~§~

Athos hadn't been in Paris for long when he first heard about a particular section of the city where not even the bravest of Musketeers dared set foot on his own - lest he wanted to lose it, along with his life.

The Court of Miracles, a curious name that aptly described a place where no one seemed to be what they looked and where trust and honor were left at the gateway, like dirty boots. It was the home of beggars, thieves and murderers, a safe haven for those who saw the King's laws more as a work of fiction rather than rules to be followed.

Porthos, it would seem, had no fear in venturing where even the bravest feared to go. He was either even more courageous than Athos had previously believed, or a fool. The tall Musketeer had led him through a series of streets, their width growing smaller and smaller as they moved deeper into the heart of the city, until Athos could almost feel the squat buildings closing in over his head.

"Are you certain of your destination?" he asked, suspiciously eyeing their surroundings. There were at least three men that he could see, that had been following them for some time now. Not only were they pathetically open to attack, but he was also painfully lost.

"Aye."

For a few more feet, Athos was sure that the single word was all he was going to get. His mind craved for a distraction. The fine hairs on the back of his neck were at attention, his fingers tingling and begging him to draw his sword before it became too late.

"I grew up 'round these parts," Porthos eventually added. "We're close now."

Athos made no comment, but as he gazed at the buildings around them, he found himself judging them with different eyes. Instead of looking for the glint of a musket ready to ambush them, or trying to guess if the odd shapes in the shadows were there to kill them, the Musketeer tried to see the place through the eyes of someone who might've called it home.

It was then that he started to notice the rags hanging from the wash lines, the half-starved dogs in the street and the frightened eyes peeking through the glassless windows as they passed. These people were poor and starving. And Porthos had grown up in this place.

The idea made him feel guilty about his upbringing. While growing up on the de la Fére estate, Athos had never lacked for anything in terms of possessions. He had little to no idea about what it was like to have no food on his table or a warm coat to fight off the winter chill.

It made his stomach churn to think of the man whom he had come to see as a friend, a man more honorable and gentlemanly than most he had seen at the King's court, suffering through a childhood fraught with danger and need. It was amazing the strength of character that one would need to rise from such adversity and lawlessness to become the man that Porthos was now.

The sense of pride and honor, of being allowed to call Porthos his friend, filled Athos' heart completely, robbing him of his breath.

He was also glad that the taller man was with him in this hostile place. Athos was certain that the only reason why they weren't both dead already was because Porthos' face and presence still carried some weight around here.

"We're here," Porthos announced, standing still. He lowered his head, taking a deep breath. "Athos, I-"

Athos placed what he hoped to be a reassuring hand over Porthos arm. Under his touch, the dark skinned Musketeer was tense as a bow, ready to either shoot or break. "A man's past is his own," he cut in, before Porthos could pour his soul out. Athos felt like an hypocrite, uttering wise words like he was the bigger man when, in truth, he was merely asking for forgiveness in case his own sordid past was ever discovered. "What happens here, stays here," he added, feeling somewhat accomplished as Porthos relaxed ever so slightly.

Here, as it were, was a hole in the wall, covered by a dirty sheet that Porthos pushed aside to enter. Inside, after passing through a long corridor with lookouts and guards every five feet, they finally arrived at a large room.

There were tapestries hanging from the walls and at their feet. Along with the soft candlelight, it gave the whole place a cocooning sense, effectively muffling the outside world. There were several youngsters dawdling around, dirty faces and ratty clothes looking as much of a uniform as the Musketeers' leather and pauldrons.

In the middle of it all, a short man with greying hair was seated at a table, coins and jewelry displayed in front of him.

"Bourdon," Porthos greeted him with a shy smile. "Care to let yer guard dogs know that we're old friends, you and I?"

The man carefully laid a gold ring set with a small yellow stone on top of the rest of the loot on the table before he leaned back and crossed his hands over his round stomach. Surrounded by his court of little thieves, he looked more regal than King Louis himself.

Bourdon's silence was starting to make Athos uneasy. The longer it went, the more his fingers itched to reach for his rapier. The man that Porthos had so casually named friend looked disgustingly non-friendly and, given the number of people inside the room, Athos was mostly convinced that the whole thing would end in nothing less than bloodshed. Soon, rather than later.

"A Musketeer, Porthos?" the man finally said, eyeing the ornate pauldron on the tall man's shoulder like it was a poisonous snake. "How th'mighty have fallen! Wha' would yer brothers say of ya now, eh?"

"This," Porthos let out, looking around, "never was 'bout family, was it, Bourdon?"

