A/N: Thanks to laureleaf and UI for your guest reviews :) UI, unfortunately d'Artagnan still has a ways to go before he figures out where they are =/ I don't think he'll get there in time to stop this. Laureleaf, haha spoiler alert but I'm a firm believer that a writer can do whatever they want with the characters, but bring them home in the end! ;) So in answer to your question, yes of course! ^_^

Warnings for violence, but it's not extreme or gory, just difficult for the ones on both the giving and receiving end.

Chapter 6

As much as Athos was not looking forward to what was about to happen to him, a small part of his mind couldn't help thinking that at least it could be worse: it might have been a blade or a whip, leaving him with open wounds that would attract infection. He eyed the crop that was back under his chin once more. The choice of weapon made sense. Brutal, personal, able to shatter bone and leave abundant visible evidence of the beating to anyone who might be watching.

This was going to be extremely unpleasant.

And yet Aramis hadn't moved, continuing to press the crop up under Athos's chin, clearly torn. The musketeer didn't dare try to signal his friend to go ahead, which would certainly arouse suspicion. Instead, he growled into the gag and yanked against the ropes that held him fast to the grate, hoping to urge Aramis to push back.

It seemed to work, as Aramis lowered the tensile rod and lashed out with his free hand to grip a chunk of Athos's hair instead.

"I've waited a long time for this," he snarled. "You have no idea how hard it was to play along for all these years, cleaning up your messes, listening to Treville praise a man who's nothing but a despicable, pathetic drunkard."

It was all Athos could do not to roll his eyes. Yes, he was very much a drunkard, the others had known this before their friendship had grown so close; was he supposed to be bothered by the remark?

On the other hand, perhaps they wouldn't be in this mess now if he'd been sober enough the night before to help fight…

Athos grunted in pain as his head was slammed back against the grate, hard enough to audibly thud and leave him with starbursts in his vision. He barely felt the fingers clawing at the ropes securing his wrists to the metal.

"I hate you," Aramis's voice spat in his ear. "I should have let you die in a gutter where you belong."

His hands were untied now and Athos knew he had to make a show of trying to fight back, though as exhausted as he was, the pitiful struggles were his best effort anyway.

"Hold still!" Aramis barked, clouting him across the face.

Slumping as though stunned, breathing raggedly through his nose, Athos allowed Aramis to draw his hands together in front of him and retie them. Aramis disappeared for only a moment, then the rope around his neck was pulled loose. This was then looped through the rope about his wrists.

"Get up," Aramis ordered coldly with a harsh kick. "I said, get up!"

The length of rope had been passed through the grate high overhead and then yanked down to lever his arms upwards; without it, Athos wasn't sure he would have been physically able to stand. He gasped in pain as his stiff limbs were shoved and jerked around, but soon he was on his feet. The rope was tied off to secure him there, hands trapped above his head.

Despite himself, Athos couldn't help but swallow hard in dismay. He couldn't curl in to protect his ribcage, bound thus. Still trying to put on a show of fighting back, the musketeer grunted and lifted a foot as though to kick Aramis away from him. As expected, the marksman slammed the crop down on Athos's leg.

"You're nothing," Aramis hissed as Athos held back any sound of pain. "You're nothing but the captain's dog, and I'm going to whip you like one."

Then DO it already, Athos wanted to shout, wanting nothing but to get this over with. His muffled exclamation seemed to be enough for Aramis to understand, for the musketeer stepped back and raised the crop.

"Turn around, Athos," he commanded through gritted teeth. When Athos didn't move, he lashed out with his free fist, striking the bound musketeer in the gut and driving the wind from his lungs. "I said, turn around!"

Athos wheezed for air as he was grabbed and forced around to face the grate he was tied to. It was better this way. Hard as it was to turn his back to an attacker—even when it was his friend—at least his ribs would be spared. And Aramis also couldn't see any of the pain that Athos wouldn't be able to keep from his face. That was a mercy he was only too happy to extend.

Tensing instinctively, Athos jumped when he felt the crop prod against his shoulder blades through his shirt.

