Managed to get another chapter up today. The next one will be up sometime tomorrow afternoon, and then we are back in the realm of unfinished chapters, so hopefully I'll get on that. Enjoy :)

Athos was leading his horse into the yard when he heard D'Artagnan coming. The boy wasn't even supposed to be out of bed, let alone putting weight on his injured leg. He'd been instructed firmly to stay put or he risked damaging the limb further and developing a permanent limp. Nevertheless, here he came, injured leg dragging behind him, face pale. Flea flitted behind him like a shadow.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked him with a sigh, knowing the answer before it was given.

"I want to come with you," D'Artagnan told him, chin jutting out stubbornly.

"We discussed this. You cannot ride quickly with your injuries, and I cannot afford to travel at a pace slow enough to accommodate you. Every moment wasted is another moment Aramis is in enemy hands. I need to get back to Calais."

When they'd finally arrived back in Paris the night before, Treville had taken one look at the sorry group and known immediately something was wrong. He'd called a doctor to take a look at D'Artagnan's wound, which had been treated inexpertly by a midwife in a town on the journey back. She was the only one Athos could find with any experience. She had also taken care of Flea's wound.

D'Artagnan had been nearly delirious by the time they had arrived, though Athos thanked God his injury hadn't festered. Under normal circumstances he would have stopped at an inn to allow the boy time to rest, threat to the king be damned, but D'Artagnan himself had insisted they make all possible haste back to the garrison. They had completed the week long journey in just five days.

Athos had left his friends in the capable hands of the doctor and reported to Treville, giving him only the most pertinent information in his haste, covering the threat to the king from the Duke of Buckingham and where Aramis and Porthos were, but leaving out the actual mission process. He also informed Treville in no uncertain terms that he was leaving as soon as physically possible. Treville, sensing his determination, had not argued, though he had ordered Athos to remain until the next morning and get some rest.

Not that Athos had really slept. He'd sat in a chair in D'Artagnan's rooms and stared at the wall for hours, going through it all in his head, wondering what he could have done differently. The thought of Aramis in enemy hands and Porthos hunting for him alone made him feel like his lungs were slowly filling with water, driving all the oxygen from his body.

I'm the leader, he'd thought bitterly, too distraught to drink. I was supposed to protect them!

The failure sat in his stomach like a lead weight. It didn't matter that logic told him there was no way he could have predicted the attack. His heart cried out that he should have done something more, that he should have been the one taken.

I was supposed to protect them.

Now he stood in the stables and gazed sympathetically at D'Artagnan's pleading expression. He knew the boy felt intensely guilty about the whole situation. He believed if he had not been injured then Athos would have been able to go after Aramis with Porthos while he took the plans to Treville. While this was true, D'Artagnan's injury was in no way his fault. Athos hated having to leave him behind, well aware that he was desperate to do something, but it simply wasn't possible to take him.

D'Artagnan saw the answer in his eyes. His face fell. Athos reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I will find them," he vowed, meeting the boy's miserable gaze. "I will bring them back." He glanced past D'Artagnan to meet Flea's searching look. Her eyes burned into his own. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded, an unreadable expression on her features.

He wondered even as he promised if it was a vow he could ever keep. For all he knew, both his brothers were already dead. And if Porthos found Aramis too late, it would amount to the same thing. Part of him still couldn't believe Aramis had acted as he had. It made sense, in a ruthlessly logical sort of way, but it stung of abandonment. He imagined it must be far worse for Porthos.

"I must go now." He removed his hand from D'Artagnan's shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the boy in a rough embrace, motivated by the wetness in his eyes. He felt D'Artagnan's hand clench in his shirt before he released him.

"The second you find them, send word," D'Artagnan told him, his voice thick with emotion. Athos nodded, mounting in one fluid motion. He managed what he hoped was a confident, reassuring smile of farewell as he spurred his horse from the yard, praying he could keep his vow and bring his brothers back in one piece. He couldn't lose any more of his family.

Aramis spat out a mouthful of blood, allowing himself a triumphant smirk when it met its mark. The man leering down at him leapt back with a snarl of outrage, cursing. It was worth the blow to the head he received to see the outrage on the smug bastard's face.

He had no idea how long he'd been here. He'd spent most of the journey unconscious, but he assumed he was now in Calais. He was fairly certain he'd only been in this miserable little basement for a day or two, but there was no way to be sure. He'd been given some water but no food, so he couldn't use that to track the time.

