d'Artagnan runs out of comfort the day they step onto the galley.
Until then, he has been steadfast in his reassurances. The Musketeers are looking for him, he knows this as he knows his own name, and he’s certain they’ll be found. What slavers can possibly outwit the King’s finest?
Louis seems to be mostly in shock. He hasn’t spoken since Pepin’s death, shot because d'Artagnan wasn’t moving fast enough. Both are still spattered with blood – and other substances – despite d'Artagnan’s haphazard attempts at cleaning them during infrequent rest breaks.
d'Artagnan’s almost glad the king’s in shock. It makes him easier to handle.
He’s taken to calling the king Henri. It’s less obvious than Louis, and he can’t address him by title. Louis accepts it in numb silence.
The galley they board in Honfleur already has a crew and they’re herded down into the hold and chained to the wall. They’re packed uncomfortably close together; d'Artagnan is reminded sharply of the plans Bonnaire drew up, the ones that drove Porthos into such fury.
“d'Artagnan,” Louis says abruptly.
d'Artagnan twitches. He’s not foolish enough to think himself famous, but his commission was very public and the king has shown him off at court several times since, including to the Spanish Ambassador. It’s ridiculous, he knows, to think that because one Spaniard knows his name another will, but he’s terrified they’ll figure out who Louis is.
“It’s Charles, Henri,” he murmurs.
“I’m thirsty,” Louis says.
d'Artagnan swallows. “Yes.” Used to short rations, most of his water has gone to Louis, and most of what’s left has been used to clean them up.
Louis doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. d'Artagnan shifts slightly. “They need us able to work. They’ll bring something.”
“Not for a while yet,” someone says from several spaces away; d'Artagnan can’t see him in the gloom. “They’re weeding out the weak.”
“You’ll be fine,” d'Artagnan says mechanically; he’s not sure Louis is even hearing him.
Someone starts humming a funeral dirge, and d'Artagnan fights the urge to bury his head in his arms. One of them has to be aware.
He thinks it’s more than a day later when the guard finally appears. Louis has eschewed royal dignity to curl against him as best he can; d'Artagnan’s hot and uncomfortable in the muggy hold, but he hasn’t moved. The guard starts at the far end of the hold with a bucket and ladle. He’s oddly careful to spill as little as possible, but he skips straight over several men who are either dead or unconscious.
d'Artagnan jostles Louis as best he can. “Wake up,” he croaks, startled at the pain in his throat. He hadn’t thought he was that badly off yet.
He pokes and shoves Louis awake just as the guard reaches them. Louis gulps the couple of mouthfuls eagerly, seeming not to notice that he’s spilling on himself. The guard yanks the ladle away, dips it and turns to d'Artagnan.
“Give it to him,” d'Artagnan says. His throat’s burning and there’s a headache pounding behind his eyes, but Louis needs it more.
The guard snorts. “Every man gets his share and no more. Drink or go thirsty.”
d'Artagnan gives in, reaching for the ladle. The water’s stale and it tastes odd, but it eases his throat a little. The guard moves on and d'Artagnan leans back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
Louis doesn’t answer.
Lethargy sets in too fast and too deep to be natural. d'Artagnan watches, dazed, as another couple of guards come in and begin removing the dead and unconscious men. Then they return and begin examining each of the remaining prisoners, talking to each other in Spanish and laughing.
They reach d'Artagnan first this time. He endures the inspection in silence; he’s already decided not to fight back unless he has to. As good as it would feel to hit back, he knows he couldn’t possibly win, and he can’t leave Louis here alone.
When they reach for Louis he pulls back in fear. d'Artagnan catches at the nearest arm, trying to block them, but he’s shaken off abruptly, backhanded into the hull behind him. The blow and the drug together prove irresistible, and he slides into darkness.
When he surfaces the room is pitch black and moving gently. He touches his head lightly, avoiding the most painful part. His fingers come back sticky.
His hair’s been shorn off, he notes absently.
Sitting up is far more painful than it should be; his ribs scream as he moves and he groans, pressing a hand against them. What happened?
“They kicked you,” Louis says abruptly. d'Artagnan jumps, and then stifles a curse at the flare of pain. “You were unconscious and they kicked you and laughed. I tried to make them stop.”
