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How do I always end up in situations like these? D'Artagnan thinks with vehemence. He lets his head fall back against the rough stone wall and fidgets on the hard bench, which is the only furniture in the small space.
He’s been in the cell for what seems like two days, all in all a quite boring kidnapping thus far.
All right, he hasn’t eaten anything, his throat burns with thirst, his head swims, and his eyes feel gritty with lack of sleep. However, no torture or monologues have yet been inflicted upon him. He’s relatively certain that soon he will be watered at least; a dead prisoner would be useless to his captors.
Then two purple-robed men appear and hold a small cup of water through the bars.
He can’t help himself; in less than a second it’s all gone, barely soothing the ache in his throat and making his empty stomach cramp, but welcomed nevertheless.
By the time he notices the men’s eager, expectant expressions where they still stand staring at him, it’s too late to spit anything out or even to force himself to bring it up again, as a tingling spreads like fire through his veins and his limbs lose all strength. D’Artagnan collapses to the floor in an ungainly sprawl, one leg bent awkwardly beneath him.
He hears the men enter the cell. Panic shoots up his spine as he lays helpless, incapable of moving to defend himself in any way. They pick him up by his arms and drag him out of the cell. D'Artagnan can do nothing but hang between them, limp as a wet rag.
Imbecile, should have at least smelled the water first, d'Artagnan berates himself. His stomach squirms with shame as he imagines Athos’ disappointment, should he ever find out how gullible d'Artagnan had been.
The men drag him into a large chamber, going by the echoing sounds their footsteps make and the murmur of other people gathered. D’Artagnan is unable to see much as his head is hanging down between his shoulders and his eyelids are half-mast, vision blurring from being unable to blink, but he cathes glimpses of a stone floor dramatically lit with flickering yellow light.
Then he’s lifted up short steps to a raised altar of which one half is liberally coated with bloodstains, so soiled that the coppery smell of blood reaches his senses even though his breathing is shallow and slow. Freezing horror seizes his entire body as the men heave him onto the hard stone with grunts of exertion and turn him over on his back.
D'Artagnan’s skin crawls as the back of his head and arms press into the congealed mess beneath him. He isn’t given any time to process what’s going on before his pauldron and doublet is removed by intrusive hands, and his shirt sliced open at the chest and arms and pulled out from under him. The cool touch of steel indicates that a very sharp knife must be doing the job.
D’Artagnan had never doubted that his brothers would find him, but he’s starting to think that they won’t find him nearly fast enough.
In this manner he is disrobed until he lies clad only in his breeches and his boots, intensely aware of the stares of those gathered upon him. The blood on the altar feels sticky and cold against his bare skin. Someone else approaches the altar with confident strides.
A blurry face looms into view above him, features dim from the flickering light and the hood covering the man’s head. D’Artagnan can barely discern that it’s an old man with a closely trimmed grey beard. He’s also clad in purple robes, but his bear strange symbols on the breast, perhaps indicating a higher station. He looks no more a maniacal murderer than Treville, but for the flat dark eyes that survey d'Artagnan where he lays like a piece of meat at the butcher’s.
D’Artagnan’s heart gives a lurch as he hears the two men who undressed him retreating from the altar. He is left alone with the old man, who is arranging clinking items by his side.
The man straightens, now only visible from the corner of his eye, and a hush falls over the crowd.
“This man is young and strong of heart, full of vitality!” the man declares to the room, “An exemplary sacrifice such as we have never had the fortune to obtain. Let us begin!”
Whispers start up in the room, growing into a hypnotic hum as the entire gathering starts chanting something indecipherable. The old man, also chanting, reaches out to d’Artagnan’s face, making him flinch internally. He slides d’Artagnan’s eyelids shut. D’Artagnan’s last sight is of the old man’s eyes boring into his own, devoid of any emotion.
A black despair overtakes him, and his breath grows even shallower as his throat tightens. If it were not for the paralysing effects of the drug his heart would be racing and his breast heaving with distress, but he can only lay there, descending further into mindless terror.
He’s not prepared when a line of fire is drawn across the vulnerable skin of his wrist, shock wearing off quickly and a burning ache settling in the sliced flesh. More cuts are made, inches apart, on the insides of his arms up almost to his armpits, the man uncaringly manipulating his limbs like a doll’s to get better access.
