~Constance~
"D'Artagnan's been captured."
The words of Athos' report echo around in my head, drowning out the world around me. "I'm so sorry Constance. I- I tried to keep an eye on him," Athos keeps speaking, his words showing how scared and sorry he is but I barely hear them.
"D'Artagnan's been captured."
"D'Artagnan,"
"Captured."
I don't feel my knees buckling, I don't feel the strong arms around my waist stopping me from falling face first into the tiles of the palace floor. I didn't remember being pulled into the Queen's embrace, her whispered words barely heard amongst the roar of Athos' words echoing in my mind.
"D'Artagnan's been captured."
But after it all, as I'm laying curled on my bed in the palace, staring at the wall, I remember it all. I remember my heart breaking, my soul being torn from my chest. I remember the look of horror on the King's face as he learned of his champion's fate, the pain and fear in Athos's eyes, the same feelings mirrored in the eyes of Porthos. I remember crying into the Queen's embrace and later Athos's doublet as he carried me to my rooms.
"D'Artagnan's been captured."
I cry myself to sleep that night.
~~X~~
~D'Artagnan~
Everything hurts but I barely feel it. My shoulders ache from the torture of being pulled from either side. My wrists are raw and I doubt there's much skin left on them. The chains that keep me trapped, stop me from falling to my knees are bolted to the opposite walls of my six by ten metre tunnel of a cell that connects the prison to the guard house.
Planchette's screaming again.
The Spanish need information.
They say the wars close to over with a French victory and the Spanish are getting desperate. I try to ignore my brother's cries, letting my mind wander over the pain, thinking only of Constance.
Her beautiful, kind face. Her full, red lips. Her love of sword fighting.
"Tell us what you know!" The scar-faced Spaniard asks again, his blade dragging a long thin line across Planchette's chest. "Musketeer scum!"
Her vibrant red hair that looks like a ring of fire in the right light,
Another scream.
Her beautiful green eyes that sparkle with mischief and love.
"What is France's plan for victory?!"
Her smile,
My wife,
We both agreed, Planchette and I, that we wouldn't say a word. No matter what happened. But it was hard. His screams echo and bounce around on the walls, no doubt travelling to the guard house and where other French prisoners are held. A single torch illuminates our hell, casting eerie shadows, reflecting off the blood pooled at our feet. But we must not say a word.
Not a single word.
Scar-face pulls my head back by my hair, forcing me to look into his cruel eyes, a snarl on his face as he growls the question out again. This time I speak, not in French of course, but my mother tongue of Italian. I curse him, his family and the past three generations of his ancestors to burn in hell for hurting Planchette. I don't know where my energy comes from but I manage to break his nose with my forehead. My pain is rewarded with a colourful curse in Spanish as he holds his bloodied nose, stalking out of my line of vision. However my victory is short lived as pain explodes in my skull and I'm once again in blissful darkness.
