The 3rd paragraph mentions Nègrepelisse, a historic siege/massacre/mass rape. If you want to avoid it entirely, skip the first part of this chapter and start reading at "He needed to ask Porthos about what was right".

Aramis needed help.

He was back in the dungeon, trussed up like fowl, and this time he knew he was going to die. Which wasn't really why he needed help. This was hardly unexpected. He didn't blame the Huguenots. He had as good as admitted that he'd been at Nègrepelisse and he knew Guiton had read his reaction for what it was. No point denying it.

Eight hundred bodies. He'd seen… he could still smell… he remembered the flies and the… the ground saturated with blood. At least it had been silent then. Before that… These animals. He hadn't done it. He hadn't raped and pillaged along with them. But nobody would believe that. He didn't ask them to. He hadn't done anything to stop it either. He'd followed orders. If death was to follow those actions, he could have no complaints.

But he wasn't fighting it. And that, that was a problem.

They'd made light work of him. Had him bundled up before his mind had returned from the horror of Nègrepelisse. He'd let them do it. Let them drag him downstairs and dump him in the corner. He didn't know how long he'd been back, and he couldn't say he cared all that much either. The clock was ticking now, down, down, down to his death and he didn't even mind.

That's what he needed help with.

I command you to give no quarter to any man, because they have irritated me.

He could still hear these words, the words of his king at Nègrepelisse. And Aramis, the loyal soldier, he followed them. As was his duty. He needed Athos to speak to him about duty. About orders followed and deeds done and the honour that lay in that. Decisions that weren't yours to make, that were made for you by king, country, and convention. He needed to hear that he was still a man. A man of duty and honour. A man who'd done the right thing even thought it felt so wrong.

He needed to ask Porthos about what was right. He needed his compassion and his care. He needed to hear that he was still a good man despite all that he'd seen. That this wasn't all there was to him, that he was still worth something.

He needed his friends.

None of them were afraid of death going into a fight. That fear wasn't helpful in their line of work. But when someone wanted to kill them, they didn't just let it happen. They fought and they ran and they did… something.

Aramis didn't.

He lay there and waited for Guiton to return and drag him out of his hole to his own execution. And that wasn't right. He didn't deserve to be executed. But did the people of La Rochelle deserve this? Had the people of Nègrepelisse? La Rochelle, the starving city with the rich history, the lavish council chamber with the dagger stuck in the table. And somewhere five girls, all beautiful in his mind's eye and with flaming red hair like their father's. Starvation or murder, which one did they deserve?

His stomach growled, startling him from his thoughts. Like he had any right to be hungry. How quaint, the want to eat every day. By all accounts he'd been lucky, being treated to a feast made of his own pauldron. He chuckled. That damn pauldron. It hadn't been anything special. A cheap replacement, but still… it had been a sign of what he was, who he was. Another honour he had lost. The second one in a year and once again he needed rescuing. He needed Porthos. He hated risking Porthos' life once again, but he needed him. He had no other hope. No. Nonsense. He needed to stop this. For his friends' sake, if not his own.

He turned to his other hope and comfort then. This was about religion after all.

Ave Maria, gratia plena…

Why should Mary pray for him? What had he done to deserve Her intercession? A sinner he was, and quite possibly near the hour of his death, but he wasn't the only one and hardly the most deserving. Those five girls, the Holy Virgin would pray for them, not him.

He abandoned this prayer. Tried his luck with another.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis...

Father in heaven, but where was He on this earth? Where was He here in La Rochelle, where men, women, and children were starving to avoid a worse fate? Where was He in the minds and hearts of His own chosen leaders who could end all this if they wanted?

Aramis screwed up his eyes to combat the building headache. Too much thinking or too little nourishment? Or maybe a lingering head injury? He'd never had a chance to assess his wounds. Nothing felt badly hurt, but they had hit him over the head. While he'd been fine to move about all day, he knew that not all concussions were immediately apparent.

Maybe the pain was merely God's reminder of his wisdom and omnipotence.

Oh the depth of the riches of the wisdom and of the knowledge of God… How incomprehensible are his judgments, and how unsearchable his ways… How truly and utterly unsearchable indeed. This was about God after all, about religion.