"You deserve this."

It was the only warning he received before the rod landed with punishing force across his back. Athos bit down hard on the rag in his mouth, now doubly grateful that Aramis had given him something to bear down on as well as muffle any sounds he'd be tempted to make.

"You sicken me, Athos!"

Another blow, low on his spine. Athos leaned his forehead against the cold metal in front of him, praying the attack wouldn't take long. He drew in another ragged breath. He could endure this.

"Poor Athos, poor Comte, life is too hard for the treasured pet of the garrison-"

A strike across his shoulders, making him stagger.

"-so you get to drink yourself to oblivion every night, too cowardly to face your own problems-"

A blow hard enough that Athos felt the cold air on the sudden strip of dampness down his back.

"-and you know, Athos," Aramis paused with the rod, reaching forward to grab the back of Athos's head again and jerk him slightly away from the grate. "I would be happy if you did drink yourself to death. But taking us down with you? No, I'm done with you."

He thrust Athos back into the grate, the crop swinging so fiercely that the whistle of wind was audible in the stone chamber. This time, Athos couldn't bite back the muffled cry no matter how hard he tried, shoulders heaving with the effort.

"You think you're so well loved-" Aramis's voice broke and Athos had to kick back weakly to goad him into continuing before their captor realized neither of them believed a word of this. It earned him another strike as Aramis shouted, stronger, "-but the truth is you're the laughingstock of the garrison! All of the men talk behind your back of your weakness! They say when Porthos or I are finally killed, it'll be because you were too drunk to stop it!"

Several more blows in swift succession, and now Athos finally lost his footing, collapsing so that he was held by nothing but the rope around his wrists. He shuddered, holding in an agonized moan on sheer will power alone, but the next strike of the rod left another stripe of damp blood and he couldn't choke off the cry.

"And they'll be right," Aramis sneered. "And I really-" strike "-really-" strike "-hate you for it."

Athos hung from the grate, body trembling of its own accord from both pain and anxious anticipation of the next blow. How much of this was Aramis expected to carry out? Had there been a specific counting, or was he waiting for some other signal?

Aramis pressed in close again, once more jerking Athos's head back. The swordsman groaned in pain, eyelids fluttering as he scrambled to find his feet. Aramis exhaled sharply.

"Not out yet?" he demanded, tapping Athos twice. "That's alright, I have all day." One more tap.

So he was supposed to beat Athos unconscious and only then was he allowed to stop. Athos shuddered; he wasn't far from it. His body was a mass of agony from the brutal attack. Fire consumed his limbs with every inch of movement as Athos weakly tried to shoulder Aramis back. Aramis shoved him, but it was a gentle push accompanied by the knocking of the rod against the grate to make it sound harder than it was.

Taking his cue, Athos collapsed fully into his bonds once more, letting the rope bear his weight even though his arms and shoulders screamed. Aramis stepped away, perhaps to let their viewer see for himself that Athos had passed out. Then, he felt Aramis move closer, pulling him up over his shoulder enough to release the tension on the ropes so he could undo the knot keeping the musketeer suspended.

Free of the grate, Athos collapsed bonelessly to the ground and stoically rode out another crashing wave of pure agony, very nearly slipping into the darkness for real. A boot shoved him onto his back and Athos wanted to sob. He held still though, eyes closed as the light and heat of a torch drew near his face.

"There, he's out, as you requested," Aramis hissed to someone else in the darkness, the hatred in his voice suddenly sincere. "Now let me tend to Porthos, damn you!"

"Wake him," another voice echoed softly from farther away; Athos struggled not to flinch in dismay. He didn't know how much more he could take.

"You bastard. You said I only had to-"

"This round of the game does not end until he has answered the question. Wake him. If he has not begun to doubt at least a little, I shall assume you weren't convincing enough, and perhaps we will begin again."

Athos wasn't sure he would survive another round without time to recover. Besides which, it sounded as though Porthos needed to be seen to, which explained the touch of desperation he'd sensed in Aramis's swings. He would have to give the madman what he wanted, at least a little.

