A/N: Thanks again for the review, Laureleaf! ^_^ I loved when the Cardinal and Treville had to work together in the show... how both of them couldn't stand the other but both had something bigger at stake so they dealt with it. And heh, Porthos is my honey and he is definitely NOT appreciating his role here. We'll see more of his POV before all is said and done!

BTW if any of y'all are on Tumblr, feel free to come find me! I'm 29-pieces. Fic and fanart and fun things, hehe.

Chapter 5

"It's time, Aramis."

The marksman thunked his head back against the column he was bound to, closing his eyes. "It's almost nightfall," he growled. "None of us have had any food since yesterday evening. Let me take Athos something to eat. As well as more water."

"No."

Aramis opened his eyes in disbelief. "Damn you, he won't last long enough to finish your game if you starve him to death!"

"Starvation has a way of bringing out the true nature of humanity," Pierre replied with an uncaring shrug. "Raw survival. I wager between the hunger and your betrayal, he'll give in. If you're so concerned about him getting some food, consider this: the sooner you convince Athos to turn on you in return, the sooner this will end."

"Like it ended for th' Red Guard?" Porthos muttered.

Pierre turned his way with a raised brow. "Precisely."

"Let 'em walk right out of here, did ya?"

"I returned them to Richelieu, just as I said I would. Finish the game, and I shall return you to your captain."

Aramis snorted but didn't remark on his doubt that they would be alive when they were 'returned'. "He'll find us before you ever have the chance."

"I rather doubt it." Pierre advanced on Aramis, squatting in front of him. "Are you prepared for the next level of the game?"

Hunger was already gnawing at Aramis's stomach; he couldn't imagine how miserable Porthos must be, given the number of missed meals so far. The big musketeer hadn't complained about it, probably knowing that as bad as they had it, Athos would be even worse off. The idea of adding to the swordsman's misery filled Aramis with loathing.

"And what precisely would the 'next level' entail?" he asked.

"You will tell Athos how much you despise him, as before, but this time you must not be so… delicate about it."

"Delicate?"

"Athos must believe that you truly hate him. I heard a good many people speak on his struggles against the bottle… tell him how sick you are of cleaning up after him, of having to care for him every night he's drunk."

Aramis glowered, taking deep breaths. "I would hardly call it a struggle. He doesn't care any more than we do about his drinking, and he knows we don't-"

"You will change his mind. Athos will believe he disgusts you. Convince him. Whatever it takes."

"Don't do it, Aramis," Porthos snapped, baleful glare fixed on Pierre.

"Do not antagonize me, Porthos," Pierre said evenly, getting to his feet. Instead of moving towards the other musketeer, though, the madman crossed the hall to a small table, picking something up. "You will take this in with you. To use. On him."

Aramis's heart stopped.

"I refuse," he snarled.

Pierre eyed Aramis with the same small smile. "I'll be watching, as before. If you try and pull your swings, if you don't strike hard enough to leave marks, I'll know. You're a musketeer, Aramis. I know what you're capable of. I will accept nothing less."

"I said, I'm not doing it!"

"We both know you will. Hurt one friend or see the other die before your eyes… is this truly a difficult choice?"

"Aramis-" Porthos started with a note of warning, but Pierre held up his hand.

"I can see that even if you obey the rules of this round, your heart won't truly be in it. Allow me to provide some additional motivation."

Aramis felt his pulse start to race, already shaking his head as Pierre strode calmly over to Porthos—the bigger musketeer growled and struggled harder against the ropes binding him.

"That won't be necessary," Aramis pleaded. "Pierre…"

"You are the medic of your merry band, are you not?"

"I don't understand-"

"You are the one they call upon to put them back together when they've been wounded. So, Aramis…"

Pierre drew his dagger and swiftly knelt over Porthos. Metal glinted with a flash of silver as the dagger drove a vicious gash through the bound musketeer's thigh. Porthos choked out an agonized shout, instinctively trying to jerk away.

"No!" Aramis shouted, though it was too late. He could only watch in horror as Pierre yanked the dagger back out, flinging drops of blood across the floor. There was no spray of red from Porthos's leg, so Pierre must not have hit the most important blood vessels, but a pool of dark blood was already blossoming out from the wound.

