Thanks to those who have read and left comments on the last chapter.

Aramis, Porthos and the Captain have found Athos at the bottom of the pit, but what next?

CHAPTER 52

ARAMIS

"How did he get down there?" I demand of Durand as I begin unbuckling my belt. "Don't tell me you just threw him down there!"

"No, no!" the steward hurries to reassure me and makes as if to move but is abruptly halted by Porthos' hand clamping down firmly on his shoulder. "There's a rope ladder. He used that." His voice has risen in terror as he points into the gloom behind them.

The Captain reaches down to pull the ladder into view and begins to unroll it.

"It fastens to two hooks on the side of the pit; you can see them more easily when the grill is moved," Durand explains.

"Then move it," Porthos growls, propelling him forward, "an' don't try anythin' or else you take Athos' place as soon as we get 'im out."

The grill moves easily; a reassuring sign that it has frequently been taken out and replaced after supplying food and water. As Durand starts to fix the rope ladder in place, Claude arrives with Alain, the Musketeer who was sent to get more means of light.

"All under control outside," Claude reports. "Thought I'd 'elp with the lanthorns and brought some rope too. Didn't know if there was anyone else needin' to be tied up." He glares at Durand with such ferocity that I am relieved the other man is focused upon his business with the rope ladder and the metal hooks. "Athos is down there?"

The Captain nods. "Light those lanthorns and tie one of them to the end of a rope. It'll be easier to lower down into the pit than a torch."

I'm shrugging out of my coat and rolling up my shirt sleeves when Porthos speaks.

"You want me to go down there instead?"

I lean over the opening and shake my head. "Thanks, but I'm smaller. There's not a lot of room down there and it's going to be difficult enough as it is to see what state he's in."

Sitting on the rim of the pit, feet feeling for the inadequate rungs, I reach for the ladder sides as Tréville and Porthos steady me with guiding hands on my shoulders and back.

"Claude, start lowering one of the lanthorns ahead of Aramis so he can see what he's doing and where he's going," the Captain orders.

Despite wanting to reach the bottom as quickly as I can – anything to get to Athos the sooner – the descent is slow as the rope ladder won't remain still when I shift my weight. I try not to react to the calls from above urging me to be careful, but I know my heart is beginning to race and my breathing quickens as the darkness seems to take on a life of its own and, ignoring the light from the lanthorn, threatens to swallow me up. I cannot even begin to think of what Athos was feeling when he made the same climb down to the bottom. Then I push to the back of my mind that he has been in total blackness most of the time since.

All the while, I maintain a gentle commentary, telling him it's me, that I'm coming down, that I want him to answer me, but there is nothing.

No movement; no sound; no awareness of the proximity of any of us or that things around him are changing.

He is sitting, back against the wall, arms around his knees that are drawn up to his chest and head bowed.

"Athos, it's me, Aramis. Can you hear me?" I try again as I pause in my descent, my feet level with his knees as I eye the gently swaying lanthorn on the other side of him. I reach out with one hand to still it and glance towards the uneven floor, wondering where best it is to stand.

The cramped conditions are such that he can never have stretched out to lie on the ground. I'm not even sure, given his height, whether he could extend his legs fully when sitting and it is inconceivable what remaining in that position for all those weeks has done to his muscles. I spy a pile of bones and skulls from former occupants and shudder at the thought of the effect that that discovery would have had on him. There is a water bottle and scattered chunks of bread that he has not eaten and some of which is now green with mould. It is cold down here and I am shivering already, despite feeling the sweat trickling down my back from my exertions. It smells too: of the cold and dampness, stale sweat, urine and body waste. I can see the spot where Athos has relieved himself – the stain where he has passed water and the evidence of faeces but, worryingly, none of it is fresh.

I step down, one foot either side of his and try to bend as far as I can, steadying myself with one hand against the wall above his head whilst reaching out with my other hand to detect a pulse in his neck.

Suddenly he comes to life, fists flailing and feet kicking at my shins, although there is no strength behind any of the contact.

"Athos, stop it. It's me, Aramis. We've come for you. It's me. Don't! You'll hurt yourself … and me."

All the time, I'm trying to catch his wrists, avoid his feet and calm him when a random kick catches me in the groin. I cry out, staggering back a step than hitting the rock surface behind me, swiping angrily at my watering eyes and thankful that there is no real force in the kick as I bellow for Athos to desist.

Concerned shouts erupt above me and I know that Porthos is ready to join me, but the Captain is holding him back, for which I am grateful. There is not the room.

"What's happened?" Porthos calls as I straighten up. "Has he hurt you?"

I'm too busy to answer as Athos continues to struggle against me. I can hardly call it a fight in his weakened state as I manage to grab him by the shoulders and hope that I can make him hear or understand me.

"I said stop it!"

I am just debating upon whether I dare hit him when he pitches forward against me and I sink awkwardly to my knees, arms wrapped protectively around him.