Instead of being angry or annoyed at Porthos' tone, Athos was surprised to see a smile spread across the man's lips. "I keep m'little bees sheltered, and in return, they bring me lil' trinkets t'keep me happy...it's as close t'family as the likes of us get, eh?" the man said with a shrug. "I miss ya, you know? Y'were one of me best."

Athos barely reacted to the revelation, but even so Porthos' eyes flicked in his direction, a worried look on his face. More than surprise at the fact that his fellow Musketeer and friend was once a street-thief, it was the fact that Porthos was willing to expose his past in such a manner to help Aramis that made Athos flinch internally. He was almost certain that, were the situation reversed, he wouldn't be as brave as Porthos.

"I need t'ask ya a favor," Porthos blurted out, taking a step forward. While it was clear that he had no plans to harm the older man, his action still caused a stir in the youngsters surrounding them, four of them moving closer to Bourdon, sharp daggers glinting in their hands. The bumblebee and his flock of bees, indeed, all of them ready to use their stingers on command. "A guide, for the tunnels."

"And why should I oblige?" the man asked, his eyes turning to steel. "There's nothin' you can offer me in return and I owe you nothin'."

Porthos stood silently, biting his lower lip. Athos could see that he had truly believed that this man would help, out of the goodness of his heart. Despite everything, Bourdon had made an impact on Porthos' life and anyone could see that not all of it had been bad.

"We can turn a blind eye," Athos offered, filling the silence. "Whenever we see one of your...bees at work," he added, "we can look the other way."

The look of utter astonishment that Porthos sent his way almost made Athos smile. He was perfectly aware that he often came across as strict and unwilling to bend the rules, so to hear him, of all people, offer to ignore the law and allow thieves to escape the King's justice, must have sounded like he was announcing his intention to become one himself.

At least Porthos knew him well enough to know that he wasn't making the offer merely to gain Bourdon's favor. The offer was real and Athos' honor would never allow him to not follow through on what he was promising. Though Porthos eyes were begging him to take it back, to not tarnish his Musketeer reputation in such a manner, Athos could only be grateful that the man chose to remain silent.

Bourdon's attention settled on Athos for the first time since they had entered this gloomy place. His eyes roamed over him, judging from a distance. "We have no need for your charity, Musketeer," he snarled. "M'bees can take care of themselves very well."

"Help us," Porthos chimed in, "and we'll be in your debt...I'll be in your debt."

It was Athos' turn to stare. He did not care for how those words had sounded, for he could only think of the dire things that would be asked of his friend in return. Even if Treville was willing to ignore the man's past, something Athos was sure he was aware of, the Captain would not condone a Musketeer doing anything outside the law. "Porthos..."

Bourdon seemed to deliberate over Porthos' offer far longer than Athos was comfortable with. If the man said yes, they would have a chance to find out where Aramis was - but it would be at the expense of Porthos' honor. Aramis would be as happy about it as Athos currently was.

The man rose from his chair, walking slowly towards Porthos. When he grabbed the bigger man by his neck and back and pushed his head against the table, Athos surged forward, sword in his hand as if summoned there by magic.

Immediately he felt the press of a dagger against his side and another in his back. More than that, however, it was the quiet way in which Porthos allowed the smaller man to keep him trapped that stayed his hand.

"Wha' is so important for ya t'go pokin' about down there?" Bourdon asked. "Important 'nough for ya to come crawlin' back?"

"A friend," Porthos voiced without hesitation. "A brother-in-arms."

"Another Musketeer?" Bourdon hissed, releasing him with a shove. "'m not riskin' one of m'bees for that scum!"

"I saw one," a small voice said from the end of the room. "Earlier on...in them tunnels."

Athos' heart skipped a beat and relocated to his mouth. The young girl who had spoken moved closer to the table, pulling something from a pocket in her skirt. Even from a distance, he recognized it well enough.

Tired of seeing Aramis fishing for loose coins inside his breeches' bottomless pockets, he and Porthos had decided to gift him with a small leather pouch, embroidered with a simple fleur de lis, to keep his money in. The same pouch the young girl had just tossed on top of the table.

"You saw him! Where? How fares he? Is he hurt?"

The questions poured out of Porthos' mouth like a stream of rushing water. He hadn't failed to recognize the pouch either.

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but a look from Bourdon rendered her mute. "I don't recall sayin' that I'd help ya, Porthos," he said, a dangerous glint surging into his eyes. "Though it seems t'me that, now, I'm in a rather privileged position to help ya save yer...brother."

