So this will and ongoing collection of stories be updated randomly :) It's just kinda a way of keeping me writing while I'm trying to finish off a much larger Musketeers story that I should be uploading soon :) Prompts are welcome if you wish, this is just kinda a weird random place for all the odd story ideas that are not quite big enough for fully fledged narratives & some prompts that I got inspired by :) Hope you enjoy!

Prompt :

"d'Artagnon is captured and held for whatever reason by whoever. They keep him awake and standing to wear him down; up to author on how they manage this.

By the time the others come rescue him he's been awake for at least a couple of days and is not at his most coherent, but he can't let himself relax, he keeps thinking he has to stay awake. The boys have to help him realize that everything's fine."

Warnings : Non explicit mentions of torture.

(also unbeta'd …. sorry about my mistakes! - if anyone is interesting in looking over my stories before I post them and embarrass myself with my terrible spelling and grammar, I would be most appreciative :) )

Where is my mind?

Drip.

Drip.

Each small drop of ice water dug into his skull as if it were a musket ball, plunging deep through skin and bone, imbedding itself within the flesh. And though somewhere in his mind he knew it just water, he had been awake so long it was hard to decipher between what was real and what was not. His skull throbbed and buzzed with a never-ending fuzzy sound that seemed to dull all rational thought. Each moment felt like a thousand, blurring together indistinctly, so there was no way to know whether minutes or hours passed.

It was so dark in the cellar – bar a single lit torch – yet he could not sleep. His body craved the succulent abyss unconsciousness offered; yet it still would not claim him. Each time he tried, another drop would splash him awake. Though the water itself was not truly the reason for his anxiety, but rather the anticipation of the water. In the dark he could not tell when it would fall or how much of the ice water would splash upon his head, all he knew was it would.

Drip.

It was as if someone held a pistol to his head, firing ball after ball, never in a predictable fashion, just close enough to keep the Gascon on constant guard, remaining vigilant though he knew not why nor what required his alertness.

Drip.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a wicked poison, pulsing his mind into overdrive and his body into a state of hyperawareness.

Drip.

Their assignment had not seemed to be the most exciting when Tréville had sent them from the city. It had been described as a simply escort duty to accompany a foreign noble to the palace, a young cousin of the Queen's who wished to visit her adoring elder relative. The Condesa de Cervera was a young beauty, with a clear familial likeness to that of Anne of Austria. However, unknown to her French escorts, the Condesa's elder brother, the Conde de Cervera, had recently enraged a group of Protestant rebels, exiling them from his lands and stripping them of their homes and small fortunes.

As they accompanying the young Condesa of Cervera to the French border, the troop of fifteen musketeers had begun to realise a trap had been laid in place for their charge. Hence they had split off, creating a decoy convoy to follow their original route. Athos had led this party of nine, as one of the more senior soldiers among them. Though it was not long before they realised how well their plan had worked.

The rebels had attacked their camp in the dead of night, managing to kill three men before they subdued the remaining musketeers at the sharp point of a rapier and the muzzle of a pistol. Once bound in tight ropes, they had been dragged back to the rebel's base of operations; a sieged manor house of grandiose appearance. There were still two men unaccounted for, which left a small glimmer of hope for the imprisoned musketeers.

Though d'Artagnan had not had a chance to appreciate this victory over their captors as they had quickly singled him out from the others. The rebel's leader, Fierro Suárez – as he later introduced himself – was a course and proud Spaniard and a devout protestant. He wished to hold the Condesa hostage to gain financial aid for their cause and to force her elder brother into restoring their claim to their homelands.

"You may go free if you speak what I wish to hear," Suárez had told them in a gentlemanly manner. To this the four musketeers had remain utterly stoic, refusing to abide by the rebel's wishes.

"We cannot speak what we do not know," Athos had finally, taking an authoritative tone with the men before them.

"How old is the boy?" The leader's second in command had stepped forward, examining d'Artagnan with a careful and curious eye, his accent was thick and jolted.

While they had at first believed Suárez to be the more ruthless of the rebels, it was Carlos, the leader's second in command, that was all the more monstrous. A curious medic at heart, Carlos had taken a more practical approach to his exploration of the inner workings of the mind and spirit.

D'Artagnan had given no verbal response to this question, simply tightened his glare to make him seem older and more imposing.

"I am curious to explore Marsiliis' theories…" Carlos told his superior absently as he studied the Gascon with a scholarly eye. "¿Puedo tener el niño?" Carlos had then turned back towards his leader, reverting back to his native language.

D'Artagnan would have sworn that he had felt the tension between the musketeers beside him. Even then the Gascon had known that while he knew not of what the man spoke, the blanched look upon the Aramis' features said more than he wished to know.

