~§~

Porthos smirked as he saw the blond man exit the Cardinal's office, thanking the Heavens above for answering his prayers. After a wasted night, spent waiting outside a whorehouse in the faint hope that Rochefort would put in an appearance, he had suggested -threatened- that they should move right to the source. If this man was working for the First Minister, it stood to reason that he would have to report back to the man at some point or answered his call if summoned.

Of course, that was assuming that it had been Rochefort who had taken Aramis, a supposition supported only by the fact that the Comte seemed all too willing to do the Cardinal's dirty work.

Whether Aramis still remained in Paris or had been taken to some secluded place on the outskirts of the city was something that both Musketeers were hoping Rochefort would help them with.

The fact the Captain had been opened to lend assistance and had offered to push the Cardinal into action hadn't hurt matters either. As soon as the audience with the King had been over, a messenger had been dispatched by the First Minister. Half an hour later, a disgruntled looking Rochefort arrived at the palace.

A short time later, Rochefort came back out, walking like a man with a purpose. He looked furious.

"Is that 'im?" Porthos asked, to which Athos gave him a stiff nod.

Porthos could see why his friend disliked the fellow. There was an air of wrongness about him that set Porthos' teeth on edge. A shift in the air that made him want to reach for his weapon and make sure that all the women and children in the vicinity were well-hidden from view.

And although he was neither, the mere thought of Aramis being at that man's mercy...it chilled Porthos to the bone, for there were people who carried out evil deeds and there were others who were simply evil. One look at that Rochefort fellow and Porthos already knew too well to which group the Comte belonged.

Outside of the palace grounds, the two Musketeers mounted and followed the man at some distance. Wherever he was going, he was in a hurry to arrive there, making one single stop at the Red Guards' garrison to pick up a saddle bag. He left his horse there and continued on foot, forcing the Musketeers on his tail to do the same.

Navigating the busy streets of Paris without losing track of their quarry and remaining unseen was not an easy task. On two separate occasions, Porthos was sure that they had lost sight of the Comte, only to find him a little further ahead as the crowd cleared.

"He's headin' for Notre Dame," Porthos realized, as they stopped near an apple cart, pretending to buy fruit as Rochefort looked around the square. Having grown up in the streets of Paris, the dark-skinned Musketeer knew better than most the layout of the city. Confusing as it might have looked for an outsider, there were some places inside the city walls where all paths led to the same place. Notre Dame was one of those places.

"Why is he going to church?" Athos asked, confused.

Porthos shrugged. It wasn't like they were foolish enough to believe that Rochefort was going to lead them straight to their friend. Life was rarely that sympathetic with people's plights and Porthos wasn't a man to believe in luck. If he were, he wouldn't cheat at cards.

The bells of the cathedral rang ten times, announcing the fast approaching end of the morning. Porthos could feel his eyes growing heavier as he counted how many hours it had been since he'd made peace with his own bed. "Maybe he's here t'pray?" he offered, twisting his nose. Rochefort didn't strike him as a repentant man.

Entrusting the horses to one of the vendors outside the cathedral, Porthos and Athos followed their quarry inside.

There weren't many people along the central nave, their numbers seemingly diminished by the size of the place. Most of the devoted stood on the long aisles, lighting candles and whispering prayers on their knees.

The air smelled of melted beeswax and incense, a particular mix that never failed to have the same strange effect on Porthos, making him want to lower his head and feel guilty about something.

He gave in to the feeling long enough to bend a knee and cross himself, before running his eyes through the thin crowd.

Porthos searched the faces of the few women and men standing around, listening to the droning voice of the priest on the podium at the front. The tall Musketeer pushed down the emerging yawn that the continuous string of Latin was inducing. "I don't see 'im anywhere," he whispered.

"There," Athos called quietly, pointing to a space beyond the altar, catching the tail swing of the Comte's cloak.

Porthos cursed inside, sending a repentant look at the a stone statue of a saint, looking sternly at him. The area behind the altar possessed a number of chambers and rooms where Rochefort could have hidden, not to mention the access to both the gallery high above and the crypts below. "Take the ones on the left and the crypt," he whispered back. "I'll take the right and the bloody gallery," he voiced, already planning to painfully extract from Rochefort the number of steps he was about to face. Well, at least the Comte had disappeared into the 'short' side of the cathedral. Porthos shuddered at the thought of facing the nearly four hundred steps to the bells above had he disappeared in the opposite direction.

