~§~
The Musketeer gasped for breath, but nothing seemed to be reaching his lungs.
Rochefort stepped back, giving the prisoner a moment. After all, the whole point of the exercise was to wear out the man's resistance. He could hardly achieve that if the Musketeer's senses abandoned him.
The Comte took a moment to admire his work. The shallowness of the cuts and the fact that the gunpowder all but prevented fatal blood loss, made sure that the prisoner was nowhere near any danger of succumbing to his injuries and that Rochefort was at liberty to spend hours just cutting away. The pain that each cut and consequent burn caused, however, was sure to make the Musketeer wish that death was an viable option. Which it was not.
Having applied a few more cuts to the Musketeer's chest and stomach, Rochefort had moved to the back. While well-toned, the central part of the back, where the spinal column lay, was still fragile and with little muscle to protect it. The first cut and burn that Rochefort had applied there had elicited a growling scream from the Musketeer that had ended all too soon as the man lost his senses for a few seconds. It had not been the first time.
When the prisoner had finally started to voice his pain, unchecked and screaming with utter abandonment, it echoed through the empty chambers in a deliciously elaborate symphony. It was a good sign.
The sooner that vermin was honest about the pain he was feeling, the sooner he would be ready for what Rochefort needed him to do. What he needed him to say.
It had been pathetically easy to lead the Musketeer to his current situation, like a gullible sheep, with no discernible intelligence to understand that it was being led to slaughter.
The hardest part, truly, had been to sit inside that smelly, disgusting tavern waiting for the Musketeer to put in an appearance, after Rochefort' sources had assured him that Aramis favored that particular filth hole to get his meals.
A few coins in the right hands had assured that the drug he had supplied was added to the Musketeer meal, causing him to lose his senses shortly after exiting the shoddy establishment.
After that, it was merely a matter of picking up Aramis, take his main gauche, use it to kill Gerard –another mindless sheep- in his cell and bring the two animals together.
The owner of the Inn where the Musketeer had been taken to would, of course, be dealt with in due time, another loose end that she was. Although the amount of coin she had received to keep her mouth shut would assure her loyalty for a little while longer, Rochefort was not a man who enjoyed taking risks or staking his odds with a lowly innkeeper's honor who sold her tongue to the highest bidder.
It was, after all, the same reason why he had killed the monk who had stumbled upon them, the night the Red guards had fetched the Musketeer from the garrison's brig to his current location. Though highly unlikely that any of the Musketeers would trouble himself with the whereabouts of Aramis, the idea of a monk witnessing three men dragging a forth through the gardens of Notre Dame would not do to his current necessity to maintain the location a secret.
Rocheford took off his leather gloves, running a hand through his hair and pulling a deep breath. The air was saturated with human misery; he could feel it clogging his skin and nose. Entertaining as his current task was, maybe it was time for a change of scenery.
He looked at the blood covered piece of metal discarded on the ground, marveling at the ingenuity of such a simple contraption while he pondered the utility of replacing it on the Musketeer's neck.
Sadly, he had been forced to remove the Heretic's Fork at some point, as a precautionary measure. With the number of times Aramis had lost his senses and failed to control the movements of his head, the man would've killed himself on the Fork far too soon to serve Rochefort's plans. Enjoyable as it had been to witness the man' struggle against the sharp prongs and the sound of metal against bone, it was not longer practical to keep it in use.
He would show a measure of mercy and leave with out replacing it, Rochefort decided.
His fingers carded through the prisoner's sweaty hair, gripping the dark strands as he pulled the man's head up. The Musketeer's eyes remained closed, the combination of sweat and paleness giving his skin a grayish tone.
Perhaps the prisoner would gain something from a brief interlude in their...conversation.
Secluded so deep underground, it was impossible to know if the sun still shone outside or if darkness had already set in. Rochefort had no idea how many hours had passed, but Rochefort could already feel his stomach grumbling for food. Besides, the sight of sweat and blood whetted other appetites that he would see fed as well.
He released the dark curls, allowing the Musketeer's head to fall down, chin touching his chest, before slapping the man awake.
