This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child death, and mass killings in Chapters 3 and 4. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.

Kidnapping

The sun dipped slowly towards the ocean. Porthos didn't long for the sea, but he liked looking out that way where all seemed open and free. Far above his head, seagulls circled, drifting on a breeze he couldn't feel. The stifling heat of the day was fading. Watching his surroundings no longer felt like staring into a roaring furnace. But Porthos was still uncomfortable, his skin sticky with sweat and dust after a long day as a lookout. He rubbed his shoulder against the rough-hewn stones, trying to scratch an itch.

Next to him, Aramis stood still, finger on the trigger of his musket, staring at La Rochelle. He narrowed his eyes as the glare of the setting sun made it difficult to distinguish anything.

"Let's go," Porthos said. "We're done for the day."

Tomorrow, they'd be back at some other spot for yet another day of staring at yet another gate. They always moved him. Aramis was the best sniper by far and they didn't want the people of La Rochelle to learn where he was. Much better to make them live in fear of his sudden shots, to make them think there was more than one man. There were others, of course, but none of them were as good.

Aramis didn't move.

"Come on," Porthos said. "Athos was here an hour ago. You heard him. Time to go home."

He wished it really was home they were going to. Home to Paris and his room at the garrison. Instead, home was the room they shared at the castle of Aytré. They'd been at the coast for a good nine month and more than half of that they'd spent in that room. They were lucky, of course, and couldn't complain.

Complaining wasn't Porthos' style and really, there wasn't much to complain about when you knew you were doing the king's work and God's as well. Fighting for their country and the church; wasn't much more a soldier could ask for. Porthos just wished that something would move. Anything at all.

Aramis certainly made no attempt at it, so Porthos looked up at the birds again. Sometimes it took Aramis a while to come back to himself after a day on duty. His head often hurt, focussing so hard for so long. Tonight would be one of those nights; Porthos could tell. He smiled at his friend. He was so dedicated, even after all these months.

"Come," Porthos said. "You deserve—"

"Shh."

Surprised by the harsh reply, Porthos followed his friend's gaze. Aramis' eyes were fixed on the gate opposite them in the city's wall. It was difficult to make out details in this light, but after a whole day of looking at it, Porthos knew it well. The dark wood nestled between the massive towers. This road must have been busy before the siege, leading out to the mill they now used as a lookout, back when the mill had its sails and the city had grain to grind.

Porthos couldn't see anything at first. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his hat, trying to find what Aramis saw. Suddenly, he spotted it. A slight movement, then another, and a third. Three men were darting from one bush to another, barely visible against the marshy fields. He wasn't sure where the men were headed, but they had picked the right time for their excursion. The sun was in their backs, blinding anyone watching, and with the long shadows and shifting light they were nearly impossible to sight, even if they had been within shooting distance.

The three didn't seem to be aware that they were being watched. The outer wall, held by the royal army, was far away. Porthos doubted they were headed that way. They would know by now that that was certain death.

Porthos' eyes stung, so he decided to watch Aramis instead. His job wasn't to be the eyes. It was to hand Aramis another musket, to reload his when necessary. Mostly it was to keep Aramis watered and fed and somewhat sane.

Aramis' finger twitched, the flash lit up his face, and the shot rang out. He was pushed back by the recoil, but immediately steadied himself and handed his musket to Porthos, getting back into position with the second weapon. Porthos didn't reload. He stared at the spot where one of the men had fallen. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think he twitched at all. Probably dead on the spot.

His two companions were haring back to the gate. Aramis followed them with eyes and muzzle. Porthos held his breath until the men had disappeared into the city. Then he turned to Aramis.

"What the hell?"

Aramis lowered the musket and took a step back. "What?"

The thunder of a cannon interrupted them. They tensed. The Huguenots answered every shot, trying to eliminate the snipers. Unlike Aramis, they missed.

"What'd you shoot him for?" Porthos asked.

"Being an enemy."

Porthos tore the cartridge open with his teeth and spat out the paper. "You didn't have to do that."

"And let them get to the wall to be hanged?"

Porthos glared at him. "You could have given them a warning shot."

Aramis took the cartridge and musket from his hands, loading as he spoke. "You saw what happened. They started running as soon as I shot. They were too far away for me to hit them as they ran."