He needed to pray. He needed to ground himself and calm his feverish mind. Images flitted in front of his eyes. The dagger and Guiton's tired eyes. The meagre leather soup. The young woman by the fountain. The five daughters he hadn't even seen. All that death in the name of religion.

He needed to find his way back. He always did, even under the most severe torture. He always forced the thoughts and memories away. He could do it now. He could pray. Pray for affirmation.

Credo in Deum — oh yes, he believed, he knew he still did.

Patrem omnipotentem — what sort of father are you?

Creatorem caeli et terrae — creating heaven and earth and sometimes hell on earth.

He prayed and argued his way through most of the Apostle's creed.

Credo in Spiritum Sanctum — but where was the Holy Spirit now?

Sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam — and how holy was the church it its actions?

Sanctorum communionem — what a bunch of saints they were, Richelieu most of all.

Remissionem peccatorum — there sure were a lot of sins to forgive.

Carnis resurrectionem — and so many bodies to resurrects.

Vitam aeternam — no hope for this life any more, so shuffle off this mortal coil and hope for the next.

Amen.

He didn't realise he'd been praying out loud until the final word reverberated around the empty room, mocking him with whispered echoes.

"Amen," said a voice that wasn't his. Guiton. Back to fetch him. To execute him. And Aramis knew that he should care. He did, in a way. He had friends to see, a family to reunite with. He didn't want to die. He'd been there and he'd left that behind long ago. But…

"Seems my prayers aren't being answered," he said, trying to sound detached and superior. He wasn't sure it worked.

"That shall depend," Guiton said. "Were you mainly praying for the forgiveness of sins or the resurrection of the body?"

It was odd to hear the words said out loud. Of course he didn't necessarily think in Latin, not even when it came to bible verses, but there was a difference between thoughts and hearing the actual words said in a language that wasn't the church's. Normal for a Huguenot, though. And somewhat more palatable than the other things that were normal for them. He tried the words out in his mind. Carnis resurrectionem. The resurrection of the body. Interesting. Not bad, just different.

"One cannot happen without the other," he said.

"One has to happen first," Guiton replied.

"Public execution then?" Aramis asked. "Give them games if you cannot give them bread?"

"Panem et circenses," Guiton said. So he did speak Latin then, but not for religious matters. Wouldn't want to twist his tongue for God.

"So what will it be?" Aramis asked. "Better make it worth my time. I only want the best. Got to disappoint you though. Whatever you come up with, I won't blab. And yes, you may take that as a challenge."

He couldn't quite see Guiton's face in the dim light of his candle, but his next words sounded like he was smiling. The bastard.

"I don't need any more from you," Guiton said. Oh, bastard indeed. That was insulting!

"Are you sure?" he asked. Porthos would probably tell him that annoying his executioner wasn't a good idea, but really what did it matter now? Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

"You have given me all you can for now."

Aramis snorted. "I'm a musketeer." Maybe he didn't know as much about the siege and their strategy as he'd made out he did, but he did know some things. It was insulting that that embarrassment of a mayor didn't even try.

"And even your fighting prowess would make no difference to our plight."

Aramis bristled at the implication. "I would never fight on your side. I'm no turncoat."

Guiton nodded. "You're not."

He said it like that was a positive. A positive for him and not Aramis. This man was odd. He hadn't seemed so by the light of day, but now… Aramis couldn't read him at all.

"You know there will be revenge for this."

"Will that change our fate at all?" Guiton asked, sounding genuinely curious, like it was a normal conversation to be talking about their respective deaths and those of his family.

"My friends will…" What actually? He realised that he had nothing to threaten this man with. He already knew he was going to die. He'd already picked the death he preferred. How could anyone gain leverage over that?

"Your friends, yes, that reminds me…" Guiton kneeled next to him and heavens, what was it with that man and daggers? He held the blade close to Aramis' stomach. Aramis tried to arch away, to avoid injury somehow, but once again he was tied up very well. Sailors, the whole lot of them. Sailors were good with knots. If he hadn't been about to die, he might have asked for lessons.

