A/N: Thanks to my guest reviewer Uia, here's your update! ;)
No warnings for this chapter really. Aramis is going to see Athos again... but as awful as Pierre is, methinks he's underestimated our boys. They're more clever than he gives them credit for. Enjoy!
Chapter 3
Aramis watched the walls slowly lighten with the rising sun, keeping a weather eye on the servant, Jean, as well. Their guard hadn't moved or spoken all through the night. Aramis didn't like him any more than he liked Pierre, something in his manner making him seem devoid of any actual humanity. It felt to the marksman as though Jean moved on cogs and clock workings rather than blood and soul.
He'd tried to sleep at least a little. Aramis would need to keep his wits about him and needed to rest, but sleep had eluded him. His throat felt bruised from the wire and his hands were going numb from being bound. And, of course, his mind refused to turn off the fear for his friends and anxiety over what Athos might think of him.
Worse, he was afraid of what he might still have to do in order to keep them all alive. With the sun coming up, Treville would be sure to miss them soon, but how long would it take for anyone to find them here? Aramis had no idea who Pierre was, no obvious connection to make anyone in the garrison consider him a suspect and come to call.
All they could do was hold out as long as possible and wait for an opportunity to escape or to be rescued. He sincerely doubted Pierre would permit any of them to walk away, even if he successfully convinced Athos to hate him.
No, Aramis could not—would not—allow Athos to doubt, to believe any of this was real. Pierre had already alluded to sending him in to Athos again; Aramis would have to try and find a way to communicate what was going on without arousing suspicion. A single slip could cost them everything.
Aramis caught Porthos's eye, also awake. Beyond a grim sense of determination to make it through this, though, there was nothing for the two to share.
"Aramis, Porthos, good morning," Pierre greeted them, stepping into the light streaming through the hall.
"We need water," Aramis replied with a glare. "Food. For you to let us go."
Pierre nodded to Jean, who disappeared from the room as wordlessly as ever. Pierre then moved over to Porthos; the large musketeer growled fiercely at him through the cloth over his mouth, but their captor merely pulled the gag free.
"Why you doin' this?" Porthos instantly demanded. "What did Athos or Aramis ever do to you, anyway?"
"You imagine this to be some sort of revenge?" Pierre asked. "Have I not been clear, I'm simply interested in what draws you all so strangely together."
"It's called bein' friends. What, you never had a friend?"
"Not likely," Aramis snorted, tugging at his bonds.
Pierre tilted his head, seeming unfazed. "If you mean, would I ever allow myself to be injured just because of a threat to someone else, no, of course not. And I have no desire for such a vulnerability."
Aramis studied the man as Jean re-emerged with a water skin and a goblet. The cup was brought to him first and held to his lips. Despite his initial hesitation, the liquid inside was cold and soothing, and poisoning them now would hardly make sense. He drank deeply and gratefully until the cup was removed.
"Water," he assured Porthos, seeing his friend's anxious eyes.
The cup was taken to Porthos next, who also drank his fill. Pierre, meanwhile, had returned to the chair in front of Aramis, again leaning forward to study the bound musketeer with an uncomfortably intense gaze.
"Athos will need water as well," Aramis tried, but he was quickly waved off.
"We'll get to that. But first, I want you to explain to me why that matters to you."
"What do you mean? If he doesn't get water, he'll die!"
The corner of Pierre's mouth tilted up and he shook his head. "Not for several days."
"You can't leave him there that long," Aramis whispered, feeling his heart grow cold. To be left alone in a pitch-black room, restrained and languishing without food or water or light or simple human contact for days on end… it would be torture. His pulse quickened in fear. "Pierre, please. Don't do this."
"Would you take his place?"
"Yes!"
Pierre was out of his chair so fast, squatting in front of Aramis, that the marksman flinched. The madman didn't raise a hand, though, merely stared at him with the same empty-souled intensity as before.
"Why?"
"Because I want to protect him! You say you never had a friend… had you no brothers? No family? Lovers?"