Half an hour later, when they met at the edge of the cathedral's nave, Porthos could see that his companion was as empty-handed and frustrated as he was. "Nothin'?"

Athos shook his head, one hand scrubbing through his beard. He looked about as tired as Porthos felt. "Perhaps he spotted us and escaped through one of the side doors?" he suggested.

The problem with Notre Dame was that it was one large lady, with too many nooks and crannies to search without raising suspicion.

"We lost 'im," Porthos hissed, balling his hat in his hands as he voiced what neither of them wanted to admit. "I can't believe we fuckin' lost 'im!" In the cavernous space of the cathedral, the Musketeer's deep voice sounded like a sonorous shout, even though he had barely whispered the words.

A dozen heads turned in their direction, some alerted by the raised voice, others clearly having heard Porthos' language, if the shocked looks on their faces were anything to go by. A few crossed themselves before ignoring the two men once again.

"Best we remove this conversation to some other place," Athos advised, his hand curling around Porthos' arm before dragging him away.

Outside, the city was bubbling with activity. The square in front of the cathedral was never empty of vendors and beggars, life flourishing in the shadow of the tall building as if blessed by it.

Porthos paced in front of the imposing doors, nibbling at his bottom lip. "Aramis could be dead already, fer all we know," he let out. The admission was more to himself than anything else. Saying the words out loud hurt as much as he had expected. Soldiers and death were forever courting each other, but this...this was too bloody pointless to offer any kind of comfort.

"Rochefort didn't simply vanish into thin air," Athos said, not saying a word to agree with or counter Porthos' defeated statement. "He is either somewhere inside the cathedral, or he used it to get us off his trail."

"He didn' see us," Porthos pointed out. He had learned from the best in the Court of Miracles. If he wanted to follow a mark, he could do it to the very edge of that person's bed, and still he wouldn't be seen. "'m sure of it."

Athos nodded, even though he had no inkling on the amount of experience Porthos had in the matter. "Then we must speak to the Bishop, try to find out if there have been any strange occurrence of late."

Porthos rubbed his eyes. He wanted Athos was to be right. But what of the alternative? "Wha' if we're wrong, Athos? Wha' if we're chasing our tails and this has nothing to do with Aramis? Wha' if we're wasting time he doesn't have?"

The older Musketeer's eyes turned up, looking at the facade of the cathedral. A row of saints and martyrs gazed down upon them, their stone faces impassive and unimpressed by the comings and goings of mortal men. "We must have faith," he said, emotion crumbling inside his eyes.

For a man who barely acknowledged God as an entity, the words sounded hollow and defeated to Porthos' ears. They gave him no hope at all.

~§~

It was like an itch in the arse in the middle of parade, Aramis realized. The kind that you don't feel until you realize that you're on parade and, therefore, can't move to scratch, so it appears out of nowhere and quickly becomes the center of your very existence. After that pitiful realization, all you can think of is scratching your bum to your heart's content. The thought consumes you until you have no choice but to give in.

Aramis knew that he couldn't look down or move his head much, not without incurring in great risk of stabbing himself. Therefore, the only thing he could think of was what a relief it would be to look down for a faintest of little bits and rest his head and neck.

He was so tired that he caught himself pondering how much damage he would do to himself if he rested his head ever so slightly, just how far could those prongs go into his chest without reaching something vital.

He quickly abandoned the idea. His arm was broken. That was already more than enough leverage for the man who would, surely, return at some point to...question him. There was no point in doing the man's grimy work for him.

Still, what Aramis wouldn't give for a few seconds of rest, to just close his eyes and escape his dark surroundings. Deciding that such thoughts were foolish, he concentrated on the iron bolt on the column. The thing refused to give way, and Aramis refused to give any quarter. He pulled again, having lost count of the times he had repeated the motion.

There was no way of telling how much time had passed since the man had left him there. There were no sounds, no ghost of a light anywhere. Hours passed with nothing to tell one apart from the other. They all looked the same.

Aramis licked his parched lips, raspy tongue rubbing against the skin like sand.

The only times he had seen sand, stepped on it, was during some battle or another. For a time, it seemed like the only place fit to defend France was on its shores, glory bathed in salt water and blood.

Aramis hated sand.

A light flickered at a distance, so faint and ethereal that, for a second, Aramis thought he was imagining it. The wavering orange glow looked like a firefly, gently swinging up and down as it drew nearer, fire attracted to Aramis as if their roles had been reversed.

