The brandy helps Athos sink into a fitful sleep: one that's filled with horrifying dreams in which he's raped repeatedly until there's nothing left of him but a bloody mess that soaks into barren ground. He's lost everything; his previous life has stolen away any chance of a wife and family and now this has destroyed all other hope of companionship. He is desolate.
With eyes open, the emptiness of his future seems all too real. When they're closed he's flooded with images: jeering faces that stare down at him as he's fucked by every implement to hand. At first the tears fall without him even being aware of them, but then he's torn apart by great wracking sobs that leave him choking and breathless, yet still unable to stop crying. Chest heaving in soundless, helpless waves he curls onto his side and submits to his anguish.
The warm hand on his shoulder frightens him at first, but when it lays still, taking the greatest of care not to hurt him, he relaxes into its touch.
"That's it, my lad, cry it out. You'll feel better for it afterwards."
When the sobbing eventually subsides, Athos turns with difficulty to see the outline of Treville seated next to him. He has no idea what the hour is, but there's a glimmer of light through the window so it seems the captain has stayed with him throughout the night.
After helping Athos with a chamber pot Treville sees him back into bed. "Sleep again if you can. I'll be here with you."
Athos falls silent and still, exhausted from crying and yet unable to drift off--a would-be corpse waiting for death--but then Treville's hand returns to his shoulder and it’s a thing of comfort in an otherwise empty world.
"I would sooner have died myself than had this happen to you, my dearest man." The words are a low whisper, barely audible above the sounds of life coming from outside as dawn breaks and the world wakes with it, but Athos hears them and believes them.
---
The next time he opens his eyes it's to the sound of footsteps and the clanking of dishes. Mme Bonacieux is hurrying into the room, armed with enough food for the entire regiment as she places the tray on a nearby table.
"Really, I'm not hungry," says Athos, sitting up as much as he can manage and biting back a hiss of pain.
"You'll never recover if you don't eat," says Mme Bonacieux. “So, do as you’re told.”
"Yes, Madame."
She looks at Athos, her arms folded across her chest.
"Yes, Constance," he says, amending his mistake. "Maybe some bread and milk." Not to put too fine a point on it, what goes in must come out and he's truly dreading that part.
"We won't let you starve yourself," says Treville with a knowing look. "Not for any reason." Getting to his feet and stretching aching limbs he collects his hat from the top of the chest of drawers. "I have some regimental matters to deal with, but I'll be back later to help you bathe." He places a hand carefully on Athos's shoulder. "Now eat up and do as Mme Bonacieux says."
Athos stares at his hands and almost manages a smile. He has a definite feeling that this is what family life is supposed to be like: something he never experienced personally, with his mother away at court and his father, an ambassador for the King, living in England. He and Thomas saw them occasionally and even spent time in London as children. It was exciting, but not what you'd call familial.
"I'll make certain he behaves, Captain, don't you worry," says Constance, her arms still folded in that customary pose, and both men exchange a glance, knowing that it would be a brave man who'd ever cross her.
Once alone, Athos eats a few mouthfuls and then pushes the tray aside. There's time enough for food when he's recovered. Wary of sleeping, terrified he might wake in another fit of hysterics, he props himself up in the bed and plans his revenge. Hours pass, how many of them he's not sure, and then he hears two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway.
"How's our patient today?" says Aramis, breezing into the room with Porthos a few paces behind.
"Better, I think," says Athos. It's not entirely truthful; he's still ripped to shreds and is suffering a low grade fever, but he doesn't long for death quite as much as he did yesterday.
"Good to hear," says Aramis, his mouth thinning into a line. "Although you look a little flushed for that to be fact."
"I noticed your weapons were missing," says Porthos. "So I did a hunt around and came up with these." He places a rapier, parrying dagger and brace of pistols on the scratched surface of the chest of drawers. "Good job you weren't carrying that with you." His eyes dart to the Francis I sword that's mounted on the wall.
"Thank you, my friend." Athos is grateful--he'd felt vulnerable without them--however Musketeers are not rich men and he has an idea Porthos may have temporarily returned to light fingered ways in order to replenish his weapon stocks.
"You're welcome. Can't be a soldier without arms." Porthos gazes at the array of food on the table. "You finished with this?" he asks and, after receiving a nod from Athos, immediately begins to pick away at the breakfast tray.
