A/N: Alternate version of the end of S2 (Trial and Punishment) where Rochefort is a bigger jerk (if that's possible). Also, in this version, BBC!Milady has the brand that book!Milady was punished with - in the book, that's what Athos discovered to convince him she really was a criminal.

#14: Branding - "You've seen what he's capable of. Aramis is at his mercy." And being at Rochefort's mercy is a bad place to be when you're in love with the woman of his obsession. Aramis doesn't escape unscathed. S2E10 alternate.

Aramis tensed as he heard the door creak open behind him. His hands clenched into fists, subtly straining at the long chains securing his wrists to the wall—as though maybe this time they would give out.

They didn't.

"So," Rochefort's sickly smooth voice spoke up from the doorway, followed by multiple pairs of footsteps. "You have been convicted of high treason. You are a traitor, Aramis. And eventually, you will die like one."

"Eventually?" he couldn't help but ask through gritted teeth. Aramis had expected this. Why kill him quickly when Rochefort held all the cards? Aramis had dared to touch, to love, the object of Rochefort's obsession. A swift, merciful death had never been on the table. Slowly, Aramis turned on the spot with his chin raised high.

Rochefort was smiling, watching Aramis with that intense, chilling stare. It unnerved the musketeer, though not as much as the long metal rod in his hands, topped with a broad, flat symbol that glowed fire-white.

Aramis felt his eyes widen despite his intention to not react to whatever tortures were in store for him, and he took an involuntary step back. This seemed to be the cue the other soldiers had been waiting for, the four that had accompanied Rochefort in. They surged in towards him. Fighting back was an instinct driven in too fully for Aramis to resist, throwing a rattling punch to one and a kick to another. Without weapons, chained in place, and outnumbered, Aramis could do no more as they flung him against the wall then dragged him to the ground.

"Hold him there," Rochefort said, calm and content, slowly stepping closer.

"You're nothing but a snake, Rochefort," Aramis snapped, twisting against the hands that held him. The chains at his wrists weren't quite long enough to reach the floor, leaving them crossed over his head when they kicked him flat onto his back. Again, Aramis tried to kick his way back up, but with four guards, it was easy for them to hold him down, one on each limb. One of the soldiers jerked his doublet open, ripping it and Aramis's shirt down off of his shoulder.

"The king will see it in the end!" Aramis bit out, desperately trying to break their hold on him to no avail. His breaths came in fast, panicked gasps as he watched the brand coming closer and closer to his skin. "And the queen?" He laughed harshly, knowing what would hurt his captor the most. "She'll never love you."

Rochefort smiled down at him but there was rage and insanity in his gaze. "Hold him down," he instructed the guards again.

Aramis struggled as the grips on his arms and legs tightened, until he saw Rochefort's smile widen. He was enjoying this, smug bastard, he wanted the show, the helplessness, the useless struggle. Aramis would not give him that. He fell still against the freezing stone floor, looking up at the brand that would mark him a criminal. The musketeer swallowed back defeat. It wouldn't matter... he wouldn't live long enough for anyone else to see it. As well as he was able, Aramis lifted his chin again, meeting Rochefort's amused eyes.

The Comte's smile slid somewhat at the show of defiance. Without a word, he thrust the brand down into the musketeer's skin, searing the mark into Aramis's chest below his collarbone.

Aramis had wanted to remain stoically silent but the scream was ripped from his throat regardless. He thrashed and bucked against his captors, seeing and feeling and smelling the flesh blister and burn. His stomach turned and he thought he would pass out from the pain of it and oh god surely it had to stop soon, but Rochefort didn't remove the brand. He only pushed it more fiercely down, leaning his weight into it until Aramis was blinded by tears and agony and his whole body felt like it was on fire.

After an eternity, the pressure was removed, but the heat remained. Aramis choked on more frantic breaths, looking down at his chest to be met with the sight of the mangled, blistered form of the fleur-de-lis. Not as the proud mark of a musketeer, but as the shameful brand of a traitor.