"Do as you will," Suárez had waved off casually; speaking in French to make it clear he wanted the musketeers to understand his meaning. "Though if your methods prove effective, you may have them all."

From there the four had not had a moment to process the Spaniard's orders, with one man placing a knife to d'Artagnan's throat before separating the Gascon mercilessly from his fellow musketeer brothers. The cold stony expressions of worry and panic held in Athos' eyes had been the last things he saw, hearing Aramis' and Porthos' loud protests as he was dragged from their sight.

After a day in complete isolation, he had been pulled into a small room in the depths of the estate's basements. Here his hands had been tightly secured to high hanging manacles, forcing him to stand in order to relieve the pressure from his wrists. The rains had been heavy in region and as such a steady stream of water dripped continuous from above; each ice-cold drop landing heavy upon the top of his head like the sharp bite of a blade.

Any thought of sleep was soon lost. And though there were moments where his body attempted to claim the serenity of unconsciousness, Carlos and his assistances were always close on hand to shove him roughly from his slumber; pricking him with a sharp pin, delivering deft blows to his ribs, never once allowing him rest. Even when the Spaniard rebels abandoned their posts for thoughts of food and bed, the constant splash of frigid water upon his head gave no allowance for peace.

The second day in the cellar he had been so frustrated in his boredom he rebelled against his captors at every opportunity, shouting and berating them each time they attempted to interrogate him. His arms had grown weary, beginning to lose all feeling as his blood left his fingers, his wrists aching from the heavy iron shackles biting into the skin.

The third day his irritation had grown and though the air in the cellar held frost and the icy water dripped relentlessly upon him, his skin felt hot, sticky, humming with alertness and anger. His body shivered against the cold, though he could not escape the closeness and claustrophobic nature of the room. It was hot and cold all at once, delivering a wave of confusing mixed messages to his brain.

By the fourth day he felt his mind slipping. Images began to blur through hot dry eyes. Voices seemed to barely touch his reverie, drifting past like fading memories from a dream. Time slipped effortlessly like sand in a hourglass, each passing without thought or acknowledgment.

After that he stopped counting the days.

Every so often Suárez would enter the room himself, strolling up to the shackled Gascon with a confidence unmatched by any of the other Spaniards. Though the rebel's mood would change with each visit, his questions remained the same.

"Where is the Condesa?" Suárez would stare unblinkingly at d'Artagnan, as he demanded his answers. "Tell us and we will allow you your freedom."

Sometimes d'Artagnan would say nothing to this, other times he would laugh or spit at the vile man, but never would he give the Spaniard any sort of satisfaction over him. But as the days drew longer, it became harder and hard to decipher one from another.

It did not take long before his mind began to play tricks upon him; shadows turned into figures, faces appeared in the darkness and voices began to trickle into his ear, sometimes in comfort but more often taunting him.

However it was not too long that the comforting voices became recognisable, the shadows forming familiar faces. Not long after that, the shadows became to speak.

'Stay with me, d'Artagnan' Athos told him, standing behind Suárez, 'hold on'.

"'Thos…" he tried to call out to the elder musketeer, though he was unsure whether the man was there or not. If Athos were truly free, why did he just stand there unmoving?

"Where is Condesa's convoy?" A rough hand gripped his chin, fingers digging mercilessly into his skin, securing his head tightly.

Who? D'Artagnan's mind wondered, was that why he was here? Did he even know a Condesa? He knew several Comtesses…

"Speak what you know?" a furious growl demanded of him, squeezing the strong grip until d'Artagnan registered the pain with a gasp.

'Tell them nothing,' this voice belonged to Aramis, somehow the sharp-shooting musketeer was in the room the same as Athos.

I won't, he promise desperately the fading image of Aramis, each time he blinked, the musketeer seem to disappear further.

'Hold on a little longer,' it was clear this was Porthos, his voice floating from somewhere in the darkness before fading back into silence.

"Come back," he tried to plea at his brothers, but they were sinking back into the dark shadowed corners of the room, melting into the inky darkness.

"Where is she?" Someone demanded, slapping him awake before he had even realised he had closed his eyes. Had it been minutes? Hours? The questions were always the same and he had no idea how many times he had heard them shouted at him, no way of knowing if he were dreaming or awake.

"I don't know," d'Artagnan whispered in a distracted tone, unable to focus upon his interrogator as Athos had returned behind Suárez. The elder musketeer standing stoic, watching d'Artagnan with an undistinguishable stare, though he did not say anything.

D'Artagnan's heart beat faster as he realised he had let slip the truth. Athos' stare turned cold, clearly displaying the disappointment the elder felt.

"I just need a little longer, Suárez," someone slapped his cheek lightly, but it made no difference, d'Artagnan continued to stare at the wall just beyond his interrogators. He could not tell whether his captors were speaking French or Spanish, though somehow he seemed to understand the words.