"I think he has some time yet before bleeding out, if the wound is not tended," Pierre assured him calmly, staring down at Porthos. The bigger musketeer was clearly trying to will himself not to make any more sound, jaw clenched so tightly that Aramis was sure he was about to crack teeth.

But though Porthos didn't cry out in pain, he visibly shuddered against his bonds.

"You bastard," Aramis whispered, yanking at the ropes holding him.

"So now, Aramis, we understand each other. Be convincing, not just to Athos… convince me that you truly hate the man, beat him like you would a mortal enemy, and I shall allow you to dress Porthos's wound before he bleeds to death." Pierre turned to Aramis, eyes glinting as the last tinges of sunlight disappeared from the hall. "But as you can see, time is running out."

Cursing Pierre, cursing himself, Aramis gritted his teeth. "Alright," he choked out. Athos could take a beating, had done so before. He was a musketeer. He- he would understand. "But let me take Athos some water-"

"The time for bargaining is past. Now, you will follow my instructions to the letter. Here is what I wish for you to do…"

.o.O.o.

"The musketeer? Course I remember 'im. Him an' his lot are in here all the time." The woman gave d'Artagnan a once over and a coy smile. "Ain't you the lad sometimes with 'em, too, yeah?"

"But you definitely saw them here last night?" d'Artagnan pressed, forcing himself to keep his impatience in check.

With no solid leads to follow, Captain Treville had insisted d'Artagnan get some sleep, but he'd managed no more than a few nods. Now that it was late enough for the women plying their trade at the local taverns to be hanging around, d'Artagnan didn't plan to close his eyes again until he'd spoken with every woman in all of Paris who might have seen his friends.

The woman tossed her hair back, reaching out to brush d'Artagnan's cheek. "Aye," she agreed. "They was here. So tense, lad, I could help wiv 'at."

D'Artagnan took her wrist to push her arm down, shaking his head. "I don't have time," he snapped, before gritting his teeth and saying more calmly, "Listen, they might be in trouble. You may have been the last one to see them… I need to know everything."

"Trouble?" the woman asked, her face falling. Green eyes darted around the tavern, then back to the musketeer as she leaned in closer. "Aramis ain't hurt?"

"I don't know. I don't know where he is or what's happened. Him, or Athos, or Porthos."

"Athos, the quiet, moody one? An' Porthos was the cheery feller playin' cards."

"That's them," d'Artagnan confirmed, squeezing her wrist anxiously. "But they never came home. Did anything happen while they were here?"

The woman's face grew more troubled and she pulled away to slowly sink into one of the nearby seats.

"No…"

The sudden change in demeanor left d'Artagnan narrowing his eyes at the woman.

"Are you sure about that? Because I'm starting to think something did happen, and you know about it. And if I find out that somebody hurt them and that you were involved-"

"No, I swear to you!" the woman cried out, eyes widening in horror. "Aramis an' Porthos 'ave always been kind to me. An' Athos, I s'pose, mainly keeps to 'imself, but I can tell he's a good man. I can always tell those kinds o' things. I wouldn't do nothin' to harm any of them, I swear."

"But there's something you know," d'Artagnan pressed.

The woman closed her eyes and swallowed. "Nothin' happened here last night, I promise you that. I was chattin' with Aramis—'e never takes me up on any offers, but he's always good for a flirt an' a smile—right over there." She pointed towards a corner of the tavern, currently occupied by a boisterous group of drunks. "Porthos left first. Aramis didn' take Athos out 'til later."

"They weren't together," d'Artagnan repeated, frowning over the news. So it had been Aramis in the alley where Athos had been ambushed. But then how had they been able to take Porthos as well? "How long after Porthos left were the other two here?"

"Oh, a good while."

Enough time to dispose of one musketeer, then prepare a trap for the remaining two. Or perhaps Porthos had been the bait, brought along as a hostage to the apartments as a means of controlling Athos and Aramis. Either way, whatever had happened must surely have started after Porthos left but while the others were still at the tavern.

D'Artagnan's frown deepened. "I know there must have been a lot of people here," he said. "But do you remember seeing anyone follow Porthos out? Please, think."

The woman wrung her hands and looked away. Something tightened in d'Artagnan's gut.

"You did see something," he growled.

"I didn' think nothin' of it," she cried out, turning back to him at last. "Leastaways not 'til you came in here, sayin' they was missin'. An' by the time Aramis left wiv Athos, 'e was already long gone!"

