A/N: Thanks Jmp and Laureleaf for your reviews! Haha, you're right, Athos isn't the only clever musketeer, so let's see what happens when more than one clever musketeer gets together... For everyone worried about what exactly Aramis has in mind, read on, we've reached the endgame!

Chapter 8

Aramis didn't twitch as Pierre slowly stood from his position over Porthos and prowled closer to him instead. The blade in his shoulder was making it difficult to think, crippling pain leaving him almost unable to breathe. One way or another, this had to end, and he only had one idea left.

"I'm listening," Pierre said simply, expression revealing nothing. "How would you break Athos?"

"I want to bargain," Aramis retorted. "I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll even help you do it… but then Athos goes free, along with Porthos. You kill me, and Athos breaks. That means you win the game, so there's no reason either of them should die. Do we have an agreement?"

"Why should I not just kill you all anyway?" Pierre suggested.

Doubtless, that would be his plan regardless. Aramis wasn't foolish enough to think the madman would follow through on his end, but hopefully it wouldn't matter.

"Because that's not what you're after. Those are my terms. Let them walk out of here together, and I'll ensure you win the game."

Pierre regarded him for a long moment, seemingly mulling it over. His mouth twitched. "You fascinate me, Aramis. All three of you. For that, I will grant your request. Tell me what it would take for your bond to dissolve, and I will allow Athos and Porthos to leave. You understand that means your own death."

Aramis nodded wearily, then wished he hadn't as his shoulder throbbed in agony. "My death is what it will take," he replied. "Take me to Athos one more time. Tell him you own this place and have just returned and found me here, that you forced a confession about a prisoner in the cellar. It'll be all the proof he needs when I confirm what you say. If he's already broken, he will want to kill me himself, and you've won the game. If he still has faith in me, if he believes you're the one who's done all this, then killing me in front of him will destroy whatever remains of his spirit."

Closing his eyes against another wave of pain, Aramis gritted his teeth and finished, "Either way, I die, Athos is broken, and you win your game. You'll have proven that you're stronger than the ties that bind us together, the friendship that you can never feel. That you're stronger than us. Isn't that what you want?" he finished bitterly, looking back to their captor.

Pierre narrowed his eyes another moment. The slight smile changed to a leer, and Aramis knew he'd won. The rest was up to Athos.

It took only a moment for Pierre to cut Aramis free of the column and bind his hands again behind him. Aramis didn't try to hold back the soft, agonized gasps every time the movement jostled his shoulder and the blade impaling him. Neither did he try to fight Pierre when he grabbed the marksman by the collar and shoved him back down towards the cellar.

Pausing only long enough to remove a torch from a bracket on the staircase, lighting their darkened path, Pierre forced Aramis down the passage to the heavy door at the end. He shoved it open and hauled the musketeer inside.

"Hello?" Pierre called anxiously, lifting the torch to touch another one already sitting in its sconce on the wall. The chamber illuminated more fully, casting a harsh glow across the figure sprawled out on the floor.

Aramis's heart twisted more painfully than the dagger through his shoulder to see Athos motionless and bloody. The swordsman was curled on his side, back to the door so that Aramis could see the stripes of red left through his shirt from the force of the rod. Bile rose in his throat; not even the knowledge that there'd been no other option, that Athos had given his blessing and forgiveness, could make this right.

Athos stirred weakly at the sudden light and noise, a soft whimper pulled from his throat as bound hands rose to shield his eyes.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" Pierre gasped—for all the world, it sounded like he actually cared. Aramis shivered.

"W-who…?" Athos rasped.

"Thank god, monsieur, I feared you might be dead. You are safe now." With a harsh shove, Pierre flung Aramis to the floor on his side next to Athos; Aramis cried out in agony as the blade was jarred in his shoulder. "I surprised this villain with my return from the country. He admitted to having used my absence to torture another man with impunity in my own home. I- I have never seen anything so cruel. Are you badly hurt, monsieur?"

Aramis twisted his head, slowly blinking twice when Athos caught his eyes.

"Yes… My back," Athos whispered immediately with an agonized groan. "He… he beat me…"

"Seems he brought you a gift with his return, Comte," Aramis choked out with his ugliest snicker. Two more blinks, and now he could only hope Athos understood what he had to do. "I'm sure you're anxious for revenge."

Athos only glowered at him, jaw tightening. "You… betrayed me," he managed to wheeze. "I will… see to it… the magistrate orders you hanged."