Porthos snorted. He still couldn't believe Aramis had made that shot at all. "Straight through the heart?" he asked.

Aramis rammed the wadding down the barrel. "I think so."

Porthos threw his hands in the air. "You're impossible."

He didn't know if he was complaining or complimenting him.

"I did my duty."

A stupid excuse, hiding behind duty. "He wasn't threatening the king, he wasn't a danger to us." Porthos snarled. "You murdered him."

Aramis shrugged. "I picked the weakest one. Made his death quicker and easier."

"How can you say that?"

Aramis brushed a bit of stray powder from the barrel and leaned the second musket against the wall. "What were his choices?" he asked. "Make it to the wall and be hanged? Or go back and die of starvation?"

"They were coming for crops." Porthos gestured towards overgrown fields. Nobody had tended them this year, but there was still some food to be found. Nettles and berries; they took everything.

"How long would that buy them? A day? A week? It's a siege, Porthos. We're here to end it."

"And you're the one to do that?" That was ridiculous. "Thousands of men all around and the king and the cardinal and even Tréville and you think you shooting innocent men will make them break?"

"We all do our part."

Porthos kicked the wall hard enough to make both muskets clatter to the floor. "We're musketeers, not murderers. We defend. We don't shoot civilians."

Aramis crossed his arms. "There are no civilians in a siege. Women and children, I'll accept, but not young men. When we take the city, every one of them left alive will mean the death of one of us."

"When we take the city, that's when we'll deal with them. Not when they're searching for food."

"You and your soft heart." Aramis shook his head. "It'll be the end of you one day."

"No danger for you then," Porthos spat. "You think you're so damn good at this, your heart has turned to stone."

Aramis snorted. "Suit yourself."

He turned back to look out towards La Rochelle and didn't say another word. Porthos glared at his back. Taking a man's life with no need and just shrugging it off…

"You better say some prayers," he said, turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs. That wasn't the Aramis he knew. Aramis wasn't like that. Aramis was kind and caring and saved lives. And yes, he took lives, they all did, but they didn't shoot people like hares.

Porthos strode towards the outer fortifications, back to the rest of the army. Behind the vast ring of forts waited his dinner, Athos, and a glass of wine. A bucket of water to rid himself of the sweat and dust wouldn't go amiss either. Maybe another one to dump over Aramis' head to make him come back to his senses.

The deafening crack of another cannon shattered whatever was left of the peaceful evening. With a great splash, the heavy ball disappeared into a small lake nearby. The cannons weren't very accurate, certainly not over that sort of distance. Trying to pinpoint a sniper and hit him was nearly impossible.

Porthos wasn't worried. He was one man on a meandering path. Even with the sun in their backs, they wouldn't be able to hit him. Anyways, God was on the king's side, Aramis always said. He would protect them. Still… Porthos hesitated and turned back to look at the mill. He hoped that Aramis would leave it soon and join them. He was a sitting duck in that place.

Back at the musketeers' camp, Porthos sniffed the bucket of water. The surrounding area was marshy and the water was never clear. With the recent heat, it had also begun to smell like dirty socks. He sighed. Nothing for it unless he fancied a swim in the sea. Which he didn't. Aramis had tried to teach him, but… Porthos shook himself. He didn't want to think about Aramis and he didn't want to think about the damn sea. And Aramis in the sea and... No. Aramis and his thick, stinky head wouldn't make him think about any of that. It would all be forgiven in the morning, but for now he wasn't best-pleased with his friend.

He washed off the sweat and dust of the day, but the lukewarm water only made him sweat more. The temperature hadn't dropped much. The air was still muggy. It weighed him down like a heavy blanket. Breathing could still be hard at times.

Serge handed him bread and ham and Porthos nicked a carrot while the cook wasn't looking. He munched on that while he made his way through the crowd. Men sat in small groups on the ground or around the long tables.

There were a few games of cards being played. Porthos threatened to join one group, laughing at their protests. Sometimes he'd have fun with new recruits, but most of the older men refused to play with him by now. Only a few persistent ones still tried their luck, Aramis said. Athos called them stupid.