"We have not the time to waste," Suárez snarled at the man to his left.

"He will talk, won't you?" Carlos spat at his captive, shoving the Gascon roughly. In his shackled and exhausted state, d'Artagnan could do nothing to avoid the blow, "Won't you?"

"No," d'Artagnan croaked, his eyes catching fading Athos' gaze once more, revealing a look of pride upon the elder's face. Athos would never break and nor would he.

Suárez and Carlos seemed to be arguing about something or another, though their words were undistinguishable. D'Artagnan could see their mouths moving though the sound seemed distorted, slurred beyond recognition. All he could hear was the slight ringing of his ears, the dull thump of his heartbeat upon his chest and the drip of the ice-cold water that continued to drop upon his head. And while the Spaniards kept berating one another, d'Artagnan chose to ignore them, looking past them to the slightly faded image of Athos behind them. The man seemed enveloped in shadow, making d'Artagnan wish that there were more lighting in the darkened cellar so that he may see the other musketeer better.

A small glint of a pistol was all the warning the musketeer had as Carlos turned his weapon to the wall where Athos stood. The gunshot thundered throughout the room in a violent blast, kicking a fresh wave of adrenaline through his body, his mind snapping to an overly heightened sense of awareness.

D'Artagnan's head shot upright at the noise, like a stag in a forest, trying desperately to work out where the shot had landed. Though he felt no pain, it was not a clear indication as to whether he had been hit or not. At his presence state he could no longer feel the shackles around his wrists, nor the ache that he had once.

However it was then that he noticed how empty the room felt; only two others before him when there had been three.

Athos was gone. Had Athos been shot? Was that the reason for the musketeer's absence? From the angle his head was being held, he could not see the floor, nor could he tell if there was a musketeer bleeding out upon it. Suárez and his second in command had payed no attention to any other in the room, though d'Artagnan swore Athos had stood before him. And now he did not. There was no other explanation for the absence.

Athos had been shot.

Athos was dead.

"Where is the Condesa?" Carlos demanded of him, grabbing his chin once more, but d'Artagnan refused to listen to the men who had killed his mentor.

"Athos…" d'Artagnan's eyes widened at the realisation, his breath hitching with confusion and anxiety. They had killed him. Athos was dead. How would he tell Porthos and Aramis?

"Useless," Suárez spat, gripping d'Artagnan's hair to pull the Gascon's head back, "throw him with the others," the rebel leader growled to his companion, before muttering some indistinguishable slur in Spanish at his comrade.

A wave of numbness flooded d'Artagnan's senses as he felt hands upon his person, wrenching him down from the shackles that bound him to the ceiling. He could no longer feel his hands nor his arms, his shoulders held a dull ache but nothing more. Though at that moment he didn't care what happened to him. They had killed Athos.

His eyes searched the room desperately for the elder musketeer but there was no body to be found. How had they removed the body so quickly?

A small part of his mind began to see the inconsistencies in his thought process, stumbling clumsily through a labyrinth of reality and fantasy. Was Athos truly dead or had his mind fooled him once more?

Sudden motion around him paused his inner contemplation as he felt himself being dragged along by firm hands. A rush of confused thoughts bombarded his mind as he struggled to comprehend the situation. Movements felt as though he were being pulled through a rushing current, each step was like being forcefully pushed in the opposite direction, being wrenched through a pit of thick mud.

They stopped for a moment as a heavy creaking sound could be heard, though d'Artagnan was far more interesting the patterns the wood grains were forming as he looked at them. Without warning, the hands upon his shoulder's pushing him roughly into the room, forcefully slamming him against the cold stone.

"D'Artagnan?" He heard a familiar voice in the patchy darkness, but it was hard to focus on where he'd heard that voice before or to even contemplate where he had been thrown. It was something hard, cold, slightly wet. Something that he could not remember at that moment, but it was in his mind somewhere, on the tip of his tongue…

"Floor," he said finally in a hysterical giggle, as he came upon the word, how had he forgotten the word 'floor'? How had he gotten on the floor?

"Did they hit your head?" There was another familiar voice, closer this time, too close. How had it gotten that close?

His legs felt nice, and his arms too, though he couldn't quiet feel them there was not that odd pulling sensation that he had felt before. They were prickly, trickling with a surreal floating feeling that felt oddly detached and far away.

"He seems feverish …", the voice said once more, hands caressed his forehead soothingly, "his wrists seemed badly bruised but nothing that would warrant this."

The voice was so familiar. It reminded him of something, someone.

"'Mis…" d'Artagnan wondered allowed, but soon found his eyes could not focus enough to make out any recognisable features.

"Did they drug him?" there was another voice somewhere in the darkened room, looming just out the corner of d'Artagnan's eye. This was strange, usually the voices only talked to him, never to each other.

