Chapter 9:
Author's Note: Right, so this turned out to be a monster of a chapter in terms of size. I've been toying with it for a while, and I think it's good now. Nothing else to add. Just enjoy!
When d'Artagnan opens his eyes, he fears for a moment that he has gone blind. That's before he realises that the blackness that surrounds him is made up of a spectrum of grey. The relief at that realisation is only shadowed by the memories of before this darkness.
Images of steel, brothers, and the sneering face of a creature hardly worthy of the name human. Images of a letter, of blood and discourse between him and his closest friends.
The image of Vasser, bleeding in the sand.
He remembers now how he was dragged away from Vasser's body, he remembers a hit to the head, and fingers pressing into the gash on his side. Pressing, pushing until the world turned dark with a flash of white-hot pain.
And now he's here.
Here; a dank cell, where chains snake their way up his arms and any colour is leeched from the air. The promise of 'fun' from the stocky leader he met earlier hangs over his head. The man wants to know where the letter is. Though it has never been d'Artagnan's plan to tell the man anything of the letter, he now makes it a vow.
Vasser perished to keep it safe. d'Artagnan is not going to let that sacrifice be in vain.
A light flickers beyond the bars of the cell, yellow and bright it brings some colour into the Gascon's world. When a flame rounds the corner, it is followed by a shadowed figure. Even without his face visible, d'Artagnan can almost feel the sneer emanating from the man. And he knows.
Whatever is going to come next, it's going to hurt.
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The musketeers have been riding for a little over a day. A short stop at night to catch some sleep and eat something is the only break that they've allowed themselves to have. The trail they were following has long since gone dead, the absence of a trail just serves to drive home that they've lost track of d'Artagnan. What's even worse, it means that they are completely dependent on their captive's memory of how to get to the chateau.
Porthos can't help but think that at the rate they're going they should have passed the group of kidnappers by now. Actually, Porthos especially can't help but think that they should never have left the trail in favour of their captive's sense of direction at all. Something about the man… What was his name again? Right, d'Aubier. Something about d'Aubier just does not sit well with Porthos.
Growing up in the Court, Porthos has met all kinds of con men and women. He knows the type. They're always charismatic as they charm themselves into people's inner circle with compliments and favours. Slippery as an eel, with the silver tongue of a snake they worm themselves in everywhere. And just when you've learned to trust them, they disappear, taking with them everything you care about. This man, this d'Aubier is giving off the same vibes. He is just a bit too ready to help.
D'Aubier seems to be a permanently anxious man. His eyes scan the forest around them every few seconds, every cracking twig startles him and the grip on his reins is so tight that Porthos wonders if the man will ever be able untangle them from his hands again. The directions he gives are shaky, his voice quivering and his eyes roaming while he guides them.
To say Porthos doesn't trust the man would be an understatement.
But he's their only hope.
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As the third day of their journey progresses, Aramis starts to feel anxious. Porthos is always very influential when it comes to the mood of a group. When he's unconcerned and light-hearted, people tend to feel comfortable, no matter how dire the situation. On the other hand, when he's angry he can almost make that tension thrum through an entire crowd. Since the large man has been on edge all day, Aramis' nerves are also starting to chafe.
It's when the evening starts rolling in that Porthos cracks. He stops his horse and reaches over to pull at d'Aubier's reins as well. The group comes to a stop, Aramis worried, Porthos furious, and Athos impatient, but ready to listen to what his friend has to say.
"What are you playing at?" Porthos' voice comes out in a growl.
"What do you mean?" d'Aubier asks, a quiver in his voice.
"What I mean is that we've been ridin' for two days. Without seeing anyone, or coming across any tracks that could lead us on." D'Aubier opens his mouth to refute, but before he can get any words out, Porthos is in his face again. "And call me mad, but I'm pretty sure we've passed this tree already."
The old oak that Porthos is pointing at does look eerily familiar. Its large branches are so long and thick that they reach back down to the ground, seemingly forming new trunks. Almost entirely covered in moss, it jumps out and grabs the attention.
Aramis can see now that they've passed this place before.
Athos, stoic and silent, loses his temper for the first time since they've heard of d'Artagnan's capture. Eyes wintery, with a voice so frozen that ice seems to shatter from his very teeth, the comte says, "You have been leading us in circles. You have betrayed our trust. We explicitly told you what the consequences of that would be. If you can provide a suitable explanation for your actions, we may spare you. If you cannot, I will take pleasure in personally impaling you on my rapier."