Aramis has other things on his mind as he sits at Athos's bedside, worry etched deep as he leans forwards and speaks softly. "Just from looking at you I can see you're in a tremendous amount of pain. You're running a fever, the bite on your neck needs cleaning and, if the bruises on your body are as livid as the ones I can see on your arms, then you may well be suffering internal injuries."
Athos stares at him, willing him to stop speaking, but Aramis carries on.
"I must examine you to make sure there’s nothing urgent enough for a surgeon to be called. Treville is a good captain but no medic."
"I've seen a physician," says Athos stubbornly.
"Fine words but a lie nonetheless," says Aramis. "Now, strip off and roll over onto your belly so I can tend to you. If you continue to be difficult I'll have to employ Porthos's skill as anaesthetist and he's never that delicate with his punches."
Athos will not have them knowing his business. Huddling into the corner with the bedclothes pulled around him he glares at Aramis -- a wounded animal in distress. "I told you I'd been seen to. Now get out of here and leave me alone."
"Athos! Stop being a fool and let Aramis look after you." Porthos spreads butter onto a huge doorstep of bread and sprinkles it with salt.
"Go," says Athos again, that simmering rage coming to the fore. He's shaking: furious that no one will allow him any control over his own life.
Aramis rests a gentling hand on Athos's arm. "You're not in your right mind at present and it has nothing to do with brandy or fever. We'll leave you alone for now, but know this and do not forget it; you will always be our friend and a thousand angry words will not alter that."
Before they leave Aramis opens his leather satchel and takes out a glass vial and a small ceramic pot which he places on the table along with a wad of bandage. "The tincture will bring down the fever. The salve will help heal any open wounds so tell Treville to use it on you as often as possible."
Athos is expecting, at very least, a disappointed look from Porthos, but instead both men depart for the garrison with nothing but a tangible air of concern about them. Bitterness and regret welling up inside him Athos chokes back the need to scream, to vomit, to destroy the few things left in his small and hopeless world.
He loves Porthos and Aramis with all his heart. The two men are closer than a couple: so close it's hard to ascertain, at times, where one begins and the other ends. They're comfortable in their love with a bond that will never be broken, and for a while now Athos has been of the impression that they'd like him to join them in their bed. Before Vallion it was something he'd considered many times over -- most often at night in the privacy of his rooms. How good would it feel to be loved by two such men?
The truth of the matter is that he’ll never now know. Not because of his earlier temper tantrum--he’ll always be forgiven such aberrations--but because they are overwhelming and he is more broken than ever.
Fill: By Design 4/? TW rape, pissing, violence
With eyes open, the emptiness of his future seems all too real. When they're closed he's flooded with images: jeering faces that stare down at him as he's fucked by every implement to hand. At first the tears fall without him even being aware of them, but then he's torn apart by great wracking sobs that leave him choking and breathless, yet still unable to stop crying. Chest heaving in soundless, helpless waves he curls onto his side and submits to his anguish.
The warm hand on his shoulder frightens him at first, but when it lays still, taking the greatest of care not to hurt him, he relaxes into its touch.
"That's it, my lad, cry it out. You'll feel better for it afterwards."
When the sobbing eventually subsides, Athos turns with difficulty to see the outline of Treville seated next to him. He has no idea what the hour is, but there's a glimmer of light through the window so it seems the captain has stayed with him throughout the night.
After helping Athos with a chamber pot Treville sees him back into bed. "Sleep again if you can. I'll be here with you."
Athos falls silent and still, exhausted from crying and yet unable to drift off--a would-be corpse waiting for death--but then Treville's hand returns to his shoulder and it’s a thing of comfort in an otherwise empty world.
"I would sooner have died myself than had this happen to you, my dearest man." The words are a low whisper, barely audible above the sounds of life coming from outside as dawn breaks and the world wakes with it, but Athos hears them and believes them.
---
The next time he opens his eyes it's to the sound of footsteps and the clanking of dishes. Mme Bonacieux is hurrying into the room, armed with enough food for the entire regiment as she places the tray on a nearby table.
"Really, I'm not hungry," says Athos, sitting up as much as he can manage and biting back a hiss of pain.
"You'll never recover if you don't eat," says Mme Bonacieux. “So, do as you’re told.”
"Yes, Madame."
She looks at Athos, her arms folded across her chest.
"Yes, Constance," he says, amending his mistake. "Maybe some bread and milk." Not to put too fine a point on it, what goes in must come out and he's truly dreading that part.
"We won't let you starve yourself," says Treville with a knowing look. "Not for any reason." Getting to his feet and stretching aching limbs he collects his hat from the top of the chest of drawers. "I have some regimental matters to deal with, but I'll be back later to help you bathe." He places a hand carefully on Athos's shoulder. "Now eat up and do as Mme Bonacieux says."
