Waking up the next morning, Aramis stretched his sore shoulders. Not an uncommon side-effect of spending days hunched over a musket. The things no one ever told you about the glory of being a sniper. Aramis would definitely not mention that it made him feel older than Methuselah. He groaned when his shoulder blade scraped over the stone floor. Porthos must have pushed him off his bedroll again. That man needed more space to lie down than a horse.

But hold on… why was he on the floor? He could have sworn it was still his turn to sleep on the bed. He was certain of it. Nobody was injured or ill. No reason at all to relegate him to the bedroll, or by the feel of it, the floor of all places.

"Oi," he said, sitting up. Or trying to. Trying and failing to sit up.

Aramis' eyes flew open, sleepy fog clearing from his brain instantly. His hands and feet were bound and this—he blinked his eyes—this wasn't their room at Aytré. Walls that should have been whitewashed were roughly hewn from the rock and the floor was no better. The window through which the early morning light filtered was high up on the far wall and very small. Too small, probably, even if he could manage to remove the two bars. A heavy wooden door opposite blocked the only other exit. Because he would exit. He didn't know where he was or why, but he did know that he had no desire to be wherever he was.

Right. Ties first. He flexed his feet. Fantastic, he was in his socks. He grimaced. Always a glorious escape in nought but your stocking feet. He glanced down and spotted one of his bare toes. He knew he should have mended those socks. But at least the lack of boots gave him more flexibility now. He continued to wriggle. Rough rope bit into his flesh as he tried to stretch. Annoyingly sturdy, not much give at all. He tried again, pulling his feet apart with more force. He stopped quickly, sucking in a sharp breath. They really could have left him his boots. He'd cut himself to the bone trying to break those bonds with nothing more than a bit of yarn to cushion his skin.

Fine. Hands, then. Athos said it was wise to always free one's hands first. Aramis liked to argue the opposite view, mainly because it wound Athos up, but he also wasn't a strong believer in the awkward hobbling escape. Awkward hobbling in his socks. Nothing like it to make him look a proper hero. Anyways. Hands. Not much wriggle room there either. Not cutting off his blood flow, but not giving him an opportunity for escape either. Somebody knew what they were doing. How annoying.

Somebody… which brought him to one rather important question—who had imprisoned him? And why? And, possibly the most interesting question of the lot, how?

As for the "who" there really weren't too many options in the middle of a siege. Besieger or besieged? The Huguenots were the obvious suspects, but they were also currently confined to their city, so how likely they were to imprison anyone was up for debate. Which left the royal forces—unless one wanted to count the English, but there hadn't been any reports of recent landings. Being a part of the royal forces should make it somewhat unlikely that he'd been kidnapped by them, but Aramis had been in the army long enough to know that men did all sorts of things once they got bored. But try as he might, he couldn't think of anyone in particular that he had upset recently. Ah… well… except Porthos. But Porthos got him out of imprisonment, not into it, so that wasn't really an option either.

That argument with Porthos… They'd have to talk about that. He didn't think he was wrong about what he'd said. He was following orders after all; they all were. But he could have said it a bit better, a bit kinder. He knew Porthos felt for the people, no matter which side they were on. It was one of his most endearing qualities and Aramis had meant him no disrespect. They'd have to talk about that. But it would have to wait. First, they had to get him out of captivity.

He tried to twist his wrists and arched his back to get more leverage. All that did was to make his tight shoulders twinge and the rope bite into his skin. He shuffled until he was somewhat comfortable again. As comfortable as he could be on the floor of a room he shouldn't be in.

That argument was the last thing he remembered. Porthos had left and a few minutes later there'd been a cannon shot. Aramis had peered out of the mill's window to make sure Porthos hadn't been hit. Then he'd sat and polished his muskets for a bit until the light got too dim and he figured he'd rather not stray off the path and into the marsh in the dark. And maybe it was late enough to go straight to bed and avoid the tedious discussion of morality they'd want to have. So he'd shouldered his muskets and climbed down the stairs. And then…

Then nothing. Nothing until he woke up here in this… cellar, dungeon, place.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of steps. He shuffled side-ways as quickly as he could with his bound limbs, trying to get his back to a wall. Being attacked from all sides when alone and barely able to move was not ideal. He tested his bonds again but didn't have the time to work out how to loosen them. Shame. He preferred to meet his captors with a heavy object to the head or a sword to the throat.

The door opened with a loud screech. Bad news for any clandestine escape that way. Two young men stepped inside. Aramis frowned. They could have hesitated at least a little, anticipating that he might have freed himself and was about to attack. They were either very foolish or very confident in their skill. He prayed it was the former.