Sometimes Aramis forgets how absolutely terrifying Athos can be. Luckily, the comte is more than willing to remind his friends, and his enemies, just how dangerous he really is. The pallor of d'Aubier's skin goes from a blotchy grey to a deathly white in a span of two seconds.
"I don't really know the way very well…" The man squeaks.
Porthos, who still holds the reins of their captive's horse takes that as his cue to snarl inches from the man's face, "You must be really stupid if you think we're ever going to believe that."
At those words d'Aubier's face twists into a smile that makes Aramis skin crawl. With just that smile, the man's entire character seems to change. Gone is the nervous and slightly stupid captive, now all that's left is a devious looking piece of scum.
"Still not as stupid as you three…" d'Aubier shakes his head, still smiling and continues, "I've been leading you in circles for two days, and you never even realised it."
"We do now." Aramis speaks for the first time, disgust still curling in his stomach, "And I think you've just earned yourself a round with Athos' rapier."
"Maybe. But it's already too late. You'll never see your little friend again."
Porthos' hands are around the man's neck before he can say anything else, only the fact that they're all on horseback keeping him from murder. A look from Aramis is the only thing that prevents him from moving in closer and finishing the deed.
A howl echoes through the quickly darkening woods. Loud voices sound through the trees as beating hooves come closer. Three heads snap up. The fourth, their captive's, remains level, a content smile marring his features.
"You set us up!" Porthos' snarl has gone down to a whisper, he doesn't want to alert their pursuers of where they are.
"How did they know to come here?" Athos asks, perplexed, but practical as ever.
"It's procedure. Chassroi's men always make their rounds. And when they find sash tied to a tree," d'Aubier points down to where he used to carry a purple sash. Athos curses internally for not noticing. Both Aramis and Porthos do so externally. "They know that there's something worth hunting."
D'Aubier barely has time to finish his shit-eating grin before Porthos punches him off his horse. Aramis quickly blocks his way, moving in close. Soon all three men are towering over him, the rage on their faces clear even in the dusky light.
"We could just leave you here," Aramis starts, his voice sweet as ever, "Leave you to be torn down by those hounds. Leave you to explain why we got away."
"Or we could just kill you," Porthos says, with all the lightness of a man discussing the weather.
Athos seems to deliberate, his rapier shining softly through the dark, as if ominously catching all the light before it falls. It's with a voice so soft it's almost soothing, that Athos says, "The latter does seem the better option. After all, I did make a promise."
There's a moment of fear on the captive's face at those words, all the devil-may-care attitude gone. Then Athos brings down his rapier so quickly it looks almost careless.
The musketeers leave behind a heap of dead d'Aubier and a set of hoof prints they hope their pursuers will not be able to make out at night.
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D'Artagnan has lost track of time. There's no way of feeling its passage here in this cell. The only light he gets to see is that of a torch, and he's never really in for anything pleasant when the torch comes by. After all, that light is always accompanied by a dark and horrid shadow that relishes in his pain. Always.
By now, d'Artagnan has learnt the man's name. Chassroi. The importance of that fact is not lost on the Gascon. If the man wants him to know his name, then this whole thing has turned into something personal. Which is bad.
The thinks.
Thinking is another thing that's becoming increasingly difficult. The pounding of his head seems to drown out any thoughts, and the sluggish bleeding of the slice in his side seems to sap him of brainpower somehow. Aramis would know what to do, if you know, the man wanted to see d'Artagnan again.
It's a terrifying thought that maybe he has gone too far, and that maybe no one is coming for him. Deep down, though, he knows they will. No matter their quarrel. No matter their anger. No matter what they blame him for (since you got your father killed, it echoes in his head). They will come for him. Even if it's just out of a sense of duty.
Chassroi knows this, too. He seems to be well acquainted with the business of musketeers, and that is rather concerning in itself. Not the most concerning, though. The most concerning thing is keeping his mouth shut.
At first when Chassroi comes in, d'Artagnan speaks back. For every taunt and jeer from his captor, the Gascon has an answer. For every kick in the guts, every backhand, every punch, he has a grin and a curse.
