Thank you, as always, for reading and leaving comments on this story. It is a year this past week since I uploaded the first chapter; a few more and we will have reached the end.

CHAPTER 58

ARAMIS

I am not going to give up. "Talk to me, please. Tell me anything you like. How were you captured?"

To my horror, Athos begins shaking so hard that it's clearly visible and I know that I am being cruel, but I need to ascertain what is wrong before I start worrying about what can be done to help him. It will be for his benefit – I hope – in the long run.

Is it just stubbornness that he will not answer me or is there something else that is deep-seated as a result of his terrible experience? Is he frightened by it because he doesn't understand whatever it is, or is he ashamed in some way and doesn't want Porthos or me to know? I lay a hand on his arm, desperate to reassure him and to encourage him to be open with us.

He is breathing hard and rapidly and doing anything to avoid eye contact, even when I take him by the chin and try to force him to look at me. He stares, unseeing, at a point over my right shoulder, his eyes widening at some dread known only to him.

"Please, my friend," I beg. "I know you are finding this distressing, but I need you to try."

Something in my tone must reach him for he slowly swivels his eyes to rest upon me, but his expression is so awful that I cannot suppress an alarmed gasp. Too often have I seen this dear man spend his days and nights fighting his warring emotions, too often resorting to an excess of wine in a futile attempt to still the ghosts of his past; so private, so guarded, with a carefully erected defensive wall about him that he will not even allow Porthos or me to penetrate. Nothing prepares me for this though. Never have I seen him look so vulnerable and exposed as he does now. How deeply has his incarceration affected him? How scarred has it left him?

"Please talk to me," I say again, only to be met by a vehement shaking of his head and I suddenly realise that he is not deliberately refusing me. He is more frightened at this moment than I have ever known him.

I lightly touch his cheek and he inclines towards me, leaning into my palm, his eyes never leaving mine as I beseech him once more. "Try for me," I whisper, our eyes locked as I will him to trust me. "Let me see and understand what is happening." I release him and sit back to watch and wait.

He shudders, takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, his face a picture of concentration, his brow furrowing with the exertion. He is straining and looks like he is about to be sick, but I can see the monumental effort as he tries to force a sound - any utterance at all - from his mouth.

Nothing.

No garbled words, no guttural syllables, not even an indecipherable noise or choking sound.

Total silence.

He tries again with the same result.

Now, he is totally bewildered. A lone tear tracks down his cheek and my heart shatters for him. How many ways has he been broken by the monster Bircann?

"Open your mouth for me," I urge, and he does so, attempting to flatten his tongue in order that I might see the back of his throat without impediment, but I have to admit that I have no idea as to what I might be looking for.

Over his head, Porthos is staring at me in consternation, and I hope he doesn't ask me a question for, in truth, I would not be able to give him any answer, let alone an honest one.

I'm aware of footsteps and realise that Tréville has moved closer to us, aware that something is amiss.

"I can see no damage," I announce brightly and in a voice that seems to me to be unnaturally loud. Forlorn, Athos bows his head, but I take his face in my hands and raise him again, leaning forward until our foreheads touch. I hope he interprets the gesture in the manner in which it is meant; that we will be with him and will help him through this.

Not having detected any damage does not mean that there is none, but I am determined to be optimistic and in my head, I offer up a quick prayer before I make sure that his attention is on me once more.

"If there is no damage, then your voice will come back. We must believe that, irrespective of how long it takes. You have been through so much and none of it good, but we are here for you and with you. We will face this together and not attempt to achieve everything all at once. Remember the old saying? 'You must learn to walk before you can run.'* Our first task is to get you well and strong again and it will not happen overnight."

No, it is going to be a very long, slow process as we unravel the impact of what has happened to him, and my greatest fear is that our love and care will not be enough after all. I can treat and frequently heal many physical injuries, but I have no skill or knowledge whatsoever as to the dark recesses of the mind.

I can guess what is uppermost in that head of his. If he cannot talk, how can he lead? How can he ever resume his duties as a Musketeer in any capacity? And if he cannot remain in the regiment, what is left to him? I know Tréville would never abandon him or turn him out of the garrison; he would find some work for Athos, but it would never be the same. Would it ever be enough?

"We will not think of this now," I say aloud, more to myself than anyone else. "We will take each day as it comes and meet head on whatever challenge is thrown our way."

"How do you account for it?" Tréville asks later as he, Porthos and I sit and eat in the mess. Still upset, Athos had fallen into a troubled sleep and I was loathe to leave him, but the Captain insisted that we needed a rest from caring for him, especially after the disturbing revelation that he could not speak at all. Tréville had sought out Claude who was more than happy to sit with Athos whilst he slept and would send word to summon us if necessary.

I push the food around the plate with my spoon, appetite virtually non-existent as I am consumed by anxiety for Athos. Instead, I pick up the wooden tankard of ale Serge has set before me and take several mouthfuls whilst composing my thoughts.

"Whatever happened to him in that hole, the conditions he experienced and the terror such imprisonment created will have deeply affected him. I have no way of knowing in what way and to what extent," and I sigh helplessly.

"Are you sayin' he's been driven mad an' that's what's taken away his ability to talk?" Porthos asks a little louder than I like, but a furtive glance around the room indicates that no-one has taken notice of what he's said.

