A/N: Hey guys!

I'm back with another story. This time it's set after S03E10, which means that there are spoilers ahead. It's an answer to a prompt by Deana, I hope she knows which one I'm talking about. ;D

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own The Musketeers. All rights to BBC.

Trigger warnings: Please expect depictions of graphic violence, swearing, torture and some very bad jokes.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

When a professional musician falters on stage, the entire audience notices. It's not so much the individual discordant note but instead the broken harmony that causes everyone to look up sharply and snap out of their reverie. It's like a crack across a perfect stained-glass window, like a mistake in a flawless masterpiece of art, causing an indefinable restlessness and the indisputable sense that something is wrong.

Afflicted with the same feeling, Aramis looked around the room for the cause, the discordant note among the peaceful rustling of the womens' skirts, the clanking of china and the rumble of conversation within the Golden Crown Inn. The men, roughly one third of them his own selected guards and two thirds farmers, were eating and conversing loudly with each other as the sun gave way to stars and slightly chilly night air. Pleased, Aramis noted that although some men were deep in their cups, his men were not among them. So why was he still subduing a shiver as if someone had just walked over his grave?

"Papa? Are you sad?"

"No, Sire, I am quite happy to be here with you", Aramis answered, startled by the boy's perceptiveness while the young King's form of addressing his minister brought a warm smile to his lips. They had never told Louis about his true parentage, but either the boy suspected or it was a joke to him. And whatever the reason, Aramis had been loathe to discourage the practice and even Anne had admitted that it was endearing.

"Good", the King said, obviously satisfied with himself. Aramis watched his boy as he stuffed his round cheeks full of venison stew and continued to eat with the earnest conviction of a ten-year-old. After ruffling Louis' hair affectionately, Aramis turned his sharp gaze towards the door as d'Artagnan entered. Upon seeing the serious expression on the Gascon's face, Aramis subtly gripped the musket beneath his cloak. However, d'Artagnan only nodded at them, saying that the coast was clear while he turned around to preclude a cold wind from gaining entrance.

His optimistic assessment was immediately proven false when a dark shape appeared behind him, shoved him inside and leveled his weapon at the astonished Captain of the Musketeers. Among the screams and eruption of chaos around them, Aramis' gaze narrowed, zooming in on the assailant's finger that was tightening around the trigger of the weapon. Reflexively, d'Artagnan spun aside and just as reflexively, Aramis pulled out his own gun, supporting it against his hip. Then twin shots thundered through the enclosed space.

For a frozen moment in time, nothing seemed to move aside from the smoke that drafted lazily towards the ceiling. As soon as Aramis blinked, registering the ringing in his ears, the world exploded into motion again. Guards drew their weapons as suddenly the farmers followed suit and brandished knives, daggers and sabers at them.

"Ambush!", somebody yelled and Aramis was not surprised that he recognized Constance's voice. He pulled his own rapier, a shiny ornamental thing with glittering rubies set into the hilt but no less deadly than his old one. Everything in him ached to jump into the fray, search out his brother that had been lost in the roiling chaos next to the door and to begin the fight. Fight, protect, engage, win, his blood sang, warring against his cool head and expertise, his duty to stay by his King's side.

"Sire, follow me!" Constance's pain echoed his own, but together with a new recruit named Percival, they parted the mob like the sea before them until they reached the doorway to the stairs that led to the rooms of the Inn, all the while keeping the King close. The four of them pressed themselves into the shadows, breathing hard and, in the King's case, sniveling quietly.

"What do we do?", Constance asked, her own blade not wavering although her eyes kept darting across the angry faces in search of her husband. Even while Aramis surveyed the fight with the grim experience of a soldier, they heard multiple footsteps above them. Coming down, whereas innocent guests would rather hide, Aramis judged and pulled the woman and the child aside to meet the new threat.

A heavy weight settled in his stomach as he estimated that no less than another dozen men trampled down the worn wooden stairs. Aramis dashed forwards to meet them in an attempt to block their way into the spacious hallway. Bottlenecked like this they couldn't attack him with more than two men at a time. However, they also had the high ground by default and therefore made him sweat a bit as the fighting began.

I'm rusty, Aramis thought with something akin to gallows humor, while he parried a brutal downward thrust that was aimed at his head. Behind him the screeching of metal on metal told him that their nice little hideout had been discovered by the bandits in the room, too. Thank God Constance could hold her own, Aramis thought, focusing on his own battle. As a minister he no longer carried a main gauche and thus had to fight off both opponents with a single blade. Deciding to get creative, Aramis lashed out with his foot and caught the ruffian on the left. Knees bent in the wrong direction, the man fell, freeing up another rapier for Aramis, which he mercilessly used to slice across the man's throat before engaging the rest of them.

He didn't have a lot of room for footwork, but neither did his opponents, which were even more hampered by the low ceiling above the stairs. Aramis exploited that fact by swinging more widely than he would normally do and lunging forward as quickly as a striking cobra. His thrust, diagonal to the staircase, left one stumbling ungracefully and the other one shish-kebabbed on his bejeweled rapier.

Another flurry of fast strikes had the men backing up and Aramis smirk at them. He knew that with blood spattered over his blue-and-gold uniform he must be a sight to behold and if his devilish behavior made them question their wayward lifestyle, that could only work in his favor. The bandits, which he could now see in all their number as he stood at the foot of the stairs, did look less eager to come downstairs than minutes before.