"Ah, the hosts of this charming establishment," he said. "If you're after my breakfast order, I'd prefer my eggs with some bacon today."

The taller of the men made to kick him viciously in the shins, which Aramis managed to avoid by jerking his legs upward, earning him a boot to the knee instead. Bright lights flashed in front of his eyes.

"I take it, it's a fast day then," he said, smiling despite the pain. "Please excuse my confusion, I am not intimately familiar with your customs and meant no offence."

They stood and glowered at him, which gave him time to assess the situation. The two were around his age, maybe a little younger, and looked fairly strong, if a bit on the lanky side. Soldiers, perhaps, though neither carried a weapon. Curiously, they also didn't wear any protective garments, just ordinary linen shirts and trousers. Was leather against the Huguenot beliefs? Might explain why they'd stripped him down to his shirtsleeves.

Other than undressing, what did they want? It was an odd situation, captured by the people he had been holding captive for the better part of a year. If that's what this was. If they were Huguenots. He should probably figure that out first.

He smiled at the scowling men. "Now, gentlemen, where might this fine establishment be?" he asked.

They glared at him but said nothing.

"Where are we?" Aramis tried again. Probably better to use small words.

The shorter one snorted. "You know where you are."

Aramis worked hard to keep that smile on his face. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must have missed part of the journey. Or… come to think of it… I might have missed all of it."

"You're in La Rochelle. At least have the decency to acknowledge it."

"Ah." Aramis nodded. "La Rochelle, of course. Now see, I've seen quite a bit of it in recent years, but never once entered the city."

The taller man stomped his feet. "Scum. Shouldn't have brought you here."

Very interesting… so he disagreed. Disagreed with whoever made the decision and with whatever the reason for bringing him here was. Not like Aramis had been begging to be taken away. He'd see the city soon enough, no pressing need for a tour before the siege had ended. It must have been some undertaking to knock him out—Aramis assumed that's what they had done, probably easier than drugging him or any of that—and then drag him all the way back and into the city in the dark. If the ground was treacherous enough to make food thieves brave the dusk, it would be no great joy to carry a man across it at night. They must have had some reason for doing so.

"What's your name?" the shorter man asked.

Ah, questions. That was a good sign. He could do questions. Much better than… well, than them wanting to kill him, which tended to be the other reason he found himself in captivity.

"René d'Herblay," Aramis said without hesitation. They'd have little joy with the name he left behind years ago. "What's yours?"

The only answer was a kick to the gut. Holy Mother of Mercy, that hurt. He curled forward to protect himself from more pain. It was difficult to move with his bound limbs, but he tried to give them as small a target as possible. He had to attempt to prevent any damage. They could hurt him, but he wouldn't let them do anything that would disable him. He had to be fit enough to escape and broken ribs and internal bleeding wouldn't help with that at all.

Too bad the two gaolers didn't share his concern. The taller one grabbed Aramis' hair and dragged him up until he was forced to unfold his legs and get them under himself.

"You don't speak until you're spoken to. We ask the questions here."

Oh, very dramatic. Aramis smirked at him. "You'd better get on with it then."

The man swung him around by his hair and threw him across the room. Porthos might have a point, he should really learn how to hold his tongue on occasion. The man certainly thought so. He pressed Aramis face first against the jagged stone wall. This wasn't doing his fabled complexion any favours.

"So eager to die, little rat?"

Aramis could feel the man's hot breath against his neck.

Die or give answers, which is it going to be? He managed to think and not say that. Porthos would be proud. He wondered, though… Did they expect him to cooperate and beg for mercy before they ultimately killed him? If they did, he had bad news for them. He'd leave before it got to that point. He'd figure something out himself or Porthos and Athos would free him. Whatever these men planned; they wouldn't get to carry it out.

He was roughly turned around, swaying on his bound feet before the back of his head hit the rock. He couldn't quite hide a groan, which elicited a sadistic smile from his captor. Had he been the one to knock him out the night before? Now hitting the same spot a second time, maybe?

The man placed his right hand over Aramis' throat, pressing just hard enough to make it a threat.

"What is your position?" he asked.

"I'm a soldier in King Louis' army."

Both men snarled and the pressure on Aramis' throat increased.

"Are you a sniper?"

Well, they hadn't run into him at that mill by sheer happenstance, so they already knew the answer to that. But Aramis wouldn't sign his own death warrant by admitting it.

"I'm a soldier in King Louis' army," he repeated.

