Two: Caged

Day One

It wasn't an actual cell, though by all appearance it'd been in use as one for a while. The door had clanked closed with a heavy groan from its hinge, leaving them in a dim and enclosed space more suited to storing potatoes than people. The locks had followed. Large cross bolts that had sounded their fidelity with gratingly strong clicks.

Aramis spent the first two hours saying nothing—forehead pressed to the lattice-like metal—staring through the crudely melded bars to the space across the passageway where their weapons, coats, and cloaks could just be made out.

Athos, wise to picking his battles, had let him, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he himself paced the enclosure—barely five steps to reach the wall in either direction. On the far side, a narrow window was carved near the ceiling, fitted with the same crude lattice as the door. It was scarcely bigger than Athos's two fists cupped together and sat nearly a foot above his head.

He'd stood there in silence, breathing the air the small gap promised. Waiting Aramis out.

The only luxury he had was time.

Eventually, Aramis leaned back, gruff palm dragging harshly over his stiff neck, marks from the bars' cross-pattern indented on his forehead. He glanced around owlishly, taking in the sacked straw mattress and the pail in the corner, and blinked. Then blinked again. Staring at Athos, he ran nicked fingers through his hair, visually shuttering the deadness from his face. "Well, this is lovely," he said lightly, but Athos knew better.

Aramis fidgeted, looking away. He hooked a twitching hand below the crown of his skull and paced the space, much as Athos had done.

"Come here," Athos finally ordered.

Aramis glanced at him, dark eyes catching the coarse edge of light they'd been graced with, the flinty rim of resistance reflected in his gaze. As always, though, he conceded, nearing enough to let Athos run fingers along his bruised jawbone and then look at his hands.

"Nothing that won't heal in a matter of days," he murmured slowly, talking into the darkness of Athos's frown.

Gripping the knuckles tightly, Athos nodded, then let go. Backing against the wall, he slid until he was sitting, watching bits of dust float through the crass squares of light cast down by their window. With slumped grace, Aramis joined him, shoulder to shoulder, warmth to warmth.

"This is at least familiar," Athos commented.

"That time outside Troyes," Aramis agreed, arm shifting as he pulled absently at his hair. "The cellar." He was silent a moment, then glanced skyward as though to supplicate deity. "God, that was awful."

"We're in positive luxury by comparison."

A stretch of silence followed, and then this— "Porthos was with us in that one."

"We should be just as grateful that he isn't this time," said Athos. "We'll be found sooner than we were then."

Aramis held his breath. When he spoke again his voice was raw and utterly devoid of pretense. "Porthos wasn't moving when I last saw him."

"We didn't have d'Artagnan in Troyes either," Athos continued, shoving down the darkness the thought of unconscious Porthos brought to the surface. "D'Artagnan is with him. He will have found him. They would not have left without each other."

"D'Artagnan was bleeding, last I saw him."

Athos flinched, because he had seen that one too—rocked by the violence of Aramis's shout before they'd both delved deeper into the fray.

Dragging his knee up, he turned his head so he could view Aramis in profile. "Not enough to stop him," he said casually, keeping his voice even. "Not enough to stop either one, and you know this. They got away."

Rubbing anew at the bar marks on his forehead, fingers knuckling deeper than they ought, Aramis closed his eyes, pressing his face into his fist. He nodded as he spoke, mumbling words as if by rote. "You're right. You're right. Porthos is Porthos, and d'Artagnan…"

"D'Artagnan is learning," finished Athos, closing his fingers around Aramis's wrist and drawing it away. He waited a beat, squeezing gently before letting go.

"Perhaps I might be able to get my arm through the bars—reach something," Aramis mumbled.

"The gaps are too small and anything you might want to reach is too far away."

"The breaks in the bottom of the door are wider—perhaps how they intend to feed us."

"If they intend to feed us. Besides, the metal work on the lattice is crude—you're just as likely to slice yourself open trying."

Aramis made a sound in his throat, rocky and dismissive.

Athos thunked his head lightly to the wall, thinking hunger was something they could both probably stand. But just like Troyes, it was the inaction of being trapped that could get Aramis killed.

Day Two

"Porthos and I were back to back. I let us get divided."

"That isn't true. Besides, I watched you—you were there. You dragged him away. You got him hidden before you rejoined. And you told me he was breathing and that you didn't see blood."

Grimacing, Aramis stopped pacing and turned his back, pressing his forehead to the juncture between walls in the corner. "I didn't have time to check him fully. I didn't even see what took him down. I just dragged him away like… like…" His back heaved. "I had to go back into the battle. I heard you, and d'Artagnan, and I couldn't—"

"Aramis."

