A two-part mega-mash of three prompts: "Self-Sacrifice" and "Torture" from 2018 with "Abandoned/Isolation" from 2020.

In case the title isn't warning enough, this is not a cheerful read.

Prologue

There was no time, and there were no memories, and there was no feeling.

Suspension.

Perhaps, even he didn't exist.

A bucket of water wrenched him back from that pain-induced haze, bringing back the agony in his arms and shoulders in full force.

"You torture yourself needlessly, Captain. Give us something we can use - earn yourself some respite."

"I had.. the impression.. that it's you who's torturing me."

"If a tree falls on you in a storm do you blame God or do you blame the tree?"

Athos spewed out a chuckle, spattering blood. "You... are torturing the wrong Musketeer for that."

The man looked puzzled, frowning immediately. "What do you mean 'the wrong Musketeer'?"

"If you are... interested in trees... I fear you have the advantage over me. If you wish to debate God..." he smiled wearily, "well - I have a friend."

The vicious backhand that snapped his head to the side was the only response he got.

/

Part I.

There were three hundred and twenty-eight bricks on the wall.

Perhaps, he thought as his eyes listlessly scaled the dark height, one morning he would wake up, and there would be one less... or several more. One morning he would open his eyes and a sliver of sharp sunlight, like a long, golden rapier, would stab through the opening at the corner of the window, and crack the one at the top corner, causing it to crumble, fall down in a clatter and shatter at his feet. He could see it. Down the heavy chain shacking his ankle to the neighboring wall, at the tip of his long-nailed, freezing foot, the many pieces of a broken mud-brick, scattered on the stone ground. There... There - he could take it.

He leaned forward, getting to his knees to pick up one broken piece, anticipating its feel in his hand. Cold, hard, different. He could... if it had a sharp edge he could-

His palm slapped into a wet puddle as he lost his balance and he gasped aloud, catching himself at the last moment to avoid falling face-first into the ground. His voice echoed so sharply in the small cell that he might have shouted - he had shouted, cursed, railed, and yes, screamed - but he didn't remember echoes then. Now, his very breathing echoed, and Athos did not care for it.

He righted himself on trembling arms, glancing around at the black and blue hues surrounding him. He tilted his head: the narrow slits between the window bars were pitch black, the ceiling shrouded in a dark mist. The wall, with its three hundred and twenty-eight bricks, stood as high and solid as ever. It was night. There was no sunlight, and light could not shatter brick, what was he-

God.

Dear God- his breath whooshed, despair clawing at him like a mad, greedy monster - what had he been thinking?

He was starving.

He sank back against the wall with a groan, the rattling of the chains so familiar that he hardly heard it, and hugged himself. He dropped his head back and blinked involuntary dampness from his eyes.

There was nothing to be done.

There was nothing for him to do now...

...but wait.

/

The door of his cell opened with a loud, metallic screech, and his interrogator stepped in with two other men behind him. Athos met them on his feet, his back to the wall they had chained him to, standing as casually as his restraints allowed. His face was impassive, but his eyes were sharp and wary.

The Spaniard looked him up and down, studying him intently before walking in and stopping in front of him. He had the air of a man of determination, a man well-accustomed to getting what he wanted. He beckoned the Spaniard behind him with the torch to come closer.

"You have thought of my offer?"

Athos spoke difficultly through blood-crusted lips. "I have."

"And what is your answer?"

"What do you think?" Athos queried, tilting his head a little to the side, staring at his interrogator with just enough contempt. The Spaniard nodded as if the answer was what he'd expected.

"Have it your way, then. You'll hardly be the first Frenchman to rot in this cell." He turned on his heel and walked back to the door, the keys on his belt clanking tantalizingly. He stopped for a moment before closing the door.

"I would offer you one last chance, Musketeer.. but I have the measure of you now. You would not take it, would you?"

"You will not have me betraying France. Not as long as I draw breath, nor as long as I have the blood to shed."

The Spaniard nodded heavily, with something like respect glinting in his eyes.