Athos' blood turned into ice. He knew where this was going and found himself helpless to make it stop.

"Wha' do you want, Bourdon?"

The older man picked up Aramis' pouch, jingling the few coins inside, taunting Porthos. "There's a man workin' the same...trade as us," he went on, his tone casual and relaxed. "A few days hence, he made me lose one of me best workers...almost as good as you, that lad was."

"Get to your point," Porthos growled, his eyes fixed on the pouch in the man's hands. Now that he could see it better, Athos noticed the dark stains on the leather.

"I wish to repay 'im in kind," Bourdon spat, throwing the pouch onto the table. "I want ya t'rob him of his best thief. Do that, and I'll allow my lil' bee to take ya t'yer friend."

"Porthos, no! You cannot...Aramis would hate himself for it!"

Athos' words, however, fell on deaf ears. Porthos had a determined and feral look in his eyes and, in that second, Athos realized that there was nothing that the man would not do for his friends. It was, at once, humbling and terrifying.

"Who is he? Where do I find 'im?"

"Her," Bourdon corrected with a yellow-toothed smile. "Sarazin holds court at the Moonlit Tavern. Ye'll find her there."

Porthos hands were tight fists, all of his barely-contained anger and frustration apparently trapped under his knuckles. "Fine...tell us where Aramis is and I'll do what'ver ya want after."

Bourdon laughed heartily, hands slapping his thighs in a show of utter amusement. "I'd forgotten wha' a jester ya were, Porthos!" he said, between chuckles. The second his mirth died down, he snapped his fingers and pointed to Athos.

Athos could guess what was to come even before he felt himself being grabbed from behind and pushed to the floor on his knees. The world disappeared from view as a burlap sack was pulled over his head. Still, Athos could hear Porthos' harsh breathing and Bourdon's raspy voice. "Ya will do this now, and ya'll be quick about it," the man declared, footsteps echoing between his words. "Yer friend and us will be waitin' fer ya...right here."

~§~

The old map of the catacombs that the Cardinal had provided was meticulously accurate, allowing Rochefort to walk the underground tunnels with the same ease he could navigate the Louvre's many corridors.

The place stank of mold and animal feces, but the Comte's mind was too troubled to take notice of such trivialities. His thoughts refused to quiet down and the visit to his favorite brothel, rather than work towards easing his strain, had left him rather unsatisfied and feeling more jittery than before.

The prospect of disappointing the Cardinal made him hot with anger and not even the release that sex provided had managed to dilute the feeling. The only way he would be able to quell the itchy feeling under his skin was, Rochefort figured, to make the prisoner bend to their wishes and be done with it.

Rounding a sharp turn, Rochefort descended the short steps that lead into the old chapel. Even before he could see him, the Comte could smell his prisoner: blood, sweat and despair, sweeter than the finest perfume coin could buy. He could smell wine as well, remembering with a smile the state he had left the other man in.

It wouldn't be long now, he was sure. Already the Musketeer had endured more than Rochefort would've given him credit for. Now, it was time to up the game.

"Sleep well, Musketeer?" he called out, satisfied to see the man jerk and recoil at the sudden sound. The sun was still a few hours from rising, but trapped as he had been, for almost two days now, Rochefort knew that the man had no inkling of what time it was. That, at least, he could inform him of. "It's time to choose, Aramis."

~§~

Aramis lurched awake, not having realized that his senses had abandoned him.

He remembered the feeling of enthrallment cast by the lit candle, left in the wake of his vision of the little girl, his heart foolishly taking comfort in its feeble light. It turned his despair all the more sharp as the wick burned away and the light famished into nothingness, with no more excuses to burn.

In the dark, with no more proof remaining that the girl had ever been there, Aramis had been forced to accept the evidence that he was all alone. He had always been alone and there would be no help coming for him from Treville or his friends.

"So? Out with it...what shall it be?" The cold, mocking voice who pulled Aramis from the void, asked again. "What did you choose?"

Even though the sound had brought him back to awareness, his senses were still too sluggish and refused to offer him any convincing answers for questions as simple as 'where was he?' and 'who had spoken?'.

For a second, in his confusion, Aramis believed that the girl had changed her mind and returned to help or let him know that she had found Treville and told him of Aramis' location. But that voice belonged not to his Captain or any other he called friend.

His tormentor had returned, apparently eager to resume their games. The entire span of a night could have not gone by so quickly, Aramis was sure of that. Or maybe he had been so lost inside his head that hours had poured over him, unnoticed and unaccounted. He opened his mouth to speak, feeling his voice croak and wither away inside his throat. Swallowing, Aramis tried again. "Choose...what?"