The Musketeer started, eyes darting around as his head jumped up. His gaze was still unfocused though, taking too long to veer back to Rochefort. Losing his patience, the Comte grabbed Aramis' jaw to capture his full attention. He was pleased to feel the fine tremors coursing through the man's skin under his touch.
"You did well today," he praised, extending one finger to wipe the sweat tracing the contour of the prisoner's cheek. "Tomorrow I am sure we will make much more progress. In the meantime...I shall leave you something to ponder upon."
Turning his back on the barely-conscious man, Rochefort took hold of the last items he had in his bag, two bottles of red wine. He took a swallow from one, making sure to do it in front of the surely-mad-with-thirst-by-now prisoner.
The wine tasted bitter in his tongue, a cheaper brand than what he usually favoured, but good enough to serve its purpose.
As he had imagined, the man followed the liquid inside the bottle with intense eyes, his gaze drinking what his mouth could not. Rochefort allowed himself to relish the moment for a few seconds before tossing the bottle at floor by the Musketeer's bare feet.
The fine glass shattered on impact, sowing the stone floor with tiny, sharp shards. The second bottle quickly followed, creating a slippery and razor-sharp mess beneath the Musketeer.
"Such a waste...of fine wine," the prisoner whispered, his voice all but spent from screaming.
Rochefort looked at his prisoner, gauging the sincerity of the man's defiance. The Musketeer's body was clearly spent, that much was easy to see from the slump of his shoulders and his ragged breathes. Apart from the damage caused by the Heretic's Fork, there wasn't much blood covering the trapped man, but there was no denying that he was in pain and growing weaker by the minute. The burned flesh, the Comte assumed, should be relentless in the discomfort it caused, even hours after the initial burn. The smell certainly seemed unwilling to dissipate, permeating the small space with the stench of roast pork and bile.
Defiant, yes, but Rochefort could tell that it was naught but an act at that point, a feeble try to keep up the appearance of control when his prisoner was all but wrecked with pain and fear, the Musketeer's pride still intact enough to allow for him to admit defeat. The Musketeer' spirit had yet to be broken, but Rochefort could tell that it would not take much longer. He would just have to try harder. "Tomorrow," he offered, as he blew the candles out, "we shall discuss which body parts you can do without. I suggest you spend your night carefully compiling a list."
Rochefort cast one last look at his prisoner before grabbing the last candle and moving away. Despite the Cardinal's threats, Rochefort reminded himself that breaking a man's mind and spirit was not something that should be rushed, or else he would risk finding himself with a blubbering idiot on his hands that wouldn't be fit to confess anything. As much as he wished to quench his bloodlust on the trapped Musketeer, Rochefort decided that it was wiser to take his lust elsewhere.
~§~
It was painfully clear that Brother Lapin had been murdered because he had stumbled upon something he shouldn't have. Too many people had trampled around the place where the monk's body had been found, and while the loose soil of the garden had drunk all the blood that had been spilled, the leaves of the surrounding plants and stone wall were still stained red.
The killer had left nothing behind that could lead back to him, but a couple of feet away from the murder site, different marks could be found on the ground.
"Here," Porthos pointed. Two parallel lines in the dirt led from the cobbled road into the garden. "Someone was dragged through here."
"The monk?" Athos suggested. "Or Aramis?"
Porthos looked from the road to the tracks. Brother Simoné had said that the murdered monk had come from the cathedral into the garden, searching for his lost rosary. There was no reason for him to be on the street. "They took Aramis in a cart, t'jailer saw that much," he went on. "Looks like they dragged 'im from the cart, through here."
Athos nodded. "And the monk was silenced because he caught them at it," he added. "But dragged where?"
In the middle of the garden there was an old mausoleum, its dark grey stone smooth and pale where it had been eroded by time. The tracks on the soft soil ended abruptly at the entrance of the mausoleum, where dirt gave way to stone. Inside, they could see nothing but two tombs and a large marble cross that took up most of the far wall.
Athos tested the mausoleum door, surprised to find it open. "As there is no one in here other than the dead," he said, taking a step inside, "one must assume that whomever left those marks vanished in thin air or..."
Porthos looked around, searching for any wandering eyes that might catch them entering the old tomb uninvited. He had no idea to whom it belonged, the words above the door written in Latin, but he was certain that they were not supposed to be there. Still, he followed Athos.
