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Whumptober 3/31

prompt: wrongfully arrested

fandom: BBC's The Musketeers

tw: aftermath of torture

Porthos has to carry him when he’s finally released because even just a week in captivity has wreaked havoc on his body. Porthos bites back a comment about his weight. He’s thin, dangerously thin because he was too thin before. According to Treville, Aramis always had been on the thinner side, but after Savoy keeping weight on him was a battle. A week with little food had done little to help that, nor did the now raging fever from clearly infected lashes on his back.

“Let’s put some distance between us and this village before we stop for his wounds,” Athos says quietly. “I don’t want to risk them locking him up again from some imagined slight.”

“Agreed.” Porthos keeps his eyes ahead, focused on getting to their horses and not seeing the villagers gawking and muttering. They’d had a part in this, too. He knew exactly which ones had thrown rocks at Aramis while he was stuck in the pillory.

Aramis moans lightly when Porthos and Athos wrap a blanket around his shoulders before they get him up on Porthos’ horse. Porthos gently climbs up behind him, taking the reins in one hand and wrapping the other arm around the entirety of Aramis’ waist. He can’t hold back the sigh.

“We’ll get him through this, Porthos.”

“He shouldn’t be in this state.”

“No, but what’s done is done. Let’s leave this place and then tend to him.” Athos doesn’t wait for a response. He has Aramis’ horse’s reins in his hand as he mounts his own horse. He gives a quick glance back at Porthos and Aramis before urging his horse to move.

As they put more distance between them and the offending village, Athos tries his best to ignore Aramis’ moans and whimpers of pain. Bloodied and bruised with some likely broken bones, Athos can’t image that Aramis is anywhere near comfortable riding on a horse, not even with Porthos making sure that it’s the smoothest ride the marksman has ever had. None of this should have happened and he’s just grateful that he finally convinced the village elders that the wrong Aramis was accused of was a mistake.

In a few hours, once they’ve put several miles between them and the village, Athos turns off the path to find a suitable place for them to camp for the night. A regular building with a soft bed would be better but he’s leery of what such a dwelling might bring. So, he finds them a clearing well off the main path that they won’t be spotted easily.

They settle Aramis on one of their blankets, laying him gently on his stomach. Sometime during the ride, he finally passed out so Athos is spared the strangled cries of pain that Aramis would fail to stifle as he works on cleaning the lashes on Aramis’ back. Porthos brings him clean water and hands him the supplies he needs. Some of the lashes are red while others have already started oozing yellow pus. Even cleaned, Athos knows that they’ll need more cleaning, so he simply bandages them.

Once the wounds are cleaned and bandaged, Athos helps Porthos to settle Aramis against him. He lays a cool, damp towel on Aramis’ forehead and sets about brewing a tea that will help Aramis combat the infection.

It’s quiet save for the crackling of the fire and noises of nature around them. They are both concerned. Infected wounds are serious but combined with malnourishment they make a deadly duo. Later they’ll work on getting some broth in him, but getting the infection under control takes precedence.

Getting tea in an unconscious person is a challenge, but when Aramis suddenly jolts from the sensation, knocking himself out of Porthos’ grip in a surprise burst of energy, drinking tea is nearly impossible and Athos spills much it on the ground.

Beside Porthos, Aramis has fallen into a heaving, gasping heap. His body is tense, and blood and pus are seeping through the bandages. Porthos wants to grab him, but he hesitates so as to not startle him and cause more pain.

“Aramis,” he says gently but loud enough that he’s sure it will penetrate the haze that’s overtaken his friend’s mind. He tries again when there’s no apparent response. This time he sees a slight slackening, a little easing of the tension.

“You’re safe. You’re free from them.”

Aramis’ breathing in ragged and he’s still tense, but it’s not from fear rather from pain.

“I’m going to lift you up, Aramis. Get you back in a comfortable position so we can take care of you. Okay?” Porthos doesn’t see a head nod but moves quickly when he sees Aramis suddenly loose tension. Aramis cries out in pain and gasps even as Porthos is careful in his movements. Rather than settling the man against him, he leans him against a small mound that Athos had quickly thrown together using their bags and blankets to create something that might be soft on Aramis’ shredded back.