"D'Artagnan, what did they do?" It was Aramis' voice once again, soft and gentle, lulling him into a blissful state. After being alert for so long the comfort of peace seemed so utterly divine he sought it out desperately.

"Mhm sl'epnow," d'Artagnan whispered, sinking into the welcoming darkness that reached out for him, almost humming at the warmth from Aramis' hand as it raked through his wet hair.

"Alright," Aramis told him softly, allowing the musketeer to slip into calmer state by the familiar comfort of the elder's voice. Hands moving slowly from his head down to one side. Fingers ran across his chest, pressing into his injured ribs, sparking a fresh wave across his side like a burning flame, igniting a deep and torturous pain within him.

D'Artagnan immediately froze, adrenaline coursing feverishly at the threat, opening his eyes as he realised his fatal mistake – he had nearly fallen asleep, he couldn't sleep. He should have known better than to believe the voices that plagued his reverie. His mind was playing tricks on him again. Aramis was not there, it was simply his addled thoughts creating illusions in the shadows once more.

Something was touching him, something was crawling over his skin, ripping – tearing – piece by piece. Dragging nails across his forearms pulling him down, trying to shackle him once more.

He was not free. Sleep meant pain. He could not sleep. He needed to stay awake.

"Get off me!" d'Artagnan tried to tear his hands from his captors violently in a panicked state, pushing himself far away from prying hands, though his arms felt utterly detached from his body – distant – as if they did not belong to him. He could see them but he could not control them.

"D'Artagnan…" A new voice said, deep in the shadows of the room, it almost sounded like Athos . But d'Artagnan knew better than to fall for that trick twice. The shadows had begun to mimic the musketeer's voice one more, taunting him. "Can you reach him?" Athos – the shadow – asked.

"Not anymore I can't," the first voice uttered, still using Aramis' voice, followed by an odd clinking noise. "His ribs are injured, though I can tell if they're bruised or broken."

D'Artagnan tried to move further away from the dark shadows that tried to grab at him but he could not seem to will his body further. His legs seemed to pay no attention to his demands nor did his aching arms.

"Why don't they listen…?" d'Artagnan breathed out slowly as he starred unblinkingly at his arms. On some level he could feel that his arms were still attached, but he had no idea how to tell them to move.

"Why don't who listened?" Someone said before him, it was different, not the same as the shadows beside him, familiar.

Recognition hit him with a crashing wave, almost causing him to choke upon the breath of relief that ensued.

"Porthos?" d'Artagnan stared across the room at the musketeer with a wide smile, hot tears scolding his tired eyes.

"You back with us?" Porthos ask him. The flaming torch above the musketeer flickered the man's image slightly, leaving him in partial shadow, though d'Artagnan could still see Porthos' features clearly.

"P'thos," he repeated, trying not to blink in fear that the man would disappear. However the lack of moisture upon his eyes appeared to be a fresh kind of torture that he was unprepared to deal with.

"You alright?" It was Porthos' voice again, though d'Artagnan could see the man's mouth move as the words appeared, making the Gascon feel himself unconsciously anchoring to the older man's voice. The constant stream of bodiless voices that had been whispering to him over the past week had made him desperate for a sliver of reality.

"D'n't dis'pear," he told Porthos desperately, wishing he could use his limbs to crawl his way over and demand the man to stay and not fade as he had done countless times before.

"I'm not going anywhere," Porthos promised him with serious tone, though d'Artagnan knew that was a promise the elder musketeer had no control over.

"That's what you said last time…" d'Artagnan whispered hollowly in a low slur, praying his eyes would stay open. They felt so heavily, each time he tried to blink it was almost torturous to open them again, but he knew he had to. He couldn't fall asleep.

"How long have you been awake?" the voice to his left asked but d'Artagnan tried to block it out.

"Shadows shouldn't talk," he berated the darkened image in his periphery. A small voice at the back of his mind told him he shouldn't talk to the shadows – nothing good happened in the shadows, and this was the shadow that had hurt him, it would not think twice to do so again.

"Well that about answers it," Porthos shook his head, looking distressed about… something.

His eyes tried to close but d'Artagnan fought them with every last inch of strength he had left. He could not surrender now, not when he had finally found Porthos.

Can't sleep, d'Artagnan told himself, stay awake.

"Why can't you sleep?"

The shadows were in his head, d'Artagnan felt his hands tremble slightly at the realisation that even his own thoughts were not longer safe.

"You are talking aloud, d'Artagnan, we're not in your head…" the voice to his right told him. It sounded so much like Athos, but it just confused d'Artagnan all the more. Why was Athos a shadow? Was that what had happened when Athos was shot?

"I'm not telling you anything," he growled at the shadows, this was just some other trick. He had to stay awake, he couldn't tell them anything, he had to stay vigilant.

