Aramis

He almost believed that pain and humiliation had not touched him, as this hurting shell was not his body. He had almost managed to convince himself that the wounds and fever had made him delusional, and that everything that seemed to have been done to him was just the memories of past torture.

He had worked so hard to believe it. To shelter himself with his mind.

And it had worked. If asked, he could not say if he was reliving his memories or surviving actual torment. He chose not to know for sure. Instead, he escaped by building a wall around himself.

However, when it came, the scream cut through his protective layer like a sharp knife. Even though his own pain remained distant, his brother's desperate cries did not. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air.

Without thinking, he extended his hand to touch Athos'. He hoped that his gesture had not been noticed by their captors. He really did not want to open his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids was his last line of defense. But he had to know what those monsters were doing to Athos. His brother's pulse was hammering under his fingers, which now encircled the lieutenant's wrist. The medic could feel that his friend was trembling.

Aramis slowly opened his eyes, and ignored the taunting comments of their captors.

"Look who's joined us!" one man jeered. His comrades guffawed in response.

The musketeer slowly lifted himself up onto his elbow. He winced when he saw an ugly, bloody burn on Athos' back.

"Leave him!" he snapped. Even though he was still on the floor, he could sense they expected an imminent attack from him.

"That's all you can do for your master?" one man called out, obviously trying to goad him. Aramis knew him by sight, but in his current condition, he could not remember the man's name. He did recall that he had personally escorted him to be imprisoned at the Chatelet.

"Leave him," he repeated firmly. Even as he spoke, he knew he was in no position for negotiation. A gun was levelled at Athos' head. An attack was impossible now.

"One wrong move, and your friend acquires a third eye. Tell me, would you still think him handsome with a bloody hole between his eyes? Answer me, musketeer!" The last few words sounded like a curse.

Oh… you'll curse musketeers in the end… I swear it.

Even if you kill us, the others will find you…

Aramis did not reply. He focused on trying to assess Athos' condition. His observations were truly concerning. The swordsman had an ugly, deep slash across his back, and the medic could see that it had been sealed closed.

Without cleaning it…

"You cannot leave his wound to fester," he said slowly.

It's like I'm reliving a bad dream.

But I knew I could do it again if I had no other choice.

Last time, I did it for d'Artagnan.

Now it will be for Athos.

I can do it.

Again.

One of men spoke up. "Actually, you're in no position to tell us what we can or cannot do. In fact, a plaything should not even be allowed to speak."

Another objected. "No, let him talk! In fact, I want to hear him pleading with us-begging us to use him like a toy in order to spare the mighty Athos."

The man whom he had once locked away in the Chatelet smirked. "I'd like to see that! If Athos is as noble as they say he is, he'll never forgive himself…"

"Why are you talking like they're going to live? You know they're going to die soon."

"Not necessarily," the man lazily replied. "After all, this is just one big game of politics, and you never know who might end up using who-or how they might use them. The most important thing to remember is to have fun, while you still have the chance." Suddenly, he seemed to remember Aramis, and knelt down next to him. He cupped the medic's face in one hand, caressing his cheek with the other. "So, if you beg prettily enough, I may just let you tend to Athos' wound properly."

The musketeer recoiled from his touch.

"What? You don't want to help your friend?" The bandit's voice was mocking now.

"I do," Aramis whispered. He forced himself not to pull away this time.

His tormentor ordered the others to take Athos outside. Although the musketeer lieutenant was nearly unconscious, his foggy eyes managed to find Aramis'.

The marksman tried to muster enough self-confidence to convey it in his gaze, but he knew he had failed. They brutally dragged the swordsman up the stairs to the door.

The bandit hauled Aramis to his feet. "Get moving! We are going to follow them. But be forewarned-one wrong move, and your master is the one who will suffer."

There is no way I can do anything now… even if I were in top shape, it would be nearly impossible...and now I am barely able to walk…

There is nothing I can do except comply with their orders.

I owe Athos that much. I won't fail my brother.

God, help me, please… let me be strong… one last time.

My life is forfeit, but please, let Athos live…

Please...

They reached the door at the top of the stairs. The man shoved Aramis against the wall, and gave him a satisfied smirk.

The marksman knew that his tormentor was reveling in his fear, but there was nothing he could do. Although he had already decided to sacrifice himself, he was not able to overcome his trepidation.

The bandit smiled cruelly. His touch was light, almost gentle, and it made Aramis sick. He had prepared himself for pain and humiliation, but not for this. He desperately tried to slow his breathing.

He did not hear what his captor said next.

A mistake.

The man smiled, his cold eyes traveling over Aramis.

"You will please me...and if you do well, I may decide to let your master live."

Why does he call Athos my master?! He seems to despise him… he knows that Athos is a nobleman, and perhaps even in his hatred, he cannot overcome the respect for the aristocracy that has been learned over generations.

It was probably not important, but Aramis needed something to occupy his thoughts.

He was led to a nearly empty room. There were three cages lined up against the wall. They seemed to have been there for quite some time. Rusted metal rings to which chains could be attached were fastened on the wall behind them.

Athos lay in one of the cages, curled into a fetal position. His eyelids fluttered for a few moments, but he did not open his eyes.