When the old man is finished he turns d'Artagnan’s arms out to hang over the side of the altar, the slow patter of his blood dripping on the stone floor from his fingertips inaudible over the throbbing chant of the crowd.
After that the man starts in on his chest, cutting long diagonal lines across his ribs and stomach that lead the blood down to his sides, where it joins the coagulated pools on the altar. None of the wounds feel deep enough to cause great damage, but they bleed freely. D’Artagnan’s head is already growing lighter with the blood loss, and a numbness is descending over him, his mind unable to bear the buzzing fear and pain and sinking into a detached state.
D’Artagnan becomes aware that no new cuts are being made. The chanting is increasing in volume. The old man drags his fingers through the blood flowing from d’Artagnan’s cuts and draws with it, all over his exposed skin, smearing it even over his eyelids and his mouth. Then the man retreats. D’Artagnan’s head is spinning but he can feel the wind from the man’s passage as he rounds the altar to stand in front of it, where he stirs the crowd into greater fervour with shouted chants.
He is unsure for how long the shouting goes on, but his skin feels cold and his heart is fluttering oddly in his chest by the time he hears the man returning to his other side, robes brushing against d’Artagnan’s hanging arm. The crowd is chanting furiously, the climax of the ritual clearly approaching, along with his death.
Through the encroaching darkness d’Artagnan spares a moment to pray that his friends would not feel too poorly about his departure, that they would grasp that no one could have predicted he would become the victim of an insane, opportunistic cult.
The man’s robes brush over his torso. Distantly, as if through a thick layer of cloth swaddling his senses, d’Artagnan feels a cold point of steel pressing to the centre of his chest. With a swish of the old man’s robes the blade is lifted away. The air seems to leave the chamber, all noise ceasing.
The crack of splintering timber combined with a thunderous boom tears through the room, pulling d’Artagnan away from the seeking fingers of darkness. The next sound is at the same time the best and most frightening thing he has ever heard.
An enraged roar echoes through the chamber, the end of it drowned out by the crack of a musket’s discharge.
Athos!
Through the ringing in his ears d’Artagnan can hear the old man make a sudden choking noise above him, and the dagger clattering off to the side. Then the old man falls, half on top of d’Artagnan, causing a shock of pain. Gravity drags his body across d’Artagnan’s as the man slips to the floor.
Deafening noise breaks out over the entire room; the clash of blades, firing of muskets, and shouting of men. Seconds pass slowly and d’Artagnan wishes for nothing more than to jump up and help his brothers who are in danger. Then there’s a new presence at his side, the clink of steel and the sound of heaving breaths clearly audible.
“D’Artagnan!” the person breathes, sounding horrified.
Athos.
A warm, calloused hand settles on his neck, and the press of trembling fingers register under his jaw. In contrast to the old man’s intrusive touch, d’Artagnan would lean into Athos’ hand if he could, to savour the feeling of utter safety and the dizzying rush of relief that washes over him. Athos’ fingers take a few seconds to find his pulse, and when he does his hold slackens momentarily, a shaky exhale stuttering from just above d’Artagnan.
Someone else joins them, presence looming close. “How is he?” Porthos asks, voice grim.
“Aramis! Aramis!” Athos shouts in lieu of answering, startling d’Artagnan with the close proximity of his voice. He’s too numb to feel anything but a distant twinge as Athos moves his arms back to his sides, more gentle and careful than d’Artagnan thought him capable of. His touch still carries a tremor which is worrying to observe.
D’Artagnan has no more time to contemplate the matter as new footsteps rush closer. Athos makes no move to leave d’Artagnan and defend him, and his suspicion that another friend is approaching is confirmed as Aramis speaks, sounding just as shocked as Athos had earlier.
“My God, Athos, is he—”
“He’s alive,” Athos says, “But the blood—It’s—I don’t know how much is his,”
“Let me—” Athos’ hand leaves his neck and is replaced by Aramis’ touch. Sure fingers probe for d’Artagnan’s pulse before lifting one of his eyelids. Searing, disorienting light floods his eyesight, so bright he’s blinded.