"I think he has been awake this whole time…" a voice to his left uttered, "Marsiliis."

"What does that mean?" Porthos spoke once more, though oddly enough he seemed to be looking directly at the shadows, addressing them as naturally as though they were old friends.

"Marsiliis was an Italian with a wicked interest in the human mind," the shadow on his left uttered, it sounded odd, as if it were getting further away. Sounds were starting to drift in and out once more, bleeding into the fraction of reality he clung to. It was getting hard to tell where his thoughts ended and the living world begun. "Said to torture men by forcing them to remain awake."

"As tortures go, I think I'd chose that one…" Porthos sniffed, once more addressing the shadow to the left of d'Artagnan.

"In most cases the victims went mad after a few weeks…" the shadow replied ominously.

Was that it? D'Artagnan thought, had he gone mad? His mind was a thundering storm of irrational thoughts, each more confusing that the last. Every second he remained awake became a torturous task. He knew he had to stay awake, but it was getting harder to figure out why? It was frustrating and agonisingly maddening.

Porthos was here. Porthos was not a shadow. That is why he could not sleep. Porthos would disappear if he closed his eyes. He wouldn't let that happen.

"Go to sleep, d'Artagnan, we will keep watch," the shadow to his right promised, though d'Artagnan knew better than to trust a shadow. Sleeping was what the shadows wanted; the shadows had taken Aramis and killed Athos.

"I'm so tired," he choked at Porthos. His mind was bombarding him with a thousand thoughts, all racing at once. Why were the shadows speaking as Athos and Aramis? Where had his interrogators gone? Was this simply a new method for making him reveal the Condesa's whereabouts?

"Then sleep, we will manage this," the voice on his left told him softly, a jangle of iron against stone struck his mind, the sound seemed so close yet so distant at the same moment.

"I'm's'tired," he could not hold back the anguish in his voice, wishing desperately that Porthos were truly before him, that the mimicked voices were real and that his mind could relax and be claimed by the luxurious bliss of sleep.

"D'Artagnan close your eyes and sleep," the shadowy figure on his right urged him gently, mimicking Athos' soft tones to almost perfection.

"Can't," he grit his teeth at the shadow. He would not be swayed so easily. Porthos needed him. Porthos would be taken by the darkness if he closed his eyes.

"You need to sleep, lad, close your eyes," Porthos told him, encouraging him to give into the demands of his mind.

"Can't," d'Artagnan looked up at Porthos in confusion, "the shadows will take you away."

"What? No they won't," Porthos seemed to chuckle a little at this, causing d'Artagnan to become agitated at the man.

"They took Athos," d'Artagnan warned the man before him, trying desperately to make him understand the danger he was in.

"I am right here, d'Artagnan," the voice to his right said. Porthos looked odd, why was he frowning? Was he worried? Where the shadows coming to take him?

"Shadows killed Athos," d'Artagnan uttered, trying to blink away the water that obstructed his vision. He couldn't risk closing his eyes. Shadows lived in the darkness.

"D'Artagnan," the shadow on his right growled.

"He's delirious," the voice on his left told him, but d'Artagnan was not going to listen to the shadows anymore, their cruel whispering had caused him enough grief.

"They shot him," d'Artagnan slurred a little, trying his keep his head from dropping down upon his chest. No, did they? Had they? Or had that been the shadow's trick?

"He just needs sleep," the second voice beside him said, "his mind his fighting him, exhausting him, once he rests he should be fine."

"They shot me in the head…" d'Artagnan told Porthos, finding it harder to keep his head up as it felt as though it were filled with lead.

"No they didn't," the voice on his right told him sternly.

"I think I died…" he whispered to Porthos, his eyes wide, trying desperately not to blink.

"You're not dead, d'Artagnan," the voice growled beside him, it sounded angry. Could a shadow be angry? Would it take Porthos if it were angry?

"Leave him be, he needs to sleep," the second shadow said, sounding slightly authoritative, did shadows have rank?

"Can't," d'Artagnan told the shadow on his left, though he kept his eyes on Porthos, if he kept looking at the musketeer, then the man couldn't disappear.

"Yes, you can," the shadow to his left urged him gently.

" 'Thos died, Aram'is'gone, P'thos kes'dis'pearin'," he told the shadows in a monotonic slur, though he could not look at them. Porthos would disappear if he looked away.

"It'll be all be fine, you just need sleep," Porthos told him, "Come over here."

"No," d'Artagnan stopped himself completely as he came to the realisation – this was just another illusion. He should have seen it before. Porthos was not there, Porthos had never been there.

"D'Artagnan…" Porthos frowned at him.

"I don't know…" d'Artagnan spoke softly, unable to articulate the chaos inside his head.

"You don't know what?"