The sound of footsteps, in cadence with the light' swinging, told Aramis that his wait was over. "Tell me you've brought food, or else I'll be very disappointed," he whispered, doing his best to talk and smirk without disturbing the thing on his neck. "I'm quite partial to meat pies, but I will settle for bread and cheese, if needs must."

The other man didn't answer, refusing to be baited. The focused way the man worked, going about the room lighting more candles, worried Aramis. This was someone on a mission, focused and unwavering. The room for mistakes in such a mind set was, sadly, too small for Aramis to be able to properly explore.

"That insolence you seem unable to tame will serve you well in the coming hours," the man stated, as if looking at him for the first time. "Long as they may become if you do not cooperate."

Aramis barely had time to process what the man's words before he heard metal sliding against metal and his right arm was brutally yanked up. Forgetting about everything else but the grinding pain of bone against bone inside his arm, the Musketeer clumsily tried to compensate, pressing his feet against the ground to gain more height. The long chains linking his ankles, however, had become entangled during his restless in the night, choosing that moment to take offense in his clumsy movements. The inevitable happened and he lost his balance. Looked down.

His head hadn't moved all that much before piercing pain forced him to stop. Aramis froze a second too late, as the prongs against his jaw scraped against bone and, finding resistance on one end, sunk the sharp edges on the other end straight into his chest.

The sudden income of pain, from four simultaneous sources, was too incisive and overwhelming to allow for any other feeling or action. He could not breathe or scream or even let the air out of his lungs. It was all encompassing and demanding, like time itself had stopped to make way for such agony to pass. Still, it failed to drown away the sound of metal scraping against bone as the lower prongs settled against the edges of Aramis' collarbones and skimmed the bone.

Grinding his teeth together, bloody lips trapped in between, Aramis was hardly aware of the keening sound escaping his mouth. All he could hear was the scraping and the grinding, like sharp nails against his heart, scratching his life away.

"There, there. No need for that."

The man's voice reached from the fog of pain in the young man's mind. It was too close for comfort, too much like the promise of comfort for Aramis' liking.

Aramis was sure he had lost his senses for a moment there, because he could not recall bending his knees or having both his arms extended towards the pillars with such taunt pull that he was sure they would part at the elbow. He certainly did not recall the man standing in front of him, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

Cold blue eyes met his with hardly veiled hunger. The Musketeer forced himself to not pull back and recoil from the disgust such a look caused him. The action would achieve nothing more than to cause that man more pleasure and Aramis more pain.

He could feel the metal prongs piercing his skin, pushing against bone like anchors. Even though he couldn't look down far enough to see them, he had no wish to push them further in, not when the pain of his last mistake had yet to recede.

"Now," the man said, moving away to fetch a leather bag from the floor. "I must insist that you listen very carefully to the words I'm about to say. They may very well save you from unnecessary pain. More pain, that is," he added with a cold smile.

Aramis ignored him, concentrating instead on keeping his breaths shallow. Every movement of his chest shifted the piercing ends of the iron fork and stirred his growing nausea.

"In exchange for a full confession of your crimes," the man went on, certain of his captive audience, "the Cardinal is willing to grant you the clemency of dying by the musket, instead of the traitor's execution that you deserve."

"And what crimes might those be?" Aramis murmured, too curious to keep his silence despite the agony that moving his jaw to speak caused. As far as he knew, the only crime he stood accused of was murdering Gerard. "Are they so vile that the Cardinal saw fit to hide me in his secret lair instead of questioning me at the Châtelet, like everyone else?"

The silence that answered him told Aramis that the man had not been amused by his questions. Unable to move his head, Aramis could hear him walk somewhere behind him, slowly, methodically, like a big cat prowling his prey.

"Let's not play games, Aramis," the man finally said, his voice so close that Aramis shivered. It felt like gun oil, sliding inside his ear. "We both know that you are too stubborn to sign any sort of confession and we both know what comes next," he went on, moving to where the Musketeer could see him. In his hands, Aramis realized with a shudder, was a gunpowder pouch and a thin, short blade, its edge capturing the candle light. "When you reach your limit - and trust me when I tell you that every man has his limit - you will sign whatever I tell you to sign, just to make it stop."

"Your point?" Aramis asked, trying to keep his voice steady. Despite his words about not playing games, the Musketeer knew that that was exactly what the other man was doing.