A column stood in the middle of the room. This seemed odd, as there was no obvious structural reason for it to be there. However, the the purpose for it soon became apparent to Aramis. There were a series of hooks, rings, and chains all around the column, and it was dark with blood stains.

With a shock, Aramis recognized the place. This was one of the buildings which had belonged to Richelieu and his Red Guard. Apparently Rochefort had inherited it when he had become prime minister.

One of his wrists was put into a chained cuff, but the other remained free. The man approached Aramis with a vicious smile. He held out a cat o' nine tails whip.

"You will use it."

Aramis' heart nearly stopped. He could not possibly hit Athos with it. It would inflict too much damage!

His captor seemed to read his mind, and pressed the whip into his hand, his grin widening.

"On yourself."

Self-flagellation.

Relief flooded through his body.

He nodded, and took the whip eagerly. Perhaps too eagerly, judging from the glint he saw in the man's eyes.

"Hit your back."

He obeyed. Pain blossomed on his already abused skin.

"Harder."

Aramis complied. His brother's life hung in the balance, and he knew he had to follow his instructions to the letter. He could feel the damage that the whip was inflicting on his body.

Which he was inflicting on his body.

He tried to hit himself as hard as he could, but he began to falter.

"Ask me to do it for you. Plead with me!"

When Aramis heard himself speak, all he could think of was how strange his words sounded. He had nothing in common with this man who was on his knees, pleading to be tortured. Pleading to be abused.

He felt Athos' gaze on him, and could see the empty expression on his face, clouded by the pain of his own injuries.

This kneeling shell of a man screamed as the hot iron branded his skin.

When this broken man was finally given bandages and alcohol and allowed to tend to Athos, Aramis had to take over.

The marksman knelt near his brother. Athos was conscious. For a moment, deep despair shaded his eyes.

"Don't," Aramis pleaded. He had never felt so detached while tending to his friends. He methodically cleaned the wound. Some pus was already visible, so he had to rub the injured area to fight the infection. He used up the large quantity of alcohol he had been given.

Before he had started the treatment, Athos had cast a longing glance at the bottle. Aramis had made a light joke about it, but his voice had sounded strange and distant even to his own ears, and the swordsman had flinched. So the medic had decided to say nothing more.

He bandaged the wound, then started to clean the less severe injuries. He had not been given any herbs, but did all he could with clean rags and alcohol. Finally, he finished, then withdrew to a corner of the cage. Emotions were bubbling deep in his heart, but he did not want to acknowledge them. He was still conscious, but had no strength to answer Athos when he asked for some water. Aramis helped him to drink, then returned to his spot.

The numbing pain slowly infiltrated into his awareness. He leaned forward, but the pain increased. Finally, he curled up on his side facing Athos.

"Aramis…" the swordsman whispered. It was strange-that was his name, but for the first time in his life, he felt no connection to it.

"Do you want some water?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"You should drink it," the swordsman replied hoarsely.

Aramis did not reply. He did not touch the waterskin.

He moved closer in order to check Athos' temperature. His brother's skin was far too warm. He took the last piece of cloth, and poured some water on it in order to bathe the swordsman's face with it.

"Stop!" the lieutenant rasped.

"You've got a fever. It must be kept at bay," he replied quietly.

"And what about you?!" Athos' voice was full of anger. "Do you just want to die here?! If that happens, what am I going to tell Porthos?!"

Aramis knew that in normal circumstances, he would have been concerned. He would have tried to placate the furious swordsman. However, now Athos' wrath just seemed to flow over him like a gentle breeze. In his heart, he knew he needed to think seriously about composing a message for Porthos. His brother would be full of grief.

"Tell Porthos I'm sorry... and that I asked him to take care of you. You'll need his help getting home from the taverns."

"Aramis! No! You are not going to tell me goodbye! If I am able to talk to Porthos, it will mean we both have survived!"

Athos… I am broken. I am finished. There's nothing left in me.

I feel so empty… but I cannot let Athos worry. It may harm him.

"Yes, brother," he answered quietly.

There was a commotion in the courtyard. A newcomer gave a parchment to the main bandit. Whatever was in the letter upset the bandit. He began to argue with the masked stranger, but the man ignored his protests, and merely pointed to the document.

Aramis' tormentor approached the cage with an angry look. He barked out orders, and the marksman was seized, then shoved towards the door. Something was terribly wrong. Athos struggled to sit up, but the men threatened to shoot him if he tried was hardly surprising.

I should be afraid. I should feel something...

For a moment Aramis wanted to be able to feel-to convey to Athos with his gaze his faith in his leader, as well as his loyalty. But at this point, his heart was empty. He was not even sure that he had any faith left. Athos quickly broke eye contact.

Then he heard his name called out, followed by angry questions from the relentless swordsman.

Aramis was dragged towards a cart. It seemed to be associated with the masked messenger, who stood next to it with a pistol in his hand. Probably he had arrived in it. The masked man motioned for them to throw the musketeer onto the cart. Once they did, Aramis tried to sit up, but before he managed to do so, he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel touch the back of his neck.

"Are you going to shoot me?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

He stiffened when the masked man leaned closer. Then a familiar voice whispered in his ear.

"Yes… and be sure you make it look good when you fall."

A/N

I promise some answers in next chapter, so please don't shoot me!

Riversidewren, thank you for you beating!

Thank you for reading and reviewing. Reviews make my day!