Athos sat a little apart, staring at the bottle of wine in his hands.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

Athos grunted his reply. Porthos flopped down next to him and began to tear into his food.

"Scorcher of a day," he said.

Athos handed him the bottle and Porthos took a long drink.

"Thanks," Porthos said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. Not that the wine was cold, but it sure smelled better than the water. "Think there's going to be a storm tonight?"

Athos shrugged. Porthos rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed after a day on top of that god-forsaken mill with a near-silent Aramis was a brooding Athos. He looked at his friend. He was harder to read than Aramis. With Aramis, he could tell if it was a headache, a broken heart, or something else. With Athos… unless it was the wine, it was never obvious what was wrong.

"What'd you get up to today?" he asked.

Athos snatched the bottle back and drank some more. "The usual."

Porthos gave him a moment to see if he'd continue, but he didn't.

"Captain's working you too hard," Porthos prompted

"Needs doing."

Porthos shook his head. This was going to be a long evening if two words was all he was going to get at a time. He didn't mind a bit of silence, not at all, but he'd had a full day of it, so really, it was getting old. Digging words out of Athos seemed as slow and painful as digging a musket ball from a wound.

"It's too hot to even eat," Porthos said.

Athos looked at the last piece of bread in his hand. "You manage."

"Got to keep my strength up." Porthos patted his stomach.

"Hm." Athos returned to staring at the bottle.

Porthos stared at him. Tréville did work him too hard. The king was frustrated with the siege and all the talk of the English fleet and God knows what else, so Tréville spent most of his days in counsel with the cardinal and other high up officers. But someone had to take care of the day to day running of the regiment and that was mostly Athos now. It was a lot of work and a lot of men to keep busy when nothing ever happened. No wonder Athos was tired.

Porthos left him in peace. He brought him another bottle of wine and sat with him in silence. Not that there was much to say. Sitting around in some old mill didn't make for an exciting tale. He wondered where they'd be the next day. They never knew until the morning. Keep the surprise. There were Huguenot spies everywhere, so no point telling people things before they had to know.

"Where's Aramis?" Athos asked.

Porthos shrugged. "He'll come."

"I see."

Porthos doubted that. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "He had a kill today."

Athos nodded. "Good."

Porthos grimaced. Of course, Athos was right. It was good. That's why they were out there. That's why they risked their lives within reach of the city's canons. That's what made Aramis special. Of course a kill was good. But it was also the death of a young man who was only trying to find food. Porthos had been there too many times to not feel sympathy.

Since Athos wasn't in any mood for conversation, Porthos listened to those around them. There wasn't much laughter that night. Everyone was sweating and bored and miserable. Still, their arguments were better than seeing that poor man on the ground again and again. Porthos hoped they'd come and get his body in the night. Give him a proper burial, if Huguenots did such things. Maybe they didn't. Maybe their souls just went straight to hell and nobody cared about their bodies. Never knew with them.

No, he wasn't going to think about that. It was done now. Not for that poor man's family of course, but— No, he wasn't going there.

Serge was directing the clean-up operation. Porthos watched him swat one of the kitchen boys for dropping a loaf of bread onto the dusty ground. Couldn't be having that, not on Serge's watch.

Suddenly, one of the recruits came running.

"Athos," he cried. "You've got to come. Quick!"

Athos raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It's Co–Clotard." The lad was in such a frenzy he was stumbling over his words. "He's got Matthieu by the neck, said he's— Oh you got to help him!"

"Show me." Athos heaved himself to his feet.

The boy was already running ahead. "He's going to kill him for sure."

Athos scowled and followed. Porthos brought up the rear.

They didn't need a guide. Their fellow musketeers were drawn to the fight like moths to a flame. Soon, Athos stopped outside a tight circle of men, all shouting warnings and encouragement. Behind the wall of heads and shoulders, Porthos could catch the occasional glimpse of flying limbs.

He watched Athos frown and squeeze his eyes together as if he had a headache. After a brief moment, Athos' face settled back into its usual blank mask as he tried to weave through the men. They wouldn't shift, too caught up in the fight to even notice who was behind them. Only when Porthos pushed and elbowed them apart, did Athos manage to make his way through the crowd.

Looking very far from being killed, Matthieu was holding his own against the much younger Clotard. He was kneeling on Clotard's chest, pulling his hair with one hand.