"Can't…" d'Artagnan muttered, trying to concentrate on why it had gotten so dark all of a sudden.

Shadows. Sleep was bad. The shadows brought pain.

"Can't," he growled, trying to snap himself awake though even the simplest of actions felt as though he were still tightly bound, standing back in the basement.

It took a herculean effort to force his eyes to open once more, he needed to fight this. He could not give in to his interrogators.

"No, close your eyes," the shadowy figure to his right ordered him with a gentle tone, though d'Artagnan did his best to tune of the demands of the shadows.

"Can't." He snarled, determined not to show any sign of weakness towards his manipulating captors; be they shadows or Spanish rebels, he would not bow to them.

"Christ, lad," Porthos sighed as he furrowed his brows at the younger musketeer.

†††

He had seen d'Artagnan in a variety of states of the past year in the Gascon's company; drunk, concussed, startled from a deep sleep, heavily dosed with pain medicine, the list seemed endless. However nothing compared to erratic faraway expression of withdrawn fear that d'Artagnan was showing at this moment. The young musketeer seemed distant yet alert all at once, his exhaustion had gone beyond the point of rational thought, leaving the young Gascon in a permanent paranoid delusional state.

Athos had been utterly petrified by the Gascon's angry cries echoing the halls in the first few days of their captivity, though the eerie silence that followed had been far worse. For days they had known nothing of the young musketeer's condition, half believing he had been killed. Their captors had clearly been avid fans of the divide and conquer approach to gaining information, focusing their attentions upon d'Artagnan as the youngest and henceforth the weakest in their opinion – which only proved their blindness. For d'Artagnan had something not many musketeers could boast – a wicked stubborn streak that had no doubt proved completely frustrating to those who thought the young musketeer would break easily.

Carlos' attentions upon the Gascon had been utterly unnerving as there was no way of deciphering what the medic's true interests were in the boy. However, as Aramis explained the theories of the Italian lawyer, Athos' fears subsided slightly. For while the methods seemed cruel, from what Athos had gathered upon the matter, it was not life threatening. And while it was worrying at the moment, Athos knew it a temporary issue. All they needed to do was to get the musketeer to sleep – which was proving a little difficult at that point in time.

"Can't," d'Artagnan breathed out in a hoarse whispered. Even in the dim glow of the ill-lit room, Athos could see that the young Gascon's heart was racing erratically, matching the sharp gulping breaths. D'Artagnan's head lolled slightly back and forth, in a continuously motion, as though his body were trying to sleep but the musketeer's mind would not allow it.

"Yes you can, close them." Athos urged, becoming slightly frustrated with the stubborn young Gascon. D'Artagnan had seemingly gone into a verbal loop of the word 'can't' , repeating it over and over as he fought himself to remain awake.

"Athos," Aramis sighed, tugging at his iron bounds once more, "more than likely he's been awake for over a week. To go so long without sleep, with the right stimulations, it's said it can drive a man insane."

"P'thos ds'pear," d'Artagnan began another slurred incoherent rant, starring unblinkingly at Porthos as his eyes watered, "shhd'ws."

"But it's temporary…" Athos turned back, watching Aramis carefully. Aramis had not said anything of this nature before. The other musketeer had told him the symptoms were easily reversed, but Aramis' renewed worries had Athos slightly apprehensive.

"Once he sleeps," Aramis nodded, though Athos could only just make it out in the darkened room. "Right now he's just exhausting himself, he's already got a fever, if he get's sick he would most likely be too weak to survive it."

"Can't," d'Artagnan mumbled once more, shaking his head to violently jerk himself awake.

"We need to get him out of here," Porthos uttered, watching the sleep deprived Gascon cautiously.

"I'm open to suggestions," Athos muttered darkly, gesturing to the thick iron shackles that bound each of them securely against the wall.

"Ones that don't push your shoulder," Porthos considered, peering towards Aramis with a concerned expression. The past week had not been kind on any of them. While Suárez may not have been a violent man, but his followers held not such values. The Spanish rebels had frequently interrogated them with little mercy shown, seemingly excited to direct their frustrations upon loyal French Catholics.

"Or your head," Aramis chimed back sharply, nodding at trickle of glistening blood that painted the left side of Porthos' face, with dark bruises mottling his temple and cheek. Though Athos had watched the two joke and banter over the week, he could see that both were desperate to hide their wounds from the other.

"D'Artagnan's not chained," Porthos shrugged, nodding to Gascon in the centre of the room.

"D'Artagnan is nine days without sleep and is refusing to talk to us," Athos countered tersely.

"Can't," d'Artagnan muttered in a low slur as if on cue.

"My point exactly," Athos nodded to the young Gascon, "if he were more coherent we'd be in luck, but in this state I'm worried any conversation might not be understood."

