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 murder, and mass killings in chapter 2. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.

Stockholm Syndrome

"On this day we celebrate that, by the grace of the Lord our God, our brother was returned to us." Richelieu's voice rang through the hall. He'd left behind his cardinal's robes after the mass. Now he donned his armour, slayer more than shepherd.

"In the words of David: I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people who have set themselves against me round about. And so we, too, do not falter even though the enemy has infested the very heart of our dear France," he continued. "Arise, oh Lord; save me, oh my God! For You have struck all my enemies on the cheek; You have shattered the teeth of the wicked. Salvation belongs to the Lord; Your blessing be upon Your people!"

He wasn't on the pulpit now and this was no church, but still the "Amen" echoed around the room. To Athos' ears, it was the bleating of sheep.

Richelieu had a hand on Aramis' back, showing him off to the assembled dignitaries like the trophy of a successful hunt. Athos grimaced, watching his friend displayed like that. He felt the strange urge to shelter him, though Aramis was the much more experienced warrior.

Aramis had seemed so young when they had tucked him into bed by sunrise. The night had slipped away under too many questions from Tréville and the cardinal. So small and fragile as bruises bloomed on his body. Porthos' fingers ghosted across the mottled skin, reassuring them that nothing was broken or badly hurt. Except for the long shallow cut beneath his ear and a bruised cheekbone, it was impossible to tell now what Aramis had been through, all his injuries carefully tucked away and hidden when he dressed, his back straight and head held high.

"A virtuous and well-disposed person, like a good metal, the more he is fired, the more he is fined," Richelieu said, presenting Aramis to the crowd. Athos wondered what metal he saw in him. The fine gold and silver of the treasury? Or the sturdy steel of a well-forged blade?

"The more he is opposed, the more he is improved," Richelieu continued. "Wrongs may well try him, and touch him, but cannot imprint in him any false stamp."

Next to Athos, Porthos ground his teeth.

"Patience," Athos said. This would not last much longer, this politicising. Soon they would celebrate, starved for any small victory, any event at all, and amidst the food and drink they'd forget about some lowly musketeer, however freshly delivered by God he might be.

"Why does he do this to Aramis?" Porthos asked. "Can't he see he's tired? That he'd rather be—"

"He's the guest of honour," Athos cut him off. "He will do what is demanded of him." He nodded towards their sovereign. "You can see it pleases his Majesty."

Indeed, King Louis looked delighted, grinning and clapping his hands with glee.

"It doesn't please me," Porthos said.

Athos glared at him. "Get a hold of yourself. You've got him back. You'll have your chance to look after him tonight. We're musketeers. Our first duty is to the king."

A low growl built in Porthos' chest. His body reverberated with tension. "Look at him," he spat. "He doesn't even know his name."

Indeed, Richelieu studiously avoided calling Aramis by his name. He made him a brother, a hero, a brave soldier in turn, but never once did he call him Aramis. Instead he was Daniel now, as the cardinal likened La Rochelle to the lions' den.

"But God sent his angels to shut the lions' mouth so they could not hurt him," Richelieu said. "Our brave Daniel was found innocent by the Lord."

Athos smirked. "He'd be the first in many years to find Aramis innocent."

Porthos did not go along with his banter. His eyes were fixed on Aramis as if his thoughts alone could renew his brother's fortitude.

From military strategy to biblical parable and back in the blink of an eye, Richelieu's speech flowed masterfully. He held his audience captive. He needed this, they all did, the whole army, the country maybe. A sign of God's favour, a miracle in their midst. A sign that not all was forlorn, that they were not forgotten, that victory would be theirs eventually. Aramis' suffering would do wonders for morale.

"The Lord is on our side as he was on Daniel's," Richelieu cried.

The men cheered and the King clapped. Somehow Athos doubted that the cardinal would follow Daniel's tale to the end. The religious freedom given to the minority as a result of the incident in the lions' den… that seemed an unlikely result.