"Gentlemen," Athos said.

Nobody listened.

"Gentlemen, please," Athos said more loudly.

In that moment, Clotard flipped them and the crowd jeered and cheered as he pummelled the older musketeer.

Athos was now shouting for attention, but nobody paid him any heed, which seemed to confuse him. With every ignored shout, he grew more and more flustered. When Clotard grabbed Matthieu's head and knocked it into the dust, Porthos gave Athos a nudge.

"Come on," he hissed. Athos stared at him with wide eyes but did nothing. He'd have hell to pay with Aramis if this ended in a head injury. Porthos pushed Athos' shoulders, making him take one small step towards the fighters. Not that it mattered. The whole mass of people was constantly shifting.

"Stop it," Athos said so quietly that Porthos wasn't sure if it was directed at Clotard or himself.

Porthos sighed and stepped around Athos, pushing aside two of the most eager spectators.

"You heard him," he roared, knowing full well that they hadn't. "Stop it. Now!"

He grabbed Clotard from behind, lifting him off Matthieu. It was too easy. They'd have to work on his awareness in a fight. Couldn't always count on having just one enemy. Clotard was stunned for long enough that Porthos could wrap his arms around him, squeezing so tight he gasped for air. Then Clotard recovered and started to fight back, landing a few ineffective kicks to Porthos' shins.

"Enough," Porthos shouted right into Clotard's ear. "You're making a fool of yourself."

"And of the regiment," Athos added, glaring at the man in Porthos' grip. He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't need to any more. Silence fell as soon as Porthos ended the fight.

Matthieu was struggling to his feet, looking slightly dazed, but catching his breath now. As soon as he got up, he rushed forward. Athos stopped him with a hand to the chest.

"One more step and Captain Tréville will hear of this. You're bringing the musketeers into disrepute."

There were murmurs at that. Porthos shivered to see mutiny in so many eyes.

"What were you thinking?" Athos hissed. "You are musketeers, not rabid dogs."

Porthos grimaced at Athos' choice of words. No man liked being called a dog. No man liked a grass either, second in command or not. It's wasn't hard to see what they were thinking. They were bored out of their minds, all of them. Sitting around month after month wasn't what they were trained to do. A few of the men stepped closer, tightening the ring around them. Porthos looked at Athos, hoping he'd have something smart to say to make them see sense.

Athos didn't.

The voices grew louder. The men came closer.

And then the bell rang, telling them it was ten minutes till curfew time.

"I suggest you retreat to your quarters," Athos said. "Do not bring further dishonour upon the regiment."

Men grumbled at that, but Athos turned on his heel and pushed through them, not looking at anyone. Porthos dropped Clotard so he could cover Athos' back.

Athos didn't notice the murderous glares directed at him. He didn't even stop for a bottle of wine but kept walking towards the castle and their room. Behind them, Porthos could hear the musketeers disperse. Curfew was strict in the royal camp. Anyone caught out after hours was guilty of desertion.

"Are they leaving?" Athos asked eventually.

Porthos looked over his shoulders. The crowd had scattered and everyone was moving towards their quarters. "Yes," he said.

"Good. It would be a stain on the regiment's reputation to have musketeers executed as deserters."

Porthos shook his head at Athos' tone of voice. Sure, men had been shot for breaking curfew. But to Porthos that wasn't a source of happiness. He cared about their reputation and all. He was proud of it, of being a musketeer. But the men mattered more. Obviously, Porthos was the only one who thought that.

First Aramis and now Athos.

Porthos growled. They were no better than Clotard and Matthieu and those cheering them on. A bit of boredom was one thing. But nobody cared any more. Like the sun had melted away all their morals and decency.

Athos opened the door to their room and stopped suddenly.

"Where is he?" he asked.

Porthos looked over Athos' shoulder and well, all he could say was that Aramis wasn't there. The bed and bedrolls were untouched. His stomach clenched. What if Aramis… he'd left him all alone, out there in no-man's land, and what if…

"Never mind. I can imagine." Athos sat down on the bed, kneading his forehead. "He was explicit enough this morning."