Athos stares at his hands and almost manages a smile. He has a definite feeling that this is what family life is supposed to be like: something he never experienced personally, with his mother away at court and his father, an ambassador for the King, living in England. He and Thomas saw them occasionally and even spent time in London as children. It was exciting, but not what you'd call familial.
"I'll make certain he behaves, Captain, don't you worry," says Constance, her arms still folded in that customary pose, and both men exchange a glance, knowing that it would be a brave man who'd ever cross her.
Once alone, Athos eats a few mouthfuls and then pushes the tray aside. There's time enough for food when he's recovered. Wary of sleeping, terrified he might wake in another fit of hysterics, he props himself up in the bed and plans his revenge. Hours pass, how many of them he's not sure, and then he hears two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway.
"How's our patient today?" says Aramis, breezing into the room with Porthos a few paces behind.
"Better, I think," says Athos. It's not entirely truthful; he's still ripped to shreds and is suffering a low grade fever, but he doesn't long for death quite as much as he did yesterday.
"Good to hear," says Aramis, his mouth thinning into a line. "Although you look a little flushed for that to be fact."
"I noticed your weapons were missing," says Porthos. "So I did a hunt around and came up with these." He places a rapier, parrying dagger and brace of pistols on the scratched surface of the chest of drawers. "Good job you weren't carrying that with you." His eyes dart to the Francis I sword that's mounted on the wall.
"Thank you, my friend." Athos is grateful--he'd felt vulnerable without them--however Musketeers are not rich men and he has an idea Porthos may have temporarily returned to light fingered ways in order to replenish his weapon stocks.
"You're welcome. Can't be a soldier without arms." Porthos gazes at the array of food on the table. "You finished with this?" he asks and, after receiving a nod from Athos, immediately begins to pick away at the breakfast tray.
Aramis has other things on his mind as he sits at Athos's bedside, worry etched deep as he leans forwards and speaks softly. "Just from looking at you I can see you're in a tremendous amount of pain. You're running a fever, the bite on your neck needs cleaning and, if the bruises on your body are as livid as the ones I can see on your arms, then you may well be suffering internal injuries."
Athos stares at him, willing him to stop speaking, but Aramis carries on.
"I must examine you to make sure there’s nothing urgent enough for a surgeon to be called. Treville is a good captain but no medic."
"I've seen a physician," says Athos stubbornly.
"Fine words but a lie nonetheless," says Aramis. "Now, strip off and roll over onto your belly so I can tend to you. If you continue to be difficult I'll have to employ Porthos's skill as anaesthetist and he's never that delicate with his punches."
Athos will not have them knowing his business. Huddling into the corner with the bedclothes pulled around him he glares at Aramis -- a wounded animal in distress. "I told you I'd been seen to. Now get out of here and leave me alone."
"Athos! Stop being a fool and let Aramis look after you." Porthos spreads butter onto a huge doorstep of bread and sprinkles it with salt.
"Go," says Athos again, that simmering rage coming to the fore. He's shaking: furious that no one will allow him any control over his own life.
Aramis rests a gentling hand on Athos's arm. "You're not in your right mind at present and it has nothing to do with brandy or fever. We'll leave you alone for now, but know this and do not forget it; you will always be our friend and a thousand angry words will not alter that."
Before they leave Aramis opens his leather satchel and takes out a glass vial and a small ceramic pot which he places on the table along with a wad of bandage. "The tincture will bring down the fever. The salve will help heal any open wounds so tell Treville to use it on you as often as possible."
Athos is expecting, at very least, a disappointed look from Porthos, but instead both men depart for the garrison with nothing but a tangible air of concern about them. Bitterness and regret welling up inside him Athos chokes back the need to scream, to vomit, to destroy the few things left in his small and hopeless world.
He loves Porthos and Aramis with all his heart. The two men are closer than a couple: so close it's hard to ascertain, at times, where one begins and the other ends. They're comfortable in their love with a bond that will never be broken, and for a while now Athos has been of the impression that they'd like him to join them in their bed. Before Vallion it was something he'd considered many times over -- most often at night in the privacy of his rooms. How good would it feel to be loved by two such men?
The truth of the matter is that he’ll never now know. Not because of his earlier temper tantrum--he’ll always be forgiven such aberrations--but because they are overwhelming and he is more broken than ever.
tbc