“Did they hurt you?” d'Artagnan asks when he can breathe evenly enough.
“They cut my hair.”
He senses a rant about royalty being sacrosanct coming on and moves to avoid it. “Mine too. Are you injured, Henri?”
d'Artagnan’s other neighbour shifts. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”
d'Artagnan manages to catch Louis’ eye before he responds. Grudgingly, he settles down. d'Artagnan’s left to find a position he can both breathe and sleep in.
It’s fitful, troubled sleep, and he feels no better when they’re woken by a guard coming down with food. It’s a different guard, but he stands over d'Artagnan to make sure he doesn’t try and give anything to Louis. They’re clearly already getting a reputation.
It’s hardtack, almost inedible. d'Artagnan forces it down, thinking fast. He needs to deal with this quickly.
“You speak French, monsieur?” He keeps his voice polite and his body language deferential. If the guard speaks no French, he’s in trouble; he knows a few Spanish words, courtesy of Aramis, but those particular words won’t help him here.
The guard laughs. “Should forget French, boy. No help where you’re going.”
“My friend…”
“He your master, boy. You a soldier, he a gent. Say it right.”
“My master,” d'Artagnan repeats unhesitatingly. “He’s – slow. He’ll work, but he needs me to show him first. He won’t understand if you tell him. Can you please tell your masters? We’re not making trouble, but we need to be together.”
The guard squats. “Slow in the head?” d'Artagnan nods. Louis is vibrating with anger beside him, but so far, at least, he hasn’t spoken. “Must be good master, you still trying to help him. No more pay for you now.”
“He’s a good master.”
The guard shoves to his feet. “No promises. I tell them.”
“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says, and then has to spend five minutes coaxing Louis to eat the hardtack under the guard’s curious eye.
“It keeps us together,” he murmurs as soon as the guard’s far enough away. “I can’t let them separate us, and getting myself killed protecting you won’t help. And this way I can show you what to do.”
”So I must be the simple one?”
“It would be hard to protect you if they thought I was simple,” d'Artagnan points out.
His neighbour shifts and d'Artagnan falls silent, trying to get some more rest while he can.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Dreams unto an Exile (TW: Slavery, violence) 1/?
Date: 2015-01-19 10:17 pm (UTC)Until then, he has been steadfast in his reassurances. The Musketeers are looking for him, he knows this as he knows his own name, and he’s certain they’ll be found. What slavers can possibly outwit the King’s finest?
Louis seems to be mostly in shock. He hasn’t spoken since Pepin’s death, shot because d'Artagnan wasn’t moving fast enough. Both are still spattered with blood – and other substances – despite d'Artagnan’s haphazard attempts at cleaning them during infrequent rest breaks.
d'Artagnan’s almost glad the king’s in shock. It makes him easier to handle.
He’s taken to calling the king Henri. It’s less obvious than Louis, and he can’t address him by title. Louis accepts it in numb silence.
The galley they board in Honfleur already has a crew and they’re herded down into the hold and chained to the wall. They’re packed uncomfortably close together; d'Artagnan is reminded sharply of the plans Bonnaire drew up, the ones that drove Porthos into such fury.
“d'Artagnan,” Louis says abruptly.
d'Artagnan twitches. He’s not foolish enough to think himself famous, but his commission was very public and the king has shown him off at court several times since, including to the Spanish Ambassador. It’s ridiculous, he knows, to think that because one Spaniard knows his name another will, but he’s terrified they’ll figure out who Louis is.
“It’s Charles, Henri,” he murmurs.
“I’m thirsty,” Louis says.
d'Artagnan swallows. “Yes.” Used to short rations, most of his water has gone to Louis, and most of what’s left has been used to clean them up.
Louis doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. d'Artagnan shifts slightly. “They need us able to work. They’ll bring something.”
“Not for a while yet,” someone says from several spaces away; d'Artagnan can’t see him in the gloom. “They’re weeding out the weak.”
“You’ll be fine,” d'Artagnan says mechanically; he’s not sure Louis is even hearing him.
Someone starts humming a funeral dirge, and d'Artagnan fights the urge to bury his head in his arms. One of them has to be aware.
