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Becoming a musketeer had put Athos in the most unthinkable danger for years, each encountered scenario more absurd than the last. He'd say he had become accustomed to it over time, but then again if he truly had his current predicament might not have surprised him.
Yet somehow it did.
He pulled against the ropes tying his hands behind his back and around the wooden stake. While the people responsible for his capture might be peasants, they could tie a knot strong as any sailor and Athos could see no way of getting loose. His feet had been subjected to a similar treatment, tied to the pole to keep him upright, and probably also to keep him from kicking at the blocks of wood and hay piled beneath them. The strength required to keep his body from slouching painfully was an effort, and by his own estimation, things were about to get a whole lot worse.
The crowd gathered around him was getting more volatile by the minute, cries rose up from their midst and Athos didn't even need to be able to discern them to know they were calling for his death. A man with a lit torch stepped forward, swinging it around dangerously.
"We pray this offering may be accepted to grant us purpose," he called to the heavens, the inky black night sky answering only with silence. But Athos knew that whatever wicked deities these people were putting their faith upon would not answer in any meaningful ways to him.
If his comrades were planning to show up tonight, right then would be the perfect moment for them to do so.
Then the man bent forward and with purposeful intent set the blaze to the burnable material they had used to build their pyre.
The kindle took to flame in a second, a small trail of smoke which swiftly transformed into a dark black cloud that smothered everything. Athos coughed, trying to hold his breath and keep from inhaling the toxic air. It burnt inside his lungs, scorching along his veins.
Which on its own would be an unfortunate circumstance, if it weren't for what would happen in a couple of minutes if he couldn't make his way out of there being many times worse.
The villagers were chanting, their voices distant and low-pitched through the haze of the smoke both physical and mental. Despite his best intentions, Athos had already inhaled a lungful and the shaking rasps ripping through his body were making it hard for him to concentrate. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think through the ensuing headache.
The flames were growing at an alarming rate.
Within mere seconds Athos could feel their heat, the promise of a painful burn within their touch. As captain of a squadron he had faced situations that were daunting – some might even describe them as utterly hopeless – and he had assessed them with a cold gaze and steel resolve, pushing panic to the back of his mind.
But as he pulled harder on the ropes binding him to the improvised pyre, knowing the growing fire beneath his feet, Athos had sweat dripping down the back of his neck. There was no crueler way to curse a man than with a slow death, one they could anticipate and see coming. Where the blade fell on your neck unnoticed - slicing through in an instant - the fire would grant no such mercy.
Forced to breathe lest he passed out, Athos settled for shallow inhales through his nose, trying to ignore the scalding of the ash in his throat. The smoke stung his eyes and made them water, making it hard to see even through rapid blinking. Pain seared through his leg when one flame sprung high enough to brush his ankles, the fabric of his pantaloons pulled up high enough through his struggling that it touched the bare skin. Athos renewed his efforts of loosening the ropes. A coughing fit overcame him.
The villagers were chanting louder still, voices mingling into a cacophony of noise. Pain snuck up Athos' calf, the soles of his feet feeling as if they were put in the blaze directly. The only thing keeping Athos from screaming out was his already crumbling willpower not to buckle in the face of death.
He had closed his eyes to cut off the deafening ruckus, muttering a prayer under his breath until the pain and lack of oxygen made him unable to. Everything turned into one blur, his head swimming on the brink of passing out when the blow hit him. The entire pole pitched forward and with it Athos, who fell into the flames. They were put out seconds later though before they could do any more damage, and then somebody was cutting away at the rope, pulling his sore arms from under him.
Athos gasped, his heartbeat running rampant in his chest.
Porthos hauled him to his feet none too kindly, making Athos cry out when he put his weight on his injuries. Without needing to be told his arm was quickly lifted over Porthos' shoulder, helping himself upright. The crowd was gone and Athos wanted to ask what had scattered them so quickly but got distracted by his own wandering mind. He coughed again, feeling the tar stain his lips.
"Where are the others?" he managed to say. Porthos grunted in response.
"That's what I'd love to know, I found you first." Red streaked his face, a nasty wound on his head that had since dried over with congealed blood. Dark eyes settled on his face and Porthos gave him a valiant attempt at a grin. "Good thing I did though, you must have really pissed them off."
"We need to find them." As soon as Athos tried taking a step he felt the pain shoot its way up his legs, nearly resisting in his effort to breathe. Porthos supported him.
"We will," he said. "We'll find them."
Athos could only hope they were in less trouble than he had been.