His bullet wound had been treated, presumably so he wouldn't bleed out or die of infection before they got their answers. Well, perhaps 'treated' wasn't the right word. Brutally cauterized with a rusty knife might be more accurate. He'd been unconscious for hours after that, and the smell of charred flesh had lingered for far too long.

Aramis had been dragged out for questioning three times so far. This mostly consisted of the smug man with the atrocious French accent who he assumed was an English spy asking him questions he wasn't going to answer while his thugs used him as a punching bag.

This was extraordinarily unpleasant and painful, but thus far Aramis was handling it rather well he thought. It helped that the pounding in his head had receded once he got off that infernal horse. There was also something to be said for knowing you were going to die. It really took the edge off the fear and anxiety that normally accompanied imprisonment and torture.

Aramis knew he might be intentionally goading his captors, hoping they would see sooner rather than later that interrogation was pointless and just kill him. His body ached everywhere and his wrists were bloody where the ropes had torn his skin away. Blood and dirt formed a layer on his skin so thick he couldn't even see his bruises, though he could see his ribs.

Knowing he was going to die hadn't stopped him from trying to escape. He'd recovered his wits sufficiently to realize that his actions had probably hurt Porthos more than they had helped him, and for his sake he did make an effort to get away. He'd been beaten so viciously afterwards that another attempt simply wasn't feasible, especially as hunger and abuse gradually weakened him.

And so here he sat, trying to antagonize his captors into killing him. So far he'd only succeeded in pissing them off, if the blows now raining down upon him were any indication. Blackness was creeping into the corners of his vision when at last they stopped.

"Why don't you just tell us what we want to know about your king, and this will all be over?" the man asked. His face was still smeared with blood that his handkerchief had missed.

Aramis just glared at him with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. Only once in his life had he ever betrayed information under duress, and that was because a man had held a gun to Porthos's head. Besides, he'd shot that one afterward Athos rescued them, so it didn't really count.

"You just make this worse for yourself," the man sneered. He motioned for the thugs to continue, but before they could move there was a sound in the hallway and another man scrambled in.

"M'lord wants to see you," he panted. The reason for his haste was immediately apparent as the Black Fox followed him into the room.

"What are you doing here?" the spy asked rudely, and the Fox glared at him.

"I do believe you would not be here, with this bounty before you, if not for me," he said archly. The spy scowled and looked away. "I thought so. I need to speak to your prisoner for a moment. Alone."

A ferocious glare from the Fox's bodyguard sent the spy and his thugs scurrying from the room, followed by the bodyguard himself.

The Fox stalked forward, cruelty lighting his dark eyes. He smiled amicably at Aramis, but even in his slightly dazed state Aramis sensed the threat. He sat up straighter, ignoring the pain.

"My associates tell me you are refusing to cooperate," he said, sliding into a chair across from Aramis. "That's very noble of you, my friend, but surely you know it is futile. No one is coming for you. Your friends, they have abandoned you, even that fool the Pirate."

He smirked, and Aramis knew the words were meant to wound him, but all he felt was fierce joy. He was glad his friends had not returned. The thought of any of them in this position was worse than the pain of his injuries. He prayed the others stayed far away, though he knew it was unlikely they wouldn't search for him, Porthos especially. He changed his prayer, asking instead that they simply be unable to find him. And he prayed, too, that Porthos learn to forgive him for leaving him alone.

The Fox pouted as he realized his attack had failed. "So you will not betray your king," he said, voice pouring out like silk. "I appreciate loyalty. To king and country and all that. But what about loyalty to your friends? I'd imagine the bonds between you and your fellows are very strong, yes? That's what I'm counting on, my friend."

Aramis frowned, trying to figure out what the Fox meant. "I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of your brothers-in-arms," the Fox told him with the air of one confiding a great secret. "Particularly your large friend Porthos. He made me look a fool in front of my court. I must hurt him for that."

Aramis stomach twisted, but he kept the far from his expression. "Porthos knows your world as well as you," he hissed. "You will not catch him."

The Fox laughed jovially. "Ah, but my friend, I don't need to catch him to hurt him, do I? Imagine the pain he will feel when he finds your broken body and realizes he as too late to save you. It will be quite tragic, I hope. If I manage to catch him after, well, that's just a bonus." He smiled charmingly.

