A/N Many thanks once again for your support in reading this story and leaving me some great reviews! I'm attempting to write this in real time, more or less, so I'm aware it's a bit of an emotional roller coaster ride for readers. Hold on, off we go again ...

oOo

Chapter Six – Day Ten

They had searched the streets, the taverns, and the buildings around the Garrison. They had searched Athos's room. Even those with their ears to the ground in the Court of Miracles had not turned up anything. They had spent sleepless nights and endured the agony of cryptic notes and grisly offerings. In the end, they could not think straight.

Treville called them into his office on the tenth day. They lined up wearily in front of his desk, all acutely aware of Athos's sword still lying there. It was hard to look at it, its presence almost an accusation.

Treville looked at them for a moment, before sighing.

"I am sorry, Gentlemen, but I am under pressure from the Palace. Three patrols a day are severely depleting our capacity. I only intended the patrols for three days. I cannot spare the men."

"We can't just stop lookin'!" Porthos shouted.

Treville raised his hand and silenced his outburst.

"I'm telling you, officially, I cannot spare three patrols," he stressed. "And that is all the Palace need to know." He finished.

Porthos sighed.

"Sorry Captain."

After they had left, Treville stood and looked at the sword on his desk. Reaching down, he gently touched the blade, before picking it up and taking it to the shelves behind him, where he carefully laid it down. He could bear to look at it no longer.

"I can't take this anymore," said d'Artagnan later, raking his fingers through his hair, as they sat together in the stables.

Porthos put an arm around his shoulders, and d'Artagnan leaned into him.

Aramis sat, spinning his hat, lost in thought. He had not told them where he had gone when he left Trevilles's office after Athos's scarf had been delivered. It had been preying on his mind, however, and he finally decided to unburden himself. Putting his hat on the floor at his feet, he stood. Taking a ragged breath he moved toward them.

"I went to see Milady," he said, quietly.

"What?" said Porthos, swinging around and putting his large hand firmly on Aramis's chest, stopping him in his tracks, his dark look demanding answers.

"Why would you possibly do that!" said d'Artagnan, staring intently at Aramis, now trapped against Porthos's hand.

Aramis took hold of the hand and shoved it away. Porthos took a threatening step forward.

"Do you think I wanted to!" shouted Aramis.

He was standing between them now, hands raised in supplication, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Do you think I wanted to look into her cold eyes and ask her to help us find the man she wants dead?!"

"But it may be her doing!" d'Artagnan said, voicing what they were all thinking.

"Don't you think I know that!" Aramis hissed in d'Artagnan's face.

He felt a hand firmly grasp his collar then and Porthos pulled him back away from d'Artagnan.

Aramis's feet briefly left the ground before he was hurled around to face the furious face above him. Porthos's fist now took hold of Aramis's shirt and brought him closer, until he could feel his breath. For a brief moment, he thought Porthos was going to smash his forehead into his face and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was aware of how quiet and oppressive it had become. But no pain came. After a long moment, he heard Porthos's strangled sigh, as he released his tension and then felt two arms encircling him and pulling him close in a long embrace.

Aramis opened his eyes and rested his forehead on his brother's chest.

"Athos wouldn't want this," d'Artagnan whispered sadly behind them.

Porthos reached out and pulled him close, and the three stood together, breathing hard, and totally spent.

Later, Aramis told them how hard it had been to seek out Milady, and they realised how much it had cost him to do that for Athos. For them.

He spoke of her reaction, that being the reason why he had kept it to himself. It was one more failure amongst many these last few days.

As he told them, something Milady had muttered to herself as she read the notes was playing around the edges of his mind.

"Why Athos?"

He didn't know if she expected an answer, but he hadn't had one at the time anyway. He didn't know. The horror of the severed arm and ear was still too fresh in his mind.

But something registered and he stood up.

"We haven't found anything, because there is nothing ..."

They looked at him blankly, not following this sudden train of thought.

"It's not about Athos," he continued. "We've been looking for a link where there is none."

Aramis turned to d'Artagnan,

"You offered to go on the errand that morning. It could have been you. It could have been any one of us." Aramis said.

"You mean it's random?" Porthos struggled to follow.

"I don't know!" Aramis looked at them desperately, not trusting this line of thought now, his brain too exhausted to put any connections together. Finally he said,

"It's like the Captain said, we have enemies; it goes with the territory ..."

"And we may never know who has him."

"So if this is nothing to do with Athos, and we may never know who has him - how do we find him?" d'Artagnan said, his eyes filling with tears.

oOo

They were still standing together in quiet contemplation when the stable boy, Jacques, came in. He held a note in his hand. Offering it to Aramis, he said, "This was pinned to the gate."

The boy could not read, but he obviously knew the significance of the note, and he knew their reaction would be just as swift and painful as with the other notes.

In the silence that followed, they stood looking at the confused boy.

Then Aramis took the note from him, and patted him on the shoulder.

Unfolding it, his strength left him, and he stepped back and fell against a nearby hay bale.

He has no food

oOo

Later:

"Athos is strong." Porthos said quietly to himself.

If he said it often enough, he may believe it. But it had been eleven days now since he had disappeared. Porthos kept running it through his mind. These notes were not leads; they were vicious barbs intended to pierce:

He has no weapons; He can hear us; He is cold; He has no food.

What else?

The ear.

Aramis said it wasn't his, but Porthos could tell by looking at him that he wasn't sure. He daren't let Aramis know that he suspected that; his brother was barely coping as it was.

They were so tired. They were angry, frustrated. They had nearly come to blows.

Even Treville seemed like a different person these days, barking orders, and often lost in thought.

"Athos is strong," Porthos murmured.

At first, they had been driven. But in eleven long days and nights that had changed. These were quiet days now. Waiting for the next note.

No food.

How long can a man live without food? Porthos agonised, knowing that personally, he could not last two days. He couldn't trust himself now, after what had happened with Aramis. He had almost hurt him. He had felt his fear. He felt ashamed of that.

"Athos is strong."

Tears welled in his eyes. How he longed to sit Athos down in The Wren, and pour him a glass of wine and put a bowl of beef stew in front of him.

So he said "Athos is strong" to himself again, while massaging his knuckles, bloodied and sore from punching walls, and anyone who got in his way.

They were all in a different place now, hardly recognising each other.

This game was being won, and not by them.

Day Twelve

Three days later, another note found its way into Serge's hands, as he pulled vegetables in the Garrison garden. It was handed to him by a market trader, but when questioned, the man did not know who had left it on his stall. Serge's hands shook as he again walked up to the Captain's office. How he wished he could spare them this. But it was important, he knew. So he knocked on the door and when it was opened, Treville saw by his face what it was. Taking the note from him, he patted Serge on the shoulder and offered him a weak nod, before trudging slowly down the stairs toward their table. He laid the note on the table in front of them.

They sat looking at it for several moments, again no-one moved; not wanting to know what it contained. D'Artagnan started to rock, his foot tapping on the floor. Porthos put both hands on the top of his head and walked across the yard. Aramis just looked beseechingly at his Captain.

And so it was Treville himself who reached forward and took it. They were numb now. But the words were perhaps the worst yet,

He has no water

Tbc