The man was right. People didn't just disappear from existence like they were made of smoke. There was bound to be something more about that place.
"In here!" Athos called out, standing by the large cross at the far wall. "I believe a torch will be required," he announced.
As soon as Porthos peeked over his shoulder, he could see what his friend meant. Beneath their feet and hidden by the cross, there were the first steps of what looked like a long staircase, descending well into the darkness.
Sometime later, finally armed with enough light to keep them from stumbling to their deaths, the two Musketeers went down the stairs, hearts fluttering with renewed hope of finding their friend soon.
The air grew heavy and moldy as they descended deeper and deeper. Before they had reached the bottom, Porthos already knew where they were and his hopes of finding Aramis within the hour were squashed under the crushing weight of reality.
Everyone who grew up in the streets of Paris knew about its undergrounds, the city of the dead under the city of the living. Miles and miles of tunnels and hidden chambers, what was left of the hideouts and graveyards for the people who had lived there before. In some parts, the walls weren't even made of stone or brick, just bone piled on top of bone, empty skulls gazing on those who ventured there.
Not many did. For one, there was the belief that the tunnels were haunted by the souls of those who had once owned the bones lining the walls. The other reason - the one that scared Porthos the most - was that few knew how to navigate the tunnels safely. He'd heard far too many stories about people going in and never coming out.
"This'll never work," Porthos said after a while, his voice subdued and defeated. "These tunnels run fo'ever and there's no trail t'follow. We'll get lost and tha' won't help Aramis one bit," he explained, seeing the stunned look on Athos face.
The other man stared down the endless tunnel they had been walking, the path taking them more or less in the cathedral's direction. Already they had passed three side tunnels, always choosing to keep to the main one. For all they knew, Aramis could be at the end of any of them.
"You're right," Athos eventually agreed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. There was truly no point in adding their plight to Aramis'.
"We need t'get back to the garrison, bring more men t'help us..." Porthos suggested. But, even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew that they couldn't do that. With the rest of the Musketeers unaware of the truth about Aramis' mission, they would only be chasing an escaped criminal who had brought shame to the Musketeers' good name. Besides, Treville had ordered them to keep the matter quiet, between themselves.
"There has to be some other way," Athos started. His grip on the torch was so tight that the light flickered, sending waves of shadow across his face. He looked as frustrated as Porthos felt. "Even if we wait for Rochefort to resurface and try to follow him again, the chances of losing him in this labyrinth are too great to risk. We need someone who can guide us."
The words struck a chord inside the large Musketeer's mind. For a moment, Porthos wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. He was ashamed to think that maybe his desire to keep his past to himself had spoken louder than his despair to find Aramis. It was the only reason he could surmise to explain why him, of all people, had forgotten that inside the Court of Miracles, there were some who knew their way around the tunnels as if they'd been born there.
If there was even the slightest of chances of finding a guide inside the Court, Porthos was more than willing to shout his connection to the place from the roofs of Paris. If such action could safeguard Aramis' life, that was exactly what he would do.
Making his decision, Porthos grabbed hold of Athos' arm and pulled him back to the stairs. "Come with me," he offered. "Ther' someone we need t'see."
~§~
Aramis was shaking. His body trembled and shivered, jerking movements well beyond his control, rattling the chains that bound him.
His mind, pushed beyond the brink of exhaustion and agony, had resumed playing tricks on him, only now, it was not the faces of his dead friends that he saw, but something else.
Someone else.
At first, Aramis had thought it to be the man who was holding him prisoner in here. The idea had given him some hope, for it meant that he had returned to finish his task and Aramis could finally put an end to this suffering and just tell the man what he wanted to hear. What Aramis needed him to hear.
So many times during the previous hours Aramis had wanted to give in, to make it all end. All he needed to do was say a few words and the Cardinal's man would leave him alone, hurrying away to save both his own skin, and that of his employer.
But more than pain itself, Aramis feared that, if he spoke too soon, the ruse he and the Captain had so carefully orchestrated would be for nothing. So, he forced himself to wait, allowed himself to be pushed to the edge of despair and patiently waited for his torturer to recognize his limits. It all depended on the Cardinal's man believing his spirit to be broken.
