Athos gathered Porthos into his arms as a flood of relief washed over the large Musketeer, resulting in a torrent of emotional tears. The lieutenant comforted his friend with quiet support, as there were no words fitting for such an experience as this; he let his friend cry until there were no tears left. The tears were soon replaced by a forcible will to break away from the ropes binding him to the barbaric apparatus and the hellish dungeon.
Aramis held d'Artagnan as the young man sobbed uncontrollably, releasing despondent tears overflowing from a heart broken by his loss of courage and self-imposed personal doubt. A dam of sentiment had been broken, allowing the outpouring of emotions from the constant, brutal suffering at hands of cold-blooded monsters.
D'Artagnan's arms hung limply at his side; they ached from being stretched almost to the breaking point. Aramis untied the pieces of rope still hanging from the Gascon's wrists. "Can you move your arms?" the medic asked apprehensively.
The young Gascon shook his head. "I can't feel my arms," he panicked. "Aramis, are my arms permanently damaged?"
"Hold on now, d'Artagnan, try not to panic; let me have a look to make sure nothing is torn or broken." Aramis raised the Gascon's left arm carefully above his head. The medic watched his brother closely as he felt along the socket and muscles of the arm; he paid particularly close attention as he brought the arm back down to rest on d'Artagnan's lap.
The medic then moved to the right arm and shook his head with disgust as he examined the angry gunshot wound, still torn ragged after being sliced open by the savage men. At the movement of his arm—no matter how gentle Aramis was being—it caused d'Artagnan to scream out in anguish.
Aramis carefully felt along the socket and rotator cuff then laid the arm in the Gascon's lap, not feeling displacement or tears. "Both shoulders appear to be intact with no tears or breaks, but your muscles and joints have been stretched to almost beyond their limit. You will be very sore from the amount of abuse you've taken, my friend."
D'Artagnan nodded as more despairing tears welled in his eyes then spilled out and rolled down already-wet cheeks.
"Aw, d'Artagnan, I can't imagine the hell you've been through in this abominable place." Aramis choked up as he wiped away the tears. "How's Porthos doing?" the medic asked Athos as he was tending to the large Musketeer.
"I didn't detect any breaks or tears with his arms, either," Athos reported. "Thankfully, they didn't have time to do permanent damage on these racks; if we had been any later. . ." Athos' voice cracked at the gruesome thought.
Athos cleared his throat before continuing. "I haven't checked his legs, but I'll let you know here in a minute." The Musketeer lieutenant untied Porthos' feet then gently felt along his ankles, knees and hips for broken bones. "Doesn't feel like he has any broken bones; however, you should take a look at this stab wound before we move him."
Aramis patted d'Artagnan softly on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."
The medic sat on the frame of the wooden rack and began examining Porthos' stab wound. Aramis put his ear to the large Musketeer's chest, above his left lung to listen for breath sounds. "Have you experienced any difficulty breathing?"
"Maybe a little," Porthos answered weakly. "Since it hap'nd I've had this sharp pain 'tween my shoulder blades—not constant pain—but sometimes it aches."
"Uh oh." Aramis instantly regretted voicing his concern out loud at the alarm it raised.
"What?" Athos asked with worry.
Sighing, Aramis knew he had to be truthful regarding Porthos' potential injury. "It's possible that the knife may have penetrated the diaphragm. The diaphragm is a thick sheet of muscle that help expand our lungs when we inhale; if there is any damage to the diaphragm, it restricts our ability to breathe."
"What does that have to do with pain between the shoulder blades?" Athos asked.
"I don't really know why that happens but it is one of the known symptoms." Aramis looked closely at the wound again and shook his head. "I'm not a doctor, but by looking at the wound, I would say it's going to need surgery—and this goes beyond my skill level. We need to get him to Blois as soon as possible."
"Are you able to sit up?" Athos asked his wounded friend.
Porthos nodded but remained quiet, closing his eyes.
Athos and Aramis retrieved their swords and daggers—without care—from the dead men's bodies before returning to help Porthos. As the lieutenant reached to help Porthos sit up, the medic suddenly noticed Athos' torn left doublet sleeve with his lower arm and hand now covered in blood.