The man squeezed. Aramis felt his fingers dig in. All the different parts in his throat were ground together. Blood pulsed in his ears and he could not breathe. His hands fluttered uselessly in front of his stomach. The men smiled.

"I'll take that as a yes." The shorter man sounded pleased. "How many are there?"

The hand around his throat relaxed slightly and Aramis sucked in a big breath, preparing himself for the next strangulation.

"How many?" the taller man repeated, digging his thumb into the soft flesh under Aramis' ear.

Aramis breathed in again, not wasting the opportunity. A slight tightening of the fingers reminded him to speak.

"There are tens of thousands of us. And a thousand more ready to join for every one of—"

His breath was cut off again. The men didn't say anything, but their smiles never faltered. They swam in and out of focus as Aramis fought to stay conscious. He couldn't live without air and he hoped very much that they realised that, that they knew enough to stop in time.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis...

He prayed silently, giving his mind something to focus on. He couldn't pass out. It was always so inconvenient to try and rescue an unconscious friend. He wouldn't do that to them. His body was telling him to let go, to give in, but he knew he had to stay alert.

Sanctificetur nomen tuum;

adveniat regnum tuum…

Air, blessed air. Aramis sucked it in greedily, clearing the blackness from his eyes and the ringing from his ears. He had been drowning once again, but not any more. They had seen sense, let him breathe, let him live…

"How many snipers?"

Praised be the Lord. Praised be the Lord for their questions. Questions, not death, at least not yet. He needed time, needed to give them time to rescue him. He'd be fine if he could just hold out a little longer. They'd come and get him soon.

"Many," he said. "A rifle trained on every gate, on every man who dares to sneak—"

"That was my cousin, you wretch." The man growled and tightened his grip again.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis

sanctificetur nomen tuum;

adveniat regnum tuum

fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.

Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;

et dimitte nobis debita nostra...

Forgive. Forgive him. Forgive them. Father, forgive. Aramis craved forgiveness. And air. Forgiveness. He had to focus on that. Forgiveness, forgiveness. Forgive him. Forgive them. Forgive, forgive, forgive… Forgive him so much. Forgive them… for this. But forgive him… much more. Leaving them and Porthos… fighting with Porthos… forgive…

The pressure on his throat disappeared. Air, air, air… He vaguely registered that he was flying across the room, landing in a heap on the floor. It hurt, but air… air was precious to him. Air, air… and somewhere in the distance, voices, angry voices. He tried to calm, to regulate his breathing.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis…

He could fall into the familiar rhythm of the Lord's Prayer. Let himself be carried, be anchored by the words like he had been all his life. They felt like coming home, so familiar, so often said, so often heard, so often thought. As long as he had his prayer, he wouldn't break. He wouldn't talk and he wouldn't give, but he would pray.

Sanctificetur nomen tuum…

A kick to the groin left him sputtering. The pain… But he had to focus, had to breathe. Had to stay conscious, had to stay whole… or at least whole enough to still be able to escape. He just needed to last long enough for his friends to arrive. They would take care of the rest. All he had to do was to still be there. Be well enough to be rescued. Not make this difficult for them.

Kicks started to fall hard and fast, a furious storm of hail. He curled in on himself again, protecting his vital organs and ribs as much as he could. He would be here. He would be alive; he would be well.

He changed track. He never seemed to get through the Lord's Prayer anyways. He needed something shorter and he needed something more. He continued to pray, but now he did it out loud.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum."

His throat was sore and the words came out raspy, but he knew the Holy Virgin wouldn't mind. The kicks hurt more. His ribs, his back, his legs… they kicked him everywhere. They couldn't reach what was most important though. They couldn't reach his faith, not his faith in God, nor the faith in his friends.

"Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus."

Blessed, blessed, so blessed… Blessed was She and blessed was he to still be here. Blessed was he to know he could endure. So many had tortured him over the years and he always endured. So many had tried to break him and make him speak. It wasn't like these Huguenot minions were the most imaginative. Quite the contrary. He could handle kicks. He could handle this. He could pray himself calm. He could pray himself invincible. They weren't the first to torture him and they wouldn't be the last either.

He couldn't move, couldn't free or even protect himself, but he could do this, he could pray. And he did. As long as he prayed, he hadn't given in. He could show them he was unbroken. He could show himself.

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."

Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. And this wouldn't be his. This wasn't his death. This was him holding out. Holding out to be rescued by his friends. The hour of his death lay far, far away. He would live and they would come and then, then God help those who had sinned against him.

"Amen," he shouted after a particularly cruel kick.