Aramis's fingers curled into the wall before he pushed back. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't helping."

Athos scrubbed a hand down his face but still caught the way Aramis began eying the jagged gaps in the lower part of the door. "Aramis, sit down," he said quickly. "Come here and sit down."

The act of peeling his gaze from the lattice was slow, too slow, but he came and sat, folding down on crossed legs to face him.

"You told me once that a priest taught you in your youth to recite Sumerian Poems. You have me as a captive audience and I you captive as entertainer. Prove it."

Day Three

"We could be quite happy here," Aramis said smoothly, turning another circuit as if to view the space with an eye towards decorating. The pose belied the restless and jittery shake his legs had taken up upon not sleeping the night before, and ignored completely the thin appearance of his skin. "After all, it's larger than your first quarters at the garrison. Or mine. Just needs a touch of color."

"Some curtains perhaps," Athos stated, standing below the precious window and rubbing at the dirt that seemed to have leached into his cold knuckles from nowhere. "Maybe a chair or two."

"Hmm. We are rather overburdened with light in the morning. Curtains I would accept. Chairs though—" Aramis's leg jerked then settled. He waved an arm in the air to compensate. "That might impose upon the space without necessity."

"A wine cabinet then."

Aramis smiled, the dark smudges under his eyes hidden by the dim shadows. "Of course. Much needed."

Athos felt his lips twitch and ease. His lungs drew a careful breath. "And a tapestry. For the far wall."

"Telling the story of our feats in battle. Yes. A fine enough addition for two simple men like us."

"Indeed."

Day Four

"It isn't going to work," insisted Athos. "Not without you hurting yourself. It's too risky."

"I can see your sword," Aramis replied, crouching low near the bars, fingers already hooked around the lattice.

"See, but not reach," Athos shot back. "Leave it alone."

"The guardsman knocked it over. It's closer than it was before and still attached to the belt." His arm moved, snaking through one of the gaps.

Athos lurched, crouching next to him to catch his elbow like a hook and grip it fast. But he could already see one of the sharper edges of metal snagging into Aramis's skin. "Pull your hand back," he ordered. "Slowly."

For a moment, Aramis looked like he was going to fight him.

Digging his fingers tightly into the sensitive point of his inner arm, just above the elbow, Athos glared.

Gracelessly, Aramis inched his hand back.

Keeping hold of the elbow, Athos turned him, tipping him back against the wall and clamping a hand over the gash. Aramis sat placidly while Athos flipped his wrist and wrapped his neck scarf around his forearm, but the burn in his gaze held words.

"Say it," Athos snapped.

"Nothing else is working!" Aramis grit. "We've only seen the guard every other day, and never in regular intervals. We've shouted, we've faked injuries—nothing draws him in. He doesn't even speak. And if Porthos and d'Artagnan can't come to us, we have to get to them. We have to try something else!"

"But not this! Sometimes all we can do is wait and be prepared when the opening comes. But you know this!" He shook Aramis's arm. "You're smarter than this! Why am I even having to tell you? Put you in any situation where you can't act and you become bound and determined to find a way to get yourself killed."

Aramis's face went stony. "Some actions are worth death."

Athos wanted to tear his hair out. "Not this one." He slumped back but gave Aramis's arm another shake. "Have you so little faith in your friends—in Porthos—to come to our aid? You rejoined the battle. That is all you did. Porthos will be fine and will come for us. He is not Marsac, Aramis, and neither are you."

Aramis flinched, then went breathlessly quiet. "When I was wounded, Marsac stayed with me."

"No, Aramis. He didn't."

Day Five

In the darkness they lay shoulder to shoulder on the straw-stuffed sack—a luxury they certainly hadn't had in Troyes. Tucked between Athos and the wall where Athos had manhandled him so he would know whether or not he tried to move, Aramis was not sleeping.

Athos could see his lashes flicker as he blinked into the stippled light. Folding an arm under his head, he stared up at the lattice window, listening to the even ins and outs of Aramis's lungs. Through the rough gaps above them, he could just make out the moon.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said.

Rolling his head, Athos was just in time to see the moody light catch in Aramis's eyes, before he blinked again and took the gloss away. Keeping his mouth closed, he waited to see if there'd be more. Nothing came. "What are you sorry for?" he prompted quietly.

Aramis almost laughed. "I'm not… patient."

"You are," denied Athos, dragging a breath and staring back at their small glimpse of sky. "Uncannily so. Just not always when I want you to be."

"Porthos and d'Artagnan are all right," Aramis whispered in response, like reciting a mantra.

Athos felt the coil of his own worry curl tightly around his chest and forced it back with a breath. "They are. And of the four of us, it's Porthos I feel sorry for," he said, keeping his tone as carefree as he could. "He's got to keep d'Artagnan in check, who is, on the whole, much worse than you."

