Aramis gradually came back to consciousness, pain coursing ever stronger through his body the more alert he became. Hazily, his mind not sharp yet, he wondered where he was. 'What happened?' he asked himself.
But once he was alert, he almost wished he wasn't. He was in the oubliette, worse than any nightmare he could conceive of. But what had happened...why is my body in such agonizing pain, his mind questioned.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he tried to move enough to check himself out. But the pain became ever worse when he tried to lift himself. It was coming from his right side. And then, it came back to him.
He had tried a desperate move to escape, tackling the man who had released him from the tethers at his waist, pulling him between himself and the weapons trained on him from the others. But he had not had strength enough to persist, and then the chain connecting his ankles had tripped him up, exposing him to the deadly intent from above.
A bullet had torn into him low oin his right side, sending him crumpling to his knees, then to the dirt floor, blackness having descended before he had even reached it. He had no idea how long he had remained unconscious.
Moving slower than a snail's pace this time, he resolutely moved his hand down his side, fingers feathering ever so lightly in his exploration.
But he wasn't expecting what he found. Bandages were wrapped around his torso. They had taken care of the injury after shooting him? He knew with his hands still shackled together that he wouldn't have enough movement to unwrap the bandages enough to explore any further. He had no way to find out if the bullet was out, or if the wound have been cleaned. If the dirt he he had landed on had penetrated the would, it could very well bring about a deadly infection. He was forced to hope that whoever had done this knew enough about what they were doing to have taken care of it correctly.
He maneuvered himself to his good side, curling in on himself as the pain increased from his exertions.
His thoughts turned to Richelieu again. This latest discovery confirmed the man's intentions. He had suspected that the man wanted him to endure a long time down here in isolation, in the dark, having to depend upon hardened criminals to bring him food and water whenever they deemed appropriate, not another human voice for hours or days. Richelieu may well be hoping to drive me mad, Aramis thought. It would be a real possibility for many who had been put down in one of these oubliettes. Well, he didn't intend for that to happen to him.
But he sobered as the question arose in his mind that if he was down here for a long period of time, could he prevent it from happening to him eventually? It was either that or his death, or both, that Richelieu would desire.
He missed his brothers, the garrison, Anne.
The thought of Anne in the same palace as Richelieu, with what he knew or suspected, of them, froze him for a moment. But he then realized that without himself in the picture, that part of Richelieu's anger would die away. Anne would never let their secret out for fear of her son or daughter being banished-and herself, as well. Richelieu wanted silence of the whole matter, and that way he kept everything precisely as he desired.
His brothers. They must be frantic by now. He knew they felt about him as he felt about them. They would be scouring Paris, overturning every stone.
Suddenly his thoughts turned to d'Artagnan's fate. What had happened to him? Had they released him when he himself had been caught in their net? Had he been killed? Or could he be somewhere within the very walls of this prison he himself was trapped in? D'Artagnan's fate tormented him as he lay in the dirt. He had no way of finding out. It was then that he turned to prayer to ask for the life of his youngest brother, that he be unharmed, and that he was even now with Athos and Porthos in hunting down his captors.
He was beginning to lose consciousness once more, the blackness drawing him, offering him some measure of relief from the agony he was in, and the thoughts that were gnawing away at him.
Just as he was surrendering willingly to it, another thought floated into his mind, and with it, a return to awareness. The water skin, the bag holding the hopeful promise of some form of food.
He was unable to see anything in the inky darkness of his surroundings. Carefully reaching out with his arms, his hands began to pat the dirt within reach of him. Nothing! Had they removed the only food and water he had been given since he had been here? Dragging himself a little further forward, he tried again. Nothing!
His dry mouth and growling stomach made their reappearance once more, having been pushed into the background by the effects of the wound he had received. Determination drove him on, and finally he was rewarded when he felt burlap under his fingers. A moment later, his questing fingers found the water skin.
He was finally able to slake his thirst, relieving his dry tongue. The waterskin was less than half full, but right now, it seemed like a river to him in his need.
Next, he pulled the small bag to himself, opening it only to find a small heel of stale bread. But, as with the water, it was food no matter what the condition, and he consumed it probably much too fast. He knew it would do little to quell his starving stomach, but at least it was something.
Finished, his injured body reasserted itself with a vengeance, lightning stabs of white-hot pain rippling up his right side from his activities.
Curling up into himself once again, something he often did when injured, he lay as still as he could, hoping against hope that he could calm the storm of spasms and the tremors down, missing the care of his brothers even more as he endured the effects of the wound in his isolation.
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With every day that passed, d'Artagnan's guilt level raised. He kept thinking to himself 'if I had paid more attention to my surroundings that night, they might not have been able to kidnap me, and wouldn't have had any leverage to use against Aramis. The thoughts ran through his head in an endless cycle, to the point that he was often distracted from what was going on around him, something that almost never normally happened to the Gascon.
