Chapter 11:
Author's Note: Okay, a slightly shorter chapter, but within a week, so I'm counting that as a win ;p. Massive thanks again for everyone's continued support and lovely reviews! Enjoy!
"Athos." Porthos murmurs and the comte looks up.
"What?" he snaps, time is of the essence, and though Athos enjoys conversation as much as anyone, now is not really the opportune moment.
"Let me do this." Porthos answers, not in the least hurt by his friend's harsh tone. Athos chooses to ignore him and focus on the lock he is trying to pick.
"You are concussed." He whispers, delving the bent hook deeper into the lock with shaking fingers. Porthos pulls his hands away, causing Athos to lose his grip. The comte looks up at him in frustration, but he large man merely raises his eyebrows.
"I am, and even then I'm faster than you at this." he grouses, grabbing the hook himself, "It took you half a day and an entire night to pick the lock on your second manacle… Really it's a miracle you got yourself loose at all!"
From the left hand corner of the cell, Aramis snorts. Athos shoots him something that would have been a glare, had he put any effort into it. There are quite a few things he would like to reply to Porthos' poor attempt at humour, but he decides against it. One brother to whom he has said unforgivable things is more than enough.
"I'll stand watch." Athos says instead, while Porthos grunts in agreement. He's trying to avoid nodding at present. One of the wonderful things about lock picking is that there is no need to look while doing it. It's simply a matter of fiddling with the inner workings of the lock, pushing up piece by piece, until it springs free. Which is good, because Porthos does not want to exert his brain too much at present. It's going to be painful enough walking, talking and fighting his way out of here.
Which a soft click, the lock breaks open, manacles falling to the ground.
"That was slower than usual, Porthos," Aramis croaks as the large man makes his way over to his friend, "Losing your touch?"
This is about the point where Athos lets checks out of the conversation. Half the things his friends will be saying will be completely facetious, and the parts that are not will be so layered in insults, that it would take a genius to unwrap them. The door of the cell creaks slightly as he pushes it open. There is no lock, and the only guard on duty is sleeping soundly by the door. It seems luck may be smiling on them after all.
"Merde, Aramis!" Porthos swears behind Athos, and the comte turns to see what is going on.
"It is quite alright, my friend –" Aramis answers hoarsely.
"Oh, is it?" Porthos interrupts, "Well in that case I will not be putting it back in."
"Porthos…" Aramis sighs.
Athos shoots a concerned look towards the sleeping guard. With the way his friends are talking, it may not be long before the man wakes up. He attempts to shush them, but before he gets the chance, Porthos is speaking again.
"Were you planning on telling us your arm was dislocated?" Porthos mutters, still assaulting the manacles on Aramis wrists, "Or did you want to wait until you had to fight one-handed?"
"Your arm is dislocated?" Athos asks, an extra splash of guilt pooling in his stomach. He should have noticed, or at least checked the health of his friends before picking at Porthos' locks.
"It's only dislocated, nothing serious." Aramis answers, exasperation colouring his voice.
Athos does not agree, but the does not get to display his dissatisfaction at Aramis' words. Their guard chooses that moment to wake up and see that the door is ajar. For a seemingly endless moment the guard and the comte stare at each other, both coming to grips with their new realities. Then the man opens his mouth to scream, Athos throws a well-aimed punch at the man's jugular.
Any sound the man was about to make is cut off with a choking gasp, and Athos follows through with a second punch to the man's head. As the guard falls and Athos shakes his aching fist, Aramis keens loudly and lets out a stream of Spanish curses that would make God himself flinch.
"Quit whining," Porthos mutters good-naturedly, casting Athos a twinkling gaze, "It was only dislocated, after all."
"You're a butcher, you know that?" Aramis croaks with a wince. He gingerly turns his arm a bit, the pain of his fall still heavy on the joint. It is moments like these when he remembers why the medical aspects of their journeys are not left to Porthos. Though perfectly capable, his hands are rather rough.
Athos shakes his head, worry over d'Artagnan still etched in his features.
"So," he says, toeing the unconscious guard before him, "Who feels like dressing up?"