"With respect, Comte," Pierre said earnestly. "This ruffian is on my property. He's admitted everything to me. I don't believe we need involve the magistrate. As lord of this manor, I must see to it that justice is done." He kicked Aramis onto his back, jostling the dagger and drawing another seething hiss of pain.

With his hands bound behind him, lying flat on his back was awkward and painful, though nothing compared to what he knew was still to come. Aramis glared up at Pierre as the madman pulled out the hated wire once more. As promised, he didn't try to fight.

But that didn't mean he didn't still feel the touch of dread that accompanied the delicate kiss of the wire across his throat. Pierre straddled him, hands smoothly landing on either side of the marksman's head so the wire was pulled taut. Not yet tightening to steal his life, but lingering over the mark already there.

"Wait," Athos murmured, groaning as he tried to roll up.

"Monsieur, he deserves to die-"

"Yes. But I'm the one he betrayed." Athos's hate-laden glare never left Aramis. "Now let me kill him with my own hands."

The pressure over Aramis's throat disappeared as Pierre sat up straighter with barely contained excitement. "Are you sure? You're badly wounded-"

"I have strength enough for this, I assure you."

Pierre nodded, though Aramis could see the ravenous light in his eyes as he pulled away. The madman had Athos untied in short notice, handing him the garrote.

"Are you sure?" he asked again. "This intruder tells me you were friends. If it's too much-"

"I've been waiting to do this. Just hold me steady so I can finish the job."

Pierre wasn't troubling to hide his smile now, helping Athos over to Aramis and kneeling beside him. "Do it," he whispered in the swordsman's ear. "Do it now."

Athos hovered over Aramis, not breaking eye contact for a second. "You know this must be done," he ground out.

Aramis took a breath. This was going to hurt. "Just make it swift."

Athos nodded. He exhaled.

And then he moved.

Dropping the wire garrote, Athos grabbed the hilt of the dagger protruding from Aramis's chest. He yanked it free as Aramis screamed from the pain as hot as acid. But Athos, with a blade in hand, never missed. In one fluid motion, he twisted towards Pierre and thrust the blade straight and true through the madman's heart.

Pierre gasped, jerking back instinctively and looking down at the weapon. One trembling hand started to rise, but Athos only torqued the dagger around in a vicious twist.

Blood trickled from the corner of Pierre's mouth as he stared at Athos.

"But… he betrayed you. You- you wanted to kill him. You hate him."

"I have told you four times now," Athos replied, voice as lethal as the edge of his blade. "I do not hate him. Nothing was ever going to change that. And if you want him… first you have to get through me."

Pierre continued to stare. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Fascinating…"

And then his eyes dimmed, and whatever soul he might have had fled his mortal body.

Aramis closed his eyes with welling relief, feeling Athos slump over him. "Thank god," he murmured. "Athos… I am so sorry."

"It was not… your doing…"

Athos sounded alarmingly weak, forcing Aramis's eyes open to examine the swordsman. Athos's lids fluttered; between the lack of food and water, not to mention the ordeal of the past day and a half and the wounds each carried, neither of the two were fit for much. It seemed the remainder of Athos's strength had been spent on killing their tormentor.

"No, Athos, stay awake," Aramis pleaded, trying to pull away and at least get his hands out from under him. It was too late. Athos collapsed, unconscious; one arm draped over the marksman in protection, and his head rested on Aramis's stomach.

Aramis fell still. His own strength was long since gone as well, dripping slowly onto the floor now without the blade in place to hold back the blood. He would not be able to get himself free, or carry himself and Athos back upstairs.

"Alright, then," he said softly and closed his eyes once more. "At least the bastard didn't win. We outlasted him, Athos. In the end, that's all that matters."

.o.O.o.

"Something isn't right," d'Artagnan growled as he and the captain drew near the estate where Lord Bocuse had lived. His eyes darted around the property, set back from the road by a long drive.

"What makes you say that?" Treville asked—not as though he disagreed, but carefully measured in a way d'Artagnan couldn't be, not now.

D'Artagnan slapped a hand against the wrought iron fence gate blocking the way. It squealed a mournful moan on rusty hinges, not latched. "Look at this place. The man isn't even real nobility but he takes the title of lord to keep up noble appearances… but then doesn't bother to see to it his own home is maintained? The hedge is overgrown, the stone is crumbling. It doesn't seem anyone is even living here."

"We didn't ask how Bocuse died," Trevilled pointed out. "Perhaps he took ill some time ago and couldn't continue his role as master of the house."