"Is he now?" Aramis's teeth flashed easily in the dark.

"Usually. Then again, perhaps not," admitted Athos wryly, nudging his knee pointedly into Aramis's. "He's more impulsive, less considering, but is blessedly less prone to absolute self-destruction."

"This coming from you?" Aramis mumbled gently, as though aware he was prodding at something much too real to treat lightly.

"This coming from me," Athos repeated seriously.

Day Six

"How's your arm?"

"Fine," said Aramis. "It was barely a scratch. Why?"

Athos rolled his eyes and refrained from comment. "Hand me my scarf."

Aramis frowned, then tossed it over, watching while Athos stood on his toes to thread it though the lattice of the window until the two sides were hanging down like grips.

"We already tried that," said Aramis. "The cloth started to rip the moment we began to pull."

"I know."

"A marker," Aramis realized. "For when they come. Got it." He took off his crucifix and tossed it over. Athos threaded it onto the scarf and then slid it up until he could get the weighted end dropped out the window.

"Can't hurt," he said.

Day Seven

A shout and Athos awoke with a jolt, stumbling in a rush to his feet as if someone had pulled him by a string. He had to stop once he got there. Silver specks danced through his vision in a way he'd come to associate with lack of food, and water. They hadn't seen the guard in two days. "Aramis," he said, reaching down and fumbling for him through his brain's haze. "Aramis."

"Athos?"

He jerked his chin up, staring towards the window. "D'Artagnan?"

"The one and only."

"D'Artagnan?" Fisting a hand into Athos's waist, Aramis made it to his knees. "Are you all right?"

Before d'Artagnan could answer, the boom of gunpowder bloomed in the distance, causing them all to flinch. In the silent vacuum that followed, Athos shoved his arms under Aramis's and pulled him to his feet.

"D'Artagnan! Are you all right?" repeated Aramis.

"Fine," said d'Artagnan, then went silent through another blast of sound. "We saw the scarf and the necklace and we thought—well, I thought. I thought I could try to slip you a pistol through the bars but there's no way it will fit. At the very least they wanted me to tell you we were coming. Porthos and Treville have gone around the other way with some of the others. They should be with you soon."

"Porthos?" Athos and Aramis spoke in unison.

"Right here," said Porthos from behind them. They both spun so quickly they nearly lost their balance, holding onto each other in a way that had Porthos's bright smile vanishing in an instant. "Right, hold on," he said. "Back away from the door. Into the corner."

They did as ordered, Aramis on the outside lifting an arm to shield his face. Porthos had to reload and fire three times before the locks were dashed. At which point he kicked the door in and took in their tiny prison. "That's it, we're out of here," he growled, waving at them to come forward. "We're out of here."

They were on the threshold of the exit when Aramis turned back. "Catch the crucifix, d'Artagnan," he said, while pulling on the scarf to unthread it.

"Got it," d'Artagnan confirmed.

"That's it," said Porthos, going in and gripping Aramis's shoulder. "He's got it. Now let's go."

Outside, the sun was so bright, Athos's eyes began to water, the sock of fresh air like a punch to his gut. Coming up behind him, Porthos gripped both his elbows and steered him. "This way," he said. "Close your eyes. I'll get you where we need to go. Just close your eyes." Somewhere in the distance Treville was shouting, but the sounds of bursting gunpowder and steel against steel were growing less frequent.

"Aramis," Athos said.

"D'Artagnan's got him. Don't worry."

"Aramis needs water," he insisted.

"So do you. And we've got that covered too. Here. Sit here." Athos sat, accepting the waterskin that was pressed into his hands and trying to make himself sip slowly. "That's it," said Porthos. "That's the way."

Chancing to open his eyes, Athos found they were seated in shade, grass and trees and glorious fresh air. It took him a moment to realize he was shoulder to shoulder again with Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan crouched before them. Reaching a hand out, he gripped Porthos's forearm, holding it fast. They shared a look.

"That worried, huh?" mumbled Porthos.

Athos's eyes strayed upward to the dark bruise leaching down the side of Porthos's head, then he glanced sideways, trying to find evidence of the injury d'Artagnan surely wore. "We're fine," whispered d'Artagnan. "We're fine."

At Athos's shoulder, Aramis shuddered.

"No, not worried," said Athos, unlacing his fingers from Porthos and tapping them twice against Aramis's thigh. "Not worried at all. Were we?"

Nodding with a gentle smile, Porthos turned to Aramis, gripped the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward just enough to plant a determined kiss on the crown of his head, more serious than joking. "I'll bet," he said. "I'll bet."

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