Ah, yes… Porthos' stomach relaxed. Aramis had said something about… well, about needing to scratch the itch. About how it was a very long time since he'd last seen Madame Couture. Yes, even Porthos could imagine where Aramis was.

Curfew came and went without any sign of Aramis. Athos huffed and grumbled about how typical that was. Porthos had to agree. It was hardly the first time Aramis had spent the night with a woman he shouldn't have been with.

They played a game of chess. For once, Aramis didn't interrupt them with his sighs and complaints about how boring it was to watch them stare at that board for hours. That was nice. Athos took the bed that night. Porthos didn't mind. It was Athos' turn next and since Aramis had decided to abandon them, it was only fair. At any rate, he'd sleep better knowing that he wasn't the one Aramis would flop down on when he finally sauntered back into their room at dawn.

After they'd extinguished the light, Porthos lay in the dark, yearning for the slightest hint of a breeze from the open window, but more than that yearning for Aramis to be next to him. He shouldn't have left him like that. Aramis was right, really. They were soldiers and he was a sniper. Killing people was what they did. Porthos and his stupid soft heart, getting in the way of duty once again. Shooting that man still didn't feel right, but Porthos knew it was his mind that needed to adjust and not Aramis'. That wasn't a poor man; that was an enemy. He'd kill the king, given half a chance. He'd kill the pope for sure. And heaven knew what else they did, those Huguenots. He'd heard all sorts of tales. He should have remembered those before getting so cross with Aramis. But of course he hadn't. He'd pushed him away and left him alone and now Aramis didn't even feel welcome in his own room any more.

"Stop your fretting," came Athos' muffled voice from the bed.

"I'm not—"

"You are. If you weren't, you'd be snoring by now."

"It's just the heat."

Athos sighed. "The heat has never bothered you. Aramis' absence does."

"I shouldn't have said what I did. I…"

"It was his decision to miss curfew, not yours."

"But if I hadn't…" Porthos let the sentence trail off.

He heard Athos shift on the bed. His voice was much clearer when he spoke again. "Has it crossed your mind that he might simply need space?" Athos asked.

It hadn't, of course. These sorts of things never crossed Porthos' mind. He needed his brothers to explain them to him.

"The close quarters and enforced idleness are taking a toll on us all," Athos said. "Aramis, I'd assume, feels this more keenly than most."

Porthos frowned. "He's got more to do than most. He had a kill today. He's very important."

"He's had weeks of this, lying in wait all day for maybe a shot or two. It's taxing work. I may not approve of his choice of distraction, but I do not begrudge him the relief it undoubtedly provides."

Porthos felt twice as bad at that. So not only did he not understand Aramis' duty, he also didn't understand when he needed relief. And he wasn't able to provide any. Madame Couture was. Was better than him, more necessary. Did Aramis struggle with it all? And if he did, why hadn't he said? Or had Porthos not listened?

"Fretting," Athos said. "I believe I told you to stop."

"But what if—"

"What if you slept now and discussed it with him in the morning?"

Porthos breathed out heavily. "You're right," he admitted.

Athos shifted again, getting comfortable once more. "Sleep, Porthos," he said. "He'll be back in the morning."

He wasn't.

Porthos woke at dawn and found Athos in a murderous mood. There was no trace of Aramis.

Athos was already fully dressed. He paced back and forth in their small room like a caged wolf.

"He's a disgrace," he spat.

"He'll be there," Porthos said. "He always is."

It had been a while, but back in Paris it wasn't uncommon at all to have Aramis saunter into the yard at the very last minute, having made full use of the time he had with his mistress.

"If he's not at muster, he'll have hell to pay," Athos growled.

Breakfast was a tense affair. Everyone was giving them a wide berth after the previous night and they had an entire table to themselves. There were mutters all around them, but everyone kept well away from them, maybe because Athos was radiating anger and they all thought it was because of them.

Athos looked like he'd rather run into La Rochelle all on his own than to sit here with the regiment. He didn't speak one single word the whole time they ate, which didn't help Porthos' fretting at all.

Porthos tried to be covert about looking around at all the other tables, trying to spot Aramis. Maybe he didn't want to eat with them and had found better company. Maybe Athos had underestimated just how much space Aramis needed. Maybe him not being there this morning was a sign. Maybe he'd asked Tréville for different lodgings because he couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. The sight of Porthos, more like. Porthos who didn't understand the realities of a siege, of being a musketeer. Aramis had moved rooms before when he'd had enough of Porthos.