A vicious streak of swearing pours from Aramis’s lips. “He’s lost much, and they drugged him,” he says, but his voice is receding, distant as if d’Artagnan is hearing him from the bottom of a deep well. Then Aramis is tapping d’Artagnan’s cheek urgently, the motion causing the dizziness to worsen.
Maybe it was not only relief causing the weakness earlier, d’Artagnan, thinks.
“D’Artagnan. Come now, wake up,” Aramis urges, but d’Artagnan can barely hear him. He’s unable to give any sign of having heard him, or to even understand what Athos says next in a gruff, concerned tone.
The last thing he’s aware of is a sudden flare of pain as something drags down his breastbone, and warm, unsteady fingers settling over his forehead, smoothing back his hair.
***
The purple-robed man holds out the cup through the bars of the cell. d’Artagnan slaps it out of his hand and the cup rattles across the floor, contents absorbed by the stone. They glare at him and he meets their stares with defiance. More men are called and the cell opened to let three in, one clutching a water skin no doubt filled with more of the drug-laced water.
One of them makes a grab at d’Artagnan, distracting him enough for another, taller man to slip in behind, strong arms encircling him and pinning his arms to his sides. They fall to the floor, the man’s hold staying tight despite the pain the landing must cause. The other man takes his kicking legs in a cruel grip and the last approaches, lowering the water skin to his mouth and pressing the opening to his lips. He can feel his strength flagging with alarming speed, but he turns his head aside, closing his eyes and sealing his lips against the liquid that trickles against them.
Everything lurches around him and he’s no longer lying on his back, but slumped, half upright, against something solid but warm. It feels like the earth is moving beneath him.
“D’Artagnan? Are you with us?”
D’Artagnan drags heavy eyelids open. He’s no longer in the cell and daylight stabs into his eyes, necessitating a moment of blinking to clear his sight as much as he is able. His eyes don’t want to stay fully open but Aramis resolves in front of him.
“There you are,” Aramis says. He’s smiling but tight lines of strain are drawn around his eyes.
“Aramis,” the name comes out slurred, strained and hoarse, but he can speak again. D’Artagnan’s breath catches as he feels a pair of arms tighten around him.
“Athos, ease up on him,” Aramis orders, staring at a point somewhere above d’Artagnan’s head.
“Athos?” His sluggish mind takes a moment to connect the admonishment with the relaxation of the limbs holding him in place, and the faint but recognisable scent he can smell from Athos’ proximity. He looks beyond where Aramis is crouching over him notes that he’s in a cart, covered in several cloaks. The warmth of Athos’ legs press on either side of him.
“D’Artagnan,” Athos answers, voice so neutral that d’Artagnan can make no guess at his mood.
“Yes, that’s Athos embracing you, my friend,” Aramis says, “He is there to keep you warm. Now, it is vital that you drink. You’ve lost more blood than I’m comfortable with,” he brings a water skin to d’Artagnan’s mouth.
D’Artagnan hesitates only a moment before allowing Aramis to tip some water into his mouth, recognizing that as weak as his limbs feel he would not be able to help himself, even if he wasn’t trapped in Athos’ gentle hold. He has to stop after only a small amount as his stomach turns, despite the immense thirst the few mouthfuls of water awaken.
“We will try some more before long,” Aramis says. He pulls down the blankets and Athos briefly releases his hold so that Aramis can check the bindings on his arms and chest. “Stitching all of these will have to wait until we reach a physician, as I am afraid I did not have enough thread,” Aramis explains as he turns his arms gently.
By the time Athos places his arms back around him, d’Artagnan’s eyes have closed, no matter how much he tries to keep them open. He can feel himself sagging down as Aramis pulls the cloaks over them, his head tilting back against Athos’ chest. As shameful as he is sure it will be later he can only find it immensely comfortable and secure in the present moment.
“Will he be alright?” He hears Athos say, chest rumbling underneath him.
“He’s strong in both body and spirit, Athos. He has a good chance,”
They don’t speak again, and d’Artagnan’s awareness fades out sometime thereafter.
***
The rest of the journey is a jumble of impressions to d’Artagnan. He’s woken a few times to water being poured into his mouth, but he’s only half present, barely finishing before falling back into darkness. He feels sore all over, but his arms and chest are the worst, the deep, gnawing ache of the wounds making his rest uneasy.