"What the hell happened to your arm, Athos?" Aramis asked, his eyes wide with shock at the sight. "Why didn't you say you were hurt?"
"Aramis please, not now." Athos dismissed the medic's inquiry, waving him off with his right hand. "Our first priority is taking care of Porthos and d'Artagnan—my arm can wait."
"Athos, it looks to be bleeding quite heavily and unless you want to pass out from blood loss. . ."
"I said it can wait," Athos snapped, his tone absolute. "Now, let's help Porthos get up so we can get the hell out of here."
The two Musketeers pulled Porthos into a full upright position, turning him so that his legs draped over the edge of the rack. The large Musketeer cried out in pain with his hand going protectively to his wounded side, but Aramis pulled his hand away. "No, don't touch it," he shook his head. "We need to keep it clean, so keep your hands away."
"You ready to stand?" Athos asked as he and Aramis rounded behind Porthos to help him to his feet. The rescuing Musketeers couldn't help the gasps of horror as they saw their friend's wounded back; the skin was colored with a multitude of bloody stripes caused by the whip wielded in the hands of a devil.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" Aramis exclaimed, choking on astonished tears. He drew a hand to his mouth to stifle any further cries threatening to escape. "Aw, Porthos."
"I'm okay, 'Mis," Porthos whispered softly. "Don't worry 'bout me, I handled it."
"Dammit, you shouldn't have had to handle. . . this!" Aramis waved his hand over Porthos' chest and back with disgust.
"I jus' want to ge' ou' of here, please," Porthos begged.
Athos rounded the rack to stand ready on Porthos' left side. "Once we get Porthos on his feet, I can handle him by myself," he told Aramis. "Can you get d'Artagnan up on his feet by yourself?"
"I'm not an invalid!" d'Artagnan snapped with a little more ire than he meant. He didn't mean to sound angry, it certainly wasn't Athos' fault he was hurt, but the anger was there nonetheless. None of this experience—the kidnapping and the torture—needed to happen. Why were we put through this hell just to protect a damn letter?
Athos and Aramis exchange worried glances but remained quiet. They each threw an arm around Porthos' shoulders then used their own weight to pull him to his feet, eliciting a scream of pain from the large man.
The two friends frowned as they watched their friend suffering quietly in pain. They waited patiently until Porthos stopped swaying and his dizziness passed before Aramis pulled himself away to go help d'Artagnan.
"You sure you can handle him?" Aramis turned, watching with widened eyes as blood dripped from Athos' hand.
"I'm no' an invalid neither!" Porthos growled, interrupting the response Athos was about to give Aramis. "We need to stop by the cell and pick up our clothes," he paused, "I need my boots."
"Do you know where your cell is from here?" Athos peered into the hall. "It's pretty dark out there," he frowned as he looked up the hall one way and then the other. "We better take a candle so we can see where we're going."
"Yeah, I think I ca' find it." Porthos began walking while leaning on Athos for support. The pair stopped briefly to retrieve a candle from the wall before heading into the dark hallway.
Aramis helped d'Artagnan to his feet and, once again, gasped in horror at the ghastly sight of the torn and sliced back of his young friend. "Dear God, what did they do to you in this place?"
"Can we talk about it later?" d'Artagnan pleaded. "I just want to get out of here, please."
The medic waited patiently as the Gascon swayed on his feet with dizziness, allowing him a moment to gather his strength. "Are you sure you're going to be able to walk out of here?" Aramis inquired, his voice soft. "There are a lot of steps we have to climb before reaching the main floor, are you up to it?"
"Yes, I'm up to it." D'Artagnan forced a smile at the medic's concern. "I just want to get the bloody hell out of here."
"Alright, let's get your clothes and get away from this godforsaken place." Aramis and d'Artagnan each picked up a candle from the wall then followed behind the leading pair. The candles struck ghoulish shadows along the stone corridor, eerily lighting the small prison cells as they passed.
D'Artagnan's breathing quickened, his heart racing, as he peered with horror inside the small cells as they passed; he almost expected to be pulled in and made prisoner once again.
"It's alright, brother," Aramis soothed softly. "We're getting you out of here; just hang on a little while longer."
