A/N: Thanks to my guest reviewers! Uia, yeah Aramis is definitely feeling guilty =/ That'll take a long while to ease. Laureleaf, I sure hope Monsieur le Creep hasn't caught on that Athos knows, or they're in serious trouble! As for how is Porthos holding up... keep reading ;)

We're getting closer, y'all. Things are about to start happening.

Chapter 7

Porthos closed his eyes against the shafts of morning light starting to filter in through the window. His leg still felt like it was on fire from Pierre's dagger. Aramis had been able to stop the bleeding, though the tourniquet and bandages were only a stopgap. Much as the musketeer hated it, he knew it would probably require needlework when they got back to safety.

Assuming they didn't all die here, first.

Porthos recalled Aramis's face the night before when he'd emerged from the cellar dungeon, riding crop glinting with Athos's blood. If it was the last thing he did, Porthos swore that he would see Pierre dead. Aramis had intimated that Athos was still alive, but hadn't spoken much beyond that. Porthos hadn't seen his friend in such a dark place since Savoy.

And he was still sitting there uselessly, the only reason Aramis was being compelled to go through with any of this. If Porthos wasn't so busy being furious with Pierre and Jean, he'd be more angry with himself. But that wouldn't serve him right now.

Cracking his eyes just enough to see the outline of Jean still seated nearby in a silent vigil, Porthos continued to work at the ropes holding his hands behind the column. While Aramis had been granted a little movement during his visits to Athos, Porthos had been kept exactly where he was, bound and immobile for over a day now. It was a pain.

But it also meant no one had occasion yet to check his bonds were still in place.

The pair of madmen might have taken his weapons and pauldron away from him, but they'd left the leather jerkin in place. The metal stud Porthos had managed to work loose from the edge of it was small, but he'd learned a long time ago to be as resourceful as possible with practically nothing. It had taken most of the previous day to get the stud free and in a workable position and all night long to cut through the thick rope fibers.

As he felt the last of it give way, Porthos exhaled a long, silent breath. Finally.

He opened his eyes the rest of the way, quickly surveying the hall for any sign of Pierre, but their "host" hadn't emerged for the morning. Only Jean sat guard, close by with a pistol in his hand, and Aramis tied to his own column with hooded eyes fixed on the floor. Porthos would have liked to prepare his friend for what was about to happen, but Aramis seemed in another world and he couldn't afford to attract Jean's attention.

Moving slowly, silently, Porthos stretched his legs out in front of him and then pulled them in once again, testing their mobility and wincing as fire poured down his limb from the wound. He wouldn't be able to put much weight on it without collapsing. But he only needed to get far enough. His arms felt a little better, as Porthos had tried to keep flexing and relaxing them overnight to keep the blood flowing, so he was as ready to move as he would ever be.

Checking to make sure Jean wasn't looking his way, Porthos gripped the column and used it to lever himself up to his good leg, then launched himself at their guard.

Jean had no time to raise the pistol as the musketeer slammed into him. The gun went flying; unfortunate, but Porthos was just as happy to kill the man with his bare hands. There was a swift, silent scrabble as Jean tried to wrestle away, but even wounded, Porthos outmatched the smaller man. Soon Jean was trapped in his grip, Porthos holding him firmly from behind with one arm pinning the man's hands and the other wrapped around his throat.

"Not a sound outta you," he hissed in Jean's ear, squeezing harder to make sure the threat was clear. "You're gonna untie my friend over there, then we're gonna go downstairs and find Athos, got it? You try an' call for your pal, you're dead."

Jean released a garbled noise, not a loud call, just a strange sound that made Porthos pause. Well, no wonder Jean hadn't said a word since their capture. He wondered if Pierre had cut the man's tongue out himself, or if it had been some other lunatic. At least he'd be quiet, then. Porthos shoved, forcing Jean forward a step while simultaneously using him as a prop to help himself limp along.

"Porthos!" Aramis's eyes widened in warning as he struggled to his feet, making Porthos whirl around with Jean in tow.