He waited until Aramis's hand connected lightly with his cheek, though Athos wrenched his head to the side to make it seem like a harder slap. He groaned and slowly blinked his eyes open as the gag was yanked out of his mouth.

"Still in there?" Aramis snapped, gripping the back of Athos's neck. His hand was trembling.

"Aramis, please," Athos whispered. "I don't… understand. Why are you- why are you doing this?"

"Because I-" Once again, Aramis's voice broke in the darkness. He quickly got ahold of himself, though, spitting out, "because I want to see you suffer. Because I hate you. Because I always have." The hand on Athos's neck squeezed once: a lie. "And you, brother," he said the word like a taunt. "Do you not hate me in return?"

Remembering that he had to appear as though he was starting to doubt, Athos hesitated. He reached his bound hands up to take Aramis's arm.

"Someone… someone else is behind this… aren't they?" he choked out, trying to sound unsure while at the same time pressing twice against Aramis's doublet so he would know Athos knew it to be true. "You couldn't do this… you…"

"It's a yes or no question," Aramis snapped. "Do you hate me, as I hate you?"

"I… no, but… Aramis, please, just stop this. I- I will never hate you."

The marksman wrenched away and stood, though Athos couldn't find the strength to follow his movement. A light tug on his bound hands told him Aramis had refastened the rope, lower down so that he was still tied to the grate but would be allowed to stay on the ground.

Not another word was spoken, Aramis's boots retreating once more. The light of the torch disappeared, but Athos had already given in to the darkness.

.o.O.o.

"The Goose and Crown is nowhere near The Blackbird," Treville thought out loud, sitting behind his desk with his chin resting on clasped hands. "If your men disappeared from there, then whoever is responsible has a hunting ground that covers half of Paris. It makes no sense."

"Unless the disappearances have nothing to do with each other." Captain Blanchet leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The captain of the Red Guard didn't seem unsympathetic, nor was he refusing to help; he simply didn't have anything of use to share.

"Very strange coincidence, don't you think?" Treville returned. "My soldiers going missing only days after yours?"

"From two different sides of Paris, as you pointed out. From two different regiments. And you said your boy discovered someone had been asking questions about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Sounds like it was personal. Knowing them, are you that surprised?"

Treville didn't rise to the jab, merely glowered at the rival captain. "Someone left your men slaughtered on the Cardinal's doorstep. That doesn't sound personal to you?"

Blanchet had no good response to that, looking away with a shadowed face. Bickering would get them nowhere, so Treville let the matter drop.

"Let's assume for a moment that both sets of men were specifically targeted," he said. "If we knew how and why they caught the attention of whoever is behind this, perhaps it would reveal something important. The short span between the guards' deaths and the musketeers' disappearance says whoever took them doesn't take long to act, so anything your men did in the last few days of their lives might have been the crucial event. Had they been on any special assignment?"

With a sigh, Blanchet trudged towards Treville's desk and sat in front of it. Treville could see lines in the captain's face that he recognized from his own image in the mirror.

"No. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact they were put on work detail after an incident the week prior."

"An incident? What incident?"

Blanchet scowled. "I sent Bertran and Lorens to attend a funeral mass for a man whose estate had given generously to the church in the past. Naturally, the Cardinal was too busy to attend himself but wanted to be represented. To show that families who fill his coffers are honored."

Treville bit his tongue, nodding for Blanchet to continue.

"Bertran and Lorens were new recruits with no experience, but I thought even they should be able to handle attending a funeral service without much trouble. Instead, they almost started a fight with one of the guests."

"Did they say what the dispute was about?"

"Aye, seems when they were outside, another guest lost control of his horse. Nearly trampled Bertran, to hear Lorens tell it. Lorens knocked him aside in time and grabbed the reins, then gave the rider a piece of his mind. Nearly came to blows. I know how Lorens's temper is- well… was. I'm sure his actions were an embarrassment to the regiment, and to the Cardinal."

