Aramis sighed unhappily as the cart's wheel dipped into a deep rivet in the road, causing him to hit his head on the wooden slats. 'How much further?' he asked as he rubbed the side of his head, raising his eyebrows at the guards sat opposite him and Porthos. They stared back under their hoods, unwavering and silent as the cart trundled on.
'Suit yourselves…' Aramis shrugged, turning to Porthos and mock-sighing. 'Strong and silent types, it seems…'
Porthos nodded his agreement, a smile tugging at his lips despite the danger they were in. The cart was windowless so neither of them could see where it was leading them. The blond man who had greeted them earlier did not seem too friendly, so he could safely assume two distinct possibilities- a dark, dingy dungeon, or an open field with a gallows already set up.
What did they want with them? He didn't see any fear in the man's eyes- on the contrary, he looked like all his yuletides had come at once.
He wondered where Marsac, Athos and d'Artagnan were- he hoped Marsac was alright; his stomach was in a horrible state when they had been captured. He hoped Athos had got him out safely.
They looked to the door as the cart slowed and finally stopped. Looking at each other, a silent understanding passed between them- as they were sitting so close, Aramis was able to reach out and clasp Porthos' hand. Squeezing lightly, the two of them smiled at each other comfortingly as the men grasped them again and they were pushed out and into the scant evening light.
Porthos looked up sourly at the impossibly large stonework of the vast building ahead of them- so, dark dingy dungeon it was, then.
'Welcome to the Bastille.' A voice told them sardonically to a ripple of laughter. 'Take them down to the dungeons,' another of the men grunted- the two of them allowed themselves to be manhandled down a small grassy slope and through a large brick door.
The smell was unmistakable, yet neither of them turned their noses up- they had been alive so long they had seen much worse before.
Aramis looked across the narrow corridor with concern as he heard men, women and children cry out in pain and distress; looking through the bars of a cell he saw an older woman, her greasy scraggly white hair tucked under a shawl as she stared out at them, her wizened hands tightly grasping the iron bars.
Swallowing, Aramis allowed himself to be dragged away. He hated humanity sometimes- the older he lived, the more he detested how they treated each other. He had hoped that it would get better, that people would now be more understanding as they learned from their mistakes, but he was always surprised as he was proved wrong time and time again.
They were hauled down to the bowels of the dungeons, to what seemed like the last room before an descent into hell itself. Down here the walls were damp and green with moss- waterdrops plinked in the relative silence than that of the upper cells.
They were finally pushed into a great, wide room, lined with impressive brickwork and stone carvings. A man was standing to the side, next to a long low table. Porthos looked around, at the vast array of implements and instruments dotted around the room.
They all stood staring at each other for a few seconds, until they heard rapid footfalls behind them- The blond man from before was back, striding into the dungeon as if he owned the place.
'Pierre, I hope you are well?' he asked the dungeon master smoothly. Pierre nodded at him, yet said nothing- the blond man smiled easily as if he hadn't even heard him.
He tuned to Aramis and Porthos, who were looking across at him with unease- the screams from upstairs now echoed down to them, making the hairs on Porthos' arms and the back of his neck stand up. 'I am so sorry- I don't believe I have introduced myself.' He said, stepping closer.
'Take these manacles off us and we can have a proper introduction.' Porthos grunted, voice low and dangerous.
The man smiled, yet made no effort to accommodate him. 'My name is Rochefort- as I said before I have been made aware of your talents,' he started, pacing up and down in front of them. Aramis tensed his muscles, wondering how quickly he could subdue the men holding him and Porthos; dirty fingernails dug into his arms, making his fingers go numb.
'I believe that together we can work to learn more about your abilities- they are certainly unique. Once we find out what keeps you from dying- well, think of the possibilities!' he looked across to Aramis, who scoffed lightly and shook his head.
'Believe me, we have been trying to work it out for ourselves.' He said, heart starting to thud in his chest. How did he know about their abilities?
'But I believe, with Pierre here, we can actually find out what makes you tick- then, the possibilities are endless….' Rochefort clasped his hands together. 'Think of it- people no longer die of needless illnesses. Armies of never-dying men can be created; monarchies can live forever..'
'So you want to help mankind, or destroy it?' Porthos snorted. 'It's not as simple as that!'
'But how are we to know unless we test it?' Rochefort reasoned, shrugging.
'What's in it for you?' Aramis frowned, unease rippling through him. 'You're not a man of the people- I've only met you for five minutes and I know that.'
'Well- no work can be complete without some balance….' Rochefort conceded, looking to Pierre before taking a step closer to Aramis and Porthos. 'My role is to find out the answer to one fundamental question- how do we push the scientific frontiers whilst also turning a little…profit?'
He smiled at them as he finished- Porthos smiled back, before suddenly throwing his head forwards, cracking his skull against the soft meaty part of Rochefort's nose; he staggered backwards with a yelp of surprise and pain, blood seeping through his fingers.
'Sir-' one of the men stepped forwards, hands out to steady him- Rochefort growled low in his throat as he shook his head and pushed the concern away. He straightened up, sniffing up the blood as he pressed a handkerchief to his nose.
There was silence for a few weighted seconds- suddenly Rochefort staggered to the table Pierre was standing next to and had been impassively viewing the scene, like a dog waiting to go in for the kill.