The blade sliced through his shirt and soon he found himself gagged with absolutely disgustingly filthy fabric. When had he last washed that thing? He retched, tried to suppress it, tried to breathe through his nose. Truly no more talking, it seemed.

"Not a sound," Guiton said. Didn't he even want to hear him cry? Usually, torturers were keen on the noise. Wanted to enjoy the fruits of their labour.

Another flash of the dagger. "And don't even try to run."

The ties around his feet loosened.

He wriggled his toes and tried to rotate his ankles to hasten the blood back to his extremities. His right foot seized up with a cramp and he groaned into the gag. His body was as unwilling to run as his mind. Guiton left him hobbled, nonetheless. From fowl to cattle, how splendid.

"Get up."

Guiton dragged him upright, but when Aramis teetered, he kept a steadying hand on his shoulder. What was this man playing at? Friend or enemy? Enemy, of course, they were at war, they were out to kill each other. Maybe he was playing at being nice because he knew he had the upper hand. Go and execute him and be all benevolent and kind. It didn't feel like pretence though.

Aramis tested the limits of his bonds. Tighter than before. He could move, but only in a slow shuffle. A slow, humiliating shuffle. Sure, make him look like some broken prisoner. He held his head high, wincing only slightly when all those bruises screamed in protest. He would not be bowed. He'd face the noose or whatever else they'd come up with with dignity. He wasn't broken.

He shook his arms as much as those ropes would allow and bounced on his feet. Get the blood flowing, his heart pumping. Wake his brain up from the nightmare of his thoughts. He was ready. Ready to face whatever was coming. A baying crowd. He wouldn't give them a spectacle. He'd be poised and calm and if they rid him of this gag, he'd pray and throw his Latin in their faces. Heathens. He'd show them how to face death as a true man of god, knowing he'd be welcomed by his benevolent Lord.

"Will you be able to walk?"

Aramis gave him a brusque nod and tried to snarl around the cloth between his teeth. He didn't need sympathy from his own personal devil.

There were no guards. The corridor was dimly lit by torches in their brackets and once again there was no one in sight. At least the torches were flattering. Not just one torch but light the whole way. Like they did expect him to run and wanted to be able to see.

He wished for guards though. He knew what to do with guards. He wanted to see more men. He wanted to fight them. Let him fight for his life. Panem et circenses. Let it be real, let him entertain the crowds, let him kill their local champions one by one until, finally, he was overrun and collapsed bleeding onto the dusty ground like a gladiator of old. And even as the thumbs pointed down, the women would weep and the men sigh for the great fallen warrior, acknowledging his might even in defeat.

That was the way to go. Not this, staring at his own bare toes through the widening holes in his socks.

But this was what he was stuck with. A silent man leading him slowly through winding corridors, offering him a hand so he wouldn't stumble on the stairs. One man, older than him and weaker, but utterly unafraid.

How? How was he so calm? His city was dying, his family starving, and his only ally hadn't made an attempt at relief for months. He had the deadliest sharpshooter, an elite soldier of his enemy's personal guard in his hands and he acted like he was entirely at peace with all that.

Aramis didn't understand. He couldn't fight a man like that.

Another door and they stepped out into the silent night. A light, salty breeze was blowing from the sea, but other than that there wasn't a sound. Aramis fidgeted. He'd expected… something. Someone. But once again he was greeted by nothing and nobody.

Guiton lead him through deserted streets. At every corner there was a gaunt man, watching for fire or attack. Each of them nodded a mute greeting and let them pass unchallenged. A soldier saw them approach the wall and descended to meet them at its foot.

"Still there?" the mayor asked.

The soldier nodded. "Making for the postern gate."

"As we thought." Guiton briefly grasped the soldier's shoulder. "Good man. Let us see."

Aramis was awkward on the stairs, his legs tied too tight to master the steps with ease. Nobody rushed him, the soldier showing as much patience as Guiton. Were they waiting for something? Was there something on that wall that would offer good sport to them? Whatever made them happy couldn't be good news for him.

On top of the wall, nothing stood out as unusual. Soldiers posted at regular intervals, no more or less than Aramis would have expected. Appropriate arms as well; there seemed no shortage of those.

