Shadows of the Broken
Author Note: It's officially been FAR too long between updates, so I've decided that as a gift to me, and by extension yourselves, I'd finish off this story that has been hanging over my head for YEARS! There will be (maybe) 2 more chapters after this then I will officially be able to put this story out of my mind. lol I've loved writing this but my executive dysfunction is a monster that is impossible to tame.
CONTENT WARNING: This chapter has some triggering content regarding unwanted sexual advances, and unwanted touching. It gets pretty dark here for a bit but doesn't "go that far". However if this is a triggering subject for you please be aware the first section of this chapter is a minefield. It's also gonna be dealing with wounds from previous chapters so by default i'm gonna be talking a bit about them.
Please Take Care Of Yourselves!
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
Aramis lay bound on his side, his arms secured behind his back to a wooden pole that anchored him to the earth. His gaze was empty, eyes staring blankly at the blood-streaked dirt beneath him. He tried to ease his breathing, the gag in his mouth was rough, cutting into the corners of his lips, and every breath through his nose sent sharp pain through his broken body as every inhale sent a stabbing pain through his ribs and throat. He felt as a shell of himself, stripped of all he had once been. The hours had bled together, the minutes marked only by his ragged breaths and the slow drip of blood from his wounds. He'd long given up on attempting an escape. The first few hours were spent desperately trying to scratch at the ropes securing his shackled wrists to the post, but eventually exhaustion won out and he collapsed onto his side and curled in on himself. He lay there, shivering. The links of his shackles clinked together gently as the cold started to overtake him. He briefly wondered why he hadn't been returned to his previous cell in the ruined stables, but it wasn't something he really cared to think too much on. Grimaud had made him a promise, and he expected now was going to be the time to pay that price.
A faint tremor rippled through the ground beneath him, a rhythm too deliberate to be the wind. Aramis's heart quickened, his muscles instinctively tensing despite the agony that shot through his body with every movement. The air felt heavier, colder, as the measured steps grew nearer, each one carrying an unmistakable weight of cruel intent. He didn't need to look or even listen closely—he could feel it, the oppressive presence drawing closer like a shadow creeping in at dusk.
Aramis tensed, his body instinctively bracing for what was to come. The cold air of the night seeped through the torn fabric of his shredded and threadbare clothing, chilling his battered skin, but he focused on the dull ache in his wrists, on the sharp sting of the gag in his mouth. Anything to anchor him. Anything to keep him from the growing dread of what Grimaud intended.
The tent flap rustled as Grimaud stepped inside, casting a shadow over Aramis's prone form. The man paused, savoring the sight of the once-proud musketeer lying in the dirt, bound and helpless. His lips curled into a slow, malicious smile.
"Comfortable Aramis?" Grimaud purred, his voice a sickening mixture of false kindness and condescension. He crouched beside the fallen man, his hand reaching out to brush the hair from Aramis's face. The touch was light, almost tender, but it sent a wave of revulsion through Aramis's entire body. His muscles tightened involuntarily, and a muffled grunt of resistance escaped him, the only sound he could make through the gag.
Grimaud's chuckle was low, a guttural sound that crawled under Aramis's skin like something foul and invasive. His fingers twisted in Aramis's tangled hair, sharp and deliberate, pulling just enough to sting. "Still fighting," he muttered, his tone devoid of admiration, laced instead with a quiet menace. "Always so stubborn. Always so predictable."
Aramis's gaze, shadowed by pain, remained unwavering, piercing into Grimaud with a defiance that refused to falter. He couldn't speak, couldn't spit the venomous words he longed to, but his silence screamed louder than any insult. He would endure. He would not crumble beneath this brute's cruelty.
But Grimaud saw the defiance, and it only deepened the cold satisfaction twisting his lips. "You think that means something, don't you?" he said, his voice low and cutting, each word like a tightening noose. "That glare. That stubborn little fire in your eyes. It's nothing. You're nothing."
He stood, circling slowly, his boots clicking against the floor with a deliberate rhythm. He let his gaze roam over Aramis, dissecting him, every bruise and tremor cataloged like a hunter savoring his prize. "You've already lost," Grimaud said, his voice measured and clinical. "Look at you—on the ground, bound like the beast you are. The great musketeer reduced to this. How pathetic."
He knelt again, close enough that Aramis could feel the cold weight of his presence. Grimaud's hand moved to his face, but this time it was not soft. His touch was deliberate, his fingers pressing against Aramis's jaw, tilting his head as if examining prey before the kill. "You want to hold onto that pride," Grimaud hissed, his voice like a blade dragged over stone. "But it won't save you. Nothing will. You belong to me now, whether you accept it or not."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Grimaud's hand fell away, his touch leaving behind a sting as much from its absence as its pressure. He straightened, looking down at Aramis like a master surveying a broken tool, his cold grin promising more pain to come.