"With the Lord's aid, we shall rise up and smite those who oppose his will. We shall crush the Huguenots." Richelieu raised Aramis' hand in a gesture of predicted victory.

Athos met his captain's stony glare over the heads of the nobles clustered around the king. All around them, men brayed their support. Shouts of "Crush them!" and "Kill them all!" echoed around the room.

Captain Tréville's eyes narrowed in disgust. He did not like this any more than Athos. Wars were not won by such base populism. None of those shouting would take up a sword to be on the front lines of any battle.

While they scowled at each other, there was a sudden shift in the crowd. Athos' hand flew to his sword, mirroring Captain Tréville. Aramis wrenched his hand free from the cardinal's grasp and ducked away from him and the king. Faster than anyone could react, he had pushed men aside and flown out the side door.

Silence fell.

"My apologies." Captain Tréville bowed to the king. "Aramis still suffers the ill effects of captivity. He would not want your Majesty to witness any weakness that might overcome him..."

"Porthos." Athos nudged his friend towards the king. The silence had broken into rumblings of discontent and the crowd swayed with agitation. The risk to the king was clear, and so was their duty. With difficulty, Porthos tore his gaze from the door that swung shut behind Aramis, and they took up their positions on either side of their sovereign.

"See how a good man suffers, an honest soldier of France, a son of God and defender of the faith." Richelieu's voice soared effortlessly above the din. The murmurs quieted as everyone's attention turned to him.

"He's not—" Porthos started, but Athos hushed him with a glare. This was not their place to voice opinions.

"These heathens captured and tortured him and yet his spirit was strong. They could not hold him. Satan's power is as nothing in the eyes of God. Too long have we suffered their insolence."

Shouts of appreciation and approval rose from the crowd, the assembled officers and courtiers all but mollified. Richelieu, never one to do things by halves, reinforced his point with heavy verbal artillery.

"Too long," he repeated. "Are we not men? Are we not going to revenge this insult to our Holy Church, to Pope Urban himself? Are we not going to win victory for our beloved monarch, Louis XIII by the Grace of God King of France?"

"Long live the King!"

At first it was a single courtier crying it, his weak voice nearly drowned, but others took up the shout and it multiplied until the room echoed with it. The king revelled in the glory. Deservedly? Probably. Such was the order of these things. A soldier's suffering made a king's glory.

Next to Athos, Porthos was pushing back a particularly fervent admirer before he could kiss the king's hand. Athos watched Porthos' jaw tick and knew this was not at all where he wanted to be.

"May our victory be their destruction," Richelieu cried, his arms raised in some mockery of a blessing. "There shall be no mercy for those who oppose us. We shall show them the true might of God and be unto them the bringers of death."

"Death to all Huguenots!" the shout rose all around them.

Athos shook himself. How quickly the mood could change… how quickly their focus shifted from celebration to this… baying for blood like a pack of hounds. And with their cries of death and destruction, the levity had returned. Toasts were offered and taken with renewed vigour and cheer.

The tense situation diffused—and for a moment he wondered if that had been the cardinal's aim—Athos looked at Captain Tréville. He gave him a sharp nod and beckoned two other musketeers forward to take their places by the king's dais.

Athos grabbed Porthos' arm to keep him from bolting at the same speed as Aramis. No need to attract further attention. Much better to slip from the room quietly and unnoticed. If it was indeed a weakness that had overcome him, Aramis would not be glad to see it made the subject of even more gossip and derision. He'd be chiding himself even now, as he had in the aftermath of the incident at Savoy.

Once outside the room, Porthos lengthened his strides and Athos let his hand be shaken off without complaint. Released from their duty for the evening, they both had the same aim now.

"Our room?" Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. "Too confined."

Of course he knew best. He understood Aramis and could often predict his actions with frightening accuracy. They strode out into the garden. A short, harsh shower had left the trees and bushes dripping, their dark green leaves fresh and rejuvenated. In the evening light, droplets shone and glittered all around them. The heat had not broken though and the air felt like steam.

