Chapter Text
d'Artagnan
“I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
An innocuous statement, but come morning the horses were gone. With no horses, they couldn’t outrun their pursuers, so they retreated to a cave to hide.
Porthos and Aramis went out to scout the area; Porthos returned alone. Aramis, he said, was hunting for rabbits. Porthos was ravenous. He and Athos went to find Aramis; Porthos returned alone. They had spilt up, he said, to cover more ground. Then he burped, and a small round button rattled across the floor.
D’Artagnan looked at the button, then looked at Porthos. Then he ran.
d'Artagnan
“I murdered my wife.” Athos speaks as if this is of no consequence. He drains his glass, shrugs and wipes his mouth – a scarlet smear. “She lied and deceived me, so I hung her from a tree and rode away.”
He tips the bottle to refill his glass. The liquid is thick and opaque, coating the glass in a ruby sheen. It overflows as he continues pouring, the red liquid pooling on the table until it becomes a waterfall of blood, consuming everything it touches. It clings to d’Artagnan, filling his eyes and mouth, drowning him in horror and revulsion.
Aramis
He falls to his knees in the snow and blood. His brothers lurch and shuffle towards him, clothes in tatters, arms outstretched, mumbling and howling their accusations. He does not run – he deserves their anger. He closes his eyes as they surround him.
He wakes in Adele’s bed. She is kneeling over him, hollow-cheeked and dull-eyed. Her hair is lank and falling out in maggot-ridden clumps. Her fingers reach for his scars and she opens her mouth to speak of his guilt, but her words are muffled by the black sludge that oozes from her lips. He deserves this too.
Athos
He has no need of nightmares: his wife killed his brother, and he hung her. He wakes to this reality every day.
Still, when he sleeps, he watches Anne stab Thomas, then lick the blade as he falls. She turns to him, scarlet-mouthed, and advances to kiss him – smearing blood on his lips, forcing it into his mouth. She steps back with a smile, her teeth sharp and pointed. He loves her and he hates her and he will find no peace in this world or the next.
He drinks to forget the taste of blood and lust and despair.
Anne
He turns away, ice cold condemnation in his eyes. She tries to scream, to protest her innocence, to make him hear her, but her voice has been stolen and she cannot make a sound. His footsteps echo as they recede; he doesn’t look back.
Terror, despair and dread sit like lead in her stomach; ashes line her mouth. She knows that she will choke on the end of a rope. She can feel the burn and the pressure of the hemp, her eyes bulge as her body screams for air and her legs kick.
She dies like this, every night.
Porthos
They became separated during the battle. He can see his brothers fighting, but he cannot reach, or help them.
His legs feel as if he is wading through treacle, the mud is holding him in place. He pulls one foot free with a slurp and staggers forward, unbalanced. He reaches out to catch himself and falls into the mire - hands scrabbling in the sludge. He is being pulled down into the morass, sinking deeper, there is no solid ground to hold him.
He feels the clammy soil enveloping his body and he vanishes, unseen and terrified, into the earth.