Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
T.S. Eliot
Porthos slowly awakened to painful groaning. With the ringing in his ears, he couldn't tell if the groans came from him or the man next to him. He tried to remember where he was but his sluggish mind couldn't concentrate for the pain. He blinked his eyes in attempt to break through the fog but his vision remained fuzzy, dulling the surroundings to mere shadows in the dark room.
He tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain but the action only triggered agonizing pain to shoot from the back of his head to his temples. He instinctively moved to massage his temples, but only then did he discover that he couldn't move his arms. Porthos suddenly realized he was shackled and hanging from the ceiling by his arms raised high above his head, though his feet still touched the ground and he could still stand.
He discovered that he was stripped to his braies, making him feel somewhat violated in knowing they went through his clothing while he was unconscious. In a panic, Porthos scanned the room and found his and d'Artagnan's clothes crumpled on the floor in a corner where they had been callously tossed.
The Musketeer's eyes zeroed in on the two pairs of boots that lay next to the crumpled clothing and prayed his boots were still intact. I s'pose I'll know whether or not they found what they were lookin' for next time they come in, he thought.
"Bloody hell, what is this?" Porthos could no longer feel his arms, or for that matter, his hands or his fingers. The large Musketeer tried desperately to free his wrists but the movement only caused the metal bands to dig painfully deeper into his flesh. Soon, streams of red flowed down his arms to his armpits mixing with the streams of sweat. Porthos knew that not only was he prisoner to the iron restraints, he was also prisoner to this dungeon and to the evil men who tortured here.
A low moaning caught his attention. "D'Artagnan? Brother, is that you?" Porthos looked beside him to see the shadow of a figure hanging by his arms in the same manner. The sunlight streamed through the small block window and gleamed off the chains holding the young Musketeer; the Gascon fought against his restraints and tired to loosen his hands.
"Don't bother, mon ami," Porthos advised. "They have these manacles on tight; we ain't gettin' out of 'em, no matter how much we struggle. You'll only hurt yourself if you keep fightin'."
"Where are we, Porthos?" The Gascon asked, his voice laced with pain. "How did we end up like this? I don't remember anything."
"You've been unconscious most of the time," the large Musketeer reminded. "Don't worry 'bout it none," Porthos muttered. "Trust me, there's nothin' worth rememberin'."
The sound of the large iron cell door opening startled both men. "Well, look at this," Henri marveled. "I am glad to see you awake, finally," the ruthless man said to d'Artagnan. "We're going to start with you."
"I don't know anything so you're wasting your time," d'Artagnan snarled. "But I do know that you are nothing but a ruffian bougre."
"D'Artagnan. . ." Porthos hissed a warning, though too late.
Henri's fist landed on d'Artagnan's face, snapping his head back. Blood burst from his nose and streamed down his lips and chin before dripping to the floor like drops of rain.
A maniacal laugh escaped the bloody mouth of the young Gascon, prodding on the insatiable thirst for blood from the unmercifully cruel mercenary.
D'Artagnan was unprepared for the fist that pounded into the tender flesh of his stomach, forcing the breath from his body with a rush of air. The young man hung limply from the manacles, bleeding from his nose and desperately gasping to catch his breath from the violent punch.
"Enough!" Porthos yelled. "D'Artagnan, keep your mouth shut; don't give 'em any more reason to hurt you."
"You are in no position to order him, Musketeer; that is my job alone," Henri grinned smugly.
"You're delusional," d'Artagnan spat. "I don't take orders from you."
"We shall see about that," Henri countered. "You may soon change your mind. I want you to experience maximum suffering in our next activity; I will show you who's in charge. Remember, none of this needs to happen if you would simply tell me where the letter is."
I'll be damned, they didn't find it. Porthos quietly sighed with relief.
"I don't know where it is!" D'Artagnan yelled as he warily watched the men circling around him. Once again, he found himself struggling against the bands of iron gripping at his wrists and holding him in place. If only he could work his wrists free from the manacles. The Gascon would do anything to escape, though he would never leave his friend to suffer alone in this stone dungeon.
"Gaston, if you would please go fetch Jacques so we can get started," Henri ordered.
"What are you going to do?" Porthos asked with sudden alarm. "You bastards!" he cursed. "I will kill you if you hurt him!"
"Porthos, please don't interfere; you'll only make it worse on yourself." D'Artagnan tried to put on a brave face, though inside he was terrified. "I'm a King's Musketeer," the young Gascon closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "I can handle this."
Gaston soon returned. "He's on his way."
D'Artagnan turned his body in the direction of the cell door, to face his tormentor head on. Never had the young Gascon felt so vulnerable—and so frightened—as he felt now with his arms secured above his head, unable to fight against what lay in store.
Jacques entered the stone cell with an object in his hand, though it was too dark for d'Artagnan to determine what it could be.
The man raised his arm and swiftly snapped it down so that the end of the whip lashed on d'Artagnan's bare chest with a crack!
The young Gascon arched his back as he screamed out from the sudden white-hot pain that emanated from his chest. The chains holding d'Artagnan in place rattled and clanked as the young man struggled to escape the sudden and furious storm of leather.