"Mm'not'na tell you n'thng," d'Artagnan growled in a slurred, almost incoherent mumble, his eyelids sagging slightly as the young musketeer fought to stay awake.

"That's because you don't know anything," Aramis chuckled slightly as he leaned back against the wall, clearly giving up all efforts to reach the Gascon.

As their squadron had been deployed as a decoy escort, it had been decided that they should know nothing of the Condesa's true whereabouts on the off chance they were interrogated. As it turned out this had been an apt decision as the captured musketeers had no information to give their captors, even if they wished to.

Athos paused in for a moment as he heard a distant cry of alarm, his heart picking up to a racing pace – either there was an attack upon the estate or a rescue. Either outcome in this case seemed rather positive, considering their predicament.

"Do you hear that?" Aramis looked up over at the door with a hopeful expression.

"Is that what I think it is?" Porthos looked up towards the heavy wooden door with a hopeful expression. "Sounds like Michel and Bastian found the others," he chuckled as another cry rang out above them, followed by several blasts of gunpowder from muskets and pistols.

"Took them long enough," Athos muttered absently, though was thoroughly appreciative of their timely arrival. He had feared the consequences had they not been able to see to d'Artagnan or if the young musketeer had been given back into the hands of Carlos.

"Athos?" A familiar voice of their musketeer comrades called down the darkened corridor. "Aramis, Porthos?"

"Down here," Athos called back with a smile, tipping his head back against the wall, thankful that the nightmare was over. The sound of boots rushing toward them in the corridor outside was akin to the most heavenly of choirs.

"You lot alright?" Michel asked as he pushed the door open, holding a brightly flaming torch to light his way.

"Bumps and bruises, nothing more," Porthos sniffed casually, though the visible bloodied wound upon his head completely undermined his statement.

"Most of us," Athos drawled slowly, keeping his eyes upon d'Artagnan, who was trembling slightly in the centre of the room.

"Have you secured the estate?" Porthos wondered cautiously.

"León and the others came along for the ride, they have Suárez in the courtyard, although all others resisted, Suárez is sole survivor."

"Good riddance," Porthos snarled, and Athos found himself agreeing with the man whole-heartedly. While Suárez had preached a peaceful message, his followers had simply been on board for the promised of Catholic bloodshed. And his second in command, Carlos, seemed to be only present for the prospect of potential test subjects. None of these deserved to live another day.

"And how does the Condesa fair?" Aramis ventured with an apprehensive frown.

"Safe and sound in the company of the Queen," Bastian told them with a smile, "whom, by the way, wished to send the entire garrison to your aid after hearing of the capture of you four."

"Talk about favourites," Michel snorted with a sly smirk.

"Charming as this is, I would appreciate a timely release," Athos supplied curtly, bestowing an unimpressed scowl to their chatty rescuers.

"Good Lord," Michel breathed out as the torch light illuminated d'Artagnan.

Bastian swore under his breath and immediately went to reach out for the young musketeer, but Athos knew this to be a terrible move. D'Artagnan was already on edge, the Gascon needed to calm his mind down in order to sleep, being approached by a potential threat was not the best way to achieve this.

"Leave him be," Athos ordered the musketeers, "we will deal with him."

To this they gave Athos a nod of agreement, setting to work on releasing the three before standing back so that the trio could attend their protégé. Once freed from his shackles, Athos slowly made his way over to d'Artagnan's crouched form.

"I have his effects," Bastian told them, leaning over to place d'Artagnan's rapier, pistol and jacket before the twitching musketeer. However Porthos was quick to stop the eager musketeer, physically placing himself between d'Artagnan and Bastian.

"The last thing you should do is give him a weapon," Athos drawled slowly as he gave Bastian a patronising stare.

"Careful of his ribs," Aramis warned over Athos' shoulder, "we don't want further complications."

"Agreed," Athos muttered, bending down slightly as he approached the young musketeer as though the Gascon were a wounded animal. "D'Artagnan?" he tried, reaching out slowly.

As the young musketeer gave no notice to Athos' presence, the elder saw his opportunity to move closer. "Which side?" Athos asked of Aramis, nodding to d'Artagnan's ribs.

"Left side," Aramis offered quickly as Athos took d'Artagnan's right arm, promptly pulling it over his shoulder to lever the younger musketeer into a standing position. Though d'Artagnan moaned slightly and flinched under Athos' touch, the Gascon made no further protest, which Athos was entirely grateful for. In d'Artagnan's state it would be easy to over power the younger man, but Athos knew this would cause more grief than aid.

Slowly they made their way through the tunnels of the estate's lower basements, carefully ushering d'Artagnan up stairs and through the manor out into the bright courtyard where the other musketeers were grouped ready to depart.