Pierre was smiling, which was far worse than his usual empty expression. "Leaving so soon, Porthos? Where are your manners? You can't leave until the game is finished."

"Trust me, it's finished," Porthos snapped, shifting his grip on Jean so that he was prepared to twist the man's head right off his shoulders. "Let us go, or I'll snap his neck!"

Pierre's smile never wavered, watching him with the eyes of a predator as he prowled in a wide arc towards Aramis and the fallen pistol. Porthos twitched his hands threateningly.

"I mean it!"

"I'm sure you do. Though I wonder what your plans are once you've killed my man. Wouldn't that leave you without any leverage?" He leaned over and plucked the gun up off the floor.

Porthos's heart pounded. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. "I'm takin' Aramis an' Athos outta here, an' you're gonna let us walk out. Unless you want your man to-"

The crack of the pistol echoed in the broad chamber, making Porthos lurch instinctively. He nearly tumbled to the floor, not because he was hit, but because his prop suddenly collapsed. Porthos grunted in dismay and released Jean, who fell to the ground and stared up at him with sightless eyes. Blood trickled from the hole in his skull, still smoking gently from the shot.

"You..."

"Now we have a problem," Pierre said calmly, as though he hadn't just killed his own man. He continued to circle, as Porthos painfully twisted on his one good leg to follow him. His pulse quickened to see the madman closing in on Aramis, still bound to the column and unable to fight back.

"Stay away from him or I'll-"

"You'll what, Porthos? You have no hostage, you have no weapon. You can't get to him before I can, not on that leg. It was a commendable effort, but you have no hand to play, and I daresay no more cards hidden up your sleeve."

Porthos swallowed, hating to admit that the man was right. His eyes flicked to Aramis in panic, but his friend merely returned his gaze with resignation and sorrow. They'd only had one chance at this, and he'd failed. "I'll kill you," he warned, but it was painfully obvious he was bluffing. Pierre's smile widened.

"Hmm. I don't think you will." He'd reached Aramis at last, sliding in beside the trapped musketeer and drawing his dagger. "So, Porthos, what are we going to do about this? You could save yourself, escape from here. Ask me to kill them instead of you, and I'll let you leave right now."

The very suggestion was insulting, even if he believed it for a second. Porthos snorted. "No."

"This is a one-time offer. I will not extend it to you a second time. Perhaps you could even find help before Athos and Aramis die."

"Porthos-" Aramis started softly, but the bigger musketeer shook his head.

"I said, no! We're all leavin' together... or we don't leave at all."

Pierre eyed him, shaking his head. "Fascinating. I really don't understand. But you've made your choice. Get down on the ground, Porthos."

The musketeer hesitated, knowing that if he was going to try getting the upper hand on Pierre, it had to be now or never. He mentally gauged the distance between them, but without a weapon, wounded, and with his enemy hovering over Aramis, Porthos didn't see any way he could win. His heart sank.

Apparently he'd delayed too long. Pierre shrugged and turned to Aramis, slamming his dagger point first into the marksman's shoulder. Aramis's agonized cry flooded the hall and chilled Porthos to the bone.

"Alright, leave 'im alone!" he shouted, holding up his hands.

"One," Pierre hummed, twisting the dagger and drawing another scream. "Two…" The blade was torqued around again in time to his counting.

"I'm movin'!" Porthos bellowed, sinking painfully down to his knees.

"Three. All the way down, Porthos." Pierre wrenched the knife once more; though Aramis was clearly trying to hold back his cries, no one could have remained silent under such torture.

Fists clenched, desiring nothing more than to punch a hole through the sadist's very chest, Porthos quickly flattened himself on the floor to spare Aramis any more of the cruel treatment. His eyes connected with his friend's, both sharing a moment of despair while Pierre let go of the dagger—leaving it stuck in Aramis's shoulder—and strode forward.

Porthos thought briefly of trying to attack when Pierre was close enough, but it would be too hard to get upright in time from his prone position. Their captor didn't give him a chance, anyway. Pierre grabbed the discarded riding crop on his way to Porthos, allowing him to swing the weapon from some distance.

