That voice sounded far too much like his father’s.
He was almost running by the time he reached his room in the castle. No other sounds could be heard in the guest wing, and none of the other rooms he passed were occupied at this time of day, but d’Artagnan still wished for a door he could close as he unbuttoned his doublet and unlaced his shirt, pulling them off roughly. The bandages around his torso were in his way; he removed them.
The instant after the first cut of the lash, but before the pain registered was a welcome friend. Then came the shock of the impact... the slow burn, growing sharper and deeper with each blow... tingling warmth spilling outward from the base of his skull to flow down his limbs and into his fingers and toes... his mind, blessedly blank of everything except sensation. Peace flowed over him for the first time in days, wrapping around him like the old rag quilt his mother had made for his bed when he was small.
His nerves sang with a sensation both similar to and different from the rush that had overcome him during the battle on the Rue Chemonton. Like his actions to help the others free the two sisters from their abductors, this was right. This was something he deserved—punishment for having survived when his loved ones had not. Punishment for having felt inappropriate things while secretly watching his hosts last night; for sneaking into places where he had no business; for staying when he should have left.
The lash rose and fell hypnotically over first one shoulder, then the other. Left... right... left... right. D’Artagnan let himself drift over the spikes of pain, eyes closed and brows drawn together—until a voice broke into his consciousness, jarring him from his reverie.
“You know, we just fixed that back of yours a couple of days ago,” said Porthos. “Seems a bit ungrateful to go messing it up again so soon.”
D’Artagnan gasped and whirled to face the doorway, wincing as the sudden movement flared more pain across his shoulders. Feeling unaccountably as though he had been caught doing something shameful, he grabbed for his discarded shirt and shrugged into it stiffly, caught between anger and embarrassment at the interruption.
“You know how crazy it seems to whip yourself until you bleed, right?” Porthos asked, looking at him quizzically.
A second voice heralded Aramis’ arrival.
“Leave the lad alone, Porthos,” said the other man, appearing next to Porthos’ shoulder at the doorway. Porthos shook his head in apparent dismay.
“Oh, yeah—that’s right,” said the big man. “I’d forgotten that you used to be into this kind of nonsense as well.”
Aramis scowled up at him. “It was one time,” he said in the plaintive tones of someone who had already hashed and rehashed an old argument to little effect.
“Yes, you’ve said,” replied Porthos. “And that, of course, makes it a totally reasonable response to the circumstances. For God’s sake, talk to him, won’t you, Aramis?”
He clapped Aramis on the shoulder once, and, still shaking his head, left them to it.
Aramis sighed. “Don’t mind Porthos,” he said. “Whipping is a bit of a sensitive subject with him. May I see your back? I could bandage it again for you.”
“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan said tightly, sitting on the edge of the bed and fiddling with the cat’s tails, just barely starting to stain rusty with his blood.
Aramis’ lips quirked unhappily, but he nodded and leaned against the arch of the door, crossing his arms.
“It helps you cope, doesn’t it,” he offered. “You feel better when you... indulge?”
The words sat heavily for a few moments, filling the space between them.
“Sometimes, it’s—I don’t know. Necessary,” d’Artagnan mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “It feels like the right thing to do.”
“And doing the right thing is important to you, isn’t it?” Aramis said. “Even after everything that’s happened.”
D’Artagnan shrugged, tensing as Aramis entered the room and seated himself on the edge of the bed, careful to leave a space between them. He glanced at the older man out of the corner of his eye, but Aramis’ gaze was fixed on his own hands, clasped loosely between his knees.
“I told you that I have to believe in a compassionate, loving God and that’s true,” he said. “I realize, however, that not many would agree with me in this day and age. I would ask you this, though, d’Artagnan—do you take up the whip as a way to show God your willingness to punish yourself for humanity’s sins? Or do you take up the whip because using it makes you feel better in the moment, even though it hurts you physically? Because the second option is not precisely punishment. Survival, perhaps. Understandable, certainly. But not punishment.”
D’Artagnan forced himself to consider the question, out of respect for a man who was willing to talk to him about it—to try and help him without judging.
“I’m not sure,” he said eventually. “It’s both, I think.”
He glanced up and saw Aramis nod thoughtfully. “I can respect your honesty in answering so. In return, here is my proposal. As long as we are under the same roof, if you should feel the need to take up the whip, you can come to me at any time of the day or night and we will pray about it together, asking God for His guidance. Would that be helpful to you?”
Already, the fleeting peace d’Artagnan had enjoyed earlier had vanished, allowing emotions to crowd around him once more. “I’ll... think about it?” he managed.
Aramis smiled, and d’Artagnan could see him once again donning the persona of the debonair chevalier like a mask. “That’s all I ask, my young friend. Now, if you’re feeling up to it, Athos, Milady, and I are planning to hunt in the forest this afternoon, in hopes of replenishing the larder with something a bit more interesting than chicken. You should join us, and test the sights on that new pistol of yours.”
Knowing that he would eventually have to face Milady again, and feeling that he should put forth some effort to support the household after enjoying its hospitality, d’Artagnan reluctantly nodded his agreement.
Fortunately for d’Artagnan’s sanity, it was easier than he had expected to separate in his mind the haughty, competent Milady of the daylight hours from last night’s wanton temptress. The four rode out from the castle, passing through the surrounding fields and into the woods before dismounting and proceeding on foot. This last decision came much to d’Artagnan’s relief, since he was riding Grimaud’s foul-tempered, broom-tailed nag after Athos noticed his gelding’s sorry state, in the wake of d’Artagnan’s earlier ill use on the way back from Blois.
Grimaud’s mare seemed to react to every bit of guidance from her rider by pinning her ears back and kicking out with one hind foot. D’Artagnan had resolved earlier to offer to shoe her like he had the others, to repay Athos and Grimaud for her use, but if he was honest with himself, he really wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of being any closer to those sharp hooves than he already was.
With the horses securely tied in a clearing, Athos offered d’Artagnan powder and shot for his pistol.
“Are you well supplied with ammunition?” d’Artagnan asked. “I would not like to waste any if your stores are low. Gunpowder is quite a valuable commodity in many places.”