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ATHOS

I am not to be starved to death; at least that seems to be the arrangement for the time being. Given my confined space, it is clear that my captors have no intention of injuring me with a glancing blow that might knock me senseless by recklessly throwing food and water down to me. Instead, a leather water bottle and a chunk of stale bread have been lowered by rope in a sack twice now.

On the first occasion I was given strict instructions not to hang on the rope or that would be the end of any sustenance. I was to remove them from the sack which was then raised once more up to the opening with the proviso that I should make both last as long as possible as there was no knowing if or when I would receive more.

So I tried to eke out those initial meagre rations, but the bread would have become totally inedible were I to leave it much longer. I broke it into bits and ate it slowly over a period of a few hours, partly because the first mouthful was so dry that I gagged and struggled to swallow it without some of the water to help it go down. I disciplined myself, allowing the first small taste of water to moisten the inside of my mouth and to eradicate some of the foulness coating my dry tongue. The next sip wet my lips and then I waited, trying not to count the seconds and minutes before I thought it acceptable to sip again, acutely aware of the flavour of aged leather at the opening of the water bottle.

A sip does not slake a burgeoning thirst.

The contents were exhausted well before the second bottle arrived and I resolved to be more resilient and better at managing the limited food and drink. Already I could feel the gnawing hunger pangs at my insides and I recalled how long a man could survive without either necessity.

I can last longer without any food. I like to think that I am reasonably fit, but it will not be long before I start losing weight that I can ill afford to lose and if I am only permitted bread, that can hardly be considered as healthy so I can anticipate that there will be muscle wastage, especially if I am inactive for a prolonged period of time. As I have already discovered, I can stand in my cell and that is it; one step to left or right will bring me up against solid wall. The prospect of 'taking a turn' around my prison to glean some much-needed exercise is out of the question.

Without any water, the future is bleak. Three or four days, I'd say; a week at the very most if I were to be fortunate.

Fortunate? Ha! My voice cracks at the sound I make; already that is suffering from lack of use and the infernal and constant dryness of my mouth, despite the sips of water.

If my captors do not want me to die for whatever their twisted reason, then the sack will probably be lowered every two to three days. My sense of timing has abandoned me, but I would be more inclined to it being two days between the first and second sacks rather than any longer. I hope so, although it does not help me in the slightest for if I cannot gauge time, I have no idea how best to divide my rations. The only consolation is that if there is anything left from one sack by the time the next arrives, I can have a veritable feast with the remainder of the first.

I chuckle at the prospect and realise that there is no humour in it. How is it when the prospect of two or more mouthfuls of hard bread and gulping down stale water constitutes a feast?

Porthos and Aramis always complain that I do not eat enough and are constantly encouraging me to eat more, to remember meals and not replace them with an alcoholic liquid diet, as I have been wont to do on more than one occasion. I try telling them that is only their opinion, that what I eat suffices, that I do not feel hungry. Oh for that time again for I know hunger now and it can only get worse!

There is certainly no way that I can eat the amount favoured by Porthos, but then we are of completely different builds. He is the taller by several inches and far more muscular than I could ever be. That is not to say that I am weak and scrawny. I still have my strength - although I do not know how much longer that will be the case. I can hold my own in many a fist fight, but I need the stamina to maintain my prowess with a sword in my hand. I am more … how can I put it? Slender? Lithe even?

With Porthos, though, food is not merely a means to an end, a way to sustain his energy, and I would never begrudge him his love of food, not after his childhood in the Court of Miracles; a den of criminals, home to the dispossessed, sanctuary to the crippled soldiers without families, and the refuge of the impoverished of Paris. I was very fortunate; as the heir to a comte, I never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from.

My thoughts stray repeatedly to the garrison, my comrades, my Captain … and my brothers.

What are they all doing? I have no idea of the day and therefore the routine. For all I know, they may be asleep right now or carousing in a tavern at the end of a busy day. Doing all the normal things, the things that are now denied me; things that, when I had the freedom to do them, I took so much for granted and now would give anything for a simple meal at our usual haunt or at our favoured table at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Captain's office.

I think of the stews Serge happily prepares in the garrison, sometimes from the meanest of ingredients when availability is hard. I can smell his newly baked bread still warm from the oven as we pull it apart to eat with thick slices of cold meat, hard cheese or, on the odd occasion, a soft creamy cheese imbued with herbs.

What is this? I never spend so much time thinking about the food I put in my mouth, but now I am obsessing about it.

It is a bad sign.