The rod connected with the side of Porthos's head and he knew nothing more.

.o.O.o.

"Captain. Any news on your wayward musketeers?"

D'Artagnan fought not to fidget as he and Captain Treville stood in front of the Cardinal's desk. Their search the night before had been utterly fruitless, though he'd been told by multiple people that someone had been around asking about the men. D'Artagnan hadn't slept at all and was finding his temper to be on a fine thread indeed. Treville had already warned him not to speak, the captain now shooting another sharp look at him as a reminder.

"Nothing so far," Treville replied. "I fear we may be running out of time."

"And then we lose the chance to catch him before more soldiers go missing, if the pattern holds," the Cardinal mused. As though that was the more pressing concern, that he might lose more men, as though the deaths of the three musketeers wouldn't be enough of a tragedy-

D'Artagnan's thoughts derailed when the captain gave him a swift kick, as though he could already hear the tirade the young musketeer was about to unleash. D'Artagnan bit his tongue.

"We're still looking into the connections between the two occurrences," Treville explained. "It seems that someone may have targeted my men specifically, asking around the city about them, following an incident in town some days ago. It seemed similar to an affair with your own Red Guard. I believe Captain Blanchet informed you of the situation between Lorens, Bertran, and another man recently?"

"You mean the vicomte," Richelieu grumbled with a dour look. "Yes. But if you believe the vicomte to be responsible for this, I can assure you-"

"We're not making any accusations at this point," Treville hastily assured him. His side-eyed look at d'Artagnan once again kept the musketeer from grumbling. "It may be a long shot, but we came to ask you about the funeral in question where this took place. Bocuse, I believe the name was."

"Yes, I believe," Richelieu said. "What of it?"

"What do you know of the family?"

The Cardinal sighed, setting his hands on the desk and shaking his head. "I knew little of Phillipe. The donations to the church came mainly at the continuing bequest of his wife, but she's been dead some twenty years now." He paused, then snorted. "I suppose with Phillipe's death, their son Pierre will have inherited whatever remained."

"Pierre." Treville shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the Bocuse family. They haven't been at court?"

"I should say not. Phillipe never showed interest, and Pierre…" The Cardinal clicked his tongue. "No, I don't find it surprising they were never out in society."

"Why, what's wrong with the son?" d'Artagnan demanded, ignoring the warning huff from Treville. He didn't back down as the Cardinal's appraising look turned his way.

After a minute, Richelieu said, "Nothing, at least that I ever knew. To hear his mother talk, he was possessed by demons as a boy. Even brought him to me when he was just a lad for an exorcism. I didn't suppose a few dead animals made him evil, merely a curious child, but the Lady Bocuse insisted there was something wrong with him."

"But you didn't believe it?" Treville asked.

The Cardinal huffed. "I hardly see what any of this has to do with-"

"Did he have a scar on his cheek?" d'Artagnan interrupted with a gesture to his own face, going on a sudden hunch. "Maybe shaped like a cross?"

"D'Artagnan," Treville hissed.

Richelieu, however, seemed taken aback rather than annoyed. "His mother had already tried to 'purify' him with a heated crucifix. How did you-"

"Then he's the one who's been asking questions about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, ignoring the fine line between urgency and disrespect. "It's him!"

"We don't know anything for sure," the captain warned him.

"And the first woman I spoke to even said there was something about him that didn't seem right," d'Artagnan barreled on, eager to have a lead at last. "Maybe it was whatever his mother sensed."

The Cardinal took a breath, drawing their attention. "I… remember the boy," he said distantly. "Even now. There was nothing—nothing—to suggest the Devil himself was in possession of him, but…"

"But?" Treville prodded.

"He gave me all the right answers, said all the right things. He seemed an ordinary child. I thought perhaps it was just due to the mother's quite vocal concerns that I found myself thinking there was something… not… sane. But as I said, there was no evidence of the Devil at work, so I said a prayer over him and they left. It was the only time I ever saw the son. Lady Bocuse passed away not long after and I put it from my mind."