“Thanks,” Aramis says breathlessly, trying to give him a smile. It’s a small, half smile, but Porthos doesn’t miss the slight glimmer in his eyes that tells him there’s no deception behind it.

“Well, now that you’re awake, how about we try this tea again,” Athos says in his usual dry tone. There’s no anger there and Aramis tries not to feel embarrassed about the situation. He’s tired and weak. He’d love nothing more than to close his eyes and drift off to sleep where the pain is distant, but he knows better. So, he nods.

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Whumptober 2/31

prompt: amusement park

fandom: BBC's The Musketeers

tw: torture

Aramis can’t hear his own screams but he’s confident that it’s the loudest noise he’s ever made. That was the one sense they hadn’t robbed him of, his voice. They wanted to hear him scream, hear him break and plead until he had no ability left to do so. The screaming is done for now, anyway, he’s bound with a thick iron shackle around his neck that’s chained to a bar under his knees. Shackled to the ever-shortening chain are his hands, broken as they are. The fingers will never bend as they should. He’s hunched over, unwillingly tightened into a near infant-like ball. And he can barely breath with the pressure. His shoulders and back are straining from the tension.

The whip, the cat o’nine tails striking across his back in undecipherable agony steals his breath, what little he had. His raw and bleeding back is on fire with pain, and he cannot even think, not of the pain, not about breathing, not even about the hope that he might get out of here. He’s nauseous and light-headed and he thinks, hopes, feels like he’s going to finally pass out.

And then the strike comes again. And again. There’s no rhythm, no way to anticipate the next strike except that one will, at some point, come again.

Then there’s the longest pause yet, or maybe he’s broken, and time is lost to him. Regardless, the pause allows some semblance of awareness to creep back in. Nerves that had gone dull from consistent abuse were starting to wake up and scream in a terrible, discordant symphony. He can breathe again but finds that he doesn’t want to. The silence is its own torture as his body comes back to life all at one overwhelming moment.

The helmet comes off and he hears someone say, “It’s alright, Aramis. We’re here.”

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Whumptober 1/31

prompt: panic attack

fandom: BBC's The Musketeers

tw: panic attack

notes: I don't know how far I'm going to get in this year's challenge. I haven't really written anything in forever it feels but I really want to try this month because I miss writing. So, I've returned to the Garrison and my favorite musketeers, particularly the one I enjoy whumping. Please enjoy and pardon the rusty writing. Hopefully the rust will disappear the more I write.

To d’Artagnan, Aramis is implacable. How else could the man maintain the focus and determination he needs to remain the top marksman in the regiment. So, when he sees the man falter, sees him miss a shot that even a novice could make, d’Artagnan wonders what’s going on. Without a word, Aramis walks away from the range, reaching out with a shaky hand to steady himself with the wall as he disappears around the corner. D’Artagnan follows him quietly, observing and wondering what he should do, if anything to help Aramis.

He sees that the older man is trying to head back to his room, but from the way he’s moving, d’Artagnan knows that he won’t make it. His legs dip, knees bending without permission and Aramis just barely keeps himself from collapsing in a puddle. He doesn’t rise back to his feet quickly or easily and once there, he pauses, breathing quick and raspy. D’Artagnan thinks once again about going to him but hesitates.

Aramis is an outlandish person, he revels in attention. Hiding away like a sick animal is out of character. Perhaps he should simply leave him. Where he’s from, when a man seeks solitude like this, then everyone leaves him be. It’s a private matter. And he’s just about ready to do that when Aramis collapses and as the sharpshooter goes down, he catches a look in his eyes that rattles d’Artagnan. He shakes himself out of his stupor and hurries over to help. As he sinks down to his knees beside Aramis, he sees the man shaking, shoulders heaving far too quickly. He doesn’t acknowledge him and that unsettles him, though he tries to hide it.

