that he learn to swim. Now he was one of the best swimmers in the garrison - strong and tireless, although still reluctant to get in the water unless there was a heatwave. Athos believed that even taking into consideration Porthos' wounds and the cold weather, the big man stood a chance-as did d'Artagnan.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity. However, Athos knew he should not look forward to the end of their journey.

After several tries, Athos managed to crawl towards the source of the nearly inaudible whimpers. He wanted to make some sound to warn Aramis of his presence, but a sudden bump caused him to land hard on his friend. Aramis whimpered and stiffened, and Athos murmured reassuringly.

I hope it sounds reassuring, not like the growl of a furious wolf. It seems that my attempt to offer him some comfort from my body heat has only ended up scaring him.

Aramis' moan sounded like an acknowledgement. The shivering medic melted into Athos. The lieutenant could not be sure whether his friend was searching for an anchor or for a source of warmth.

Suddenly the cart stopped, and the vague noise of the city reached Athos. He guessed they were in a closed courtyard. Soon he was brutally shoved out of the cart. He tried to resist, but it was futile. A blow to his stomach caused him to double over. When he tried to gasp for air, he choked on the gag. In the darkness of his blindfolded eyes, he was still able to sense that Aramis had been dragged away.

Would Aramis be able to bear it? What did those scum plan to do with him?!

Keep your hands away from him!

He wanted to shout, to fight back. To help Aramis.

Or to kill the medic before he was completely destroyed.

But a helpless Athos could do nothing. His captors led him into a darkness full of kicks and punches.

Within moments, he found himself standing up, bound to a pole.

"You're afraid musketeer, aren't you? Well, you should be! After all, it's tragic to see a nobleman meet his end like this. I'm very sorry to have taken your plaything away from you, but I promise you we'll use him wisely." The mocking voice sounded familiar.

Duval. An ex-Red Guard.

A whip slashed through the air and found his bare arm. Before Athos managed to regain his composure, another lash came. He surmised that there were several people attacking him, each with a different type of whip.

Each will cut my skin a bit differently. I will gain a real collection of scars. If I do, I suppose should be grateful for them, because it will mean that we were found alive…

So probably there will be no scars.

A vicious hit tore him from his reverie. He hissed, then choked on the gag. Breathing became more and more difficult. He felt the blood trickling down his cut skin, navigating a labyrinth of pain. Suddenly there was a splash, and cold water landed on his back. The water burned, probably due to salt that had been mixed in. He could not manage to hide his pain and surprise. His torment was met with laughter and jeering.

I should have counted the lashes…

Suddenly it was over. He waited for another cut of the whip, but it did not come. He was limp now, and was basically suspended from the pole by his bonds. The position was quite painful. He may have lost consciousness, but he was not sure. He had a vague memory of being taken away from the courtyard, and then being brought inside a building. Other than that, he could remember no more.

He felt ill. Shivers were wracking his body. The cold was not enough to have a numbing effect. Instead, it only served to provoke cramps in his abused, injured muscles. It hurt like hell. But the sound of a falling body made him forget everything. He heard a brief, muffled moan, and he turned his head towards the sound.

"So sorry, musketeer, but we've damaged your plaything a bit. He may never be the same!" Laughter followed, and Athos wished he could strike the man dead with a look.

He was no longer blindfolded, but he wished he had never seen the view which greeted him when he opened his eyes. He saw a bloody shape in a cage, curled on its side. It was his brother.

He cast a glance towards the laughing bandit…

If only his gaze could kill…

His helpless anger provoked another burst of laughter from his captors, so he forced a blank expression onto his face while his heart was breaking inside his chest.

After that, the spectators quickly grew bored, and left.

He waited for the steps to become distant. He wanted to call out his brother's name, but the gag still was in his mouth. He crawled towards the wall of his cage, but even if his hands had not been bound, Aramis was still out of his reach.

Athos murmured a few words, hoping to catch his friend's attention, but the marksman showed no reaction. He was alive, but was shivering, and gasping desperately for air. His skin was covered with blood, making it difficult to assess him for injuries. There was a cloth loosely bound around his arm. Perhaps it had been meant to stem blood loss, but Athos doubted it had worked.

Aramis curled up as he succumbed to a series of dry heaves. They seemed to torment the marksman for an eternity. All Athos could do was watch his friend's agony. He could not even offer him any comfort by voice or touch.

Finally, Aramis, completely exhausted, collapsed in a heap. After the shivers seemed to subside a bit, his eyes met Athos'. The swordsman froze as he stared into their emptiness. There was no Aramis in those brown orbs. They were so distant - so indifferent.

He knew this look. When fear and pain became too much for the mind to bear...

You should have ridden with d'Artagnan. Then you would have stood a chance.

And now? Wounded and alone. Imprisoned. Defenseless. And so fragile… I am so helpless. I cannot even ground you…

What they have done to you?! They'll pay for it. I swear it.

Aramis! Please! Don't leave me here! Don't leave me!

What will I say to Porthos?!

The door opened. They were in a basement. Athos berated himself for not having paid enough attention to their surroundings. Aramis was incapacitated at this point, so any chance of escape depended on Athos.

Escape? He cannot walk. You'll have to leave him...to accept that he's beyond rescue at this point.

Three men came in. One of them was Duval. He had been a Red Guard until Athos and his brothers had proved that he was also a murderer. It was disconcerting to see him free...and to be at his mercy.

Athos was sure that the man remembered who had ended his career as a Red Guard. Even Richelieu had not been able to ignore the proof that had been brought before the King. The man should have died on the gallows…

The bandit gestured for his companions to drag Aramis out of his cage. The marksman did not resist. He was probably unconscious. Duval turned the musketeer over with a kick, then squatted down next to him and lightly touched his face. There was an intimacy in this gesture that broke Athos' composure. He threw himself towards the entrance of his cage, his fury taking away his ability to think, to plan.

They must have opened the cage, as he was finally able to reach their captors. However, with his hands still bound, there was not much he could do. He tackled one of them to the ground. He kicked, and managed to hit someone else's leg. In response, a flurry of punches and kicks landed on him. They did not grapple with him, taking obvious pleasure in watching an enraged musketeer struggle without any hope of winning.

One part of Athos' mind screamed at him for his mindless fury, but another part congratulated him for drawing their captors' attention to himself instead of Aramis.

He had lost. He lay crumpled on the floor, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion.

If you had any chance of escape, you just lost it by rendering yourself useless. You've failed Aramis by letting your heart rule your head.

Suddenly a hot pain shot through his back, followed by the scent of burning flesh. He screamed.

The gag. It's gone…

Laughter erupted around him once again.

He tried to deny them the satisfaction of seeing him in agony. He braced for the pain, for the sickening smell. But he only lasted a few seconds.

Then he could not remain quiet.

They're cauterizing the wound on your back…

And he remembered what Aramis had said about what happens when an incipient infection is sealed inside the body by the cauterization of a wound.

It is one of the cruelest death sentences possible.

The pain started to send him into sound of his scream was deafening to his own ears.

And somewhere in the fire of his agony, he felt fingers squeezing his wrist-not to hurt him, but to give him comfort.

Aramis?

A/N

Riversidewren, thank you for betaing.

I feel I should find a nice place to hide. Again.