"Hmm," Rochefort murmured from somewhere above him, and Aramis knew he was being shrewdly studied. "You know... I don't believe the Queen will think much of this look on you."

The men holding him down released his arms and legs but Aramis didn't try to move other than to curl in himself. Even that didn't work, the chains at his hands too short to give him enough leeway. The stench of burned skin filled his nostrils, choking the musketeer until he released a strangled sob. It echoed along with the slamming of the door and the cold promise that Rochefort would be back before too long. Aramis closed his eyes, praying only to be released—one way or another.

.o.O.o.

As it turned out, the way he was released was not by death, but by Milady. Aramis remembered little of the actual escape, beyond his terror at hearing the door open again, the shock at seeing her there instead of Rochefort come to torture him some more. Milady had paused for a moment, eyebrow arching gracefully up at the sight of his burn.

"It seems we're a matched set, then," she said with only the smallest of sneers, no true vitriol in her voice but also no pity.

Aramis only glowered at her, not bothering to protest that they were nothing alike, that unlike him, her crimes had been real. But he said nothing, because was it even true? He had endangered the queen, his brothers, Constance, so much blood on his hands because he had loved a woman he was not permitted to love. Despite how fiercely the fabric of his shirt hurt the fresh burn, he fastened his doublet tightly to hide the mark.

They didn't speak again after that, and Aramis was relieved to finally find himself back among his brothers. Even the normally stoic Athos immediately pulled him closer, a relieved kiss on his cheek speaking to just how close they had all come to losing everything, and still could.

"Come here," Porthos beamed, his own face an open book of delight compared to Athos's measured solemnity.

Aramis smiled wanly and leaned in to his friend but immediately gasped when the hug was too enthusiastic for his abused chest to handle. Porthos froze, then carefully backed up a bit, though he didn't let go of Aramis.

"You're hurt," he seethed. "Aramis? What did he do? What is it?"

"I wouldn't show them, if I were you," Milady spoke up, perching herself smugly on a nearby chair. "Athos might take it into his mind to have you hanged."

Aramis shot a glare in her direction, as did Porthos and d'Artagnan, but Athos turned pale and was immediately at Aramis's side—of course he would now know exactly what had happened.

"Let me see it," he murmured, voice both tremulous and gentle, as he gingerly peeled Aramis's shirt away to reveal the ugly burn. The room fell silent.

Aramis swallowed and looked away. "He..." Trailing off helplessly, Aramis shook his head. What words could be spoken to describe his horror, his shame? "If we make it out of this, don't tell An- the Queen," he whispered. "She would..."

"She would know how brave you are," Constance spoke up, guiding Athos aside so she could stand in front of Aramis instead, looking up at him in that earnest way of hers. "She would be outraged at what was done to you, yes, but she would never see you differently for it, Aramis. None of us could."

"Constance is right," Treville said from his position by the door. Only the slightest tightening of his jaw revealed his own fury. "Rochefort is the traitor, not you, and we'll see to it that everyone knows that."

Aramis closed his eyes, grateful for their support, but painfully cognizant that their opinions of him might not be the ones that determined his fate. "It's a brand," he said hollowly. "This won't- I can't wash it off, I can't- I'll carry it forever. Even if the King were to grant a pardon, the mark will still be there. How can I be a musketeer if-"

"Aramis," Treville cut him off. "As long as I am your captain, you have a place in our regiment. You know that. And anyone who takes my place one day will know the same." His eyes flicked to Athos, who nodded solemnly.

"You will get that pardon," the swordsman intoned. "And your friends will stand by you. You have our word."

"And I'll see Rochefort dead," Porthos spat out, clenching his fist.

"And I'll get your med kit," d'Artagnan offered as he eyed the burned skin. "You'll need to treat that. Wait here, I know where it is."

Aramis swallowed against the lump in his throat as his friends rallied around him. They would be lucky indeed to survive this intact, but he would be luckier still to count these men (and Constance) as his family.

As long as he had that, well... the rest would fall into place.