Turning a corner in the hallway, the leading pair reached the large prison cell that had become both a place of terror and a place of refuge for Porthos and d'Artagnan. Athos looked around and noticed the sets of shackles hanging from iron rings mounted on the wall. His eyes widened at the streaks of blood on the pale stone where his friends had leaned; he gasped aloud upon seeing the blood dotting the floor near the wall and also at his feet where he stood.
Looking up, Athos then saw the manacles hanging from long chains connected to the ceiling. "Dear God," the Musketeer exclaimed as he glanced at Porthos. He couldn't imagine the horror his friends must have gone through in this hellish place. At least they weren't in pitch-black darkness, which only would have added to their fears. Athos glanced gratefully at the small square window where light streamed in.
"I need to get out o' here!" Porthos began to panic, his broad chest heaved with anxiety. His eyes widened as he stared at the wall with the blood streaked on the stone; his mind wandered back to the suffering he endured while sitting there in that spot.
"Porthos, slow your breathing down," Athos instructed. "We're getting you out of here." The Musketeer lieutenant placed a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Let's get you dressed, shall we?"
D'Artagnan and Aramis then entered the cell. The medic stopped in his tracks as his eyes fell on the blood-streaked wall and the droplets of blood all around on the floor. His widened eyes shifted upward where he spotted the hanging manacles, causing his breath to catch in his throat. "Oh God," he gasped in horror.
"I just want to get dressed and get the hell out of here." D'Artagnan growled as he pulled his clothes on gingerly over his wounds.
Porthos grabbed his footgear then put his hand down inside the right boot, desperately feeling around. He visibly sighed with relief, almost tipping over as he dropped his boot to the floor.
"What's wrong, Porthos?" Athos asked, picking up the dropped boot.
"Nothing, dammit!" Porthos growled as he snatched the boot from Athos' grasp. "Let me get dressed so we can go!"
Athos flinched at the uncharacteristic anger coming from his friend; he put a hand against the wall to steady himself as he wavered on his feet.
"Athos, are you alright?" Aramis asked after watching the emotional exchange between his friends. The medic shook his head, saddened by the anger seeping from his normally-amicable brothers. We need to get them out of here as the walls themselves appear to be stirring up rage.
"Let us get the bloody hell out of here." Athos motioned with his head toward the hall as the two men finished dressing. The four Musketeers began the slow and exhausting ascent up the narrow and steep stairs, leaving the dark and gruesome dungeon behind them. As they climbed higher, Porthos and d'Artagnan continued throwing frightened glances over their shoulder, as though expecting to be pulled back down into the depths of hell by unseen forces.
Once in the narrow corridor, the group of men rested a moment so they could all catch their breath; each were now sweating profusely and panting heavily from the taxing exertion.
Athos leaned against the wall as he felt the heaviness in his chest giving rise to a hacking cough. Doubling over, Athos gave in to the fit of coughing, stealing away his breath and stripping away his strength. He fell to his knees but reached out with his left hand to keep from falling on his face; in doing so, he left a bloody hand print smeared on the wall.
"Athos, dammit, are you okay?" Aramis rushed to his friend's side. He knelt beside the sick man then took his handkerchief from his pocket to wrap it tightly around the wounded arm.
"Athos, you're supposed to be in bed taking it easy," d'Artagnan scolded. He frowned with worry as he pounded gently on his back, until Athos was able to catch his breath.
"If I. . . st-stayed home in b-bed. . . who would have come to r-rescue you, huh?" Athos panted, trying to shake the dizziness away.
"Are you alright?" Aramis asked as he finished wrapping the arm.
"Yes, let's keep moving," the Musketeer nodded. Athos cleared his throat to chase away any further coughs tickling at his throat. He gratefully accepted the help of Porthos and Aramis as they lifted him to his feet. The group continued on with the climb out of the dungeon, each man desperate to be free of the wretched place.
The winding staircase seemed to take hours, sapping any strength the wounded Musketeers had remaining; the group had to stop several times to catch their breath before being able to continue. The four brothers helped each other—sometimes pulling, sometimes being pulled—as they made their desperate climb to freedom from a place that had brought Porthos and d'Artagnan so much agony and terror.