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
When d'Artagnan opens his eyes the world is still cold and dark, but he can see shapes twisting in the gloom, so that probably means he's alive. The world is strangely fuzzy, the hardness of the stone softened and blurred. It seems to tilt less than before, though, and the rain is gone. A hand runs over his head, and he cannot help leaning into its warmth. The fiery flames that engulfed him, even in the rain, seem to have disappeared. Now there is just cooling sweat and the wet chill of autumn.
"Awake, are we?" A voice sounds next to d'Artagnan. He turns to see two startlingly green eyes. A cup of water is pushed against his lips, and when he feels the cool liquid on his tongue, all he wants to do is drink, drink, drink. He'll guzzle down entire rivers if that is what it takes to quench his thirst.
"Not too much," the voice warns, "Your fever only just broke, we don't want to make you sick to the stomach."
"I was very ill?" d'Artagnan whispers. It's a question, but it may as well have been a statement.
"Yes." The woman's answers are straight and to the point. He vaguely remembers thinking she would get along with Constance, something he stands by still. D'Artagnan scrunches his brow, knitting them together as if that will help his thoughts come together, too. He remembers little of how he got in this dark room. All he can think of is shadows and a voice that makes his blood boil.
"What…?" He murmurs, digging for some sort of explanation.
"Chassroi," the name is spit out with contempt, "He decided to test a few interrogation techniques on you."
Just like that the memories come slamming back. A deadly battle, a sneering man, and the crashing of a whip. Pain. Lots of pain. Then Athos, Aramis and Porthos, the news that his other friends are safe. Chassroi again. What letter? He wants to ask after his friends, then he remembers another thing.
A vow of silence. D'Artagnan shuts his mouth again. Then he considers how impolite it is to ask nothing of the woman who – presumably- saved his life.
"What is your name?" he asks on the croak of a voice.
The woman smiles kindly, "Melanie."
D'Artagnan nods, he wants to thank her, but she speaks again before he even gets the chance.
"I will try to keep you here as long as possible, but Chassroi will come to fetch you soon. He is an impatient man." The woman informs him. Her eyes smoulder with anger towards the lord of the chateau. D'Artagnan can safely say the feeling is mutual. He cannot keep a shiver from rolling over his body at the thought of more pain, more Chassroi.
As if summoned by d'Artagnan's very thoughts, a set of terribly familiar footfalls sound down the hall. The steps, still far away, are accompanied by the loud voice of a man d'Artagnan really does not want to face right now. The woman's head snaps up as well, then she quickly turns back to d'Artagnan and meets his eyes.
"I do not know who you are, or what Chassroi's business is with you," the woman says with a kind voice, "But you have survived and withstood more than most men would. You seem like a very stubborn man."
D'Artagnan grimaces at that, the same words ringing through his head in the voices of all those he loves. The words are usually not much of a compliment. This time though…
"Use that stubbornness." The woman finishes.
Right before the door crashes open, and Chassroi enters, d'Artagnan speaks.
"Thank you." He tells the woman, then his lips close, and he returns to silence as his tormenter enters the room.
"Well, well. Look who is back from the land of the dead."
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Two decrepit looking musketeers and a bedraggled guard stroll down the halls of Chateau Rouge. The guard, arm in a make-shift sling, leads his two prisoners along by their shackles. While the larger prisoner seems to be having entirely too much fun walking through the halls, the shorter one wears the exasperated expression of a parent grown tired of his kids.
Looking closer, one might see the worry lines etched into the faces of these three men. Under their respective emotions they hide concern. It's this that makes Melanie notice them, as she looks up from her patient's cell. The very thought of the young man that she cared for back in the hands of Chassroi, makes her sick. She wishes she had the power to stop the lord of this castle from committing these horrible deeds (and if she stops him from breathing while she's at it, then that's only more reason to try). But she has three children, and a village full of people who rely on her medicinal knowledge. One thing she cannot afford to do, is die.
The unlikely trio has stopped before the cell, the guard pulling at the men's chains with a one-armed tug.