"I had parents," Pierre replied, not backing away despite the uncomfortable proximity. "I don't see why that matters. Given the same offer I just gave you, I certainly wouldn't take it."
Aramis couldn't help but gape at him, at a loss for how to respond to such a statement. He himself hadn't been particularly close to his father, but… "Not even to save your own mother?"
Pierre shrugged. "My mother felt no more for me than I did for her. She once took me to have the Cardinal remove the 'unclean spirits' possessing me." The slight smile crossed his lips again, making the madman appear all the more sinister. "I don't believe it worked, in her eyes. I'm told she was a good, loving woman, but her skull split the same as any common thief's would, so what benefit did it bring her?"
Swallowing back the rush of nausea at the implication, Aramis shook his head. He'd had occasion to provide escort to dangerous criminals on their way to prison, or to trial, or to the gallows. He'd seen this sort of thing in some of those people.
"You don't feel anything, do you?" he asked softly, starting to understand. "Not fear. Not remorse. Certainly not love."
"No, I wouldn't know what any of that is like. Fear is useless, remorse even more so. Love is baffling in its absurdity. I can't imagine why anyone would choose it. Look at where it's gotten you."
"That proves how little you understand," Aramis snapped. "Yes, caring about someone else does make you vulnerable, but you don't seem to realize that it also makes you strong. I would risk my safety for my brothers, but they would do the same for me. We're there when the others need us. We-"
"Noble sentiments. But it won't protect you. Humans are fragile and easily broken, and whether you love or not, you're just a human. I wonder how long this bond of yours will last." Pierre stood up at last, stepping back. "You'll not be taking Athos's place, though. The game board is already set and it would do little good to exchange pieces now. You'll be going to see him soon. I trust you remember the primary rule of this game?"
From the other column, Porthos shifted. "You don' have to do this," he urged, dark eyes filled with obvious worry. "Let Athos join us up here. If you're so curious, maybe we can jus' talk, explain things to you-"
"Talking hasn't explained anything. I need to see it." Pierre drew a short knife, turning back to Aramis. "So, you will convince Athos that you and you alone are responsible for his condition. You will not mention me. This time, I will permit you to speak to him, but you must use everything you know of him to find what would hurt him most. Convince him that you are no friend of his, that you despise him. That you hate him."
"I can't-"
"I hope for Porthos's sake that you can," Pierre overrode him calmly. He nodded to the silently watching servant, who drew his pistol once again. "Surely even for you, it's not a difficult decision between a few hard words or this one's brains strewn across my floor?"
Aramis clenched his jaw against a wave of hatred for the man and flicked his eyes towards Porthos. His friend met his eyes with steely calm.
"You don' have to do it," Porthos reminded him softly—forgiveness and permission for Aramis to sacrifice him to spare Athos the heartbreak of betrayal.
Aramis regarded him, then turned back to Pierre. "Let me at least take Athos some water as well," he bargained. "Your game will last longer if he's awake and hale enough to participate."
Pierre pursed his lips, mulling it over, then nodded. "Very well. But I shall need something in return."
Of course he would. Aramis glared at the man suspiciously, waiting.
"You will bring back a bit of blood in payment. His blood, naturally. I do not require much, but if you return without it, I will take a great deal more from your friend Porthos."
"Fine by me," Porthos snapped. "Aramis, if he wants blood, let 'im get it from me-"
"Jean, gag him. You are not an active player in this, Porthos. I must insist that you allow Aramis to decide for himself."
Aramis scowled, but nodded. Athos had taken far worse; he could handle being knocked around a bit, and if it meant he got some water, then Aramis would do it. Already, he was formulating an idea of how he might let Athos know what was happening, and maybe together they could all survive this insanity.
.o.O.o.
Athos heard the door creaking open in the distance. He swallowed against the rope irritating the skin around his neck and wearily raised his head, squinting against the torchlight in the doorway. Though the door didn't close again behind him, there was no light coming from the other side and he wasn't certain now whether it was day or night. The absolute darkness he was kept in left him disoriented to time and he'd been in and out of fitful consciousness.
