Aramis watched the sadistic woman trailing her finger across d'Artagnan's cheek. The half-naked man could not raise his head, could not react to the treatment. The beating he had taken leaving him panting and weak. Two men had kicked and punched d'Artagnan to the ground. And Aramis did nothing to stop them. He stood and watched. When the sadistic woman looked at him, Aramis smiled. The smile was difficult to maintain. But d'Artagnan's life depended on Aramis sticking to his part. If he broke character and tried to help his friend, the woman would kill them both. Aramis needed to keep going until Athos and Porthos played their part. Aramis prayed his friends would hurry. He was not sure how much longer d'Artagnan would last.

The flame-haired woman moved across the room. Aramis could not describe her movements as walking. She seemed to arrive at her destination. She reminded Aramis of a snake. Generally, when he was tasked with distracting a woman, he saw it as an enjoyable challenge. But this woman, this evil woman, she was the last person Aramis wanted to spend time with. She brushed her slightly bloody finger, across his shirt. Aramis glanced down at the smudge of rust-coloured blood.

D'Artagnan's blood.

He struggled not to react.

'Bring a brazier,' purred the woman.

Aramis felt sick. He knew what she was going to do. He started to wonder if he would be able to leave his friend at her mercy. But what could he do? He was only close to the woman because she had allowed him to seduce her. Aramis was under no delusions that she was anything but in charge. There may have been a man at the top of the ladder, but he was only the supplier of the money; the mouthpiece.

Madame Dupre was the one calling the shots.

And none of the other men seemed bothered by that fact.

The two men that were dispatched to collect the brazier were the two men Aramis was wary of. They had not welcomed him to the gang. They had questioned the woman. Aramis knew they were suspicious of him. But she dismissed their concerns. If Aramis had not gifted the woman with a captured noble, he doubted he would have lasted as long as he had with the gang. The young noble had complained bitterly about his treatment.

D'Artagnan's portrayal of the fictitious noble was spot on. But Aramis doubted his friend was still keeping up with his pretence. D'Artagnan was only concentrating on not giving himself, and consequently Aramis, away.

When Aramis reported his progress to Athos and Porthos, they were forced to remind him that d'Artagnan was a seasoned soldier and knew the risks. D'Artagnan had volunteered for the part. He knew what he was doing.

Aramis prayed that was still the case.

Madam Dupre moved to the table that was strewn with a variety of torturous instruments. She picked up the poker. The poker had already been used to strike d'Artagnan across the back. Aramis wanted to clean and dress the wounds, but his part was not that of the medic. Aramis was the man with connections at the palace that could get information to help further the villain's nefarious deeds.

When the horrible mission was over. When they got d'Artagnan back to the garrison. Aramis vowed to deal with each and every one of his injuries personally. It would be his penance for doing nothing as the pain and damage were inflicted. He knew he should not blame himself. They were on a mission and knew what was likely to happen. But that did not make it any easier.

He stepped away as the flaming brazier was dragged into the room. The men pulled it across the stone floor, causing a screeching sound. The sound bored into Aramis' soul. He could see d'Artagnan watching as the fire was placed a few feet from where he was slumped against the wall. D'Artagnan could not move away as his arms were cruelly chained above his head. The manacles were cutting into the flesh of d'Artagnan's wrists. Rivulets of blood were mingling with the other cuts and grazes.

Madame Dupre twirled the poker in her gloved hands for a few seconds before slinking her way across the room to stand in front of her captive. She trailed the point of the pokers across d'Artagnan's chest before swinging it away and thrusting it into the brazier.

'You should get your new pet to do it.'

Aramis looked at the filthy man that had spoken.

Carlos was hideously scarred across the face, one eye was missing, and his nose was crooked. Carlos had taken an instant disliking to Aramis. He had pushed Aramis against a wall at one point, leaving the Musketeer no choice but to hit the gang member. Madam Dupre had applauded the move. Aramis knew at that point that his shaky cover was strong enough to last the duration of the mission. With the woman on his side, he had more freedom, but he had to be wary of the other gang members.

Madame Dupre mused for several seconds before a smile spread across her lips.

'I would like that,' she said. 'I think, you would like that as well?'

Aramis had no time to think, no time to react. Both his, and d'Artagnan's, lives depended on his answer.

'I would indeed,' he said slowly, carefully.

He made sure to look at Carlos as he spoke. He may have been an accomplice to the woman, but Carlos did not trust him.

'But the poker,' said Aramis, 'it needs to be hot... or there is no point.'

Madame Dupre took a slow, deep, breath she ran her tongue across her lips. The same way she had when they had shared a bed a few hours before. Carlos saw the move, saw the way she looked at Aramis. Carlos knew they had slept together.

Was he jealous? Did he see Aramis as a rival for the position of right-hand man to the sadistic woman that was running the gang?

She walked towards Aramis with an exaggerated sway of her hips. Carlos watched, envy in his eyes. She slipped her hands around his neck and leaned up to kiss him. He kissed her back, his eyes wandered to Carlos, who was scowling. The scarred man knew he would never receive the same kind of attention from her.

'We will burn him all over his body,' she said, her voice dripping as though with honey. 'And when he stops screaming and can only whimper... then we will take him back to the people who have everything and show them that we can take it all away from them.'

Aramis glanced at the brazier. He tried to calculate how long he could draw out the moment. How long he could delay the inevitable. Athos and Porthos should have finished. They should be giving the sign that it was over and that a group of Musketeers were about to take the gang by force.

But the sign did not come. The fire continued to heat the poker. D'Artagnan continued to hang limply off the chains. And Madam Dupre continued to kiss Aramis.

Madame Dupre pressed herself against Aramis. He continued his charade he allowed her to run her hand down his side and around his waist. He wanted her to feel as though she was in charge. Which, Aramis knew, she was. Until he knew Athos, Porthos, and the rest of the Musketeers were storming the building, he had to continue.

And if that meant hurting d'Artagnan...

She finally pushed away from him; she looked at him with her cold, dark, eyes for several seconds. Was she searching for the lie? Did she know? Was she hoping he would crack and refuse to hurt their captive?

She turned away, hooking her fingers around his hand as she went, walking him to the brazier. She held out her hand to Carlos, who pulled off his gloves.

'Here,' she said, handing the gloves to Aramis, 'I don't want you to burn yourself, you're too pretty to be marked... Any more than you are.'

Her gaze flitted up to the scar on his forehead, and she smiled.

Aramis eased the gloves over his hands. He looked at d'Artagnan who was starting to breath faster, anticipating the pain that was to come. Aramis wondered if his friend was aware enough to know that it would be him and not Madame Dupre or Carlos wielding the poker.

Aramis was not sure he wanted d'Artagnan to know.

He reached out for the poker and pulled it from the fire.

He turned to d'Artagnan.

Aramis slowly moved the poker towards his friend.

The End.

Whumpee: D'Artagnan. Featuring: Aramis.

Authors note: I think this one might be ripe for expanding...?