A/N: Thank you Undertheoaktrees, jamepa, pallysAramisRios, and LadyWallace for reviewing!

No 11. Defiance — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan grunted as he was shoved into the chair positioned in the middle of the barn. His arms, already bound behind his back, were threaded through the slats and tied to the backs of the chair's legs. The goons retreated, making way for their leader to approach. D'Artagnan lifted his chin.

"He did not have the letters?" the Spaniard's thickly accented voice asked his men.

"No, señor."

The Spaniard turned his gaze to d'Artagnan. "Where are they?"

D'Artagnan attempted to shrug, though it didn't execute well with his arms anchored nearly to the ground.

The Spaniard smirked. "You think you are brave. Most men do. Until they are faced with torture."

D'Artagnan forced himself to remain still and not show any fear. He thought of Athos, tried to mimic the bored expression he knew his mentor would show were he in this situation.

The Spaniard cocked his head, appraising him for a long moment. "You are not even a musketeer." He gestured to d'Artagnan's bare shoulder where he hoped to one day bear a pauldron like his friends. "Are you willing to die, slowly and painfully, for something that is not even your duty to protect?"

"I may not wear the uniform but I have the heart of a musketeer," d'Artagnan replied, meeting the Spaniard's gaze with staunch defiance.

The man snorted. "We shall see."

He moved around behind d'Artagnan, and a moment later came the clinking of instruments. D'Artagnan tried to crane his neck far enough to see over his shoulder, but the Spaniard's back was to him, blocking his view of whatever he was doing.

His pulse began to palpitate with apprehension, his imagination working wildly to fill in the blanks of the sounds he couldn't identify. He knew he couldn't give up the information.

He also hoped he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a scream.

The Spaniard continued to hum and tut, drawing out the anticipation far longer than was necessary. D'Artagnan focused on keeping his breathing steady. He could endure this. He wanted to be a musketeer. And he would not betray his friends.

The Spaniard finally came back around, and d'Artagnan's heart jumped into his throat as he saw the iron rod in the man's hand, the tip glowing hot from sitting in a fire.

"Still feeling brave?" the man asked.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard and didn't respond.

The Spaniard's lips pulled back as he leaned forward, bringing the hot iron tip up to d'Artagnan's face. D'Artagnan jerked his head back reflexively, but there was nowhere to go as the iron descended toward his cheek. The sweltering heat radiating from it first warmed his skin, then began to burn. And it wasn't even touching yet.

"Last chance, boy. Tell me where the letters are."

D'Artagnan was trembling, but he managed to raise his eyes and meet the steely gaze of his captor. "Go to hell."

The Spaniard's nostrils flared, and he moved the rod down to jam the tip into d'Artagnan's chest between the folds of his shirt. The instantaneous burning and sizzling was more than he could have prepared for, and he threw his head back and screamed as the acrid odor of his own burning flesh wafted up to his nose.

The Spaniard yanked the rod away and stepped back, giving d'Artagnan a moment to catch his breath.

He choked back a sob and panted through his mouth, fighting the waves of agony and the bile threatening to rise up in the back of his throat.

"I will ask you again," the Spaniard said impatiently. "Where are the letters?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, unable to form words. The Spaniard moved in and pressed the burning rod to d'Artagnan's collar bone. He screamed again, a long, primal howl ripped from his throat without conscious consent.

The Spaniard held the rod there a little longer this time before pulling back. D'Artagnan's scream petered out to whimpers.

"You see," the Spaniard said. "You are not brave."

A broken sob escaped past his lips, but d'Artagnan immediately clenched his jaw against any further ones. His body may betray him, but he would not give in.

"You- don't know- the meaning- of it," he gritted out.

The rod was shoved underneath his collar and everything whited out under another assault of all-consuming agony.

He barely heard the gunfire past his own screams, or the ensuing scuffle. He only knew when the rod was removed and he was given a chance to catch his breath again and choke down those shameful cries.

"Those bastards," someone growled.

Hands started prying at the ropes around his wrists and he flinched.

"Easy, d'Artagnan, it's us," Aramis's soothing voice spoke from nearby.

D'Artagnan struggled to lift his head and peered out through vision blurred by tears.

"How badly is he injured?" Athos's concerned voice came next.

"Give him a moment," Aramis replied, then added, "I count three burns."

D'Artagnan shuddered as he sucked in a ragged breath. The ropes loosened and fell away from his arms, and he yanked them forward, then attempted to fold over himself in an effort to protect his searing chest. But Aramis caught his shoulders and prevented him from doing so.

"Easy, we'll get you set to right as soon as we get out of here. Are you with us?"

D'Artagnan bit his lip against another pitiful whimper and managed a nod.

Aramis gripped his bicep and helped him stand. Athos moved in on his other side, ready to offer support if needed. D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and forced himself to move on his own power.

The Spaniard and his goons lay dead on the floor of the barn. The glowing iron rod lay in the dirt, smoldering close to scattered hay. Porthos picked it up and shoved it into a bucket of water where it hissed and spat in a manner similar to how d'Artagnan's flesh had…

He jerked away from Aramis and Athos in time to retch. A gentle hand landed on his back and simply stayed there until he was done.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You don't need to apologize for that," Aramis said kindly. "Ready to move?"

He nodded, swallowing back another surge of bile, and picked up his pace to get out the door into fresh air and away from the smell. Except the smell followed him.

He reached a hand up to peel away his shirt to see the burns, but Athos's hand captured it and drew it back down.

"Let Aramis tend that," he said.

D'Artagnan wordlessly let himself be led to a stump and nudged into taking a seat. Aramis went to his horse to grab his med kit and came over to join him.

"They're going to scar, aren't they?" d'Artagnan said, surprised that was the first thing that came to mind. He supposed it was because of Constance, as he couldn't help worrying over what her reaction to seeing the hideous marks would be.

"They'll leave a mark," Aramis replied diplomatically. He paused in his work to cast a sidelong look at d'Artagnan. "Women like battle scars."

D'Artagnan snorted. Maybe Aramis's women liked them; he wasn't sure about Constance.

"Yer alive," Porthos pointed out. "That's the part she'll care about."

Of course they'd know who d'Artagnan was thinking about.

He couldn't hold back a garbled cry of pain as Aramis began to clean the burns.

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Aramis's ministrations were almost as torturous as the initial burning, and d'Artagnan's chest felt raw by the time the marksman had swathed honey over the burns.

"We'll leave them uncovered," Aramis said. "Better that way."

D'Artagnan's face was hot and damp, and he felt embarrassed by his show of weakness. He lifted his head toward Athos, desperate to reclaim some of his pride. "I didn't tell them where the letters were."

Athos gazed back at him for a long moment, eyes dropping slightly to the burns on his chest. Then he nodded. "We knew you wouldn't."

D'Artagnan blinked, unsure whether he'd heard correctly.

Aramis clasped his other shoulder. "One day you'll wear the uniform you rightly deserve."

"A musketeer through and through," Porthos added with a proud smile.

D'Artagnan couldn't form words in the face of their steadfast faith and loyalty.

But despite the pain, he remembered what it was he was fighting for. And that it was worth it.