Aramis felt sick. He hated the thought that he would be used as a tool to cause Porthos pain. He knew that if Porthos did find his body, he would throw himself after the Fox in a reckless rage and get himself killed, and it would be all Aramis's fault.

The Fox must have seen the anguish on his face, for he smirked cruelly and called in his bodyguard. He gave the man some instructions, but Aramis was not listening, too wrapped up in thoughts of Porthos dying at the Fox's hands.

He jerked back to the present when the bodyguard grabbed him roughly, dragging him over to the wall. A ramshackle sort of ladder leaned there, and the man shoved him against it, cutting his bonds and retying him so that he was pressed face forward against the coarse wood, wrists tied to a rung above his head. His shirt was cut away and he realized what was going to happen even before the Fox called the spy back in, berating him for his lack of imagination and offering him the use of his bodyguard, who he claimed was well versed in the art of pain.

The first lash drove the air from his lungs and he bit back a cry. He offered a frantic prayer to God that Porthos would never, never find him. Then he fixed Porthos's face in his mind as the lash cracked across his back once more.

The chair splintered against the wall with a crash and Porthos sat down heavily on the bed, biting back a howl of despair. He'd arrived back in Calais after two days of heavy riding, following the trail left by Aramis's captors. That had been three days ago. Since then, he had run up against dead ends at every turn. He couldn't find anyone who had seen them arrive; at least, no one brave enough to cross the Fox. That, indeed, was all he had managed to learn. They'd been attacked by a group of the Fox's men, which he had loaned to the English spies in an attempt to regain some credibility after their raid on his meeting.

The Fox was sheltering them somewhere even now, Porthos was sure of it, but no one dared talk for fear of bringing his wrath down upon them. Porthos was hiding out in the seediest inn he could find, the Musketeer insignia ripped from his shoulder, wearing old clothing he'd scrounged to prevent any of the Fox's men from recognizing him.

Three days! he thought savagely. Three days and no word, not a whisper as to where he is. He'd used every trick he knew, but nothing worked. And every day he failed to find him was another day Aramis endured torture at English hands.

I have to find him. I have to find him. He stared dully at the broken chair, mocking him.

I love him.

For he knew it now. He could see what Flea had seen that night by the fire. He was in love with Aramis, and Aramis had been suffering silently all this time because he believed his love would never be returned. And what irony, to realize his own feelings when the man might even now be bleeding to death alone.

In his darkest moments, a savagery rose within him that said Aramis deserved suffering, had chosen to abandon him and sacrifice himself needlessly. The thoughts made him feel physically ill, but they rested in his brain like parasites, feeding his desperation. He couldn't bear the idea of Aramis in pain, and yet part of him cried out that it was justified. He couldn't believe Aramis had willingly left him behind, whatever his reasons. He had been left behind too many times before.

A scrabbling noise outside the window interrupted his thoughts. Drawing a knife, he rose silently, positioning himself to one side of the opening. Then, with one fluid motion, he leaned down and dragged a small boy through the window and into the room.

He stared at the boy, nonplussed. He was a ratty thing, covered in dirt and clothed in rags. The boy stared back at Porthos, undaunted, and he felt a flicker of respect for the brave street urchin, so like himself. "What are you doing sneaking around outside my window?" he asked, his voice harsh.

The boy was unimpressed. "Heard you was lookin' for some Englishmen," he said, shrugging. "Them as has a Musketeer with 'em. I know where to find 'em."

Porthos nearly dropped his blade. The sudden surge of hope crashing through the darkness of his mind nearly brought him to his knees as he gaped at the boy before him. Such an unassuming package for such miraculous news.

"Where?" he croaked, not caring if this was a trap, not caring at all if it would get him to where Aramis was, or at least to the men who had him. When the boy didn't answer immediately, he managed to say, "I'll pay you whatever you want. Anything. Please tell me." This seemed to satisfy the urchin.

"I'll lead you there. I show you the door, you pay me. Fifty sous." He sounded nervous at last, asking for more money than he'd likely ever seen in his life. Porthos could count his ribs through his threadbare shirt.

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and said seriously, "Boy, if you get me there, I'll give you a hundred." The child's eyes widened in shock. "But we leave now."

The boy nodded and Porthos grabbed his sword belt and pistol from the room's remaining chair, strapping them on as the silent child watched. Checking that everything was secure, he gestured to the window, barely able to contain the hope bubbling in his chest. "Lead on."

Everyone like where this is going? Please let me know what you think!