"Stop it, damn you!" Porthos screamed as another lashing was brought down on his friend.
"Where is the letter?" Henri yelled over the screaming. "Tell me and all this will stop."
"I don't know!" D'Artagnan screamed as another crack of the whip connected with his skin.
"Shame, such loyalty from a fine soldier is going to waste on that pompous pansy of a king," Henri shook his head.
Crack! D'Artagnan screamed and twisted on the chains; his manacled arms crossed as he twisted in the air. He lifted his feet to suddenly kick out at Jacques, with both feet landing hard on his tormentor's stomach, knocking him backwards to the floor.
Henri was enraged and grabbed the whip from Jacques's hand to begin pummeling lashes on the Gascon's back, or wherever the whip happened to land, with relentless fury. Again and again, the whip cracked and lashed against bare skin as the Gascon twisted and turned to escape the barrage of unforgiving leather.
D'Artagnan's screams and howls of pain were deafening in the confined stone room, but Henri continued his ruthless torture.
"Stop it now!" Porthos' yell fell on deaf ears as the tormentor unleashed hell on d'Artagnan. At last, the large Musketeer couldn't watch the sadistic punishment any longer. He hung by his arms and then kicked out a powerful burst with both feet that sent Henri flying into the stone wall like a rag doll, knocking him out cold.
Jacques ran to retrieve the whip but as he neared the Musketeers, Porthos once again kicked out his powerful legs, knocking the man down and sending the whip scattering from his hand across the floor.
Gaston reacted by punching Porthos in the ribs, knocking the air from his chest and leaving him gasping and choking. Again, he punched the large man in the face, splitting the Musketeer's lip open.
Porthos spit a mouthful of bloody saliva into Gaston's face, making the sadistic man step back with disgust and shock. The man soon regained his composure and with newfound anger, he pounded his balled-up fist into the large Musketeer's ribs again and again.
As though the fight and stubbornness had been knocked out of Porthos, the large man hung with all his weight supported on his arms. The Musketeer was left reeling from the pain exploding through his body as he tried to catch his breath.
D'Artagnan screamed for Gaston to stop his vicious assault on Porthos but was ignored as he slammed his fist again into the large man's side. The young Musketeer reared up with his legs and gave a mighty kick, sending the sadistic man sliding across the floor, stopping only when he bumped into the cell door.
Jacques sent another vicious lashing of the whip on d'Artagnan's back which caused the young man to writhe and twist on the chains, screaming in agony. One more crack made the young man surge forward as far as the chains would allow before his entire body went limp and his head lolled forward with his chin resting on his chest.
Jean-Pierre grabbed a handful of hair and laughed. "Aw look, the Musketeer has passed out. Too bad, we were having such fun with him."
"That's alright, we still have one more Musketeer we can play with," Gaston snarled. "Now it's your turn, big man. Let's see how long you will last," he laughed mercilessly.
"Where is the letter?" Jacques asked, giving Porthos one last chance to divulge the whereabouts of the secret letter.
"Go to hell," Porthos spat, steeling himself for the onslaught of leather.
"Let me do this." Gaston growled as he stood from the floor and snatched the whip from Jacques. Crack! the whip made its stinging mark on the back of the large man, causing him to gasp in pain as he twisted and turned in attempt to get away from the man holding the whip.
"Where is the letter?" Gaston hissed as he flicked his wrist with the whip, sending it snapping across Porthos' back.
"I don't know what you are talking about," Porthos growled through gritted teeth. Crack! The whip rang out again and again as Gaston rather enjoyed watching the large Musketeer writhe in pain and cry out in anguish.
The onslaught of the whip was unabating and incessant, yet Porthos never spoke but to curse at the sadistic men entertained by their torment.
Finally, one crack of the whip too many sent Porthos to the realm of blessed unconsciousness; his body hung limply as blood ran down his torn and ragged back.
"Let's get them off these hanging manacles and put them on the wall restraints so they can't kick us anymore," Jean-Pierre suggested.
The men first released d'Artagnan's wrists allowing his unrestrained body to fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. They next went to Porthos, releasing his wrists and watching callously as his large frame fell to the floor, landing with a sickening thud.
They dragged the Musketeers to the side of the room, sitting them up just enough to get their wrists into the manacles attached to the stone wall with large iron rings. The young Gascon tipped to the side as his limp body fell over only to be stopped by his restrained arms.
The large Musketeer fell forward, his chin resting against his chest, as his arms were pulled behind him and attached to the manacles.
"Let's leave them until they wake up," Gaston laughed. "They aren't any fun when they're passed out. We have plenty more in store for them and I want them awake to enjoy every minute of it."
A/N:
I'm sorry for the graphic nature of this chapter. Believe me, if you were cringing while reading this, and you were gasping in horror at the lashes Porthos and d'Artagnan were receiving, I was also!
When I write, I try to make the reader visualize the scene, as though watching an episode, with the story playing out before your eyes. I think you can pretty well visualize the torment these boys went through! Unfortunately, the goons are not done with the boys yet… I'm Sorry, Porthos and d'Artagnan!