They stopped and stared out into the night. Guiton directed Aramis' gaze down to the foot of the wall and a little further along. A parallel, lower wall shieled a sally port in the main rampart. It was well-planned, making the small gate difficult to reach and impossible to fire at from a distance. But they hadn't brought him here to inspect their fortifications.

He tried to look at Guiton, to read his face for any explanation. A hand at the back of his neck made him turn towards the vast dark marshland.

"Look," the mayor breathed into his ear, angling his head down.

Aramis stared into the night. Clouds flitted across the moon, making shadows vanish and appear. What was he looking at?

His breath caught in his throat when one of the shadows moved and then another. Only a brief moment before they disappeared again, lying flat on the ground or crouched behind some shrubbery. Within a few breaths, it happened again. A flurry of movement, then nothing. Shadows too large and too strategic to be stray animals.

Aramis heart beat like a blacksmith's hammer.

He knew that shadow there. The size, the movement. He'd come. And where Porthos was, Athos was as well. His whole body cramped, and this time it didn't come from the bruises, from the outside, it started from the inside, from his heart.

He didn't notice he was being led back down the stairs until the ground gave way under his feet and a soldier caught him, yanking him back before he fell.

"Careful." Guiton looked at him with something like worry creasing his face. Worry for him? Surely not. Worry about his friends? They were hardly an army. Aramis had no idea what their hare-brained plan was, but he doubted it would do any serious harm to the city. And if Guiton was worried about their little attack, well, his men had certainly spotted them. They could shoot them just as easily from the safety of their high wall. The thought made him shudder. Hare-brained and hunted like hares as well.

"Well, then," said Guiton.

Somewhere in those two syllables, Aramis understood his plan. As they fumbled to remove his gag, it all fell into place. His mouth was dry and he swallowed several times to get rid of the stale taste and reawaken his tongue.

"No." His voice was a sharp hiss in the near-silent night. "I won't make up for your inadequate skills. I won't shoot my friends."

The bastard blinked innocently at his fierce response. "But—"

"I'm not yours to command." Aramis spat the words in his face, rushing forward with the stumbling steps his bonds allowed. "Go ahead and kill me. I won't barter their lives for mine."

Guiton held up his hands but did not push him back. "Peace, Monsieur d'Herblay."

"Peace," Aramis hissed. The only peace he'd find was death.

"I mean your friends no ill."

"They aren't a threat to you. You've got me. Keep me and do to me what you want, but you won't have them."

Guiton shook his head. "What use is one dead soldier to me? What use are three or ten or even a hundred? The many-headed hydra doesn't sleep."

Aramis snorted at being compared to some heathen monster. "Why kidnap me, then?"

Why if not to turn him into the murderer of his own? To make him an instrument of their sick faith, to make him sympathetic to their plight, to watch him beg them for forgiveness, to make him see some new Calvary in their suffering.

A smile ghosted across Guiton's face.

"The opportunity presented itself. It isn't every day that I get to dine with a musketeer."

"And try to force him to kill others."

Guiton shook his head. "That was never my intention."

He beckoned another soldier closer. Aramis reply died in his throat when he saw what the man carried. His accursed, half-eaten pauldron.

"You forgive us our charades," Guiton said.

When the soldier turned it in his hands, it wasn't half-eaten at all. It was whole and as smooth as it had ever been, gleaming in the light of a torch. Aramis was dimly aware that his eyes had gone wide as cannon balls. He swallowed down his surprised sound with some effort as the mayor took the pauldron into his own hands and began to strap it to Aramis' shoulder.

It felt like a home-coming, the weight back on Aramis' body where it belonged. He breathed a little freer, as the mayor struggled to fasten the buckles despite Aramis' tightly bound hands.

"What's this?" Aramis asked. "Are you dressing me up like a lamb for slaughter?"

"We wish you no harm."

Aramis struggled against the rope. He felt like he had regained his spirit with that peace of leather.

"We're freeing you, so you may join your friends."

Aramis ceased his struggle. "But… why?"

"You are a man of God and your religion. A man of principle. No matter how long I keep you here, I shall not be able to convert you to our cause."