"Do you really think he might have lost his reason?" The Captain's tone is serious, his face otherwise unreadable.

"No, not all reason," I declare. "Apart from initial panic on waking, he calms down, knows us and responds to our urging him to eat and drink. They are positive signs, surely?" and I look from one to the other of them, desperately needing them to say something to convince me but, like Athos, they say nothing.

"He is unnerved," I continue, "which is understandable, but until he is able to communicate somehow, we are not to know what he was forced to endure. As yet, he is incapable of putting pen to paper, even if he were of a mind to share things with us that way."

Porthos stares into his cup for a while and when he speaks, his voice is unsteady. "Since we found 'im, it's been on my mind what 'e's gone through an' I know I couldn't 'ave lasted as long as 'e did: the cold an' damp; the loneliness, barely enough food an' water to keep 'im alive, the desperation, gradually losin' hope an' the total darkness. That's what'd do me on its own – not bein' able to see. I'd go mad if it were me."

"I will not accept that madness has silenced him," Tréville suddenly says fiercely. "It will be explained somehow. Perhaps it's the result of the deep shock he has experienced."

Porthos frowns. "So you're thinkin' that if he was shocked into being silent, maybe he can be shocked into speakin' again."

Tréville shrugs. "I have no idea, but anything is possible."

"So all we need to do is shock 'im in some way an' he'll be better?"

"We are not shocking him in any way, shape, or form!" I exclaim, horrified at the suggestion. "After what he's been through, something like that could tip him over the edge. We give him time; keeping him safe, secure, warm and fed could do wonders if you allow it."

"And what if it doesn't? Maybe all that wrappin' 'im in wool won't be what 'e needs an' 'e won't thank us for it" Porthos challenges me. "What if he needs somethin' more?"

"But you don't know what he needs," I fire back.

"Nor do you," he counters immediately.

"Enough," Tréville snaps. "This is not getting us anywhere and it certainly is not helping Athos. We're all agreed that we do not know the best way to proceed here. Should I summon the King's physician again?"

"No!" Porthos and I say simultaneously so that the Captain visibly jumps.

"Sorry," I begin, "but I will not have that man anywhere near Athos. There is a reason why he is only one of the King's minor physicians. He may be an expert in the paltry ailments of court such as a cut finger or an excess of rich food, but he has no idea how to deal with a soldier's injuries so I dread to think what superstitious rubbish he would evoke to deal with a problem of the mind. Before we know it, he'd have Athos designated a lunatic and confined to the Hôtel-Dieu."

"'E wouldn't dare," Porthos growled, his hand instinctively moving to his dagger.

"He won't, because we won't give him a chance to report his supposed 'findings' to the King or Richelieu. They could take things out of the Captain's hands," I insist.

"Aramis is right," Tréville admits ruefully. "I may be Captain, but the King is our ultimate commander. I would do everything in my power, of course, to keep Athos here, but any of my decisions could be overruled by Louis if Richelieu has his ear."

"I'd like to see 'em try."

I sense that Porthos is in danger of becoming very belligerent.

"We'll take every step to keep Athos out of their reach then. He is not mad, nowhere near it, even if there are many more problems ahead. He just needs time to mend, that's all, and it's up to us to make sure he has all the time it takes whilst we work with him."

I sigh in relief as Porthos takes a deep breath and slumps back on the bench.

The Captain pauses and I know he is thinking hard about the situation. Eventually he leans forward conspiratorially. "For now, it is probably best not to say anything about this latest setback for Athos; about his not speaking. We will answer any enquiries positively and as honestly as we can, stressing his progress. Agreed?"

We nod and resume eating but after a few mouthfuls, Porthos sets down his spoon and has a question for me. "You said you couldn't see any damage when you looked in his mouth?"

"That's right. I was worried they had done something to him' put something in his mouth that hurt him or cut his tongue perhaps. I was just trying to eliminate anything I could."

"They might not 'ave hurt 'im, but maybe he did it 'imself without meanin' to?"

The Captain pauses, his spoon raised halfway to his mouth and his face perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Supposin' Athos was shoutin' out for help for so long, hopin' someone would hear, that he wore out 'is voice until there was nothin' left. Maybe restin' it will let it come back sooner."

Maybe Porthos is correct in his suggestion. That Athos shouted so much, he strained or damaged his larynx somehow. Was he right in his assumption that, in time, it might repair itself? Time. There it is again. We keep glibly talking about time but how much? How long before we reach the point when we declare that the current situation is not going to change. What if Athos never fully recovers from this?

I think back to how he was huddled in the bottom of that pit and the state he was in when we brought him to the surface. I remember the fits of panic that have had him struggling against us since we brought him back to the garrison and another appalling image invades my mind.

It is not of Athos shouting desperately for someone to realise that he was there.

It is an image of him screaming in terror until even that is eventually denied him. He has gone from a physical imprisonment to one of silence.

Perhaps that has occurred in the days since we failed to find him on our first visit to Bircann's estate, so it is our fault that he is now as he is.

We are the ones to blame.

Author's note:

The saying 'you must walk before you can run' is thought to come from the 15th century.