Athos finished his gruel in record time and then sat there, his jaws clenched and his hands balled into tight fists.

"He'll be there," Porthos said. Of course he would be. He was still a musketeer even if… No, he wouldn't forget their friendship over this. They'd gone through too much, had grown too close. He'd shout and grumble for a while. They'd fight and then they'd make up, like they always did.

"He better be," Athos pressed out through gritted teeth. "I will not be humiliated like this."

He wasn't there.

Everyone else was, but not Aramis. Tréville arrived and wished them a good morning and still, no sign of Aramis. Athos' face burned with shame. Of course Tréville noticed. Of course everyone else did as well. Once again, there were whispers.

Tréville gave the orders for the day and found some encouraging words for them all. The siege was taking its toll, but everyone else had managed to still show up for duty. Next to Porthos, Athos was standing so stiffly, he vibrated with tension.

After dismissing the men, the captain came over to them. He didn't seem angry, just curious.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked. "Has he been taken unwell?"

"Excuse us while we make some enquiries," Athos said. His voice sounded deadly. Porthos didn't blame him. Making enquiries into the state of Madame Couture's bed was hardly something they should have to do.

"What's the matter?" Tréville asked. "Do you need assistance?"

"We will manage."

By now, Tréville looked worried. "What are you hiding from me?"

"I assure you, Aramis is quite fine," Athos said pointedly. "I also assure you that he won't be when I find him. I can only apologise for my fellow musketeer's impertinent behaviour."

Tréville frowned. "Bring him back here. I want a full report of this as well as the events of last night."

Athos sucked in a sharp breath, saluted very formally, and marched off. Porthos had to hurry to keep up with him as he strode towards the village and the house of Madame Couture. He hoped that Aramis had said his prayers that morning. He'd need God on his side when Athos found him.

"I'll cut of his cock and stuff it down his throat." Athos' hand twitched towards his sword. "I'm not interested in excuses."

Porthos found it hard to disagree, but he tried. "Maybe someone in the village was ill," he said.

"Then he should have sent a messenger."

Athos hadn't unclenched his jaws since breakfast. Every word was pressed through his teeth

"Maybe he'll be more suited to the life of a choir boy," Athos continued. "We're at war and he cannot keep it in his pants long enough to appear at morning muster."

Porthos had never seen Athos so angry. And he agreed with him. He couldn't believe Aramis would neglect his duty because of some mistress. Heaven help him explain that one away. First to Athos and then to Tréville. Porthos winced. Good luck with that. But Aramis only had himself to blame. Well, himself and the charms of Madame Couture.

"Keep an eye on the back," Athos said when they stopped in front of her cottage. "If he tries to escape…"

He had run out of threats. Instead he shook himself and rapped at the door with so much force that Porthos feared for his knuckles.

"Open up," Athos cried. "Open or we'll break down this door."

They wouldn't need to if he kept hammering like that. Porthos felt eyes on them, curious neighbours peeking from behind curtains.

Finally, the door opened. Athos stepped forward and came face to face with Madame Couture. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up to the elbows and she wore a crisp white apron. She looked like a woman at work and not of the sort of work you did on your back.

"Messieurs," she said. "How may I—"

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?" she asked back, looking confused.

"Don't try this with me." Athos snarled. Panic rose in her eyes as he came closer.

"Where's Aramis?" Porthos asked. "We have no quarrel with you, but he needs to come with us."

"Aramis? But I haven't seen—"

"Don't. Don't you dare lie to the King's musketeers. We know that you have been—"

"Athos," Porthos hissed. "Not here."

Whatever Aramis had or hadn't done to her, they didn't need to get the woman into any more trouble. Not with all the neighbours listening in.

Athos froze. "Apologies, Madame." He bowed. "I forget myself. Would you be able to inform us of our companion's whereabouts?"

Madame Couture looked unsettled by this sudden change and eyed them warily. Porthos didn't blame her.

"Is he in trouble?" she asked. Curse her perceptiveness.