He thinks it’s more than a day later when the guard finally appears. Louis has eschewed royal dignity to curl against him as best he can; d'Artagnan’s hot and uncomfortable in the muggy hold, but he hasn’t moved. The guard starts at the far end of the hold with a bucket and ladle. He’s oddly careful to spill as little as possible, but he skips straight over several men who are either dead or unconscious.
d'Artagnan jostles Louis as best he can. “Wake up,” he croaks, startled at the pain in his throat. He hadn’t thought he was that badly off yet.
He pokes and shoves Louis awake just as the guard reaches them. Louis gulps the couple of mouthfuls eagerly, seeming not to notice that he’s spilling on himself. The guard yanks the ladle away, dips it and turns to d'Artagnan.
“Give it to him,” d'Artagnan says. His throat’s burning and there’s a headache pounding behind his eyes, but Louis needs it more.
The guard snorts. “Every man gets his share and no more. Drink or go thirsty.”
d'Artagnan gives in, reaching for the ladle. The water’s stale and it tastes odd, but it eases his throat a little. The guard moves on and d'Artagnan leans back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
Louis doesn’t answer.
Lethargy sets in too fast and too deep to be natural. d'Artagnan watches, dazed, as another couple of guards come in and begin removing the dead and unconscious men. Then they return and begin examining each of the remaining prisoners, talking to each other in Spanish and laughing.
They reach d'Artagnan first this time. He endures the inspection in silence; he’s already decided not to fight back unless he has to. As good as it would feel to hit back, he knows he couldn’t possibly win, and he can’t leave Louis here alone.
When they reach for Louis he pulls back in fear. d'Artagnan catches at the nearest arm, trying to block them, but he’s shaken off abruptly, backhanded into the hull behind him. The blow and the drug together prove irresistible, and he slides into darkness.
When he surfaces the room is pitch black and moving gently. He touches his head lightly, avoiding the most painful part. His fingers come back sticky.
His hair’s been shorn off, he notes absently.
Sitting up is far more painful than it should be; his ribs scream as he moves and he groans, pressing a hand against them. What happened?
“They kicked you,” Louis says abruptly. d'Artagnan jumps, and then stifles a curse at the flare of pain. “You were unconscious and they kicked you and laughed. I tried to make them stop.”
“Did they hurt you?” d'Artagnan asks when he can breathe evenly enough.
“They cut my hair.”
He senses a rant about royalty being sacrosanct coming on and moves to avoid it. “Mine too. Are you injured, Henri?”
d'Artagnan’s other neighbour shifts. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”
d'Artagnan manages to catch Louis’ eye before he responds. Grudgingly, he settles down. d'Artagnan’s left to find a position he can both breathe and sleep in.
It’s fitful, troubled sleep, and he feels no better when they’re woken by a guard coming down with food. It’s a different guard, but he stands over d'Artagnan to make sure he doesn’t try and give anything to Louis. They’re clearly already getting a reputation.
It’s hardtack, almost inedible. d'Artagnan forces it down, thinking fast. He needs to deal with this quickly.
“You speak French, monsieur?” He keeps his voice polite and his body language deferential. If the guard speaks no French, he’s in trouble; he knows a few Spanish words, courtesy of Aramis, but those particular words won’t help him here.
The guard laughs. “Should forget French, boy. No help where you’re going.”
“My friend…”
“He your master, boy. You a soldier, he a gent. Say it right.”
“My master,” d'Artagnan repeats unhesitatingly. “He’s – slow. He’ll work, but he needs me to show him first. He won’t understand if you tell him. Can you please tell your masters? We’re not making trouble, but we need to be together.”
The guard squats. “Slow in the head?” d'Artagnan nods. Louis is vibrating with anger beside him, but so far, at least, he hasn’t spoken. “Must be good master, you still trying to help him. No more pay for you now.”
“He’s a good master.”
The guard shoves to his feet. “No promises. I tell them.”
“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says, and then has to spend five minutes coaxing Louis to eat the hardtack under the guard’s curious eye.
“It keeps us together,” he murmurs as soon as the guard’s far enough away. “I can’t let them separate us, and getting myself killed protecting you won’t help. And this way I can show you what to do.”
”So I must be the simple one?”
“It would be hard to protect you if they thought I was simple,” d'Artagnan points out.
His neighbour shifts and d'Artagnan falls silent, trying to get some more rest while he can.