It always starts the same way.
"Where's the letter?" Chassroi will begin.
"What letter?" d'Artagnan's not quite sure how often he's repeated those words by now, but he knows they will not change until Chassroi's question does.
"Why are you still trying to keep this a secret? Most of your friends are dead. Those who aren't will soon join us in these cellars. You'll spare everyone a lot of pain if you just tell me where you hid it." The man's voice is lilting, and the look on his face would probably look friendly to anyone who has never seen his sneer before.
D'Artagnan simply reminds himself that Aramis, Porthos and Athos are not dead. That's what he can find out from these words. His friends are alive. And they won't be stupid enough to come after him (he knows they will come after him, and deep down he really hopes they do, but they can't, they can't come down here for him and then hurt and die…).
"I don't know what you're talking about." D'Artagnan keeps his turmoil inside. Athos would be proud.
"You musketeers... You're the King's little bitches. Just working on the very whim of a boy who doesn't even know how to run a country. And you'd still die for him." Chassroi punctuates his statement with a blow to d'Artagnan's ribs.
"Better the bitch of a King than the plaything of an earl." It comes out as a breathless grunt, but there's a sweet smile on d'Artagnan's face when he speaks.
Then Chassroi will try flattery, "You seem like a smart man. Why do you support a King you knows nothing of France."
"He might not know everything, but he certainly knows more than a Swedish earl." D'Artagnan always replies.
That is the gist of just about any conversation d'Artagnan can recall since he came in. At first, that is. As soon as Chassroi realises that he will get nowhere with sweet talk or punches he has gotten to the part that he calls 'really fun'.
D'Artagnan disagrees.
Maybe it's because d'Artagnan does not enjoy hurting people. Maybe it's because he does not generally agree with torture as a means to get people to talk. The Inseparables have shown him the threat itself is usually enough.
Or maybe... Maybe it's because d'Artagnan's the one whose being strung for hours on end while sharp whips pound his flesh and sing-song voices fills his ears.
After the first few stings on his back, d'Artagnan knows he can't keep up his cheeky commentary on the situation. Not with his lungs freezing every time a burning strike reaches him. He can't trust himself enough not to give anything away if he opens his mouth. So he tries to say another word until he's either out of here or dead.
He's really hoping for the first option.
His silence only serves to aggravate Chassroi. The strikes become crueller and the words that d'Artagnan has long since stopped listening to grow harsher. Good. If angering this man is the last thing he does in his life, then it's a life lived well.
They bring him back to his cell. He never could have imagined a place he despised more than this cell. But there is one.
And it feels like hell.
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The wind whips through their hair as they fly through the forest. It's quickly getting too dark to see, and it's a blessing that the trees are leafless, or the shine of the moon would be lost on them too. Behind them, nearly drowned out by the pounding of hooves under them, is the barking of hounds. Seemingly closer and closer it comes. Louder and louder and...
They're breathless as branches scratch their clothes and the cold stings at their faces. The horses are equally out of breath, their flanks rising and to the beat of the musketeers' hearts.
Every once in a while they look at each other, silently communicating the fear for their youngest, the worry for their capture, and the sheer, raging determination to find and kill those who dared lay hands on one of them.
But first, they have to ensure they don't get caught.
It's easier said than done. They've been riding their horses for days, giving them precious little rest, and soon one of the creatures is going to give out. The pursuers have fresher horses and knowledge of the area.
As one mind the three men urge their horses to go just that little bit faster. It's the understanding of three soldiers who have seen too much together that allows them to make these kinds of decisions without even conferring with each other. With their additional speed they quickly ride out of the reach of those chasing them.
When Porthos' horse practically trips over itself out of fatigue they stop for a moment, listening through the dark. They know the dogs' howls will soon catch up with them again.
It's Athos who takes the lead, knowing they can't go on like this for much longer.
"We'll have to split up." the comte pants.
"Yeah, cause that went so well last time…" Porthos retorts.
"That's a good point." Aramis meddles.
"We don't really have a choice, gentlemen. If we don't, they'll get us all. If we do then at least one of us can escape, and follow up later to get the rest out."
Of course both Porthos and Aramis already know it's the best option. That doesn't mean they have to like it though. The two friends eye each other for a moment, then they nod simultaneously.