The human shape moved closer, its shadow dancing across the pillars as the light in its hands flickered. It wasn't him. Whatever vision he was seeing, Aramis could tell that it was too short to be his tormenter. It was too short to be an adult at all.
Aramis inched forward, trying to catch a better look, and promptly slipped on the wine-covered floor. While he had mostly managed to avoid the pieces of glass up until that point, the loss of balance sent him stumbling, the soles of his feet screaming as the shards cut into his flesh. With no one around to witness his loss of composure, Aramis hissed and cursed at the top of his lungs, words so foul coming out of his mouth that he had to wonder where he'd learned them from. A few, he was sure, had never been spoken before.
His voice spent, Aramis sagged against his bonds. At least, he figured as he felt the sting of the wine contacting his cut-up feet, there was no risk of infection. The thought was so ridiculous and out of place that the Musketeer couldn't help but laugh, a dry, bitter chuckle that sounded more hysterical than comical.
He was losing his mind. Now that it was of the utmost importance that he keep his wits about him, Aramis was losing his mind.
Or maybe, it had been irreparably lost before and he was only now noticing.
The shape that had been quietly watching took a step forward, as if Aramis' admission of not being of sound mind had given it permission to exist.
"Was it you, then, doin' all that screaming before?"
Aramis startled, his head jerking up at the sound of a little girl's voice. Had his vision just spoken to him? "W-who...are you real?"
"I thought you was some damned soul, I did," the girl went on, her voice muffled as she bent to do something. "There's all sorts of demons and spirits down here."
Soft light assaulted Aramis' eyes, making them water. In front of him, a blonde girl, no older than sixteen and dressed in rags, was holding a candle to his face. "Which are you?" he forced out, his voice broken and raspy. "Demon or spirit?"
The girl smiled, tilting her head to the side. "Could ask the same about you," she offered instead, candlelight wavering as she moved around him, taking in the ugly marks covering his torso. "Too much blood on ya to be a spirit and..."
Aramis jerked away when he felt her small hand, patting the pockets of his breeches. She smiled, fingers closing around the coin purse inside. Treville hadn't taken it away when he'd been sent to lock-up and Aramis had completely forgotten about it.
She shook the purse, a few coins jingling inside. "...never seen a demon in need of coins," she announced, placing the purse within the folds of her skirt. "You're a man, then."
Aramis blinked slowly, his mind not quite understanding what his eyes were seeing. Had he just been...robbed?
"Can you help me?" he hurried to say. Vision or not, he had nothing to lose in asking and, as it would seem, payment had already been extracted. "I need you to do something for me. It is very important. Can you leave this place?"
The girl scoffed, like he had said the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. "'f course I can leave, I'm not the one chained to the place, am I? But why should I help you?" she asked, pacing the room, her footsteps feather-light and barely echoing in the vast space. "Your purse, monsieur, offered little in terms of persuasion," she finally said, a look of indignation about her. "How'd you pay me?"
Aramis was sure he had heard wrong. "P-pay? You wish to be paid?" The whole exchange was too surreal to be anything other than a hallucination.
She didn't answer. Instead, she came closer, a slim finger moving within inches of one of the burns on his chest. Aramis forced himself not to recoil. Still, he sighed in relief as the girl stopped short of actually touching him. He was sure that any contact with the blackened, tender flesh would send him screaming anew.
"Is this why you were screamin'? Does it hurt?"
"Where are we?" Aramis asked instead. It shamed him somewhat that the young girl had been witness to his pain and he had no wish to discuss it. "Why are you allowed to roam free inside this prison?"
The girl's eyes thinned into slits, the hand that had been tracking his wounds falling to her side. She had been counting the cuts and burns, he realized with a shudder. "Prison? You think yourself in a prison, then?" she asked with a snigger. "What'd you do? You a thief? A traitor?"
"W-what? No!" Aramis was taken aback by the questions. Her words, however, answered one of the questions that had been playing in his mind.
The Cardinal's man wasn't keeping him in a regular prison. As Aramis had wailed and begged for the mercy of unconsciousness during the agony of the previous hours and no entity above cared to answer his prayers, the statue of the saint in the corner, looking at him with its compassionate and yet uncaring features, had been his refuge. It had also made him wonder where he could be, for the comfort of religion wasn't often part of a prison's decorations. The fact that he was being kept nowhere near a prison hadn't crossed his mind.
