More time went by, more meals brought, more encounters with the Room of Doom. D'Artagnan started to drift, and he felt René drifting, too. They didn't talk anymore; the silence in their cell was deep and all-consuming. Their captors had stopped playing around, and they were only ever asked one single question anymore:

"Will you join me?"

"No."

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

"No." Breathless now.

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

Yes. "No."

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

Yes. But I can't say that.

Pain.

D'Artagnan didn't know what he was fighting for. He knew that they were coming, but he also knew that just why would they come, d'Artagnan? Huh? Because we're missing? Because you're missing? The two thoughts had grown together, had become one – so much so that it was impossible for him to think one without thinking the other.

And which one was the right one, anyway? Huh? He couldn't say. He couldn't say many things.

Once, when he couldn't stand to sleep and couldn't stand to be awake, he started talking into the quiet. "René?" he said, sounding in his own ears like a little, little child with nowhere to go. "Can we talk, please?"

There was no answer.

"René?"

Nothing.

"Please, please, answer me."

Silence.

"René! I know you're there! I need to talk to someone!" But there was no one there to react and d'Artagnan's cheeks were hot, his eyes heavy, but not wet. Dry, because he didn't cry. He couldn't.


Time came and went, and d'Artagnan was taken from the cell again, leaving René behind to be his ignorant, silent self. He was brought to the Room of Doom, sat on the stool and shackled. The man he was now so familiar with came in. In the weak light of a lone flickering candle, it was hard to see his face. But he already knew enough. Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, small built. Not suspicious in the least – yet d'Artagnan had learnt to hate him.

The man smiled and tilted his head, as if greeting a son he had forgotten about. "What a beautiful day, wouldn't you say?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer, instead deciding to stare at the dark floor under his feet. He had learnt that, too.

"Very well, how shall we begin today?"

He walked around d'Artagnan, as he always did, and stopped behind his back to gather his tools, as he always did. D'Artagnan tensed, but then told his muscles to relax. He wasn't going through this. Not again.

"I will join you," he said out of the blue, his voice stronger than it had been in days, the wish for it to be over shining through and lingering in the middle of the room.

He felt his captor pause, heard the metal stop clattering and a deafening silence push against his eardrums. Goosebumps broke out on his skin. He felt something cold glide along his shoulder blades and braced himself.

But no new pain came.

"Finally," the captor purred into his ear. "Finally. You were a tough one, but I knew I would crack you wide open soon enough. And that friend of yours isn't far behind, I'll tell you that. He's been crying like a babe all day yesterday."

D'Artagnan knew he should have been furious. He knew he was supposed to jump up and punch the man just for the insult, and at least kill him for everything else. But he didn't have it in him anymore. He didn't have anything in him anymore.

The captor smiled. "Okay. Come on."

The Gascon wanted desperately to ask where they were going, but his voice didn't work. His mouth refused to open. He stood up and followed the man who answered the unspoken question anyway.

"You're going to prove it."

Without the presence of one of the guards' hands that would otherwise always cover his eyes, d'Artagnan could see where he was being taken for the first time. He blinked, his eyesight blurry after so long in the dark. He didn't really feel the urge to look around, but his training wouldn't let him ignore his surroundings. He saw a window that was letting in the light. They weren't that high up, maybe on the first floor. He couldn't detect any doors, not a single one – but then again, his sight wasn't too good and his mind not very rested. It was very possible that he had simply missed an exit.

Not that it mattered. Even though the small man was his only companion at the moment, the Gascon was too weak to overpower his captor on his own, much less with the shackles restricting his movements. Besides, there was still René. Escaping without him wasn't really an option, even if it were possible.

He let his head hang. There was nothing else to hold it high for.

D'Artagnan was led to a cell, not unlike his own. No, he corrected himself, exactly like his own. The captor unlocked and opened the heavy door and d'Artagan saw René cower inside.

"Remember, the guards are coming back any second, so no funny business, are we clear?"