"Very well," Athos says at their agreement, "Time to part ways then."
"Don't die!" Porthos answers in a voice that is way too cheerful for a man heading to his death.
"If we do, I have no doubt we will see you in hell." Athos states with the arch of a brow.
"Not me!" Aramis tells his friends, sounding just as cheery as Porthos, "I pray. If that doesn't get me a pass to heaven, I don't know what will."
It's with the fear in their hearts and a smile on their faces that the musketeers part ways.
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Back in the dark dungeon d'Artagnan is straining his eyes. Trying to see something proves to be a good distraction from the fiery pain on his back. He's sat against the wall, leaning against his right arm. The cold stone was soothing at first to the pain, now it only serves to ignite it.
He can't see anything. He wants to sleep and forget, but his wounds won't allow it. So instead d'Artagnan thinks of better times. Times that don't include him hurt and tortured and friendless in a dungeon he does not want to be in.
He thinks of winding roads in Paris. He thinks of the sun setting over the walls of the city. He thinks of the King's large gardens that he can sometimes imagine are his own. He thinks of the wind as it grips Constance's hair and wafts it around her shoulders. He thinks of Athos' raised eyebrow, of Aramis' charming smile and Porthos' boisterous laugh.
Until that, too, gets painful. After all, it's one of the things he thinks he might have lost.
So he sets his thoughts further in the past. He thinks of Gascony with its sunny fields and its baking heat. He thinks of his farm, stood between copses of trees. Of soft winters and cool streams. Of his father's stern look that was so often broken by a smile. He thinks of Buttercup, his yellow horse. He hopes she got away.
Despite his best intentions, when he closes his eyes he dreams not of Gascony, but of Paris.
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Porthos is a true Parisian. It may not literally run in his blood, but he's spent most of his life there and his heart throbs to the city's rhythm. He's not one of those people who does not want to venture out of what he knows. On the contrary, he's often jumped off of the precipice and into the unknown with the faith of madman. It's how he survived on the streets. It's how he became a musketeer. And, most important, it's how he met his friends.
Now, he's seen so many places in France that he's lost count. He's come to love the forests and the long stretching fields that grow on French soil. But in times like these, when he's being chased through an unknown wood, he longs for the narrow streets of Paris.
Not because being hunted down is so much more pleasant in Paris than it is here, but because at home he has the upper hand. In Paris Porthos knows every street, every alley, every dark corner and bump in the road. In Paris Porthos can disappear by turning just three corners. He can hide in a crowd of drunks, or delve into the cellar he knows is always open on the Rue des Lombards.
Here there's nothing but trees, looming up like ghosts in the dark. Their heavy roots reach for his legs tripping him and holding him up. It's one of these roots, a sneaky little thing hidden by darkness and moss that becomes his downfall.
His horse gave out not long ago, stopping in its tracks and nearly thundering to the ground in its exhaustion. It would no longer move. Unable to force his horse to move – and unwilling too if he was honest, the horse was a formidable animal – but equally unwilling to get caught, he ran.
Now, Porthos is still running, long legs pumping over the forest ground when his foot gets caught up in a root. He careens forward in a comically slow arch. Behind him there's the heavy breathing of dogs. With more relief than he thinks physically possible he feels his ankle is unhurt. With a lot less relief he realises he can't get his boot free from the root it's stuck in.
Pulling, pulling, all the while hearing panting dogs and thundering hoofs come closer. Finally he manages to tug his foot out of his boot. He's running again, sharp objects on the forest ground cutting into his left foot. Thorns. Roots. Fallen branches.
Then there's a hound in front of him. The thing is brown, sleek fur over an athletic body. A true hunting dog. And Porthos is the prey.
He dog does not attack, but still the large musketeer stills. He doesn't want to take his chances against that thing. Behind him two horses slow to a halt, he can hear them.
A voice calls out, "Surrender to us, and no harm will come to you."
"Yeah right, like I'm stupid enough to believe that." It comes out with a rough scoff, "Nah, you wanna take me down… You'll have to fight me for it."
"We could do that. Or we could just set the dog on you." The second voice is quieter, colder. It's also closer, a silhouette blocking out the moonlight to his right.
"That hardly seems fair." Porthos argues, and before he can continue the leg that presumably belongs to the second voice kicks out.
The world goes darker than it was before.