"Stop," another voice shouted at the same time. "Halt this madness. Can't you hear that he's a man of faith? Now show some respect."

Silence fell. All three of them stared at the man who had entered the room.

Now the kicks had stopped, pain flooded Aramis' body in waves. It was all-encompassing. He couldn't tell where he was hurt or how badly. He couldn't make out any individual injuries. The immensity overwhelmed him, dragged him down until he could feel his consciousness fray. Pain wasn't bad, but pain that he couldn't comprehend, that he couldn't use as information and guidance, that sort of pain served no purpose. He forced it down and focussed on what the man had said.

Respect. They hadn't shown the slightest regard for the other's religion for a very, very long time. And now, a year into this siege, this guy spoke of respect?

Aramis laughed.

It was surreal. Respect. Respect when his whole body hurt like he was a clump of metal on the anvil. Respect when thousands had died in the name of religion, when they all knew that thousands more would follow. Respect when for years they had killed and hurt and been hurt in return.

He looked up at the man. He was tall and broad, a fine man in early middle age. Old enough to know better. Old enough to have seen more of this war than this siege. Distinguished enough to know better than to talk of some misguided notion of chivalry.

There was no question that he was their leader. He didn't wear any armour, but his clothes were rich, the shirt sporting a fashionable wide collar with fanciful embroidery. But more than that it was his bearing and the reactions of his minions to his presence. They deferred to him, but not in fear. He had what he'd asked them to show Aramis—their respect.

Aramis' laugh caught in his throat and turned into a cough.

He berated himself for his stupidity. They'd been toying with him, but their leader was here now. He'd overestimated the time available to him. His henchman had arrived. It was too late. His execution was imminent. The time for questions and kicks had passed.

He could tell that this man meant business. He wasn't one to while away the day. And the first order of his day was probably going to be Aramis' death. Which Aramis himself was categorically opposed to. He tried to think fast, had to. He had to come up with a way out and one that didn't involve Athos and Porthos coming to his rescue. As much as he hoped they might, he had to acknowledge they were fast running out of time. He better rescue himself before they risked their lives to retrieve his corpse.

The newcomer gave a curt nod and the two men took a few steps back. Their shoes made a hollow clonking sound on the floor. Wooden soles, of course… that explained how painful the kicks had been. Aramis craned his neck, keeping their leader's face within his sights. The man was armed and looked like one who'd know how to wield his blades. Leading by example. A leader like Tréville.

Aramis' assessment was immediately shown to be true when the man knelt next to him and held out his main gauche.

"I shall cut your bonds," he said, his deep voice calm and pleasant. "I will not ask for your word that you won't try to escape but know that there isn't a soul in this town that does not want you dead."

Aramis nodded.

The man smiled, the expression at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "I'm pleased you understand, musketeer."

Musketeer. Aramis sucked in a breath through his teeth. How did he know? Aramis hadn't said, he was certain of that. He'd anchored himself in prayer. He'd made sure he had something to say and it wasn't anything they wanted to hear. He hadn't been far enough gone, not anywhere close to being hurt enough to divulge any secrets. But if he hadn't said, then how did they know?

The blade sliced through the rope around his feet. Aramis wriggled his toes, feeling the blood rush back. Movement hurt, but he needed his mobility back. At his wrist, the steel lingered on his pulse. Aramis could feel the cold seep through the thin skin. It coursed through his body with his blood, the threat of it clear. As his hands were freed, the tip of the dagger nicked the ball of his thumb. A small enough slip to be accidental, but the glint in the man's eyes suggested otherwise.

Aramis stared at the drops of blood beading from the cut. What did it mean? Being a musketeer, a man who was more than likely known personally to the king… did it make him more valuable to his captor, more worthy of being kept alive for questioning? Or did it make him more likely to be handed over to the mob?

The two men glared at him over their leader's shoulder. They wouldn't forgive. Cousin or no, Aramis knew that his actions, as well as his position, made him a target for these men, even more than his allegiance and religion did. He'd shown them he was the enemy, had killed one of their own in front of them. He'd make the ideal scapegoat for their suffering. It would have been much the same, had their roles been reversed.

Their commander held out his hand and pulled Aramis to his feet. He gave the fresh wound a tight squeeze, still smiling pleasantly. Aramis refused to acknowledge the pain, looking calmly back at him. For a moment, the man inclined his head. He was a soldier, it seemed, despite his current attire. Or if not a soldier then certainly one who could see courage in his enemy. They were henchman and prisoner, but not devoid of all respect.