“Aramis,” he says, panic seeping into his voice. The man still doesn’t show that he is aware of d’Artagnan’s presence. He tries saying the older man’s name again, putting a hand on his shoulder to shake him into some semblance of awareness. It doesn’t quite work, but Aramis does start muttering. He’s so quiet that d’Artagnan has to strain to hear even in the quiet of the Garrison. Aramis is pleading with someone. The desperation in his voice sends a pang of sadness through him.

“Aramis, Aramis. It’s fine,” d’Artagnan says. He moves so that he’s nearly in front of Aramis and more or less in his line of sight. “You’re fine. You’re at the Garrison.”

To d’Artagnan, Aramis seems to be in a waking nightmare and pulling him out of it won’t be an easy task. He continues to talk to him, reassuring him that he’s fine.

“Cold.” Aramis’ voice is barely above a whisper, but d’Artagnan hears it easily.

“No, no. Aramis. It’s summer. Remember just this morning we were all complaining about how hot it was already. And Athos,” d’Artagnan chuckles lightly, “Athos said the most words I think he’s ever uttered as he was describing the heat and humidity.”

“Hot?”

“Yes, Aramis.” A jolt of energy surges through him as Aramis seems to be finally show some sense of awareness.

“Don’t like the cold,” Aramis says again.

“I know.” Though Aramis has never said that directly until now, d’Artagnan has seen the marksman’s disdain for cold and chilly weather. Aramis starts muttering again and d’Artagnan sees that he’s losing what ground he’d gained.

“You don’t have to worry about the cold, right now, Aramis. Okay? Why don’t you tell me about how warm it is? You feel it don’t you? The stickiness?”

“Hmmm. Yes, it’s sticky. That’s good.”

“What else?”

“Hot.”

“Yeah, but what did Athos call it?”

“S… sweltering.”

D’Artagnan continues to prod Aramis with questions about the weather, watching as he slowly comes out of his waking nightmare.

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Whumptober 2/31

prompt: "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back."

fandom: original fiction

tw: femwhump

His anger is just beneath the surface and it’s taking everything in him to keep from lashing out at June. There’s time for that later, right now he’s just happy that she’s breathing on her own. The image of her simply collapsing after defeating her attacker is seared into his brain. He can’t banish the thought of why her. It’s not that he doubts her determination. If there’s one thing anyone never failed to say about June, it was that she’s stubborn. There’re so many times, though, that he thinks stubbornness will only get her so far.

It's times like this, when she’s in and out of consciousness, drugged up but still in pain from broken ribs, broken fingers, tears in her knees, and a collapsed lung that he wishes she could just heal herself. They’ve tried that, however, and the outcome is worse than simply dealing with the pain.

“Mav,” she says in more of a hoarse whisper. He jumps to his feet, closing the inch or two he’d left between them.

“Yes. What do you need? Are you hurting?” He hears the panic in his voice but gives it little care.

“Stop worrying. I can feel it.” Speaking is still difficult, and he has to strain to hear her. “I’m fine. Not going anywhere, anytime soon.” She pauses often, sometimes in the middle of words, but he’s patient. That’s his role here it seems. Now, she just has to keep up her end of the deal.

[veneataur]

Whumptober 1/31

prompt: "But now this room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in all the gaps."

fandom: original fiction

tw: femwhump

a/n: This is my first bit of writing in almost a year. I just haven't had the creative energy to write, but I knew I wanted to participate in Whumptober again. I enjoy the writing challenge every year. As I'm not currently obsessing over a fandom, I opted for original fiction this year. The story will develop more from this. Each installment won't necessarily pick up right where the last left off. Enjoy and let me know if you liked it.

The one thing she knows as consciousness returns is that everything burns. From the tips of her fingers and toes and the ends of her hair to the very core of her; she feels as though she’s been electrocuted. Her ears are ringing and each time she tries to open her eyes, everything is blurry and her head spins. She tries to curl onto her side but just breathing hurts.

Time is just pain and hoping, wishing that this is not forever.