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d'Artagnan is woken roughly by two men pulling him up. His chains are taken off and he struggles to get free. Not because he thinks he'll actually manage it, but because he owes it to himself to try. A punch to his gut drives he air from his lungs. That allows for the Gascon to be dragged easily to another cell nearby.
It's a cell d'Artagnan has come to hate in the short time he's been here.
Soon he's been unceremoniously hung from two chains on the ceiling. His feet can just reach the ground, so he locks his knees and looks Chassroi straight in the eyes. The man will not have the satisfaction of his fear. There's a smirk on the other man's face. It promises nothing but pain.
D'Artagnan steels himself when Chassroi signals one of his men to get started on d'Artagnan. It's the first time that the leader does not inflict the torture on him personally. Something has changed. D'Artagnan just can't tell what.
It doesn't matter, really. It doesn't change the question, or the answer.
When the man behind d'Artagnan picks something from the wall d'Artagnan knows what is waiting for him. The leather squeak of a whip as it slides from a wall is something that the Gascon regrets he's come acquainted with.
The blow comes hard, reopening a welt from the day before. But d'Artagnan does not yell. Does not answer. Does not even open his mouth. His eyes tear up, but he does not cry. Instead he raises his head and looks at Chassroi.
Then d'Artagnan smiles.
Something of a shadow comes over the other man's face. Chassroi steps forward, signing for the man behind the Gascon to stall the next swing. Moving to stand behind d'Artagnan, he slowly lets his hand run down the landscape of welts on the Gascon's back.
Leaning in closer, the man whispers softly in d'Artagnan's ear, "You may not realise it yet, but the game has changed. What hasn't changed is you. Here. Alone. At my mercy."
For a second d'Artagnan feels almost triumphant that he has managed to goad out that something has indeed changed. The last of Chassroi's words billow past his face.
"Don't forget that."
Then the man plunges a finger into one of d'Artagnan's wounds. Flinching in pain, Gascon highly doubts he will ever forget any of this.
He thinks he must imagine it, but as Chassroi pushes his filthy finger deeper into the welt, he hears a dog bark.
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Dogs. Athos has never really liked them. He had dogs at home when he was younger, enormous creatures that towered above him. Their gnashing teeth and putrid breath had always scared him a little when he was young. He remembers seeing one of those beasts tear down a fox like the thing was made of wax, that was terrifying. Now, Athos is over the fear, that doesn't mean he has to like the creatures.
There's a crack of a musket in the air. Athos' horse, already tired and on edge, bucks out of sheer panic. This surprises Athos to some extent. Musketeer horses are trained to resist the fear of battle and listen to their riders. He must really have driven his steed too far to get this kind of reaction from a mere musket shot.
However, the reason barely matters. What does matter is that Athos is now standing still. Two riders approach him, swords gleaming in the measly light of the moon. He turns his horse, grabs his own rapier, swishing it once to get its feel.
Athos takes a moment to regret that he doesn't often get to do swordfights on horseback. After all he's even better from the back of this trusty steed than he is on his own two feet. So with an outward look of grim determination, and an inward feel of exhilaration, he starts to fight.
The two men attack first, simultaneous strikes to his head. He parries them both. The three dance around, Athos' tired horse still nimble as ever. He doesn't have to win, he just needs enough space between himself and these two men to get away.
That's when the hounds come. They run around barking, snapping their teeth only inches from his horses' legs. Growling, jumping, snarling. One particularly large one makes a lunge at the horse's neck.
Athos' horse bucks again, sending Athos to the ground.
Immediately the dog stops barking, Athos thinks he can see it lying dead under the hooves of his horse. He doesn't get much time to look though, before he's being pushed back down by the paws of another hound.
The dog leans over him, drool falling onto his face. It's a well-trained animal, used only to find the prey, not to kill it. All bark and no bite. Poor thing just now died for nothing. Still, the creature is heavy and Athos finds he can't dislodge it.
He can hear a man dismount, but he has eyes only for the dog on top of him. Within seconds there's a blade at his throat while two hands shift to his belt and disarm him. Only when that is done does Athos hear the whistle that signals the dog to get off him.
The blade is still at his jugular.
"Gentlemen." Athos states politely as he stares up at his pursuer. "I will come with you willingly if you bring me to the Chateau that is owned by a man named Chassroi."