"But… you're letting me go?" Aramis tried to find the catch in this proposition. They'd let him go and then what? Shoot his friends along with him?

"Because you listened." Guiton sighed. "You return straight to the royal camp. Any attempt to attack or to enter the city will be dealt with accordingly. Do not expect leniency."

Aramis tongue was too dry, big, and awkward in his mouth to make a reply. What was there to say? Any thanks he gave would be hollow and tinged with fear that he was walking into an invisible trap. Listening. That was no reason to let him go. He wriggled his shoulder as much as he could and tried to glance sideways at his pauldron. Guiton caught his movement and reached out to trace the outline of the fleur-de-lis.

"I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these walls but this may grant you some protection from your own men." His fingers lingered on the leather, that prime cut.

"Don't you... need it?" Aramis asked. To feed yourself. To keep your children alive. To do all the things mentioned and implied in their earlier discussion.

"We keep your boots and clothes."

Aramis glanced at his toes. Losing his boots would be a blow to his purse, but really not much in the grand scheme of things. They were nice boots, long and sturdy. Lots of leather to eat. But it wouldn't be enough. It could never be enough.

Guiton knew. He sighed and seemed to shrink in the flickering light.

"Be worthy of it." He patted the pauldron in farewell.

Aramis stiffened. More lives he'd live for those who couldn't.

He wasn't given time to linger on this thought, being navigated instead down long corridors and winding stairs. There were many soldiers here, all heavily armed. Aramis realised the Huguenots had been expecting them. They'd had more faith in his friends' rescue mission than he did.

At length, they came to a halt by a heavy door. Huge wooden bolts were pulled aside, ready to be slid back into their brackets once he'd passed. A second, identical door was only a few feet away. Unless the defence was completely abandoned, no enemy would gain access here. La Rochelle had earned her reputation for being impenetrable.

"Straight to your camp. Do not dither." Guiton surveyed him from top to peeking toe.

Aramis lifted his hands as far as he could. "What about these?"

"I'm sure you'll be relieved of them soon enough."

Aramis shook his head. He couldn't even think of anything he would do if he could move his hands, but this man wasn't taking any risks. One of Guiton's hands came to rest between his shoulder blades.

"Godspeed."

The door swung open and Aramis was pushed forward so roughly he lost his footing and fell face-first into the mud.

Ungainly like a seal, he wriggled to get his face out of the dirt, to get to his hands and knees. When he had finally clambered up the bank of the small brook, he sat for a while, gasping for air. He wiped the rancid water from his mouth with his sleeve. Freedom didn't taste as sweet as he'd imagined.

Nor did it look as welcoming. The darkness was absolute. He'd been able to see his friends from the wall, but now there was nothing, just inky black. No sound except for the soft rustlings of the night, the hoot of an owl in the distance. He was alone.

All alone in a dark night. All alone with no idea what else waited out there. All alone… No. He knew they were close. He'd seen them. They were there. They hadn't left him. They were coming to get him. They hadn't given up; they hadn't left him to his fate. He just had to find them. Find them before they got too close, before they were within easy reach of the muskets, before they were killed by the Span— the Huguenots.

No. Nobody would get killed tonight. He'd find them and he'd get them far away from that wall and those fanatics. He'd do that, he'd save them. They'd be fine. Everything was fine. He was fine.

He hoisted himself upright. Getting to his feet was cumbersome. His bound limbs made him overbalance and his muscles cramped and ached. He'd worry about that later. Not now. He had to move now. Had to get them away from danger, away from whatever that devilish mayor was planning next. He still couldn't quite believe Guiton had set him free.

He limped away from the wall, deeper into the blackness. Sharp grass cut his feet and he bit down on his lip to not make a sound. Better not draw attention to himself. If they heard him and thought he was… No, they'd recognise him. He couldn't do that to them. They'd recognise him and everything would be fine. Unless—

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. He had to stay alert. He couldn't afford to slide back. This wasn't Savoy. Savoy. As soon as he had thought the word, it started to grow inside of him and echoed in his hollow head. No. Mud, not ice. Porthos and Athos, not Marsac. La Rochelle, not Savoy. It was different now.