Treville, Aramis was sure, would be looking for him in the various correctional facilities of Paris. Wherever this place was, it wouldn't even be on the Captain's list. "Will you help me?"
"Are you a murderer?"
She looked at him longingly, searching for something that he could not even presume to guess. Her eyes, deeply blue, made him recoil into himself. They bore such intelligence and empathy that Aramis feared what she might see inside him. Was he a murderer? With no memory of the hours leading up to finding himself in the company of a dead man, he couldn't be sure. And before that...it was hard to be a soldier without taking lives. "I have never taken pleasure in killing," he answered truthfully.
The answer, it seemed, was enough to satisfy her curiosity. When her gaze finally left his face and turned to the chains holding him prisoner, Aramis felt himself relax…until she tugged on them. His world turned white as the movement set his right arm afire. "CARE-ful!" he hissed, breathing through his nose to control the pain.
"I can't open 'em," she said after a while, looking at the locks. "Good quality iron these are, not the average rubbish used on scoundrels and beggars. Which means you are neither."
Aramis suspected as much. For all the pulling and prying he had done, they were still very much attached to the stone columns. "You seem to know a whole lot about it," he said, wondering to which group she might belong. "But 'tis not in opening them that I wish your help," he said, rattling the chains in frustration. How he longed to rest his arms by his sides and curl up to sleep. "I just need you to deliver a message."
Her eyebrow rose as she stared at him. "You don't wanna leave..." she said slowly, like it was the most insane thing she had ever heard. Aramis was inclined to agree with her. "Are you soft in the head?"
"It is...complicated," Aramis offered, a soft smile curving his lips. At least, he had intended it as a smile. He was sure it had come off more as a grimace. "Do you know where the Musketeers' garrison is?"
"Know enough to keep away," she was quick to sneer. "Is that what that man was? The one who was making ya scream? He a Musketeer?"
Aramis gasped. Musketeers were honorable and chivalrous men, gentlemanly in upholding the King's laws, who would never think of abusing their power. They were sworn to defend those who could not fend for themselves and torture was, most certainly, not a practice approved by their rules of conduct. That anyone could think one of them capable of...the idea was so horrifying that it felt like a kick to his insides. "A Musketeer would...never," Aramis tried, his words jumbled by tiredness and bewilderment. "That man was no Musketeer," he stated, the only thing he was sure of regarding his interrogator.
"If you say so," she said, sounding unimpressed. "Are you one of 'em?"
The easy answer was at the tip of Aramis' tongue. The girl, whoever she was, disliked Musketeers for some reason and if he wanted her help, telling her that he was one of them would do him no favors.
The denial would be so easy. His uniform and pauldron were gone; there was nothing on his person to identify him as one of the King's Musketeers. And yet, to deny what he was would be like denying himself.
Even in the dark months that had followed Savoy, the one thing that Aramis had managed to hold on to was the fact that he was a part of that distinguished group of men, soldiers of France that had been graced with the honor of protecting the King Himself. During such a time when Aramis couldn't bring himself to hold a weapon and do his sworn duty, he had still been proud to be a Musketeer. For a time, it was the only thing that he could be proud of.
Though he was currently accused of murder and in the hands of the Cardinal like some common criminal, Aramis knew where his heart belonged. "I am a Musketeer," he answered without hesitation. "One that is begging for your help."
It was the wrong answer, as he had feared. Aramis watched, confounded, as the girl simply turned and walked away, her small figure quickly merging with the shadows.
She hadn't said a word. Hadn't argued. Just left.
Aramis lowered his head in despair, the chains tensing and pulling as he sagged to the floor. He cared not for the glass cutting into his knees through his breeches, nor for pain that assailed his broken arm. He was a fool.
Help had been within his grasp and he had all but pushed it away because he was incapable of lying. How was he supposed to fool the Cardinal's man the following day if he couldn't bring himself to fool a vision from his own mind?
Light flickered around him and Aramis raised his head. His vision, it would seem, had been at least kind enough to leave him a burning candle to keep him company through the night.
Even if that was the only friendly company he could hope for in the near future.