D'Artagnan's complexion in the sunlight was even more worrying; dark ashen smudges clung under his eyes, made all the more dark by the pale yellowish tinge that the Gascon had accumulated during their imprisonment. His eyes were shod with blood red rims and veins, completely unfocused upon all that happened around him. However despite all of this, d'Artagnan stood upright – though he leaned a little on Athos – and his eyes remained opened, determined not to fall asleep.

"We could punch him?" Porthos suggested with a shrug.

"A concussion in this state could force him into a sleep he would never wake from…" Aramis was quick to brush this idea away with a sharp shake of his head, "he just needs to relax; once his mind slows down his body will take over."

"Give me a minute," Athos told them, gifting the two a look that asked for compliance, to which they relented without a word. "D'Artagnan you need to sleep," he told the younger man.

"No," d'Artagnan muttered back in stubborn reply, determined to ignore any requested made by his imagined interrogators.

Athos sighed, gently cupped the musketeer's face, careful to avoid the bruises that littered the Gascon's neck and chin. He warmth from the younger's skin was a touch worrying but it was something that could be dealt with at a later moment. "D'Artagnan, you have held out remarkably against this torment, more than any I know, but you cannot continue this way, you must sleep. Please. "

Oddly enough, Athos' desperate tones seemed to alert d'Artagnan attention. The Gascon's bloodshot brown eyes meeting Athos' own in obvious recognition.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan croaked, his hoarse voice revealing his desperate exhaustion. "'Mis, P'thos," his dark eyes turned in the direction of Aramis and Porthos as the former saw to the latter's head wound.

"We are out, everyone is safe." Athos stressed carefully, making sure the younger man understood.

"Safe…" d'Artagnan repeated slowly, as if his shattered mind were trying to comprehend the meaning of the word.

"Yes," Athos confirmed strongly, reassuring the young soldier of facts. It was a method that had come in use when dealing with Aramis' Savoy flashbacks. Clear honest facts could not be refuted by an addled mind. "We are to head to a local inn to rest before making our journey back to Paris," Athos informed the Gascon.

"Suárez?" d'Artagnan frowned, his eyelids drooping heavily as he attempted to look around for the rebel leader.

"Taken care of," Athos explained simply.

"Condesa…" d'Artagnan met Athos' gaze, looking far too exhausted to even still be holding a coherent conversation.

"Safe in Paris with her cousin." Athos nodded, his voice calm and quietly, in the hope that his tones would soothe d'Artagnan's alert mind.

"Safe…" d'Artagnan repeated once more, his heavy eyelids slowly drooping lower as his mind began to relax.

"Go to sleep."

"Yeah…" was all that the Gascon could articulate before his body succumbed to the wave of exhaustion that envelopment him completely, knees buckling under his weight. Athos was quick to reaction, catching the young musketeer well before he hit the ground.

"Please tell me you sang him a lullaby and he just nodded off," Aramis appeared beside him with Porthos in tow, looking a damn sight better with the blood washed from his face.

Athos said nothing to this and raised his eyebrow slightly, but Aramis chuckled all the same. Aramis then leaned forward, gently pressed the unconscious Gascon's rib cage with careful consideration not to awaken the resting musketeer. Though Aramis was sure that nothing could awaken d'Artagnan now that he had finally succumbed to sleep.

"Two broken ribs," Aramis murmured quietly, looking up at his brothers beside him. "I'll wrap them at the inn."

"Take the cart," Athos noted, nodding to a large wooden cart, "Carrying him may shift something, as will riding."

With a silent nod of agreement, Porthos and Athos eased the sleeping musketeers upon the straw-filled cart, making sure not to jostle his ribs or cause him any discomfort.

"A little too much excitement for the little puppy?" one of the musketeers – Donais – snorted unabashedly, "Had to take a nap did he?"

"Next time you can suffer a week's interrogation and d'Artagnan can be the one to stroll in at the last minute," Porthos growled fiercely at the snide musketeer, his own wounds spurring his anger.

"Lower your voices," Athos told them in a harsh whisper, noting the deep frown upon d'Artagnan's resting features. Satisfied that the Gascon would not awaken, Athos turned back to the musketeers with a stony expression. "If anyone wakes him, I will sell their horse and they can walk back to Paris."

This message was received loud and clear as no one spoke for the remainder of their journey to the inn, carefully avoiding Athos' gaze, offering their aid and unwavering support for the injured musketeers.

Just as Aramis had assured, sleep had proved to be the cure for d'Artagnan's addled state. Though the young musketeer had the others worried when he slept soundly for the next two days, only to waken on the eve of the second day; slightly confused as to his location but whole of mind and coherent, asking after food and water.

It had been a breath of cool relief when d'Artagnan had awoken, silencing the inner monologue of worries that had plagued Athos' mind over the past few weeks. Though slightly bruised and battered they had thankfully all made it through these trials without lasting consequences.

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