"Aramis, answer me. What's happening?" Porthos is still shouting.

"I'm fine, but he's passed out. At least we know he's alive," I quip; anything to mask the fact that I am close to tears.

They are tears of relief that I am holding him, that we have found him after all this time and that he is alive, but they are also tears of horror as I clutch him to me, the pair of us seemingly wedged into and filling the confined place where he has been for so long. Even in the limited light, I can tell that he is in an appalling condition and that beneath the ragged and filthy shirt, I can feel bone where muscle and flesh have wasted away.

It is as if I am holding a living skeleton.

"I need more rope," I call up. "We're going to have to pull him out." I suspect that even if he were conscious, Athos would not have the strength to climb the ladder.

An age passes until one end of a rope is lowered and I secure it around his torso and under his arms. Somehow, and with great awkwardness, I get him to his feet, although he is a limp, dead weight, but I want him to be in a better position for the others to begin hauling him up and out of this hell hole.

I shout last instructions as I clasp him to me. "Slowly now. I want to climb up the ladder beside him if I can in order to steady him. The wall is rough so I don't want him cutting his back or head."

They take the strain so that I can release him and he inches upwards in a jerky fashion. I start up the ladder beside him: two rungs, hold with one hand, guide him with the other as he moves past me again and repeat.

I am breathing hard when I eventually see his legs disappearing over the rim of the pit and, ignoring my aching muscles and shaking arms, I quickly ascend the last few rungs and am grateful that Alain and his friend are there to pull me to safe ground. As I lie there, recovering myself, I look towards Athos and, in the light of so many torches, I take a shuddering breath as more becomes apparent.

He is sprawled across the floor, his upper body cradled in Porthos' lap. His boot socks are torn to shreds, his feet cut and crusted with dried blood, as are his hands. The linen shirt is filthy, more grey than cream coloured, and ripped in numerous places with additional blood stains in evidence. In the seven weeks since he went missing, his hair and beard have grown so that he looks more like a wild man; the beard is shaggy and without shape, his hair matted and greasy. Beneath all that, though, I can see his colour – or lack of it. Always pale and now starved of natural light for too long, his skin has taken on a deathly white hue, waxy and almost translucent.

Staring fixedly at him, I crawl on hands and knees across the floor to his side and touch him. It is as if I am afraid that should I divert my gaze, he would disappear again, so I drink in the sight of him and tell myself that he is, despite everything, a beautiful picture, lying there in Porthos' arms like a fallen Greek hero.

"He's so cold," Porthos whispers, as if afraid of disturbing him, and I recall that as I held him in the pit, he was very cold and his clothes damp. "An' listen to 'is breathin'."

I had not noticed it before, but now it is hard to miss the erratic breathing with an unmistakable rattle in his chest. That very same cold and damp are taking their toll.

"What do you need?" Tréville suddenly asks. He is kneeling the other side of Porthos and our eyes meet. His are haunted and shocked at the condition of his lieutenant and he is struggling to keep his voice steady, to show some semblance of control.

Making an instant decision, I scramble to my feet. "Nothing down here. I want him out of here. Now. He is not spending a minute longer in this place. I want him up and in the warmth of daylight. We'll get him into the house and I'll look at him properly there, see what I can do before we take him home."

If I expect for one moment that there will be any opposition, any call for caution in case Athos has any severe injuries, then there is none. Porthos and the Captain take him by the upper body as I, facing forward so that I can see where I am going, hold him under the knees, one each side of me. With Claude, Alain and his friend lighting our way and Durand bringing up the rear, we make our way slowly along the passageways, the steep stairs to ground level nearly our undoing, but I am determined that Athos must be completely free of that hell.

When we emerge into the fresh air, the Musketeers gathered in the yard, look on in stunned silence, any jubilation at finding our missing lieutenant jaded by concern at his condition. A prisoner sniggers and a slap to the back of the head elicits a yelp and then he too has the sense to fall quiet. Porthos insists that he will take Athos on his own from this point and we jostle to accommodate his wish; to ease our stricken brother into his arms and I lead the way back into the main house, opening doors as I go until I find a suitable room on the ground floor.

"Here," I insist as we enter a parlour, rich with brocaded furniture and tapestried walls.

Porthos moves sideways through the door to avoid catching Athos' head which hangs back limply over his arm and gently lowers him onto a couch.

"But he's filthy!" Durand objects loudly. "You can't put …"

Something inside of me snaps. I have spent too long trying to be the peace maker, to be the reassuring voice of hope and to keep Porthos under control, but I have now seen first-hand that to which Athos has been subjected all this time and I am consumed by horror and anger.

I wheel around, my fist coming into contact with Durand's jaw. I haven't the power of Porthos nor, surprisingly, Athos on a better day for he has the devil of a right hook! It is enough, though, to send the steward crashing to the floor with a cry.