"That's got to be it, then!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, a hand falling to his sword hilt as he spun towards Treville. "Captain, we know he's the one who's been asking questions about Athos and the others, and we know he had been close to the Red Guard only days before they were taken. We need to go find Bocuse!"

"We have no evidence," Treville shot back. "I agree it's suspicious circumstances, but they are just that: circumstances. And yes, before you argue," he added, preventing d'Artagnan from doing just that. "We should at least go speak to the man, ask him about what drew his interest to our three." He turned to Richelieu. "Do you know where I might find Bocuse?"

"I can tell you where the family manor is, or was," the Cardinal replied. "Beyond that, I have no idea."

Good enough. It was a start, and the first real lead they'd had since the three had disappeared. D'Artagnan took a breath, pleading silently for his friends to hold on just a little longer.

.o.O.o.

Aramis wearily watched Pierre bind Porthos's hands together, trying to ignore the tortured throbbing of his shoulder. The blade protruded from his shoulder like a skewer through a pig, and the slightest movement reduced the musketeer to breathless waves of agony. He prayed to God above to give him strength to endure the pain as penance for what he had done to Athos.

"What shall we do about this, Aramis?" Pierre asked evenly, sounding neither angered nor anxious. He flicked a glance over his shoulder at the marksman. "I believe Porthos has forfeited the game."

"Please," Aramis whispered, closing his eyes. "Please just leave him."

And yet he knew what Pierre knew: even discounting Athos, it was now two musketeers against one kidnapper. Even if Pierre was confident that Porthos was out of commission, the man had taken no chances so far. His safest bet would be to even the odds, and besides… how could Aramis pass as a villain instead of a victim now that he had been sorely wounded? This twisted little game was likely about to progress into its final phase, and they were out of time.

"He made his decision," Pierre said with a shrug. "So I'll leave it to you: pistol shot or garrote?"

"Just leave him be," Aramis pleaded again, even knowing the futility of it.

As expected, Pierre only shot him an ugly smile. "Every game has rules, Aramis. And they cannot be broken. But very well. If you won't decide, we'll do it my way."

"Wait," Aramis urged weakly as their captor drew the wire garrote from his pocket and leaned over the still unconscious Porthos. The marksman tried to struggle, but broke off with an anguished gasp. "Wait…"

He could only watch as Pierre wrapped the wire in his palms and placed the free length over Porthos's throat. Aramis tried to struggle again, but it was futile.

"Wait," he said once more, desperation bringing strength to his voice. "If you spare him, I'll give you what you want."

Pierre paused, looking back at Aramis in curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"Kill me. Leave Porthos here, give him a fighting chance. You can have me. Kill me."

The responding chuckle was dry and without emotion. "You believe my interest is in killing you, and you alone? I'd heard you had quite the ego-"

"I know that's not what you're after, but I can give you what you do want," Aramis cut over him, even stronger now. There was only one way out of this for any of them that he could see, and at best it was a fool's hope. Even if he played this right, their lives would all depend on Athos.

But there was no one Aramis trusted more than his brothers.

Meeting Pierre's eyes, unable to fight off the grimace of pain with every movement, Aramis continued, "You killing us isn't what your game is about. It never was. That's just how you clean up afterwards. Just like you killed the Red Guard soldiers."

Pierre didn't dispute the fact, and Aramis knew his hunch had been right about how they'd been "returned".

"No, alive or dead, we fascinate you because of what you aren't able to feel that we do. You don't want to kill us… you want to kill that. Your game wasn't about us dying, it was about us breaking, that's why you keep having me ask Athos if he..." He took a breath and hurried on. "See, all three of us might have been there that day, but Athos is the one you have locked up in the cellar. And Athos is the one who told that mob they'd have to go through him to get to me."

Aramis narrowed his eyes, noting that Pierre had fallen silent, the garrote slack in his grip.

"He's the one you really want. He's the one you want to break," he finished. The musketeer took a breath. Forgive me, Athos. "And I know how."