"We merely seek to speak to him." Athos told lies so smoothly they never stood out. "Would you be so kind as to tell us where we might find him?"

She was wringing her hands now, clearly upset. She was no idle woman; her hands were rough with hard labour. Rough hands. Something Aramis couldn't stand. Porthos shook his head. That was hardly relevant now.

"I'm so sorry, Messieurs," Madame Couture said. "I don't know what to tell you. I don't know about Monsieur Aramis."

"But you saw him?"

"Yes, yes, I did. He wanted… sage and some chamomile and… for his medicines, you know."

"When was that?" Porthos asked. His stomach clenched with ugly premonition.

"Last Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday is market day and he wanted to—"

"Thank you for your assistance, Madame," Athos said.

His voice echoed in Porthos' hollow head. Last Wednesday. Last Wednesday and not last night. Last Wednesday and not when… not… Oh God… He vaguely noted that Athos was leading him away from the house. Away from prying eyes because… because Aramis… Oh God…

"Porthos," Athos said urgently. "Focus."

Porthos swallowed and tried to… Aramis… Oh God, oh God, no, please…

"Where is he?" Athos asked.

Porthos stared at him. He'd been so sure. He'd known Aramis was here. He'd have some ridiculous excuse and Athos would shout and Tréville would shake his head and then everything would be fine. And now Aramis wasn't… But he couldn't be… If he was… he'd be with them and he wasn't, so he…

"Has he mentioned another woman?" Athos pressed.

No woman. Of course he wouldn't be with a woman. Not when it interfered with his duty. He'd told Athos what he did at night could never affect him in the morning and he held himself to the same standard. Of course he wasn't with a woman, of course he never had been, of course…

"Porthos, answer me!" Athos barked. "Is there anyone else he could be with?"

Porthos shook his head. He wouldn't. He wouldn't miss muster, not ever. He didn't miss out on… he'd been at morning muster almost as soon as he could stand after Savoy. He wouldn't miss it, not unless… Porthos' stomach clenched painfully.

Athos braced himself against a low wall. "Has he…" His voice caught in his throat. "Would he ever… do you think he would… desert?"

"No."

That wasn't a question Porthos had to think about. He wouldn't. Never. There wasn't a chance in hell that Aramis would even think about… It wasn't who he was and it wasn't… never.

"I have to ask," Athos said. "We're at war. He isn't with the regiment. He isn't here. You don't think he's elsewhere. It's… there aren't many options."

"He would never…" Porthos shook his head. Not Aramis.

Athos sighed. "I know, but… it's not been easy on him and you mentioned you had… that you had a disagreement last night."

"About him following our orders to the letter. Not about… he wouldn't, Athos. Not after Savoy. Not after Marsac…"

Athos shuddered. "Yes, of course. I shouldn't have asked."

Porthos looked at him. "You shouldn't, but…" His voice was barely more than a whisper now. "What's the alternative?"

Athos bit down fiercely on his lip. "He's too badly injured to come home."

The air rushed from Porthos' lungs, Athos' words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"I left him," he gasped. "I should have waited. I should have been there."

"Porthos," Athos said. "It's no use—"

Porthos doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain. "A cannon ball. They were shooting and I thought… they never hit us. I was just one man, they wouldn't hit me, but he… he was still in that mill. Oh God… Oh God…"

He sank forward until Athos grabbed his arms. "If what you say is true, staying might have cost both of your lives. Don't you dare suggest that would be better."

Their lives… Aramis' life. And he should have been there. No matter what Athos said, he should have been there. He should never have left. He was there with Aramis, for Aramis, and then he left. He abandoned his post, his brother, his friend. He left him alone to… to… No, no, please no.

Athos' fingers dug into his flesh. "We'll look," he said. "We'll send out people to search."

And find… what? Aramis, broken and bruised. Aramis buried alive under the rubble of the mill. Aramis, alone. And what if… if it had been a direct hit then… Bile rose in Porthos' throat.

"Come," Athos said, dragging him upright by his arms. "We need to inform Tréville. We will get the whole regiment together. Question the guards about the events of last night."

Porthos' throat tightened. Last night. The night he left Aramis alone to… to…

"I left him," he whispered.

"And you'll find him," Athos said. "I swear on all of our lives; we will find Aramis."