He peered out into the night. It was fine. He was fine. Against all the odds, he was alive. And against all reason, they were here to come and get him. His friends. They hadn't abandoned him.

Deep breath.

He looked back at the wall, its squat shape looming like a monster on the prowl. He should move a little further to his left, away from the tower. If they had kept up their pace from earlier, they wouldn't have come this far. He'd go to the left and find them.

They'd find him with a bullet to his head. And then what?

His heart had climbed into his throat, choking him. No, they wouldn't. They couldn't risk the noise of a shot, not this close to the wall. They'd wait for him to come close and then— His heart was hurrying through a lifetime of beats, afraid to miss out on its allocated number. Feeling for Athos' pulse when he'd lost all that blood. The happiness when he'd felt its flutter. Porthos' frantic heartbeat vibrating through the reins his first time on a horse. Aramis smiled. Happy memories. And there'd be more.

He hobbled through the dust and weeds. Rocks cut his feet and nettles stung his hands, but he had a memory to counter each of these small hurts. Athos' smirk and Porthos' laugh. Racing them on Angelina. Bickering around a campfire or beating each other at practice. The smell of Porthos' pomade and the soft weave of Athos' shirt.

They had to be close now. He'd find them soon. He had to because if they had walked past—

A movement. A shadow and another and then Aramis was running, stumbling, catching himself. The shadow held up a hand. Aramis kept moving. Closer, closer. He didn't mind the rocks or the nettles or the grass cutting every piece of exposed skin.

"Porthos," he whispered through parched lips.

A shadow separated from the black mass and stepped towards him. Aramis collided with it, collapsed into it. Breathed in mud and sweat and… pomade. His hands scrabbled for purchase on Porthos' leathers. Those were a surprise. But of course, he still wore them and that alone was somehow more… and less… and altogether overwhelming. Real, and there, and still the same when everything else had changed.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered, shuddering against Porthos' solid chest. Then the words kept tumbling out, faster and faster like a dam had been breached. "I'm sorry, Porthos. You were right. I'm sorry, I… I thought I'd lost you, I thought I… I…"

The tremor of Porthos' chuckle jostled his body, but a firm hand at his back held him steady.

"Shush, you're not making any sense." The smile was in Porthos' voice as well. Humouring him, indulging him. Holding him. Still.

"How…?" Athos' voice.

How indeed? How was he still alive? How had he found them? How had they come out here? How had Guiton known? Oh God Guiton, what if… His stomach clenched and Aramis lurched forward.

"Shh, we're here," Porthos said, holding him.

And he very nearly wasn't. And oh God, what if it was all a trap? What if Guiton…? He wouldn't just let him go for listening, of course not, of course it was a trap and Aramis was the bait and he'd lead them all to damnation and into that hell where they ate pauldrons and boots and still died of hunger.

"Are you alone?" Athos asked.

Aramis managed to nod against Porthos' chest, but even that small movement made more emotions bubble up and spill over, out of his eyes and nose and mouth. Porthos' arms around him tightened, squeezing hard enough to make him feel like he was really there.

"I love you," Aramis gasped.

Voices flew over his shoulder, a hurried exchange. They hadn't heard. Maybe he hadn't made a sound. And maybe it was better that way. He let himself sag against Porthos, let his knees buckle and his body go limp. Porthos hoisted him up and then they were moving. Moving much faster than he had before and it felt like floating, like the Lord had sent angels to carry him home. And in a way he had. Aramis' own personal angels.

There were questions, whispered as they walked. Breaths on the wind that never quite reached Aramis' ear. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. Just Porthos' hands on his body, the reality of his moving muscles against Aramis' skin. Here and real and alive.

He let Athos' voice wash over him like a cool cloth. Of course, Athos had found a way. Of course, he'd worked it out. Ever the tactician. Always willing to risk it all for a friend. Always here for him. They both were. There were others as well, but those two mattered above all else. He'd go home with them. Home to their little room or to some campfire or one day, eventually, back to their garrison. He'd go wherever they went. Somehow it was easier to believe in them now than it had been to believe in God's grace earlier. They were here and real and tangible.

They had come for him.