Aramis paced up and down between two rows of fragrant rose bushes. His blue sash stood out among the red and yellow blooms. Such botanical riches in this small castle in Aytré, when even in Paris, roses were rare. It was easy to forget how wealthy this area had been before the war.

Aramis spun around to face them. His jaws were clenched. He snarled with bared teeth.

"How can he do this?" he asked. "Why does he twist every word I say? Who is he to dole out death with such indifference?"

Porthos held out his arms to calm his friend. Athos tried to do the same with words.

"He's our cardinal and siege commander," he said. "It is not only his right, but his duty to wish death upon our enemies."

Aramis hissed like an angry cat. "He talks of death like it's nothing. He won't be the one to deliver it. He doesn't look into the eye of—" He broke off. "We're nothing but the blunt instruments he wields."

"We're not blunt," Porthos said. "We're—"

"We're whatever he wants us to be. Today we kill Huguenots and tomorrow… and when will the day come when he turns us against each other?"

He kicked a stone and sent it skittering along the garden path.

"You forget yourself." Athos frowned at his friend's back. He did not favour such blatant displays of emotion. "This is the king's trusted advisor and first minister you speak of, and the commander of this siege."

"Oh yes." Aramis turned around to face them, an ugly sneer upon his face. "How dare I say anything against our great commander? How dare I not cheer his success? How am I not overjoyed?"

"Aramis listen…" Porthos tried again.

"I've listened enough," Aramis spat. "I've listened to all of this for so long. Year after year they tell me who to hate and who to kill. I go here and there and shed my blood and risk my life and for what?"

"For France."

"For France?" Aramis laughed, but there was no humour in it, only mockery. "Is this not France?" he asked and pointed across the garden towards the battlements in the distance. "Are they not French, as French as you and me?"

"They are Huguenots."

"Oh yes, I forgot, that makes them less than men, that makes them nothing but dirt upon your fancy boots, Athos, does it?"

Athos closed his eyes for a moment to gather some patience. He understood that Aramis was hurting, but that did not make the personal attacks any easier to bear.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it," he said eventually. "We are fighting a war against them. It is our duty as soldiers…"

"Oh really?" The scorn didn't suit Aramis. It marred his handsome face. His voice grated in Athos' ears. "What gives you the right to an opinion in all this, Athos? You waltz in here at the very end and pretend to understand the war. Oh, have you read about it? Yes, is that it? Some theories of the Greeks and Romans, your beloved strategy? Are you an expert now? Guess what, I've been in it. I've fought it since the beginning. I've given a third of my life to this war. Don't lecture me on duty."

"That was never my—"

"Not your intention. Oh no, oh never, never causing any harm, are you? Athos the Just, Athos the Kind, Athos the Noble."

Athos flinched at that last word. He'd take the insults, he didn't mind. They were nothing he hadn't told himself many times before. His inexperience, his bookishness, his limited usefulness. If bringing these up helped Aramis vent his anger, fine. But that word still stung. Nobility. He'd join Aramis in scorning that.

"So good, aren't you?" Aramis continued. "But you'll do the bidding of that sadist, that bigot, that murderer Richelieu. You'll kill whoever he wants, as often as he wants."

"Aramis." Porthos looked around them, checking they hadn't been overheard. "You can't say that about the cardinal."

"What? Afraid he'll add me to the piles of dead he leaves in his wake?"

It wasn't like Aramis to talk like that, to take death so lightly. He killed, frequently and with some joy, but he never mocked death. After every fight, every shot, he'd see a priest to ask absolution for his sins. Athos didn't recognise this new Aramis spitting venom at his dearest friend.

"He's doing it now," Aramis said. "He's killing tens of thousands in La Rochelle."

"They have the option to surrender," Athos said.