The swordsman's heart leaped to recognize Aramis in the glow of the torch, though it was with some trepidation that he watched his friend's hand reach towards him. If Aramis was still… confused… this might not be a good visit.
But Aramis only pulled the cloth free of Athos's mouth. Athos coughed and licked his cracked, parched lips. What he wouldn't do for a draught of ale or a glass of wine…
As though reading his thoughts, Aramis pulled off a water skin he'd carried in, holding it to Athos's lips.
Athos tried to control himself, but soon was gulping at the water with rather humiliating desperation. When he'd had his fill, the musketeer turned his head and sighed with small relief. Now if only Aramis would be equally kind enough to untie him and help find a way out of there…
"Aramis-" he started. "You have to listen to me-" Starting to turn back to his friend, Athos was cut off by an unexpected blow to the face, snapping his head back to the side and scraping his neck painfully against the rope looped around it.
The strike was hard enough for Athos to see stars, tasting blood on his lip. He growled softly in displeasure at the direction this was going.
"You have to listen to me," he started again, bracing himself for another hit. When Aramis didn't move, Athos continued, "It's me, it's Athos. I don't know what's happened to you, but we're friends. We fight together as musketeers. We-"
"You think I just don't remember who you are?" Aramis interrupted, a harsh laugh that sounded nothing like him overriding Athos's words.
The marksman stepped forward to lean against the grate so that he was looming over Athos. The torch dipped to hover close enough to Athos's face that he instinctively tried to move back. The rope around his neck rubbed again as Athos had to wrench his head up in order to look up at Aramis, though the angle, Aramis's hat and the shadows cast by the torch prevented him from seeing more than half his face.
Aramis snorted again. "Comte de la Fere, Monsieur Athos, Treville's favorite pet who can do no wrong, so high above us mere mortals. Don't be absurd, Athos, I haven't lost my mind."
Athos frowned. Even if he could ever believe that Aramis—Aramis—was susceptible to bitterness and envy, this was not the way he showed scorn. Vitriol emerged from the marksman under the guise of a smile and a deprecating joke, not with contempt ringing of self-pity. Athos tugged at the ropes binding his wrists to the grate and demanded,
"This cannot be your doing, Aramis. Someone's forcing your hand, aren't they?"
Aramis barked in scathing laughter again, rapping his fingertips on the grate. "Oh yes, of course that would be your first assumption. Ever the egoist, Comte, believing no one could ever just… not like you."
In fact, there was quite a number of people who were no fans of Athos, which Aramis knew well; just as he knew Treville wasn't one to hold favorites. Athos regarded Aramis, starting to get an inkling that he was on the right path. 'Oh yes', Aramis had replied. The tapping on the grate. Two taps. Their non-verbal response for yes.
Athos kept his face blank, contemplating his next words carefully. He shook his head with disdainful snort of his own. "And yet, you are the one who everyone loves." Athos paused, then in his normal even tone: "If they could see you now."
Again, Aramis drummed his fingertips twice over the grate.
Yes. Yes, someone could see him now. Someone was watching, making sure he played his part in whatever this was. Athos's eyes flicked to where the door probably stood open, if he could see it for the darkness. Anyone could easily be hiding in the shadows of the doorway, taking in the sight.
As dire as the situation still was, Athos couldn't help but feel a swell of abundant relief at the news. An enemy, they could handle, as long as they were in it together. Fighting against something gone wrong in Aramis's mind would have been much harder.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, both to keep up pretenses and to allow Aramis the opportunity to try and communicate something—anything—that might help. "What have I done to you to warrant such sudden abhorrence?"
"Is it not obvious?" Aramis scoffed, breaking away now to start circling the grate. "I've always abhorred you, Athos. The airs you put on, as though you're better than us. The way Treville coddles you, just by virtue of your nobility. You make a mistake on a mission, and he brushes it off like it's nothing. Nothing! But let me bring you back to reality."
Aramis had made it back around to the front again, once more standing over Athos with the torch hovering perilously close to the swordsman's face.
"The reality is," Aramis went on with a harsh bite in his voice, "if we make a mistake, someone could get hurt. Sometimes, people even die."