"Excuse me, Madame," he starts, his voice more charming than that of any guard she has ever met, "Would you happen to know where the other musketeer is held prisoner? Monsieur Chassroi has requested we bring them all to him."
Melanie looks at him for a moment, mind reeling at a guard who took two men out of their cell without permission. Not only this, but a guard who blatantly lies about Chassroi's orders. Mostly, though, her mind reels at a guard asking after her patient.
"Chassroi just came to collect him, as you would very well know if you were truly one of his guard." She answers, eyes roaming over the three men at the door, they look sheepish at being found out, but something in their stance tells her that they will walk right through anyone who tries to stop them, "Have you come to save the poor boy?"
Three heads shoot up at once. The eldest of the three eyes her curiously, as if putting together pieces of a puzzle that only he can see.
"Yes, we have come to save him." he starts calmly, then follows up with a slight narrowing of his eyes, "Will you aid us?"
"I quite enjoy being alive, and I have three young children at home, so I will not be joining you on any adventures." Melanie states as she stands up and wipes the dirt from her dress, "However, I will tell you everything I know about your young friend, and you may do with it as you wish."
"That is all we could ask of you." The largest man states. Dry blood is crusted over his cheeks, and she notices a squint in his eyes that signals a concussion.
Hand on the doorframe, Melanie looks out into the hall. Apart from the three musketeers, it is empty. She waves them inside with her hand, and raises her brow sceptically when they hesitate to come in.
"I only wish to check your injuries and tell you of your friend's condition. I am hardly going to try to overpower three men twice my size." She tells them.
The would-be-guard chuckles, then holds out his hand, "My name is Aramis, and these two are Porthos and Athos."
Grasping his hand tightly, Melanie answers, "I know, he muttered your names as he slept."
The men nod, then they walk into the cell to hear what she has to say.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
They took him from his cell and hung him from the ceiling. Again. D'Artagnan is really growing tired of this constant moving, this constant pain that follows the voice and steps of Chassroi. Not to mention the fear, the heart-stopping terror that grips him every time he is led to this dungeon of agony.
He's barely standing, already hanging from his arms, when someone cuts his shirt from his body. With the sleek stroke of a knife, the linen is gone, with another, d'Artagnan's skin is slowly split down the middle.
"I'm going to cut you up." Chassroi says lovingly, "Then I'm going to fetch your friends, and they can watch as I cauterize your wounds. We don't want you to get another fever, after all."
Another fever. D'Artagnan almost scoffs, clearly recalling Melanie's indignant words when Chassroi came to fetch him.
"The worst of the fever has broken, but it is still there!" Melanie had practically shouted at the man, "He is weak, still. He needs to rest."
"I am counting on that weakness." Chassroi had sneered, face close to d'Artagnan's, as he pulled the Gascon up and out of the cell.
And he does feel weak. It is almost like the muscles in his legs have disappeared overnight, like the pain in his body leeches away all the energy he has. Three more strokes of the knife, and d'Artagnan is well and truly hanging, muscles in his arms screaming at him to stand.
Yet the muscles in his legs have yet to come back, and all there is, is pain.
"I'm really hoping I can get you to scream again," Chassroi whispers as he gradually sinks a blade into d'Artagnan's shoulder, "That really got a reaction from your friends last time."
The blade isn't long, and d'Artagnan knows that he won't bleed out from the wound. But it's like fire under his skin. A burning snake that slithers in and out and bites every piece of flesh that it can. It's hilarious really, that Chassroi wants him to scream.
Because right now? Right now there is no air. Not for d'Artagnan at least. Just pain.
And lungs can't function, can't scream, on pain alone.
What letter? He reminds himself. What letter? The blade comes down again, the intricate carving of a pattern in skin. That calm darkness of nothing, that rainy fever of death, he wishes for them now.
Death may be void of dignity, but it is also void of pain.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
The three musketeers exit the armoury weighed down by an arsenal. Melanie was to kind as to show them to the weapon's room, and they're quite ready to take on anything between them and their Gascon. After Melanie insisted that they eat, Porthos' head was cared for and Aramis' arm hung in an actual sling.