"Do they?" Again, the ridicule was sharp in his questions. "Won't he just bring them a worse death? Hasn't he done so before? Wake up, Athos, you're not that daft! That man orders us to kill. We're killing men, women, and children. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. And he claims we'll go to heaven for it."

"He's a cardinal as well as a general, Aramis."

"Oh yes, look at that red cloak." Aramis sneered. "So handsome, so justified in his fury, so infallible that every word I say against him earns me hellfire and damnation."

Aramis shook his balled fists in front of his face and screamed in inarticulate rage. He stomped up and down the path, clenching and unclenching his hands. Athos had no idea how to counter that fury. He simply gave him space.

After a few minutes, Aramis stopped his pacing and stood in front of them, trembling slightly.

"Hellfire and damnation," he repeated, voice hoarse and quiet now. "For speaking up against the cardinal. Not for the murders he makes me commit."

He sighed out a deep breath. Maybe absolution from god wasn't all there was to it. Athos was familiar with the strict judge that sat in a man's own heart.

"Hey." Porthos reached out for him, but Aramis jerked back.

"Don't pretend," he sneered. "You and your big soft heart. Always a man of the people, right? Oh yes, you love them so much. But you'll still be the first to rush in and murder them. Always first to the fray. Killing, killing, killing, that's all you do."

Athos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Porthos flinched. That must have hurt. Aramis' impeccable aim had hit right at the very heart of Porthos. His humanity, his kindness, all the things Porthos had worked so hard for and was—quite rightly—so proud of.

For a while, all was silent.

Athos' mind raced. He worried for Porthos. For their friendship after what Aramis had said. And he worried if he should say something. He probably should, but what was there to say?

"You're worse than your horse when you're like this." Porthos crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"What are you saying about Angelina?" Aramis hissed, taken aback by the sudden change in topic and immediately on the defensive.

Porthos slowly shook his head, looking him up and down. "She'll bite and kick just the same when she's scared, but at least she lets you help. You're just hurting everyone."

"I'm not—" Aramis paused. "I'm not scared."

He sounded so… small. So vulnerable. So scared. They'd checked him for injuries, had made sure that those bruises were nothing but bruises and weren't hiding something more. He'd assured them that he hadn't been tortured, just beaten. They'd assured themselves that he was telling the truth, that he'd gotten off lightly. Stiff and aching and with cuts to his feet and one to his hand that he guaranteed them wasn't deep enough to need stitching. They'd tucked him up in bed and watched over him as he slept. But they hadn't looked inside. Couldn't.

"Then let me help," Porthos said. There was no hint of hurt in his voice, just kindness, the same kindness Aramis had denied was in him a minute ago.

Porthos opened his arms and smiled. A sad smile, a tired one, but a smile, nonetheless. Aramis stood frozen. Porthos took one slow, steady step forward like one might do with a skittish horse. His arms wide, hands open, as if showing Aramis he was carrying no weapons, no bridle to capture him and once again hold him prisoner.

Athos held his breath as Porthos took another careful step. Aramis didn't flee, but Porthos didn't draw him into an embrace either. They stood, facing each other, barely a foot apart.

With a choked noise, Aramis threw himself forward, catapulting his body into Porthos' chest. Porthos didn't waver, stood his ground, steady as an oak. He folded his arms around his friend, drew in his shoulders until they engulfed him, and rested his head on Aramis' hair. For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The only sound was a bird singing in a rose bush and the faint noise of the great feast drifting across the gardens.

Porthos brushed Aramis' hair from his forehead, gently tilting his head upwards until they were looking each other in the eye.

"There." He smiled. "All better."

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. "No."

Athos felt like he'd been plunged into cold water. Aramis was always better when Porthos was close. Porthos sometimes teased him saying Aramis needed frequent petting like a cat in some lady's salon. And when there weren't any ladies around, Porthos would take over the petting duties. If it wasn't Porthos, Aramis would find someone else to touch. Athos chided himself for that oversight. They should have held him more. Porthos had carried him home, of course, but after that, after the questioning, the strategizing, they'd focused on the essentials, ignoring that for Aramis those didn't consist of only food, drink, sleep and medical attention.