"Then either the son wasn't living here to take up that mantel, or appearances are of no interest to him." D'Artagnan felt the exhaustion threatening to claim him, preventing him from holding his mounting panic at bay. He kicked at the gate, ignoring its shrieking metal protest, and shouted, "Damn it, if they aren't here-"

"Get a hold of yourself, d'Artagnan," Treville ordered, hand on the musketeer's shoulder as he shoved his way brusquely past. "Losing our heads won't be of any use to the others. We might as well stop speculating and go take a closer look."

Treville was right. D'Artagnan clenched his fists, following his captain up to the main house. On closer inspection, it was clear that the grounds weren't the only things in disrepair. A layer of dust covered the windows; the wood of the shutters had already started to rot. Through another fence, the courtyard to the side looked positively mangy.

Nevertheless, Treville banged on the front door with a gloved fist. "Hello!" he barked out with authority. "Open in the name of the King!"

There was no reply from within. The wind blew a hollow sigh through the foliage bordering the house. No dogs barked, no footsteps of servants hurrying to meet them, and no sign of any missing musketeers.

D'Artagnan saw Treville's jaw tighten before he tried again, pounding on the door. And still nothing.

"D'Artagnan… I don't think anyone has been here in years."

"We can't give up," d'Artagnan exclaimed. "Captain, we can't! Athos! Porthos? Aramis, where are you? Hello!" He leaped forward, slamming his hand over and over again into the front door. "Hello! Porthos, are you here? Aramis! Athos, somebody!"

The musketeer wasn't even aware of the captain hauling him away from the door until his fist met empty air. Treville was yelling in his ear, something about calming himself but also apologies and hollow assurances that all wasn't yet lost, but d'Artagnan heard none of it. In his heart of hearts, he knew—just knew—if they didn't find the three missing musketeers soon, now, it would be too late.

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," Treville murmured again, voice cutting through the fog. "We're not giving up. There were others attending the funeral. We can talk to them, see if someone knows where the Bocuse family have been living in recent years."

"Even if we knew that, it doesn't mean that's where he took them!" They had nothing, nothing at all. They could stay and search these grounds, of course, but if the men were somewhere else then it would be wasting precious time…

The thud on the door was so loud that both d'Artagnan and Treville whirled as one, each with a sword in hand. D'Artagnan stared dumbly at the house; he didn't believe in ghosts or spirits…

Again, there was a thud from the other side of the door, heavy enough as to shake the timbers.

"Hello?" Treville called, advancing with sword still drawn.

"Captain…"

"Porthos!"

D'Artagnan and Treville flung themselves at the door, slamming into it with their shoulders over and over. It finally burst in on its hinges, thankfully missing Porthos who seemed to have pulled himself out of the way.

"Where are the others?" Treville demanded, dropping to the musketeer's side and drawing his parrying dagger to slice through the ropes.

Porthos closed his eyes, head lolling. "Pierre must've took 'em… he's been keepin' Athos locked up… downstairs…"

"D'Artagnan, go."

Trusting the captain to take care of Porthos—who d'Artagnan now realized had left a trail of blood all the way in from the hall where he had somehow dragged himself from—the musketeer raced towards a set of stairs descending down into a subterranean level. The air grew cold and dank down here, but there was a light at the other end of the corridor, flickering as though from a torch. D'Artagnan's grip on his sword tightened. This Pierre was going to pay for every mark he found on his friends.

As he entered the old wine cellar, though, d'Artagnan stumbled to a stop. The body of a man he didn't recognize lay with a knife through the heart. Beside him, at last, were Athos and Aramis.

Athos was slumped over the marksman, presenting his back to d'Artagnan, who felt a rush of rage to see his friend had obviously been whipped with something. Aramis was bleeding from the shoulder, hands somewhere underneath him. But his eyes blinked open, veiled and hazy yet alive.

"Took you… long enough," he whispered, though his smile seemed haunted. "Knew you'd come."

"It's alright now." D'Artagnan knelt, taking Athos gently in his arms to maneuver him off of Aramis. "We're going to get you out of here."

"Porthos?"

"Treville's got him upstairs. We might not have even come in if not for him. What did Bocuse want from you?"

Helping roll Aramis onto his uninjured side so he could free his hands, d'Artagnan winced to see the marks on his friend's throat. He tore off a strip of the dead man's shirt, wadding it up to press against the bleeding shoulder wound.

Aramis arched on the floor, gasping in pain and panting. "Wanted us to break."