It muddles her thoughts, swirls them tightly and fast so that she can’t sort them or catch more than a fleeting grasp.

It’s her ears that finally clear so that the calls of worry and fear from her brother finally register, faint though they are.

“June,” he calls, sounding like he’s yards away when she’s sure that he’s right beside her.

She tries to speak and croaks. Speaking is beyond her.

What happened to her? She was doing something and then she found herself alight with pain, even the basic of bodily functions setting fire to her nerves, to her blood, to the atoms that compose her.

“Yeah, okay. I’m going to call 911.”

An adrenaline spike gives her a jolt and she finds herself telling him no with a gasp.

“Yes, June. I know you don’t like them. I know your experience with them, but you can’t function. You almost choked and died on your own vomit. Would have if I hadn’t seen it coming and gotten you on your side. So, stop acting like mom and let me call them.”

Like mom?

Like mom?

Of course, that one idea was the single thought that her swirled brain would let her grasp. Stupid, Mav. He knew exactly how to get her. She’d curse him if she knew how but that was just an old family story about the women in her family. There certainly wasn’t anything magic about dear old mom.

“Yeah, you’re going to let me call them now?” Mav’s tone is short, but she hears the worry. They’re not twins or anything like that but sometimes it seems like they should be. Probably doesn’t hurt either that they’re the only sane ones in the family, which says something considering her own problems.

She makes herself nod. It’s a very deliberate and conscious effort and she hopes that it’s clear enough to him that that’s what she’s doing because moving her head anymore she knows will lead to such excruciating pain that she’s going to be unconscious when the paramedics arrive. She can’t have that. She wants some dignity for once when they come.

[veneataur]

Scoop Du Jour

I’m not sure of the date on this puzzle, but I’m guessing it’s from the late 1990s, early 2000s. I don’t quite see that as vintage, but people on eBay do seeing as that’s how I was able to find it. After my grandma died last year, I wished that I’d been able to get this puzzle from her house. I did try, but it was tossed before I had a chance to ask for it. She loved cats. I was probably in…

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January Puzzles

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Eastern Bloc Telephones

I found this one while searching for other puzzles and fell in love with the colors. I also really liked the look of the different phones. I’m not old enough to have used a rotary phone, but I do kind of miss the days of an actual phone. The cord was always something to play with and fidget with while talking, not that I spent much time on the phone as a kid. I’ve never liked the phone, and…

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Goofy- Treasures from the Vault

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Christmas Doughnut Party

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Carbonated Colors

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Christmas Books

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A New Yorker Cover a Day Puzzle, day 24

A New Yorker Cover a Day Puzzle, day 24

This image, as with the last of the Storring puzzles, was the perfect end to the collection. It doesn’t matter that this image is from 1936, it’s still so true. I don’t have kids, but I imagine that I probably did this to my parents when I was younger. That might have been the reason they started letting me and my brother open the gift we got each other on Christmas Eve. It helped to ease some of…

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Michael Storring’s 12 Days of Christmas, day 7

Michael Storring’s 12 Days of Christmas, day 7

This is another one set somewhere in Germany. I know that there’s the scene down in the front, but it’s one that we’ve seen before, so I’m more drawn to the castle in the mountains. Is that our class puzzle castle? Is that Neunschwanstein? While I don’t want another puzzle featuring Neunschwantein (unless it does something totally new with the image), I would like to see just these building with…

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A New Yorker Cover a Day Puzzle, day 20

A New Yorker Cover a Day Puzzle, day 20

This might be the most recent of the images. I don’t remember if there’s been a cover with a sooner date, but 2011 stands out as the most recent. I very well might be wrong. December feels like it’s gone on forever, and we’ve still got a handful of days before Christmas. I don’t know that I’ve been down in the heart of Chicago when it’s snowed, but I see the L when I look at this. I doubt that…

[veneataur]

Athos: Could you guys at least try to see things from my perspective?

D'Artagnan: [crouches down]

Aramis: [kneels]

Porthos: [sits on the ground]

Athos: I hate all of you