Aramis clenched his jaw beneath the gag, his teeth digging into the fabric. His body flinched again, another soft grunt escaping him as Grimaud's hand moved slowly over his marred skin. The contact made him feel sick, not because of the pain, but because of the intent behind it. The sadistic pleasure Grimaud took in reducing him to this state. Aramis fought against the fear creeping into his heart. He had prepared himself for this, and had sworn that he would not break from this. Grimaud's hand trailed lower, brushing against Aramis's ribs, pressing lightly where he knew the musketeer's injuries were severe. Aramis's breath hitched, and despite his resolve, another muffled groan of pain forced its way out.
"Ah, there it is," Grimaud murmured, his voice dripping with sadistic glee as he leaned in, his breath hot against Aramis's ear. His words slithered like poison, intimate and cruel. "That suffering. You don't have to say it—I can hear it in every broken breath, see it in every feeble twitch of defiance."
Aramis's head hung low, his body trembling under the strain of simply staying upright. His chest heaved, every ragged breath a testament to the war he waged within himself. He clenched his teeth, refusing to give Grimaud the satisfaction of a sound, but his resolve was etched with cracks, his strength bleeding away with every moment.
Grimaud's fingers dug into Aramis's jaw, forcing his head up, their eyes meeting in a brutal clash of wills. "Oh, you hate this, don't you?" he sneered, his voice a mockery of concern. "Every twitch, every flinch—it's written all over you. But look at you. Trying so hard to resist when your body's already given up."
He released Aramis's face with a shove, the musketeer swaying but refusing to fall, even as his knees threatened to buckle. Grimaud laughed, dark and sharp, circling him like a predator savoring its victory. "You're pathetic, Aramis. Hanging on to scraps of pride when you're already mine. You've lost the fight, and you know it. But by all means," he added, crouching to whisper in his ear once more, his tone now laced with mock encouragement, "keep trying. I enjoy watching you fail."
Aramis's silence was his only weapon, and he clung to it with what little strength he had left, though his body betrayed him—every shudder, every wince, a glaring admission of his pain. Grimaud saw it all, and he reveled in it, his satisfaction blooming with every flicker of resistance that he crushed beneath his heel.
Aramis closed his eyes, willing himself to block out Grimaud's voice, to not feel the hands on his skin, to not hear the words that dripped with venom and cruelty. But the pain was ever-present, gnawing at his body, relentless. He wanted to scream, to fight, to lash out—but he could do nothing. His body, once strong and defiant, was now too weak to move, to resist.
"Do you know what I love most about this, Aramis?" Grimaud's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but there was an edge to it, a promise of violence barely concealed beneath the surface. "It's the moment just before they break. The moment when they still believe they have some control, some sliver of hope. That's where you are now. Still clinging to that tiny, pathetic spark of resistance."
Grimaud's hand moved back to Aramis's face, caressing his cheek in a mockery of tenderness. Aramis's body trembled, a mixture of pain and revulsion coursing through him, and another stifled groan escaped. The gag prevented any sound beyond a muffled whimper, but Grimaud seemed to delight in even that.
"You must be wondering," Grimaud said, his voice low, "how long this will last. How long before you beg me to end it. Before you give up."
Aramis's breathing grew heavier, more labored, the weight of his injuries making each inhale a battle. But he met Grimaud's gaze again, his eyes burning with a silent, unwavering message: I will not give you what you want.
"It's the moment they stop pretending. The moment they realize no one's coming for them. That all their strength... all their fighting... was for nothing. I wonder when that moment will come for you."
Aramis closed his eyes.
It was all he had left. Bound, silenced, and exhausted, he could not speak. He could not move. He could not fight back. But he could deny Grimaud the satisfaction of watching his fear. By closing his eyes, he shut Grimaud out, even if only for a few seconds.
Grimaud's hand moved to his chest, fingers skimming over the tattered remains of Aramis's shirt, slowly ripping it apart, one agonizing tear at a time. "I could do anything to you now," Grimaud whispered, his lips almost brushing Aramis's ear. "Anything I want. There's no one to stop me. No gallant Musketeers to ride to your rescue. It's just you and me now."
Aramis's breath hitched, his chest tightening as Grimaud's words crawled under his skin. He could feel the cold air on his exposed skin, the ragged fabric of his shirt hanging in shreds. The anticipation of whatever was coming next gnawed at his mind, but he forced his breathing to steady, his muscles to remain still.