Any second, any second … d'Artagnan's breath hitched. The man stepped toward him and unlocked his shackles, letting them clatter, heavy, to the floor. The Gascon didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe for fear that this was only a dream and he would wake up any second into bitter reality.

"Now, if you want to be one of us, if you want it all to end, you will kill him. You will show me that you are truly on our side. That you would kill your own friend on my command."

He held out a pistol and d'Artagnan could only stare in awe at the weapon, at the opportunity he was being given. The world stopped moving, stilled. The air became stale and unbreathable; his ears rang.

Was this even possible? Or had he gone completely mad?

"Well, take it."

He didn't have to be told twice – not then, not ever. His weak, shaking hand shot forward; his fingers curled around the cold metal. He felt it under his skin, felt it pulsing with the desire to help, to kill, to save.

The pistol was ready.

It was in his hand, waiting. And the guards would only be coming back any second, which wasn't now.

So he was ready, too.

"Can – can I say goodbye?"

"Of course." The captor waved his hand toward René in a casual gesture. "Just make it quick."

D'Artagnan kneeled down in front of René's form and wrapped his arms around the shivering body. He held the recruit's head to his chest, his ear to his lips.

"I have a gun," he whispered. As soon as the words were out, René's head perked up and his irises showed themselves, blinking madly in the light.

"Sh, sh. He can't know that I've told you. Don't say anything and don't move. We're getting out of here, okay?"

René nodded ever so slightly.

"Do you remember which key they used on your shackles?" the Gascon breathed, glancing at the bundle the captor was holding in his hand. "The last one is for the door. My key was the second one. And yours?"

"I think it's the first," René said back, his voice almost inaudible.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Okay. Brace yourself."

He stood, backed up a few wary steps and pointed the shaking pistol at René's still shadow, as if he was about to shoot him – as if he could ever shoot a fellow Musketeer.

But for it to end? For it all to be over? Would you?

He shook his head frantically, wiping hot, hot tears off his cheeks. His trembling finger found the trigger and started squeezing. René lay oddly limp and unresponsive on the ground. D'Artagnan squeezed harder. The trigger moved willingly. At the last second, the Gascon whirled around and trained the weapon on their captor's chest.

He squeezed with all his strength. It clicked. Nothing happened.

The captor smiled sadly, almost as if he had caught a little boy doing something naughty. "Well, well," he said. "Still some spirit in there. Still not totally one of us, are you?" He sneered. "Guards!"

D'Artagnan scolded himself for not noticing that the weapon hadn't been loaded – he knew what a loaded pistol felt like; he should have felt the difference –, but he quickly forced his sluggish thoughts forward. He couldn't hear anyone coming, not yet, and he was free and he had a weapon, damn it, and there were no shackles around his wrists.

This was it.

He barrelled straight into the man, without thought, and ripped the keys out of his lax hand. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored, ignored it all, including the fact that the captor was nowhere near unconscious and that he probably had a gun tucked away somewhere under his shirt – a loaded one, this time.

He just stormed into the cell and lay the keys into René clumsy hands, then stood wide in front of him to give him enough time to free himself.

The captor sneered. He didn't seem happy, but now d'Artagnan could hear steps in the background; heavy boots dragging over wood. Their time was running out fast. He knew that. His training was slowly kicking in, the Musketeer that he was meant to be trickling back into his battered body. There were threats steadily approaching, but they were still far enough away to be ignored. He had to focus on the here. The now.

Sure enough, there was suddenly a gun in the captor's hand and he pointed it at René. D'Artagnan shifted so that he was shielding his friend even better. He held his chin high.

"Stop unshackling yourself or I kill him," the man breathed, levelling the pistol at d'Artagnan's chest. The Gascon wanted to scream back to his friend that he shouldn't listen, but something pulled at his pants and a quick glance behind his back revealed that René had already finished his task, quicker than anyone had given his tired hands credit for.

The captor moved a finger onto the trigger and d'Artagnan saw the little flicker. He had stared down the barrel of a gun before; he knew how to react. He jumped back, pulling René with him, as the shot rang out. Then they got up, supporting each other, and started to run.