"Who?"

"I don' know his name, he's only been comin' in here about a week or more."

"And what makes you suspect he had something to do with this? Was there an argument?"

The woman shook her head. "No… nothin' like that. Only…"

D'Artagnan's patience snapped, and he slammed both hands down on the table in front of the woman, making her jump with a squeak of fright. "Only what?" he shouted, ignoring the hush his outburst brought to the immediate vicinity.

Looking around, the woman leaned in closer, lowering her own voice in contrast to d'Artagnan's anger. "He'd asked about 'em. Several days ago now. Nothin' bad," she quickly added, perhaps seeing the shadow building on the musketeer's face. "Nothin' that shouldn' be known. Just… who they were, 'ow they got along, whether they were often in 'ere. Said e'd seen 'em talk down a few rioters an' was curious. Wouldn' be the first, those musketeers 'ave a way of makin' themselves known."

"And what did you tell him?" d'Artagnan snapped. His mind raced; someone asking questions about the musketeers only a few days before they had vanished? Seen at the same establishment that they had last been to… it could still be coincidence. She was probably right that questions arose now and then about the three, but d'Artagnan didn't like this.

The woman seemed on the verge of tears now. "Not much, I swear," she half-sobbed. "An' nothin' personal. Don't know much about 'em myself to tell, but I did say they was in here a lot of nights. Guess I felt… I dunno, safer, wiv 'im knowing they might be in before long, an' not to try nothin'."

"So he was threatening."

She slumped. "Jus' the opposite. He was real friendly, you know? Just actin' curious. Only… there was somethin'…" The woman bit her lip, eyes growing distant. "Look, monsieur, in my line of work, you gotta be able to tell th' bad ones from the real bad ones. You know? I told you, I can tell things like that. Wasn't nothin' he said or did, there was just somethin' not right. He gave me bad feelin's, so I didn' stay an' chat. That's how I know he was here last night, marked 'im when he came in, an' how I know he left right before Porthos, because I breathed a sigh o' relief."

"But he never spoke to them?"

The woman shook her head. "Didn't speak to 'em, didn't approach 'em. Just sat in 'is corner an' drank." She paused. Then: "The night after he was in here askin' questions, I told all the other girls to watch out for 'im, just to be safe. But seems he'd already talked to them an' half of Paris about the musketeers."

This seemed less and less like a mere coincidence. D'Artagnan nodded, automatically glancing around the tavern. "Is he here now? Can you describe him?"

"No, he ain't here. Dark hair, dark eyes, little scar on 'is cheek, looks sorta like a cross. Talked fancy, too. Like Athos before 'e starts drinkin'."

So likely educated, if not nobility. That could help narrow down a suspect list—if only he had one. "Alright. Listen, do you know where the musketeer garrison is?"

She nodded.

"Good. If he comes back in here tonight, get there straight away, understand? Ask for the captain or me, my name's d'Artagnan. Can you do that?"

Again, the woman nodded. D'Artagnan had started to turn away when she called out after him.

"D'Artagnan… if I'd known… I never dreamed 'e might want to do 'em any harm."

"Pray that he hasn't," the musketeer muttered, storming for the door. True, there was no proof that this man had anything to do with the disappearances, but d'Artagnan wasn't about to let this lead go unfollowed.

.o.O.o.

Not even prisoners in the chatelet were treated like this.

Athos kept his eyes closed against the overwhelming darkness hemming him in like an additional restraint, a net holding him down. His arms were numb by now from being held in the same position for so long, outstretched to either side with little room to maneuver. The ropes, coarse around his wrists, had probably already left abrasions, though the one blessing of being so numb was that he couldn't feel the pain.

Though his legs weren't bound, the ability to stretch and bend them as needed was little comfort. Honestly, Athos would have preferred the additional rope to be wrapped around his feet rather than his neck. Every time he tried to swallow, the hemp rubbed his parched throat so that he felt like he was being scraped over a grate inside and out.

Athos couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thirsty, nor so hungry. How many days had it been now? Had he been abandoned to slowly starve to death?

His heart stuttered; what would that imply of Porthos and Aramis's fate?

Athos took several deep, bracing breaths, wrestling back the despair that threatened to well up from the darkest corners of his mind. He would happily relinquish the remainder of his inheritance at the moment in exchange for a sliver of light, a few drops of water, and a crust of bread.