"Merde!" Aramis realized his own mistake in the same instance as one of the opponents did: he'd overextended himself and by backing the men up the stairs where he was no longer protected by the curve of the ceiling. He'd made himself a target. Propelling himself off his front foot, Aramis catapulted himself backwards, but he wasn't quite fast enough to escape the thrown dagger that grazed his prominent shoulder, making him drop his rapier in pain.

Aramis hissed, pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees and thrust forward with the weapon in his left hand. The overzealous bandit that had followed him with a confident snarl went down to Aramis renewed attack. Even with his left, the former musketeer was a force to be reckoned with.

Apparently, this had gone unnoticed by next in line, one of the few masked brigands, who now shoved himself through the mass in order to advance on Aramis. His stance was perfect, Aramis noticed with growing dread as he was forced to retreat step after step, only barely keeping hold of his sword through the onslaught. His shoulder sent burning stabbing sensations through his body, but Aramis prevailed with gritted teeth, thinking of his son and of France.

When his back met Percival's back, Aramis glanced behind him and saw that they were surrounded by foes. A single small door was set into the wall next to the two of them. It led to a storage closet as far as Aramis remembered from the preliminary search he'd conducted earlier. Constance must have pulled the King out of danger, Aramis surmised, thanking God for the small mercies.

Now if they could only get rid of the rest of the bandits…

The masked man drew a small dagger, adding another weapon and prompting Aramis to sigh. He'd been busy already avoiding the rapier. Blocking a thrust towards his injury, Aramis retaliated with a mean side-thrust, which was turned aside expertly. Meanwhile, the dagger was whooshing close from the other side, aimed up. Aramis put his weight on his front foot, got close and swung his sword downwards with all his might, nicking the wrist of the assailant, who dropped the dagger but kept the pressure on the musketeer with another sword strike directed at his upper body. The minister went to parry it when he suddenly crumpled to the floor, his feet swept out from under him in a sneaky move he had himself been taught by Porthos once upon a time.

In a duel, Aramis would have happily yielded to his better, but this was no duel. Harsh reality caused his vision to darken for a moment when the pain of the impact hit. At the same moment he saw a blade protrude from Percival's back. The young man didn't even scream, he simply fell over Aramis hips, his weight holding the shocked man down for a crucial moment. When a vicious yet effective kick against his hand relieved him of his last weapon, Aramis knew it was over.

Half his mind recited a last prayer while the other part was just glad his and Percival's bodies were obstructing the entrance to the supply closet. Every second they couldn't get inside was a second his son was still among the living, Aramis decided, breathing shallowly through the pain. His eyes lingered on the master swordsman, for no lesser man could have felled him, daring the man to resolve the situation. What are you waiting for, you bastard?

"Get rid of'im and gemme that King", a man in the back ordered, his gravelly voice entirely too gleeful. Aramis didn't close his eyes in anticipation of death, so he was fully aware to witness the swordsman easily knock aside one of the brigand's sabers.

"This one's mine", the man said, causing Aramis to shiver. The former musketeer wasn't frightened, but the hair on his neck bristled at the voice. He knew that man. Knew him so intimately that a single sentence uttered through a mask was enough to identify him. Yet it couldn't be true. Calloused hands reached for him, but Aramis was so focused on the hands themselves that he hardly felt them or the pain of his wound as he was efficiently bound with rope and pulled to his feet.

Aramis subconsciously flexed the hands that were confined behind his back, fervently wishing he could reach out and rip off that ridiculous black cloth mask. His brain played catch-up, thinking in an endless, uncomprehending loop: I know you, I must be going mad, but I know you, I know you, I do. His mind was violently wrenched back into the present as the men snickered, brazen enough to mutter things like "Killim already!" and "Got yourself a pet, didya?".

The man didn't reply, instead he roughly pushed Aramis against the wall away from the closet door. His face was forced against the dirty stone, creating a few abrasions in the process. While some other men carelessly kicked Percival's body aside Aramis gathered his wits enough to debate fighting his captor, but he soon decided against it as he felt the firm grip on his bound hands and his neck. He was going nowhere anytime soon, thus he could only watch on helplessly as the men opened the door to expose… empty air. A few brooms and a mop clattered to the floor, but Madame d'Artagnan and the King were gone.

As a gust of wind rushed through the small window that had allowed the two of them to escape, Aramis finally felt like he could breathe again even though twenty gazes of hatred were now levelled at him. The fingers on the back of his neck tightened nearly imperceptibly, betraying the otherwise stoic swordsman. Anger at the failed mission? Contempt?

Aramis tensed, squirming to get a better look at the assembled men. His eyes widened as the bandit passed his captive to the man standing next to him and stripped off his mask. Wavy dark brown hair tumbled out beneath the cloth, shorter than Aramis remembered. The beard, the lips with the slight scar at the upper lip, the paleness and the knowing blue-green gaze were still the same, though.

"Athos", Aramis rasped, his heart stuttering and breaking at the same time while the man he'd once called brother observed him dispassionately. Before Aramis could even begin to recover from his shock, Athos picked up his main gauche, elegantly flipped it and used the handle to hit Aramis over the head with it.