He was drumming his fingertips on the grate again, drawing Athos's attention to the hidden message. Athos's mind whirled around the tidbit, easy to decipher as it merely confirmed what he had been afraid of the whole time: someone else's life was at stake, maybe even forfeit if Aramis slipped up or failed to play his part.
"You believe I don't know this?" Athos shot back. "You believe it's on you to teach me this lesson? Aramis, this is madness! What would Porthos think if he knew what you were doing? Or d'Artagnan?"
Porthos or d'Artagnan?
"Porthos," Aramis growled, drumming his fingers twice, "would agree with me."
So, Porthos was the leverage being used to secure Aramis's cooperation in this scheme. But not d'Artagnan. That was something. The lad was resourceful and more clever than even Athos gave him credit for, and once they failed to arrive at the garrison, he would throw his all into finding them.
If they could hold out that long. Athos bit back a sigh, wishing he could spare Aramis such a terrible position to be placed in.
Clearly he was meant to believe that Aramis was working of his own accord, but he couldn't fathom the purpose, or whether it would be better to act as though Aramis had successfully deceived him or not. Athos was loathe to play into the hands of whoever was controlling the charade, though.
"No, my friend, he would not," Athos urged, opting to stand by his brother until Aramis advised him to do otherwise. "It's not too late to put an end to this. Cut me loose, and we'll both forget this ever happened. Aramis, please. How do you think this is going to end?"
"That depends on you."
Two taps. A true statement. Athos frowned.
"I don't understand."
"We're not brothers, you and I. The sooner you accept that, the sooner this ends. So… do you hate me yet?"
The sooner this ends… Athos shivered, not sure if Aramis meant it would end and they could go home, or it would end and they would be killed. He suspected the latter.
"Ought I?" he asked softly.
Aramis slammed his hand down on the grate; just once. A resounding no. "You tell me, Athos."
Athos raised his eyes to Aramis's shadowed form and murmured with all the earnestness he possessed, "Then no, Aramis. You are my brother. Nothing you do to me will change that. This isn't you, I know it isn't. I could never hate you."
As before, Aramis immediately turned and walked away, hopefully taking at least a little comfort in the reassurance. Athos watched the light retreating, shivering in its absence. When the door slammed closed, he was once again left in utter darkness, still held immobilized by the ropes binding his wrists and neck, but at least the gag hadn't been replaced.
His jaw tightened with anger at whoever had put Aramis into this predicament, but also at himself. By now, he couldn't fail to realize that they had probably been abducted on their way back from the tavern.
Aramis wouldn't have taken that route at all if he hadn't been assisting Athos home. Further, if Athos hadn't been drunk then perhaps he might have been able to help fight. It was with a sinking heart that the musketeer realized that not only had he failed to protect Aramis, he'd probably been a hindrance—maybe even the very reason their captors had been able to subdue them at all.
And they, whoever they were, wanted to drive him and Aramis apart? Why on earth should they go to so much trouble for such a thing? Kidnapping not one but three musketeers, all for the sake of orchestrating a rift between them, only to possibly kill them once they'd succeeded. He might have suspected Milady's hand, but Aramis would have found a way to identify her to him in their disguised communication.
Athos frowned into the darkness, puzzling it all through. The possible motives and payoff eluded him. The only certainty was that he must hold out no matter what. If the cruelty of his present situation was any indication of their captor's state of mind, Athos had no doubt that the next time Aramis came to visit would be even less enjoyable. He would be forced to go to further and further lengths to prove his supposed hatred of Athos, and that could only lead one direction.
Aramis would not want to hurt him. He would be conflicted, but in the end he would surely know that Athos would prefer any punishment to the knowledge that Porthos might suffer the same or worse instead. Athos would, of course, forgive him.
Yes, it was dire indeed, but d'Artagnan was still out there, and Treville would not take the disappearance of three of his men lightly. They would come.
Athos knew they couldn't depend on a swift rescue, though. He closed his eyes against the darkness, taking a deep, bolstering breath. All he could do now was prepare himself as best as he could for what was still to come.