"But you didn't." D'Artagnan looked again at the strips of red on Athos's back, and his face darkened. "At least Bocuse paid for what he did."

Aramis hissed again, but he turned his head the other way. "Pierre didn't do that."

D'Artagnan glanced at him sharply but didn't press the matter. There would be time to get answers later, but first things first. "We should fetch a physician," he said, more to keep Aramis awake as the marksman's eyes started to flutter closed. "He could come treat your wound here if you aren't able to move-"

"No." Aramis swallowed, finally tilting his head towards Athos and reaching out to him. "No, d'Artagnan. He kept Athos down here- hasn't seen daylight since we were taken. Don't make him spend a second longer here in the dark." Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan, eyes bright with moisture. "We just need to go home."

.o.O.o.

Athos only had vague moments of sensation.

Arms lifting him, careful and protective.

Sun overwhelmingly bright, something rocking beneath him like the jostling of a cart.

Voices telling him over and over that they were almost home. He was safe now. They'd found him. They were all going to be fine.

There was something important he needed to say, something vital, but what was it… oh yes.

"Find Porthos," he muttered.

"He's right next to you. He's here, Athos."

Darkness.

Once he thought he heard Treville saying to use his quarters, as Athos didn't have a room at the garrison.

Being laid on a bed and rolling onto his back, erupting in pain.

Darkness again. He hated the darkness.

More harried voices suggesting they move a cot into Aramis's room, something about nightmares, something about Aramis calming down if he saw Athos for himself. The suggestion that they not all be roomed separately.

Lifted again. Another bed, carefully propped on his side with a soft pile of pillows to keep him from rolling over.

It wasn't until he heard Aramis's voice that Athos finally began returning fully to consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself not bound to the grate in the cold, dark room, but back at the garrison in Aramis's room. Said musketeer was close at hand, lying in his own bed while another man stood over him. Aramis was writhing in pain.

"Get back!" Athos hissed, instinctively trying to scramble off of the cot. When a hand quickly gripped his shoulder, he lashed out only to find himself staring up at his captain.

"It's alright," Treville said firmly, squeezing Athos's shoulder. "Athos, it's alright. The physician needs to tend Aramis's wound."

"Athos… you're awake…"

Athos looked from the captain to Aramis, meeting his friend's eyes. Sure enough, the man looming overhead didn't seem to be trying to hurt Aramis, only threading his needle through the marksman's shoulder. Yes… Aramis had been hurt, bleeding. Athos had ripped a blade out of his body…

Sinking back down onto the cot he was laid out on, Athos slowly exhaled. They were home.

"But you-" Aramis went on, voice tinged with anxiety. "You're alright?"

Athos was too tired to say anything, but he reached out and gripped the wrist extended towards him. Gently, he offered two squeezes in reply. Yes. I'm alright.

Aramis relaxed back into his own pillows, nodding back.

"Here, since you're awake," Treville's voice spoke up again, then a bowl was thrust in front of his nose. "It's broth. You need to eat."

"But slowly," the physician warned without taking his eyes off his own task.

Athos's stomach spasmed at the very mention of food, desperate to fill his belly. The swordsman wordlessly let the captain help him sit up in the bed and lean forward over the bowl. His back ached but he was too hungry to even notice. The first spoonful of hot broth was possibly the most decadent food Athos had ever tasted.

"Where's Porthos?" he managed to ask between bites.

"Safe, in his room next door," Treville assured him. "Getting some rest. We put another cot in so d'Artagnan could stay and hopefully get some sleep of his own."

"I've already stitched him," the physician added with just enough dismay that Athos knew Porthos was still his old self. He wanted to smile, but couldn't manage. He also wanted to ask for more details, not having seen his friend for the duration of their captivity, not even knowing what wounds he'd taken that necessitated needlework in the first place.

But he was so tired, and after nothing but freezing cold stone and fleeting, fitful unconsciousness for nearly two days, the cot might as well have been the finest feather mattress fit for a king. Athos slurped the broth down, torn between hoping for more and wanting just to close his eyes, now that he could do so safely.

His body must have made the decision for him, for in the next moment, Treville was taking the bowl away and helping him lie back down before he collapsed. A blanket fell over him like a comforting weight, banishing any risk of the cold creeping back into his bones.

"We'll be close at hand," Treville assured him through the growing fog. "Rest, my friend. The doctor will see to your wounds when he's finished with Aramis. I'll keep an eye on the others."

Good.

Athos gave in.