"I will tell you of your many, hideous, crimes," the man said, twirling the dagger in his hand for a fraction of time before slashing the front of the Musketeer's shirt. The blade was so sharp that the cloth parted like butter, the skin underneath untouched. "When you beg me to do so," he went on, methodically cutting the linen off until it was nothing more than a puddle of rags on the floor.

Despite the biting cold of the place and his sudden state of undress, Aramis began to sweat. As a Musketeer, he wasn't unfamiliar with the tactics used in the deepest and darkest recesses of prisons, in order to extract information and confessions from the poor souls trapped there. Every now and then, a few stories would reach the surface, tales that made every free man cringe in sympathy and savor his freedom. Stories about maimed limbs and devices created for the sole purpose of bringing unspeakable pain and humiliation to those they were inflicted upon.

The fact that he could not freely move his head around and see what the other man was doing only served to put him further on edge. From the position his head was in, the only thing Aramis could see was the hilt of the dagger, a distance away from his chest and the man's hands. The intent of the position left little room for interpretation and Aramis gritted his teeth against the pain he knew was about to follow.

Still, the thin, sharp pain took the young man by surprise, not because of the intensity of it, because God knew those prongs hurt more, but because of the duration of it. Inch by inch, Aramis could feel in acute detail as the tip of the blade cut across his skin on the left side of his chest, a few inches below his breastbone, the movement so slow that the Musketeer found himself squirming under the blade, eager to end the prolonged ache. When the blade finally parted ways with his skin, without being able to look, Aramis had no idea of how deep the wound was, or how sickening was the gap it had left behind.

"The Spanish Holy Inquisition has a...preference for the more Medieval methods of extracting a confession," the man voiced, his warm breath harsh against the cold moisture on Aramis' skin. "There is no denying their effectiveness," he went on, an unmistakable hint of reverence and longing slipping into his tone. "But, alas, they seem to require too many…accessories."

Aramis had not realized that the man had opened the gunpowder pouch until he felt the sting of powder inside the fresh wound. Suddenly, what the man intended to do became all too clear.

The Musketeer willed his breathing to remain steady. He would not give his torturer the pleasure of seeing how much the anticipation of what was to come scared him. When the candle grew nearer, close enough for him to feel its heat, Aramis bit his lip in preparation. He would not voice his pain.

There was, however, no way of preparing for the sheer intensity of the pain that assaulted him.

Once, during his time in the Infantry and in the middle of a battlefield, Aramis had been wounded by enemy fire. The musket ball had ripped straight through his right collarbone and left through the muscle of his arm, leaving a gaping wound behind. With no other alternative, he had asked a fellow soldier to help him burn the wound closed, lest he bled to death. It had been painful, but as the heat and fire receded, Aramis found that it was the smell that was the worst.

When the flame of the candle touched the gunpowder inside the bleeding wound, Aramis was taken back to that moment. Only, unlike the heated blade the soldier had used, there was no abating of heat of the flashing gunpowder, there was no end to the fire consuming him. It felt like a gunshot, only one in which the ball danced across the surface of his flesh, playing with its mark instead of following a path.

It felt like being torn apart.

Distantly, through the white haze that had swallowed Aramis' world, he could hear the sound of words and some poor soul gasping for air. It took him a moment to realize that he was the one making that disturbing sound and that his torturer was talking to him again.

"...stop whenever you ask me to," he was saying. "Though I would imagine that a King's Musketeer would be a bit more resilient than...this," he said, a look of pure disdain marking his face.

Aramis gulped down the precious air his that his lungs had forgotten to use during that time. While still present, the vivid pain of before was finally ebbing away. He licked his lips, finding his mouth parched. "You enjoy...this...far too...much," he hissed as soon as he found his breath.

Aramis never saw the smile that stretched the man's thin lips. He just felt the dagger touching his skin again, a few inches below the first cut. "Yes," the man said in a whisper, his fingers pushing the blade sideways. "I truly do."

~§~

The Bishop of Notre Dame was not the kindest of people to talk to, or even breath the same air. That was something that Athos figured out five seconds into the conversation, as the man looked positively disgusted by Porthos' presence and refused to acknowledge him in any manner, denying him the respect he deserved as a King's Musketeer and a man of honor.

The former Comte had managed to keep an expressionless face through one solitary question to the clerical man, as he inquired about any strange comings and goings in the more secluded areas of the cathedral.