He needed to find a way to free himself, but the swordsman had already exhausted his list of potential resources. With his hands bound as they were, there was nothing in reach to saw through the rope. The light from Aramis's torch—how long ago had that been now?—had revealed nothing else in the cellar with him that he might use. Weakened by hunger and exhaustion, the thought of simply breaking through the restraints was unattainable.

Much as Athos loathed the idea of admitting defeat, he was truly helpless at the moment.

Somewhere in the distance but getting closer, the sound of boots on stone made Athos jerk upright again, opening his eyes to the inky blackness. He held his breath, listening with all his might to assure himself that it was Aramis's sauntering stride. Though he would have been as happy to hear the quick patter of d'Artagnan's steps or the measured treads of his captain.

No, that was certainly Aramis. If nothing else, then, that meant the marksman was still alive, and that was cause for relief in spite of whatever might happen next.

Athos swallowed again against the rope threaded around his throat and tried to brace himself. His first priority must be Aramis and Porthos. If protecting them meant enduring pain, even torture, he must be prepared for it.

And he must ensure that Aramis knew he was prepared.

The door hinges screeched as it was thrust inward. Though Athos had just been desperately wishing for light, he now had to turn his head with eyes closed against the flame of the torch, far too bright though it was barely enough to reveal the one who carried it. The musketeer tried to squint up at Aramis, but even that hurt.

Aramis seemed to realize that it was too bright, because the flame was pulled back. Athos blinked his eyes open painfully. Once again, there was no light from the other side of the door, but he hadn't heard Aramis close it. His skin crawled at the knowledge they were probably being observed by someone he couldn't see.

"Ar'mis," he managed to croak out. "Wa-ter…" The musketeer didn't even care what a wretched sight he must look, pitifully begging for anything to quench his awful thirst.

The flame returned to his face, also illuminating Aramis's. The anguish there stole Athos's breath.

But in the next instant, the image was lost, Aramis tipping his head down and tilting the torch away so that his face was cast into shadow once more.

"Always thinking about something to drink," he spat out with the same harsh vitriol that sounded nothing like him. "How typical."

So… no water. Athos inwardly sighed, but supposed he shouldn't have been counting on it. He wanted to ask Aramis about Porthos, about how long they had been captives, whether it was now night or day, but of course he could ask no such things with a spectator so near.

"Aramis," he tried again, voice a little stronger though his dry mouth still struggled to form the words. "This isn't you."

The marksman dropped the torch onto the stone floor by Athos's feet. "Oh, I think you'll find it is. You do remember, do you not, what I told you this morning about the price of failure?"

Athos exhaled as the double message registered. Silently, he thanked Aramis for orienting him to the fact that it hadn't even been a full day yet since he'd last been in; if that had been morning, this was surely evening or nightfall, likely the first since their capture.

Just as quickly, Athos realized with regret that though Treville and d'Artagnan would be looking for them, they couldn't be expected to put all the pieces together so quickly. There was no rescue likely in their immediate future, so Athos would have to bear this as best as he could.

But it was the remainder of the message that his full attention turned to, the reminder of their earlier conversation: failure meant Porthos would be hurt. Aramis had no choice in what he was about to do, in order to save their other brother.

Athos inclined his head in affirmation. "This is not how you punish failure," he insisted. "Not you, Aramis. Lesser men, perhaps, but never you. I know this isn't your doing. And before you ask it again, no… I do not hate you. Whatever has happened, whatever reason you have for this, know that I place no blame on you." He lifted his chin. "You're my brother, Aramis. And there is nothing I would not give or sacrifice for any brother of mine."

And with that, Aramis would surely know he had Athos's blessing, and his forgiveness.

Athos did not waver.

Not even when Aramis raised his arm, thrusting something under Athos's chin to tip his head back.

"There's only one problem," Aramis hissed. "You're no brother to me."

In the light of the flickering torch on the floor, Athos registered what else Aramis had brought in.

The riding crop disappeared from beneath his chin as Aramis smacked it threateningly into his palm.

Just once. No, one tap meant; Athos wasn't to believe anything Aramis had surely been instructed to say in an attempt to break Athos's spirit.

"And I will prove it to you," Aramis continued, lunging forward to yank the gag still around Athos's neck up and back into his mouth. "Even if it's the last thing I do."