Rochefort picked up the first thing he could lay he hands on-a small handled dagger, crusted with blood. 'I've been told of your abilities, but I would prefer my evidence to be indisputable...' he gasped, anger dripping from his tongue now- stepping forwards he raised the knife.
'No!' Aramis cried as Rochefort began stabbing every inch of bare skin of Porthos he could find- groaning out in pain Porthos squeezed his eyes shut as he was stabbed again and again, in the neck, in his face, in his back…
'Stop!' Aramis yelled, struggling against his captors to reach Porthos as Rochefort finally stopped stabbing- stepping backwards, he threw the knife to the ground and motioned for Pierre to come and stand beside him.
'What do you see?'
Pierre stared for a while- his eyes widened a little as he watched as Porthos' body, now slit and stabbed, started to heal the wounds, the blood now congealing as the wounds papered themselves over. He watched as Aramis, breathing heavily with exertion, still fought to be at Porthos' side.
He smiled, showing grey, mottled teeth. 'All the riches and land I can possibly own.'
'Good.' Rochefort nodded once, wiping the last of the blood from his face. He made to move to the door.
'You owe me more.' Pierre held out his hand, catching him in the chest to stop him.
'And you'll get them.' Rochefort sneered, moving away. 'Keep me informed of all progress- if you kill them and they stay dead, our agreement is null and void, remember that!'
'No chance of that, I don't think….' Pierre smiled over at the two of them. Aramis' heart sank as the men suddenly released their holds on them both.
Before they could move freely or even think of formulating any plan of escape Pierre motioned to the men behind them- a blinding, sickening pain hit Porthos in the back of the head, making him see stars as he sank to the wet, stinking dungeon floor. Aramis went down next- before the darkness claimed him he saw Rochefort exit the room, slamming the large door shut behind him without another word.
As his mind drifted back from the depths of death for the third time in ten minutes, Aramis seriously started to wonder how much more their bodies could take.
Inhaling deeply, he groaned as his body worked to heal over the gaping wound in his side, sore and stinging- Pierre still held the blade that had caused his demise; he casually held it over his shoulder as he jotted down some notes on a dirty ream of parchment, humming as he went.
'Porthos…' he whispered, turning his head on the table he was strapped to, eyes wide as his eyes fell on his lover, who was also strapped onto a table, his hands tethered upwards to expose his bare, blood-stained chest and stomach. Porthos looked across at him, heart breaking as he watched Aramis' body repair itself- no matter how many times they psychically died, it killed his soul again and again to watch Aramis endure so much pain.
'I told you- you only need to torture one of us!' he growled, flexing his hands and feet to stop the numbness. 'I can take it all! Leave him alone!'
'Now where's the fun in that?' Pierre replied as he flung his parchment down. He stood back as he surveyed his work. 'So, three deaths each and no change. That's stabbings, shootings and garrotting…' he put a finger to his chin, scratching at the dirty, blood-flecked stubble there.
'How's about burning…' he suddenly grinned, before moving off to gather some equipment.
'Burning!?' Aramis felt his mouth go dry at the thought. He looked over to Porthos, who looked just as fearful as he felt.
'It'll be alright, Mis….' He replied softly, despite them both knowing it wouldn't be. Burning was agonisingly slow and painful. Over the years it was their most feared way of dying- men who burnt others usually did not do it fast.
They lay there in silence as they heard Pierre moving around, before an acrid smell hit their nostrils, and smoke erupted from the area. They looked across at each other- Aramis wished he could grasp Porthos' hand again as the smoke came closer, followed by the incessant sound of something fizzing and crackling ominously in the darkness of the room- Instead he stared resolutely ahead at what was to come.
Aramis awoke first- he turned his head, groaning under his breath as he felt his skin heal itself- the mottled, blistered skin mended itself as fast as ever, with black, charred flesh turning to pink fresh skin in a matter of seconds. Pierre watched with interest, scribbling on his now crowded parchment- he looked up as there was a knock on the door. Aramis watched as he left them, closing the door behind him.
He let out a pained, panicked sigh, long and low- his eyes fell on Porthos, his eyes still shut. His skin, almost burnt beyond recognition, was still smoking slightly, making Aramis feel sick.
He watched for a few seconds, panic rising as Porthos did not stir- a few seconds later and he finally inhaled, coughing in pain as his skin healed.
Closing his eyes in relief, Aramis licked dry lips as he spoke. 'As much as I love watching you sleep, I am so glad you're awake.'
In his weakened state, all Porthos could do was smile slightly as he worked to mend his broken body. 'Bed head?' he whispered when he was finally able to speak.
Aramis let out a laugh at that. 'Nicely tousled…' he replied, flexing his body as his muscles finally repaired themselves.
'Do you know, I was thinking about Malta.' He added, voice light.
'What time in Malta?' Porthos asked- his eyes widened as Aramis stared over at him, before comprehension dawned. 'Oh, that time in Malta…'
Aramis grinned, before shaking his head. 'We should go back there.'
'That would be nice.' Porthos nodded, before they both looked up sharply as the door to the dungeon banged open with a deafening crash, and two figures were lead into the room, coming to a stop before them.