For a second Athos can see a confused frown on the face above him. What's this man playing at? It seems to ask. That's an easy question to answer. He needs to get d'Artagnan to safety, and only by surrendering will he ensure that he is not too injured to get his friend out.
"Well, what a coincidence. That's exactly where we're taking you." The voice above him mumbles.
Athos is pulled up roughly, his hands tied behind his back and then he's draped ungracefully over the saddle of his own horse. It's in this humiliating manner that Athos is brought to the chateau.
But at least he's getting there.
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There's that metallic tang of blood in the air. Rancid breaths puff onto him, as warm and wet as the sweat on his back and the tears on his face. From where he's standing (or being held up by the chains that hang him from the ceiling – he isn't quite sure which) he can see his tormenter circling him endlessly.
Still, he doesn't see the slash of the whip coming. He hears it, though. There's a whoosh as it rips the air apart. And he feels it. Oh, boy does he feel it. There's a white hot fire as it rips his skin to shreds.
His body is screaming now, begging for attention. But however much he wants to, however hard he tries, he can't get the screaming to leave his body. When he opens his mouth to scream, to beg for the pain to stop all that comes out is a grunt, a large exhale of air. Nothing else. Vaguely he wonders at why. Gascon pride, perhaps? Ingrained so deep that even when he rebels against it, it still wins out? They'd call it stubbornness.
They. Aramis, Athos, Porthos. Les Inseperables. Musketeers. Friends.
Brothers.
He hopes that connection will be enough for them to come after him. He hopes that he did not offend them with his willingness to leave. He also hopes that he did. That his friends will never come, will never see him like this, and will never have to endure all this pain and fear.
There's another whoosh, followed by a cackle of laughter. There's a question, but he has long stopped paying attention to those. Something warm and wet and painful slides over his back.
Maybe Athos was right after all. d'Artagnan may not have believed the man at the time, but he can feel it now.
Everything ends bloody, and there is no dignity in death.
As the whip comes down again his vision explodes in a cacophony of white as he falls into the abyss of unconsciousness.
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Aramis is making good time, considering. His horse is tired, but holding its own. Sadly, the same can also be said the ones following him. They're gaining on him, and the barking of dogs can be heard throughout the forest. At first Aramis had marvelled at their speed, then he realised these dogs aren't impossibly fast, there are just very many of them. And that's how they're keeping up with his horse.
Aramis narrows his eyes, it's dark, but he isn't the best shot in the garrison for nothing. His eyes are sharp even at night. In front of him he can see the trees part. That's good. That means a stream, or road where he can potentially lose his pursuers. He's just about to launch over whatever is separating the trees, when he sees what it is. He pulls the reins of his horse so hard that the animal almost twists back to where they came from.
In front of him the ground drops away to nothing, simply disappearing after the last row of trees. Crumbling earth ending and falling into sky. Opposite him he can see more trees, but there's an impossible barrier in between. Behind him, his captors are closing in.
Bringing his horse in a bit closer, he looks down. All he sees is black. Too deep to hide in then. Then he looks across again, calculating. Is the opposite side too far away to jump? If it is, and Aramis tries to jump, he'll fall to his death. Still, he needs to do something to keep out of the grip of the dogs.
He'll just have to try.
Turning his horse back where he came from, Aramis ensures a long running path. Then, breathing deeply he leans in close to his horse, whispering encouragements, like d'Artagnan always does. That's why he's doing this, for that farm boy who turned out to be so much more. And if he falls to his death out of sheer stupidity for that boy, then it'll be a pretty damn good death.
Another deep breath, and he straightens. Digs his heels into the horse's flank, and feels the strong body under him start to move forward. His heart echoes the beats of his horses hooves. Behind him he hears voices calling.
Then he's flying.
Flying.
Crashing down on the opposite side, only just dodging a tree. But he's made it, and on this side there are no captors. Now he's free. The horse trips over a root and Aramis feels the creature crashing down before he sees it. Jumping off and quickly rolling away he manages to escape landing under his beloved steed.
He does crash into a tree though. And something in his shoulder pops as he hits first a branch and then the unforgiving ground. From his experience as a medic he can hear the dislocation happen. From his experience as a soldier he can feel it happening. It hurts.