Once at the top of the stairs, the men panted heavily, worn from exhaustion; they each had rivulets of sweat rolling down every surface of skin on their bodies. The pain in Aramis' side flared and throbbed mercilessly, causing black dots to darken his vision. He leaned over at the waist, concentrating on slowing his breathing, until the dizziness passed.
"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan asked with concern. "It seems we're not the only ones in bad shape. What happened to you?"
"Long story, I'll tell you later." Aramis feigned a smile. "Let's get outside and mount up; I'm ready to get out of here."
Athos leaned over yet again as he endured another hacking cough, spitting out the phlegm onto the floor. "Agreed, let's get the hell away from here," he rasped.
The group made it to the double doors, practically stumbling out of the château with one last burst of renewed energy. The Musketeers were determined to escape the evil horrors lurking within the stone structure and couldn't get away fast enough.
Aramis first helped d'Artagnan onto his own horse before circling back to help boost Porthos into the saddle of Athos' horse; he then helped Athos climb into the saddle in front of Porthos. The medic pulled himself into the saddle, settling in front of d'Artagnan. The duo turned then headed away from the château without waiting for the others.
"Let's get away from here," Athos voiced as he gently kicked the horse into motion. Porthos grabbed the lieutenant around the waist to keep from falling as they turned down the long path toward the road. At last, the group of four brothers left the château of horrors behind them, without ever looking back.
Once again the Musketeers were on the road toward Blois, the assigned destination given them to deliver a letter from the king. How did things go so terribly wrong?
The ride west to Blois was quiet. No one was in the mood for conversation after the experience at the château; each were lost in their own private thoughts and personal suffering.
D'Artagnan rested his head on Aramis' shoulder and quickly fell asleep; the medic smiled as he listened to the steady breathing of the sleeping Gascon behind him. The marksman's smiles turned to sorrow when he thought of how long his young brother had been unable to sleep without fear of torture always before him.
Porthos rode leaning his forehead against Athos' back, almost instantly falling asleep in said position. The injured man cradled his arm against his chest to slow the bleeding that had now soaked the handkerchief and smeared the front of his leather doublet.
Suddenly, Athos sat up straight as he observed a group of horsemen racing toward them from the west. Aramis also noticed the group then glanced down at his sword, but it was partially covered by d'Artagnan's leg. "We're in no condition to fight anyone." Aramis warned as he watched Athos with Porthos sleeping behind him.
Regardless of personal condition, both Musketeers were prepared to fight—to the death, if necessary—in order to protect their wounded brothers.
As the riders drew nearer, Athos let out his tensed breath and rode ahead as he recognized the captain and his group of Musketeers approaching.
"Athos, thank God," Captain Tréville exclaimed, awash with relief. "We just came from Château de Blois looking for Porthos and d'Artagnan; we were told they never arrived so we turned around to begin a new search."
"Captain, I'm sorry. . ." Porthos paused as his voice caught.
"Captain, we just rescued them from the worst possible hell you can imagine back there!" Aramis motioned with his hand, pointing behind their location.
"My God, Porthos and d'Artagnan, are you two alright?" Tréville was stunned as he looked over his bruised and beaten Musketeers.
"We're alive, Captain," d'Artagnan muttered.
"Yes, I can see that you are—thank God." The captain let his head hang for a moment as he closed his eyes. "We can go over the details of what happened when you both are feeling better," he said, looking up at the men with sympathy. "But I have to ask, gentlemen, where is the letter?"
"It's safe," Porthos answered. The large Musketeer didn't bother looking up from his place behind Athos, his head continued to rest against his friend's back.
"Safe where, son?" Captain Tréville asked hesitatingly.
"Safe, righ' where you told me to pu' it," Porthos answered cryptically.
"Seriously, Porthos?" D'Artagnan lost his temper. "Are you still going to keep that damn secret hidden from me even with the captain here and the raiders dead?"
"I kep' the location of the letter secret to protect you, so you wouldn't have to lie," Porthos explained.
"Really?" D'Artagnan snapped in disbelief. "Or were you afraid that I would break and tell them where it was?" he yelled.
"You've go' a lo' of nerve accusing me of such a thing!" Porthos growled back, raising his head as his posture tensed.