Porthos wasn't affected by Aramis' short reply. "Shhh," he said. "You're alright. I've got you and Athos too. You're safe now."

Aramis sighed. "That doesn't make it better. You can't make it better."

Still, Porthos smiled. "Try me."

Aramis wriggled free of his embrace. His eyes were wide, looking at something far away, beyond Porthos and the rose bushes. "There's nothing you can do. It's this…" He stomped his foot and shook his head, as if forcing himself back into the present. "It's politics."

He spat the last word like an insult.

"That's alright," Porthos said, undeterred. "Not the first time we've been dealing with politics. What really matters is that you—"

"I don't matter," Aramis hissed. "Nobody does. Don't you get it? He doesn't care. Nobody cares. We don't matter. They don't matter. It's all about politics."

"It doesn't have to be."

Oh but it did… Sweet, soft-hearted Porthos. Of course they couldn't escape politics. Athos had learned that the hard way. Run as he might, politics followed him. Different politics now, as a musketeer, but politics, nonetheless. It was impossible to extricate oneself from politics. He shuddered at the thought. He wished it were different, for his own sake and for his friends.

Porthos' face was pleading. He wanted… wanted so much to make it better, to hold and mend and heal. That's what he did. Athos watched Aramis' wry smile, Porthos' answering hopeful grin lighting up his features. With an ugly premonition, Athos knew Porthos was not going to win this argument.

"This isn't some distant attack by the Spanish," Aramis said. Porthos flinched. As a rule, they did not bring up Savoy in conversation and certainly never in arguments. "We're not in Paris, we're right here. And it's happening right now. This time you can't separate what happened to me from what we are doing."

"You're not their prisoner anymore." Athos had to give Porthos credit for his tenacity, but he was fighting a losing battle. Athos could see now what Aramis meant. "You're with us and you're free."

"They aren't."

"They?"

"The Rochelais."

Athos raised his eyebrows. During Aramis' captivity, Porthos had recounted their argument from the previous night in great detail. It seemed a significant change to pivot from shooting whosoever stuck their nose out the city gates to worrying about the freedom of the Huguenots.

"They are free to surrender whenever they want. Nobody is forcing them to be more stubborn than mules."

Porthos snorted.

"They can't, though," Aramis said.

"They can wave that white flag whenever they want."

"And then what? They have nothing to offer, no threat to make. They'd be at our mercy and we all know how that ends." Aramis gnawed on his lip.

Athos frowned. He was missing something. Something they all knew, apparently.

"We are at war," he pointed out as gently as possible. Wars ended when one side won and the other lost. That was the way of things. There was nothing Athos or Aramis or any of them could do about that.

"Killing, killing…" Aramis bit down on his lip until a thin line of blood appeared. Athos fervently wished that one of Porthos' embraces would suffice to take his evident pain away, but he knew better. Death had been a difficult topic for Aramis for as long as he knew him. But usually it was the death of friends he struggled with or a threat to the lives of his friends. He fought more viciously when one of them was in danger, whether with his weapons or his medical kit.

"They are enemies." Porthos didn't sound convinced at all, clearly taken aback by their sudden role reversal, arguing the opposite of their stances from two days ago.

"Are they not also formed in the image of God?" Aramis' voice sounded shaky. He looked from Porthos to Athos, wordlessly pleading. For what, Athos did not know.

"But they are Huguenots," Porthos said. Not friends. Not people Aramis worried about. People he killed.

Aramis scoffed. "Whose crime it is to sing in French the psalms we sing in Latin."

That wasn't quite true, there was the small matter of revolt and opposition to the king, but Athos understood the gist of the argument. He nodded grimly.

"I do believe that is what religious wars are all about."