Grimaud's hand paused, resting just above Aramis's heart, his fingers curling into the bloodied fabric. "I wonder... how long you can keep that mask on." He tugged at the last piece of the shirt, tearing it completely away. "I've seen men cry like children under less. Will you? Will you whimper when I touch you? Or will you make me hurt you first?"
Every word Grimaud spoke dripped with vile intent, a slow, sickening promise of what was to come. Aramis could feel his captor's eyes on him, waiting, searching for any sign of weakness. But Aramis gave him nothing. He kept his eyes shut, his breaths shallow and steady. He focused on the sound of his own heartbeat, the steady thrum in his ears, drowning out Grimaud's words.
"You think you can endure this, don't you?" Grimaud's voice slithered into his mind, low and mocking. "But everyone breaks, Aramis. Even you."
Aramis remained still, his breath caught in his throat. God, please, he prayed silently, give me strength to endure this...
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, the air heavy with unspoken malice. Aramis's breaths came shallow and uneven, each one dragging against the ache in his chest. Grimaud tilted his head, his cold gaze fixed on the musketeer, studying him as if calculating how much more he could take. Sensing the faint ember of defiance that still smoldered within his victim, Grimaud's hand stilled, his grip tightening just enough to remind Aramis how powerless he was.
When he spoke, his voice was a low, venomous rasp that coiled around the space like a serpent. "Do you think they'll recognize you when they find you?" he asked, his tone devoid of theatrics, as if the question were genuine. His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "How much of you will even be left for them to mourn?"
The words hung in the air, a promise soaked in dread. Grimaud's fingers drifted upward, grazing the edge of Aramis's collarbone. There was no pretense of kindness in his touch—only a calculated threat, each movement deliberate, meant to strip away the last vestiges of strength that Aramis clung to. He savored the moment, drawing it out like a blade dragged across stone, waiting for the inevitable snap of his prey.
Then, from outside the tent, came the sudden clatter of metal, sharp and jarring. The distant sound of shouts followed, hurried voices rising in alarm. Grimaud froze, his body taut with irritation as his head snapped toward the entrance. The interruption shattered the oppressive quiet, and his scowl deepened, the sadistic satisfaction in his features replaced by cold, simmering fury.
He exhaled slowly, the sound like a predator growling in the dark, and withdrew his hand from Aramis with a deliberate slowness, as though savoring even this brief reprieve. "How unfortunate," he muttered, his voice dripping with annoyance. "It seems our time together is being cut short. For now."
Grimaud stood, smoothing his hands down the front of his coat, his gaze still fixed on Aramis. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice dark and honeyed. "We'll pick this up where we left off. I'll be back... very soon."
The canvas flap stirred as he slipped through, the faint rustling far too soft for the crushing weight of his presence—or his absence. The air inside the tent seemed to grow heavier, colder, as if even the shadows recoiled from what had just transpired and from what was yet to come.
Aramis remained where he was, his body trembling violently now that the tension had momentarily released him. His limbs felt leaden, his muscles locked in a state of raw, unbearable ache. His chest heaved, each shallow breath a battle, his ribs screaming with every movement. Sweat slicked his brow, mingling with dried blood and grime, and a single shudder rolled through him as if his body were finally reacting to the sheer torment it had endured.
Yet it was not relief that accompanied Grimaud's absence—it was dread. The tent walls seemed to close in around him, the quiet amplifying the memory of Grimaud's touch and the venom in his words. His skin crawled as if the man's presence still lingered, a ghostly imprint of cruelty refusing to fade.
Aramis's fingers twitched weakly at his sides, the urge to move, to fight, to do something buried beneath the crushing weight of exhaustion. His mind screamed at him to be ready, to find strength somewhere, anywhere, but his body betrayed him. His head tilted back, eyes fluttering open to the dim, stifling space of the tent, yet his vision swam, blurred by pain and fatigue.
He knew Grimaud would return. The interruption outside was no salvation—only a pause. And when the man came back, it would be worse. Much worse. That thought coiled tightly around his chest, a suffocating reminder of his helplessness, and a faint, hoarse sound escaped his lips—a breath caught between a gasp and a groan of despair.
Aramis closed his eyes again, trying to summon even the smallest ember of resolve, but all he found was fear. Fear of what awaited him when Grimaud returned to finish what he'd started.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
Authors Note: I intended to have another part to this chapter but the scene got away from me so I've had to split them up into two parts. Also thank you all for hanging in with my increasingly glacial movement in getting new chapters out, it honestly shocks me that people haven't just given up on this story and me, as I've almost done so many times over the years. But I hate to disappoint people so I don't think that I'll ever NOT finish it...:)
Thank you for every message and review, they mean the world to me.