One afternoon after seeing his lack of attention while they were walking through the busy market day stalls, Athos called a halt and indicated to the others to follow him, leading them to the side of a bakery building, where he stopped and turned towards d'Artagnan, who looked puzzled by the diversion.
"D'Artagnan, you are not to blame for what has happened to Aramis," he began, unerringly knowing exactly what was wrong with his brother. But d'Artagnan immediately and strenuously disagreed with him.
"How can you say that, Athos?" he countered. "It was my lack of alertness that got me taken. Holding me hostage allowed them to use me to force Aramis to come to them. How is that not my fault?"
"It could just as easily have been one of us that they took, d'Artagnan," Athos patiently explained. "They were not exclusively looking for you that night. Any one of use would have served their purpose. You know this."
"Neither of you would have allowed yourselves to be distracted as I was."
"Neither one of us finds ourselves in love," Porthos quietly interjected, sympathy for d'Artagnan clearly written on his face, as it was now on Athos, as well. The former Comte de la Fere normally never visually gave away his feelings, but with his brothers it was different. He sometimes allowed his emotions to be revealed, as he did now.
D'Artagnan had pinkened slightly at the mention of his feelings for Madame Bonacieux. But then, what he considered his fault surfaced again. "I shouldn't have been daydreaming. I'm a Musketeer. I should have known better. To be taken like a green cadet. I am far more highly trained than that," he said bitterly.
"Someday, we will have to discuss our mistakes with you, d'Artagnan," Porthos told him. "Believe it or not, we do have them, as does Aramis," seeing, though, the Gascon's face fall when the marksman's name was uttered.
"It was not your fault, d'Artagnan," Athos reiterated. "And we will find h..." stopping suddenly as d'Artagnan's attention was diverted to something he was staring at past the swordsman's shoulder.
"D'Artagnan!" he said sharply, then heard what d'Artagnan said before taking off, racing down the street.
"Laurent!" he had said, following in the direction the Gascon had just taken, Porthos on his heels.
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The tawny-haired young man had led then a merry chase but finally was halted by a street which abruptly came to a dead end. Realizing he had nowhere to go, he resolutely turned around and faced his pursuers.
"Why did you leave?" d'Artagnan demanded.
"I..I didn't want to hang," he said hanging his head in defeat.
"We told you that was not going to happen, Laurent," Athos quietly reassured him yet again.
"You can't know that for sure," Laurent almost whispered.
"Treville has already presented your side to the King. He said you were bullied by your brother and were afraid of defying him, and yet you still helped Aramis to escape. He now thinks you are a hero, and wants to meet you. You have nothing to fear, Laurent," Athos told the dumbfounded young man, who was now standing quietly at the turn of events.
"Will you come back to the garrison and help us, Laurent?" d'Artagnan asked.
Laurent was very quiet for a moment, still not quite believing he wasn't going to be punished for anything. Then, he nodded, looking each one of them in the eye. "Yes," he finally said, "I will be happy to do anything you need," before being interrupted by a fierce hug from d'Artagnan.
Together, they turned and began their way back to the garrison, the Musketeers hoping that maybe Laurent may know something that could point them in the right direction. Something that could help them to find Aramis before it was too late, none of them voicing the fear inside of them that it might already be.
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Aramis had no way of knowing how long a time he lay huddled on the floor, keeping as still as possible to prevent the pain from getting worse than it already was. It could have been hours or days. He alternated between consciousness and blackness, his world a solitary black void.
It was in one of his lucid moments that he saw light again coming through the overhead grate. The booted feet came next. Then once again, he heard a key unlocking the grate. The unaccustomed light hurt his eyes after having been in darkness so long. He lifted his shackled hands to cover them.
The leader of his hired tormentors stuck his head over the edge of the pit, calling to him, "I can't see you. Hiding won't help you," mocking his being confined in darkness.
Aramis just let him talk. He couldn't do anything about it anyway.
"You've had a few days rest. Figured you might be hungry again. We brought the same feast as last time."
The same water skin and bag were again lowered into the pit. Aramis, still shading his eyes, could hear movements but didn't move, deciding to wait until they had left so as not to provoke any more ridicule.
"I guess the same cat came back and got your tongue again. Well, you better pay attention now. You have a visitor."
This froze Aramis. Someone else was here to see him? Who wanted to see him down here?
The as yet anonymous man moved back from his position, giving deferential attention to whoever had come. Aramis, still protecting his eyes, had no idea for sure who was there, but only one name came to mind. No one else, as far as he knew, had any awareness of his presence in this prison.
Richelieu! At the same time that he said his name in silence, the man appeared over the rim, his lips curled up at the corners.
"Our troublesome Musketeer!"
"Come to gloat?" Aramis, hearing the arrogant voice, daringly asked him, his voice raspy from disuse.
"Still alive yet, my dear Aramis? I would be very careful how you address me. It may mean the difference between your continued existence, or your pathetic and untimely death. Shall we talk?"