"Sounds like he saved a fellow soldier's life." Treville could see any of his Inseparables doing the same for the others.

With a huff, Blanchet grumbled, "That's not the part I take issue with, Treville. Lorens almost started a brawl, at a funeral no less. The man he practically assaulted came to me later that day demanding they both be disciplined. Bertran wasn't as temperamental, but he was defensive of Lorens. The other guests had to pull all three of them apart."

"So they were close friends."

Blanchet nodded. "The closest. Enlisted together. From what I understand, they grew up practically brothers."

Practically brothers, rising to the other's defense, landing themselves in trouble due to hot-headed protection of the other… Treville's frown deepened. Now who did that remind him of? Of course, soldiers often formed tight bonds as such. Likely a coincidence.

A thought to keep filed away, though.

"The man they nearly fought with," he said instead. "Was he questioned following the disappearances? Could it be possible he felt further punishment was warranted?" Immediately, the musketeer captain slammed a frustrated hand down onto the desk and leaned back. "No, of course he wasn't questioned. I forgot that you didn't deem two missing men worthy of an investigation."

At least Blanchet, unlike the Cardinal, had the decency to turn his head with an abashed expression. "I was considering throwing them out of the regiment altogether, which I made very clear. Hence my assumption they left of their own accords. I wrote dismissal letters for both to spare them the desertion charges, but I admit, perhaps it would have been prudent-"

"Prudent? You were responsible for them! No matter how much trouble they may have brought you, to simply turn your back on them is unfathomable! You're their captain!"

"I don't need a lecture from you! Do you believe I haven't thought it enough times since they were found?"

Good. He ought to feel guilty. Treville shot the man another unimpressed glare, but again there were more important concerns now. "Who was the man they fought? He has more motive so far than anyone else."

"Gilbert Fouquet."

"The Vicomte of Doisneau? They almost fought a vicomte?"

"Aye. Hence the work detail."

Treville sat back, thinking hard. He wasn't opposed to breaking down a nobleman's door and demanding answers if he thought it would get his men back safely. But he had seen Gilbert Fouquet at court… the man's hair was shocking white despite his age, eyes almost pink against pale skin. Not the man d'Artagnan had described as the one asking questions about the musketeers.

Perhaps the vicomte had merely hired someone else to take retribution, although that wasn't the type of work usually taken on by a man who "talked fancy" like a noble. Besides, none of his three had ever run afoul of the vicomte that he knew of, or crossed his path at all.

At the very least, he didn't have nearly enough cause to go knocking on the vicomte's door at this hour, so any further questions on that front would have to wait.

…Probably best to not mention the name to d'Artagnan until morning.

Meanwhile, Treville wasn't satisfied with the answers he'd gotten. It nagged at him, the similarities between the two groups of soldiers who'd been taken; hadn't his three recently been involved in a near riot? Was it possible the fighting had caught someone's attention in both cases? But why?

"Just one more question," Treville said. "The funeral they attended… whose was it?"

"Lord Phillipe Bocuse."

No one Treville knew. The title of 'lord' didn't necessarily mean nobility, and it wasn't anyone he recognized from court. Disheartened, he showed Captain Blanchet to the door, thanking him for his assistance.

"Captain," Blanchet said, turning back with a frown. "We may be rivals in name, but we are both soldiers. My men did not deserve what happened to them. Neither do yours, as much trouble as they have caused in the past. I pray for their sake they were not taken by the same ones responsible for Lorens and Bertran's death, but if they were, and if you should find the ones who did this…"

"I will let you know."

Blanchet nodded his thanks, then turned and left. Treville closed the door behind him, musing over everything he'd learned, and everything he hadn't. It seemed they only had more questions, and precious few suspects. D'Artagnan was out canvasing the area with another patrol, but Treville had hoped for better ideas to offer when they returned.

Perhaps if the Cardinal had been familiar with the Bocuse family, he would have some insight to offer. Treville vowed to find Richelieu at first light.

But for now, he could only pray his Inseparables made it through the night.