"That's enough!" Captain Tréville shouted. "I told Porthos where to hide the letter and that he was to tell no one—not even you, d'Artagnan—where it was located in light of the possibility of being captured." The captain attempted to soothe the rising tempers.
"Well, we're safe now and yet you still don't trust me!" D'Artagnan glowered at Porthos.
"The letter is not safe until delivered into the hands of the king's appointed recipient," Tréville countered. "Until then, it will remain hidden. There will be nothing more spoken of it until we safely reach the château."
Athos' head drooped forward as he attempted to suppress a cough bubbling up from his chest; his breath came out as wheezing rasps. "Oh God," he groaned as his congested chest ached. The Musketeer swayed in the saddle, had it not been for Porthos hanging on to him, he would have fallen to the ground.
"Captain, we need to get to the château," Aramis said with a sense of urgency. "They all need medical care—and quickly." The medic sat upright as pain flashed through his ribs, causing him to wince and grimace.
"From the looks of it, you need a physician as well, Aramis," the captain surmised. "You men don't need to remain doubled together on one horse; we can free up two more horses so you can each ride separately."
"No," Porthos protested. "I canno' move again; I won't make it."
"I don't want to move again either, Captain" D'Artagnan objected as he laid his head back on Aramis' shoulder then closed his tired eyes.
"Alright, it's not that far until we reach Blois," the captain relented. "Just try to hang on for a little while longer."
The group rode together at a quick pace, but not so fast that it jeopardized the wounded men. The captain anxiously watched the four men, plainly observing that his Musketeers were waning and would not be able to remain in the saddle much longer.
The longer the trip to Blois took, the more Athos had to be supported in the saddle by Porthos; the larger man was now keeping a tight hold on his friend. The Musketeer lieutenant was barely hanging on to consciousness; he fought to stay awake by focusing on the passing scenery. Sweat poured from Athos' brow and ran into his eyes, but he lacked the strength to even wipe away the stinging drops.
Aramis kept a worried eye on his friends, certain both might tumble from their horse any moment. He was amazed at the devotion of Porthos as he clung to Athos from behind; he held his brother in place and kept him from falling over, despite his own wounds.
The medic smiled with wonder. After everything Porthos went through at the château, despite the terrible wounds he received from the torture, he still somehow found the strength to help his brother in need.
Finally, when the wounded Musketeers feared they couldn't stay in the saddle any longer, they arrived in Blois and soon approached the ornate red brick and stone château. The group of Musketeers rode through the arched entryway to the inner courtyard, instantly alarming the guards.
"I am Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers and these are my men," the captain introduced himself with authority. "We are here on official business; I also have wounded men who need a physician immediately."
Two guards ran inside to inform Monsieur Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois, in the absence of the Duke of Orléans, of the arrival of the King's Musketeers and to request immediate medical assistance.
Two of the Musketeers, Therron and Vallois, dismounted to assist Porthos from the saddle as René and Marceau jumped down to help Athos.
"No wait, don't. . ." Aramis tried to warn Therron and Vallois, but was too late.
As Porthos was pulled from the horse on one side, Athos slumped over the other side; he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap before René and Marceau could catch him.
Aramis instinctively moved to help the fallen Musketeer, only to have d'Artagnan slump over and begin falling from the horse, unconscious. The Gascon fell, not to the ground, but into the ready arms of Captain Tréville.
A/N:
Château Royal de Blois is located in the center of the city of Blois. It was the residence of seven French kings and ten queens. It was the place where Joan of Arc went in 1429 to be blessed by the Archbishop of Reims before departing with her army to drive the English from Orléans.
It became the favorite royal residence and the political capital of the kingdom under King Louis XII. The king initiated a reconstruction of the main block of the entry and the creation of an Italian garden. This wing, of red brick and grey stone, forms the main entrance to the château, and features a statue of the mounted king above the entrance.
The château has 564 rooms, 75 staircases and has a fireplace in every room; and has 100 bedrooms. In 1626, King Louis XIII gave the Château of Blois to his brother, Gaston duc d'Orléans as a wedding gift.
Today, the "Royal Castle of Blois" is now a museum with over 30,000 pieces of art in the Francis I wing; and it also houses the Museum of Fine Arts housed in the Louis XII wing.