Looking up he can see that his mount is up again, and thankfully unscathed. Good. The only problem now is that his dominant arm is absolutely useless, which makes him rather useless in mounting a horse. That's bad.
To make things worse Aramis can suddenly hear the cracking of twigs and the neighing of a horse. Within seconds a horsed man is towering over him.
"Nice beast you've got there." There's a glint of teeth in the dark, "Don't know many that can make a jump like that."
"I'm sure you don't." Aramis says amiably, "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get on him again, and leave."
"Not a chance." The other man growls. That's exactly the answer Aramis expects, so he's already managed to pull his rapier from his belt with his left hand.
He's about to approach the man when he feels an arm wind around his neck. Stabbing wildly backwards he's satisfied when he hears a pained grunt. Then his shoulder is jostled and everything goes fuzzy.
Someone rips his weapon from his grasp while he's dazed. The same voice from before comes wafting over him, "I see you've met Guillaume. Best watch out, he has a firm grip."
Aramis is finding out just then how true that is. The arm winds tighter, cutting off his windpipe. He goes from dazed, to breathless, to unconscious in a matter of seconds.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
What letter. What letter. What letter. Those two words have become a lifeline to d'Artagnan. They echo and echo in his head as he tries to ignore the pain.
What letter. He thinks as a knife is run almost soothingly through the flesh on his shoulder. What letter? His questions internally when Chassroi spits in his face. What letter? He wonders as he feels his knees buckle, his full weight hanging at his shoulders.
What letter. What letter? What letter! The litany flows through his mind, a gentle stream of thought. Easy, palpable, and the only words he can ever let Chassroi hear.
He'll break, sooner or later. D'Artagnan knows he will. But when he does, the only thought in his mind will be what letter? And the only words from his mouth will be what letter?
And that means he'll have won. Though honestly with his body burning and freezing like it is, he wonders if it will feel like winning.
WHAT LETTER?! His mind screams as he sees, for the first time, Chassroi approaching him with a fiery red poker. WHAT LETTER. The panicked voice in his head asks flatly as he sees the poker smoking, white steam billowing like a ghost through the air.
As the red-hot poker nears his body, he can feel the heat emanating from it. When it touches his skin, scorching, burning, melting, his mouth gapes, soundless. But his mind screams. WHAT LETTER!?
He's not sure what he feels anymore now but there's a monster clawing its way out of his chest, and he needs to let it out.
What letter? He repeats to himself. Because he feels his vocal cords buzzing, his lungs seizing in an attempt for sound, and he knows something is going to come out.
He just hopes it's the right thing.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
They're in a dungeon. That much is clear at least. The large stone walls are wet and cold, the chains attached to their manacles dig deep into the stone. A torch at the dungeon door is the only source of light, flickering and casting shadows that only make the dismal place seem darker. Porthos' mind is not quite clear enough to realise what it means that they're here. Dried blood is crusted against his cheek, and he distantly notes that that has something to do with the continuous pounding in his head. He wants to close his eyes again and go back to sleep. Maybe then, he can pretend that he's not in a godforsaken dungeon. A nagging feeling that he's forgetting something keeps him from doing so.
Ah, he remembers now. There's something he needs to find. Three somethings in fact. Searching, Porthos lets his eyes roam. There's a lump to his left, shaped like a man. A man wearing a hat.
Good. That's thing number one: Aramis.
To Porthos' right is another figure. That second lump, looking grumpy even in the dark and facing in another direction, is Athos. Thing number two has been accounted for.
So that leaves…
A cry so rough that it sounds like someone's lungs are trying to escape through their throat rents the air. Even distorted in the way that it is, Porthos knows that voice like no other.
"D'ARTAGNAN!" Athos is sitting up now, pulling at his chains as if that will get him closer to his protégé, the rasp that is his voice cracking halfway. Aramis, too, seems to have woken, furious eyes staring in the direction of the scream.
Porthos can scarcely imagine what it must take to rip a sound like that from their newest recruit, but he hopes he'll never have to hear it again. Still, part of him is glad of the scream. At least now he knows that the three most important people in his life are alive.
He daren't think the words 'for now'.
Well, I'll just leave that there. Heh heh.
Also, just to be sure, I don't own Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, but there was a cliff and a chase on horse-back. I couldn't resist.
I'd love to hear what you think : )