He’s surprised to find himself in a bed then next time he wakes up properly. His eyelids are stuck together, but when he pries them open he finds himself looking at the ceiling of his room. A sense of home settles down to his very bones, eliciting a sigh.
D’Artagnan takes stock of himself. He’s unclothed except for his breeches under the covers, and he can feel a tightness in his skin that indicates the wounds have been stitched. Bandages are wrapped around his chest and arms, further protecting the sutures. The pain he should be feeling is muted, along with the rest of his senses; a sensation he recognises from once having been dosed with Aramis’ medicine for a terrible headache. He can also tell that he won’t be wielding a sword for a while yet; aside from the wounds and the medication, his limbs feel like they’re weighted by sacks of sand.
“D’Artagnan?” Porthos’ voice, pitched low, interrupts his thoughts. A large hand settles on his shoulder, grounding him in the present. He looks to the side.
Porthos is seated in a chair pulled close to the bed. His eyes are circled with dark rings and he looks dead on his feet, but he smiles broadly when d’Artagnan meets his eyes.
D’Artagnan finds himself smiling tiredly back. “Porthos. You look like hell,” he says, voice a whisper and his sluggish tongue slurring the edges of his words.
“Say that to me when you don’t look as if a slight wind would blow you over,” Porthos retorts, standing up to give him water from a glass on the bedside table. The motions seem very familiar to d’Artagnan, Porthos moving automatically around him as if he’d done the same thing many times already.
Afterwards Porthos seats himself again, movements stiff.
“How long?” D’Artagnan asks, trying to spare his words, as he can feel the little energy he had woken up with rapidly draining away, leaving lethargy in its place.
Porthos’ expression grows sombre. “Four days.”
D’Artagnan can’t help an unsettled intake of breath.
Porthos leans forward in the chair and rests his elbows on his knees, tangling his fingers together. His eyes are on the wall, but d’Artagnan can tell he’s not seeing anything in the present. “You developed a fever. It was bad,” Porthos pauses, as if on the brink of saying something, but then continues, “Aramis has barely left your side even though the Captain ordered a physician in. You know how he gets,”
D’Artagnan nods slightly, trying to dig up any memories of the time between the cart and the present, but there’s only a yawning stretch of nothing. “Athos?”
Porthos’ sombre expression momentarily gives way to a slight grin. “Athos hasn’t touched his drink in days and he’s like a bear with a sore tooth; I was starting to fear for all of us if you didn’t wake up soon. He spent most of his time in the corner, glaring at anyone who came into the room as if they were about to attack you.” His grin grows wider, more genuine. “Come to think of it, he’s been acting more like a mother bear whose young has been threatened,” he gestures to a corner of the room.
D’Artagnan follows his gesture to see Athos himself, stretched out in another chair, which d’Artagnan is sure he doesn’t own. His head is tipped back against the wall and his mouth hanging slightly open, deep breaths indicating that he’s fast asleep. Even so, there’s a grumpy frown between his eyes.
A small sound from the vicinity of the floor draws his eyes to Aramis, head pillowed on a rolled up cloak, wrapped in a blanket, and also fast asleep.
“Athos and I took turns watching you when we managed to get Aramis to rest,” Porthos says, following his gaze.
D’Artagnan can tell that none of the three must have slept much in the past few days, and from the looks of it they did not leave him alone, either. A proper thanks wouldn’t be possible at the moment, given that two of them are asleep, and weariness is pressing down on him, insistent and inexorable. He settles for reaching out a heavy hand, stitches tugging slightly, and grasping Porthos’ forearm.
Porthos places his own hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm and squeezes it reassuringly, careful of the stitches. He lifts the limb and places it back on the bed. “Wouldn’t want to ruin Aramis’ delicate needlework, would we? Now, I think you should go back to sleep. You’re making me tired just looking at you,”
D’Artagnan is trying and failing to keep his concentration on Porthos, unable to look at him for long before his focus slides away. His eyelids slip closed every time he hauls them back open. “What about you?” he mumbles, the question barely intelligible.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll get some rest myself in a while. We’ll be here in the morning,” Porthos says, the low, warm rumble of his voice lulling.
D’Artagnan lets himself relax, falling into a restful sleep in which no nightmares chase him, and his friends keep watch.