The Bishop hadn't seen fit to actually answer the question. Instead, he had ventured into a series of abusive and offensive complaints about the lack of respect for the clergy in France and how one of his workers had been murdered just the previous day, probably by some gypsy or some other type of dark-skinned vagrant like the sort that seemed so abundant in the streets of Paris these days. His poignant look in Porthos' direction had been anything but subtle.

Porthos, having dealt with that same brand of ignorance and dishonorable behavior for most of his life, had just ignored the man's words, having decided to defer all conversation to his partner of a more 'suitable' skin color. He was, after all, more concerned about Aramis' fate than teaching the ignorant man a lesson.

Athos had disagreed.

"Ya shouldn't have punched 'im," Porthos let out after a while. His expression, however, was more of amusement than censure.

The Bishop had left in a hurry after Athos' fist landed squarely on his face, cradling his bleeding nose and calling out bloody murder and hell-bound threats to any willing to listen. Athos was sure that the man had gone straight to the Cardinal with his complaints, but he truly couldn't care less. He was already in Hell; he might as well have some fun while at it.

Athos hadn't actually planned to retort with violence. If he had, he would have tried to savor the moment a little bit more. As it was, it had been still quite satisfying to feel the Bishop's nose crumple under his knuckles and hear the man moaning in pain instead of speaking nonsense.

"He deserved it," he found himself confessing, a mischievous smile spreading across his lips. "And it felt good."

Porthos clasped a hand on his shoulder, the strength of the grasp reminding Athos of how solid his friend was, in every aspect of his being. "Not that I'm complainin' or anythin'," he said with a warm smile. "But punchin' the likes of men like t'Bishop won't change a damn thing about how they feel."

Athos nodded. Porthos was right, of course. "No," he agreed. "But it certainly helps to brighten my mood."

They had circled around the cathedral, carefully watching every entrance and alcove in the large structure. With their eyes on the main entrance, the two side accesses to the bell towers and the back door that led directly to the Bishop's private rooms, the two Musketeers could see no other way for Rochefort to have exit without them noticing.

More and more Athos was convinced that the man was still inside the cathedral. Doing exactly what, he could only guess.

Hoping to have more luck speaking with one of the groundskeepers than they'd had with the Bishop himself, they moved on to the gardens.

One monk, dressed in dark brown wool, was tending to the plants, a wide hat protecting his head from the midday sun.

"Good day, monsieur," Athos called out, removing his hat. "I am Athos and this is Porthos, of the King's Musketeers. May we have a word?"

The man looked up at the two of them, squinting in the sun. The deep wrinkles around his brown eyes and thin mouth spoke of a long life spent outdoors and a joyous disposition. "You may have all the words you wish, young man, although," he said, taking in their serious disposition, "there might be only a few that will content you at the moment. I am Brother Lapin. How may I be of help?"

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, seeking the other man's assistance in how to proceed. They weren't, after all, on the King's official business. In fact, there was nothing official about what they were doing. With the Bishop already turned against them, they needed to proceed carefully, lest they jeopardize everything.

Porthos, it seemed, had no trouble in guessing his thoughts. "We're told that someone was killed here," the tall man said. "Yesterday, was it?"

The monk's face lost its mirth. "Brother Simoné, yes. May God rest his soul," he confirmed, removing his hat and crossing himself. "We found his body not far from here, at the edge of the garden. His throat...slit," he finished, his face paling from the memory alone.

"Did he have any enemies? Has anyone suspicious been seen around?" Athos inquired. He could guess what Porthos was trying to do with such line of questioning, masking their search for Aramis with the monk's death, but more than looking for a killer, they needed to know if any strange people had been around. Aramis had been taken by four Red Guards, according to the jailer; a group that large would not have passed unnoticed if they had come this way.

The monk, however, shook his head. "There has been no one here, other than the priests and monks that tend to the cathedral. Simoné was older than me, never hurt a fly in his whole life," he said, dirt-filled fingernails clutching at the edge of his hat. "He went out late last night, certain he had lost his rosary in the gardens. Why would someone want to hurt such a kind soul?"

The monk's question shook Athos' mind out of the stupor it had been in since losing sight of Rochefort. He had been so focused on discovering where the other man was and to which prison Aramis had been taken that he had been blind to all else, including the answer to his question staring him right in the face.

"Do you think...?" Porthos asked, sharing a look over the monk's bowed head.

"Brother Lapin," Athos went on, placing a hand over the distraught monk's shoulder. "Would you be so kind as to show us where Brother Simoné's body was found?"

~§~