Taking a right turn back down to the dungeon's, Athos feels his heart constrict. He doesn't know in what condition d'Artagnan will be when they find him, but he swears that if Chassroi is in that room with them, the lord will be dead before he can even open his mouth to speak. Actually, even if Chassroi isn't in that room, Athos will personally see to it the man is murdered in the most painful way possible.
The halls down here are cold, and the torches cast ominous shadows through their flickering flames. The cells around them are silent open doors calling for Athos to look in. He is itching to do so. Just to see if there are people in there. People who have been tortured into silence. People who are dead.
People who have ended up like d'Artagnan will not end up.
Footsteps run down the stairs behind them, and the three musketeers quickly jump into one the closest cell, hiding behind the door in the dark. Harsh breathing sounds through the hall, shuffling feet that move further and further away until they come to a sudden halt. At least five men. There's more shuffling, too far away to hear, and voices sound through the hall. Though muffled by distance and the density of the walls, Athos clearly recognises one particular voice.
Chassroi.
A passive-aggressive exhale of breath comes from Porthos, while Aramis merely scowls. They can't do more than listen until they've found d'Artagnan.
The feet move down the hall again, Chassroi's clearly among them.
"What do you mean you don't know where they are?" Chassroi bellows, "How far can they have gotten? They don't exactly know their way here!"
Athos smirks at that. We do now, he thinks, thanks to Melanie.
When the musketeers no longer hear the steps or the voices of Chassroi and his men, they move from their hiding place. Slinking slowly up the hall, they look into every cell for d'Artagnan. They round a corner, and a bored-looking guard jumps up in surprise.
"GUAR-" he begins to shout when he sees them, then Porthos fells him with one punch. The door that the man was guarding is slightly ajar. Athos centres himself, taking a deep breath before he reluctantly pushes the door open.
The cell is stuffy, the smell of sweat and blood permeating the air. There's something else too, stronger still, the smell of burnt flesh. A fire burns hot to the side, Athos sees, a still-hot poker haphazardly thrown next to it.
D'Artagnan hangs in the middle of the room, the chain between his manacles hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The Gascon's head hangs down as if trying to figure out why his legs no longer bear his weight. Blood seeps in slow drips from d'Artagnan's torso, staining the ground.
For a moment time stands still. The three musketeers stare, nailed to the ground, thrown even after all the horror they have seen by the image before them. Something about the scene is almost intimate, like walking in on another's nightmare.
Then Athos is moving forward, reaching out with shaking hands.
"D'Artagnan…" He whispers. Hesitantly, he lifts up the head of his protégé. The Gascon has his eyes closed, his mouth shut in a firm line. Athos has no doubt that beneath the lips, he's biting on his tongue to keep from shouting.
"D'Artagnan, open your eyes. Please." D'Artagnan doesn't, but he tenses when Porthos reaches up to the hook that keeps him in place.
"Hold him in place." The large man says, then d'Artagnan is crumbling down, caught by four hands. Aramis curses his dislocated shoulder and looks on as his friends lower the Gascon to the floor.
"D'Artagnan?" Athos starts again, desperation sounding in his voice now, "Please say something."
D'Artagnan's eyelids flutter, then open to reveal glazed eyes. It's typical, Porthos muses, that when Athos asked d'Artagnan to open his eyes, he did not. And now that he's been asked to do something else, he obliges.
"Can you speak?" Comes Aramis' ironically rough voice.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
They're here. All three of them. Alive. Fine. Saving him.
Always.
How they got loose, how they find him, he doesn't really care. They're here. That's what's important. Fire still burns over his skin, an echo of the poker that was used to cauterize a particularly deep wound, but the fire in his heart softens to embers. It's just a friendly fire now, warm and soothing.
They're asking him things, so many questions, and something in d'Artagnan rebels at the thought of answering any questions at all. Can he speak? Of course he can.
But he mustn't. Because Chassroi cannot know.
Still, these are his friends, and he owes them an answer.
D'Artagnan licks his lips, then whispers, barely audible the only answer that he knows.
"What letter?"
Then his eyes close again.
TBC
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