"I will leave you to your fate then. A pity, Captain Athos. A pity for France, indeed. But not for Spain. Farewell."

/

Athos was not a man for farewells.

He had not said needless goodbyes when he'd allowed the Spanish to shackle his wrists on the hill that morning, the carnage of the previous hour spread out on the once-green moor below their feet. A riled-up d'Artagnan was being held back by Porthos with difficulty. Two-thirds of the men had been slaughtered. Athos had brokered a deal to save the rest.

Once secured with the heavy chains, Athos had turned calmly to face Porthos.

"Athos, no-!"

He ignored d'Artagnan. "You're in charge now. Lead the men to safety. Inform Tréville; he'll know what to do."

Then, out of his own accord, his eyes found Aramis's. The marksman was on the ground, listing to one side on a badly bleeding leg, watching with a mixture of pain, acceptance and controlled fury. Resolute, Athos gave him a small nod.

Musketeers did not die easily. Nor did they give up on their friends.

As he allowed himself to be taken to the Spanish camp, he steeled himself for the treatment his captivity would inevitably entail.

/

He had never been a man in much need of company, either. But he had never been starved of it before.

Before, when he had not yet lost the end of the rope and could still count the sunrises to mark the time, he had had more frequent company than he would have preferred. On the first full day of Athos's captivity, the two men that had come in to interrogate him had not seemed to know what to do with him. One of them, a young man perhaps only a few years older than d'Artagnan, had introduced himself as a captain of the tercios, who had been tasked by his commander to interrogate him on the locations and assault plans of the French troops. He had looked uncomfortable, clearly not accustomed to dealing with prisoners personally.

Athos had refused to engage with him. He was witty when he deigned to speak, and stoic and silent otherwise. The man had grown frustrated quickly. He had stood up and marched out, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed. Athos had allowed himself a small smirk.

Now he glanced at the high window on his wall, not because he expected to see anything there, but because daylight remained the most interesting thing in this cell, regular as it was, changing.

Now, Athos thought bitterly, he would welcome the company of even that young Spaniard.

/

The tavern was buzzing with a crowd as he stood casually leaning against a post, originally waiting for one of the tables to clear out. He tracked the blue of Constance's cloak with the corner of his eye as she left, not having spotted him just behind the post. D'Artagnan, on his other side, flinched upon discovering him.

"Did you hear all that?"

"Hm," Athos confirmed.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to drink."

"Do you want to be alone?"

His heart warmed. " No."

"Wine?"

"Yes." *

They drank, and d'Artagnan did not say another word, but still shared with him more than just wine.

/

He came awake to the teeth-chattering feel of a sharp breeze, cursing as he righted himself. His head swam. Sleep and exhaustion pressed down on him on all sides, but the cold bit into his skin, gnawing at him like a dog at a bone - it was impossible to find rest. The wall at his back pressed uncomfortably against his spine, the ground beneath him so damp that he feared he might be rotting from the inside. Across from him, a shaft of moonlight fell at an angle on the door of his cell, a silvery window that mocked him with the promise of better, brighter days. Athos glared at it hatefully.

He could not remember warmth.

They had given him a moth-eaten blanket a while ago (a week? two?) - all he could say was that the man who had brought it in was the last person he had seen. He remembered the unwashed, chiseled face framed by dark locks, and the expressionless eyes that had not looked at him once. Not that he'd cared; he'd trailed the man's every move until he had left, pulled the door close and locked it behind him. Only then had Athos snatched the blanket from where it was left and wrapped it around himself. He'd grimaced at how bad it smelled. But the little warmth it provided was worth it.

He would kill for his woolen cloak now.

He would kill for a lot of things.

If there was anyone to kill.

There was no one to kill.

Only...

Athos laughed.

At the deep hours of the night, in a tiny cell at the basement of a seigneurial castle, Athos abandoned himself to cackling laughter at the irony of his fate, lost in its morbid glee until the echoes grew, grew, and swallowed him whole.

*The dialogue is taken from S2 Ep.4.