The set of iron shears that suddenly appeared in his line of sight looked old and rusty, barely sharp enough to cut paper. He shuddered at the thought of those rusty blades being used to cut anything else but foliage.

"You choose," the man said, letting the shears travel down the length of Aramis' body before pushing the closed blades in between his legs. "Or I do."

Aramis could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, urging him to escape. His breath stuttered and dark spots started to grace his vision before he realized that he had stopped breathing altogether. This was too much, he couldn't do this... "I still don't know of what crimes I'm accused..."

The man pounced, the shears moving from Aramis' groin to his head. Unable to face what was to come next, he closed his eyes, even as he heard the sickly sound of the blades parting. They closed with a sharp snap near his left ear, the resulting rush of air brushing his skin like a lover's kiss.

Aramis gasped, waiting for the pain to come, certain that he had just lost an ear. When a few seconds passed and he still wasn't aware of any new source of agony, he opened his eyes. At his feet, almost invisible amongst the stain of wine and glass, was a lock of his dark hair.

"That was not the question I asked," the man hissed, his face inches away. Aramis could smell wine and...something…else that he dared not identify, in his breath. "What do you chose?"

For the first time since the man had issued his threat, Aramis found himself considering an answer, pondering which body part he could do without. His mind shuddered and went blank for a second at the enormity of the demand, but still he forced himself to think.

As a Musketeer, Aramis knew that his hands and eyes were the most important tools of his trade. If he were to lose the use of either, he would be of no service to the regiment. Perhaps a toe? He would still be able to walk if he had less than ten toes, would he not?

"You take too long," the man said, his words heavy with boredom, as he moved to Aramis' right hand. "I think we'll start with a thumb..."

"No!" Aramis let out, not bothering to hide the sheer panic that laced his voice. He would never be able to load his pistol again without his right thumb. "Please...d-don't," he begged.

The man's reaction to the broken tone was not lost on Aramis. His tormentor's breathing sped up and there was a pink flush to his cheeks that had not been there a moment before. He was excited, like the women whose ears Aramis whispered poetry into, before bedding them.

Hiding his revulsion at the reaction, Aramis' terrified mind decided to play on that emotion. The Cardinal's man seemed to enjoy debasing and humiliating others...Aramis could give him that.

The feeling of his right thumb being pulled away from his fisted hand and the rusty blades adjusting around it made certain that there was little acting required on Aramis' part. The tears, however, took some effort. "Please...don't...anything, I'll do anything, say anything..." he mumbled, feeding anger into his despair, praying that the other man bought his act before he actually lost a finger.

The man ignored his pleas.

The shears did not stop and Aramis' panic increased tenfold. Carefully cataloguing every sensation coming from the menaced finger, the Musketeer could feel the cold press of iron against his skin, could sense the pressure slowly rising as the blades closed around his thumb, hot blood rushing out as iron broke through skin.

It was his last resort, one that Aramis had no wish to use, but one that he preferred largely over losing part of his hand. The ultimate humiliation that, if his judgment of the Cardinal's man character was correct, would provide distraction enough to maybe save his finger from ending up on the floor.

Closing his eyes, Aramis let his bladder go.

The lack of any liquids over the past day or more meant that there wasn't much to fill his bladder, but still, he had felt the pressure rising for the past few hours. Shame and a deep sense of manners had stopped him from allowing that pressure a release before. But now...now it was the perfect illustration for the amount of fear he needed the other man to believe him to be feeling.

The shears stopped their movement and pulled away. Aramis, breathing hard and with his chin hanging close to his chest, lacked the courage to look up and find out if his finger was still attached or not. It hurt enough for him to believe that it was nothing more than a stub now.

"You killed Gerard," the man's voice pierced through the haze of pain and shame Aramis had fallen into. "Say it!"

"I...killed Gerard," Aramis obediently repeated. Not knowing for sure if those words were true or a lie made them feel like heavy stones, sitting in the pit of his stomach.

"You killed him because he was the only accomplice left," the man went on, grabbing hold of Aramis' hair and pulling his head up, looking into his eyes. "He was the only one who could incriminate you for your part in the garrison's attack."

Aramis' eyes widened, a studied reaction that he was sure the other man would expect from him. The Captain had already told him about the Cardinal's intent to lay the blame for what had happened on him. This, he realized, was the moment he'd been waiting for. "What?"

"I'll make this easier for you, Aramis," the man offered, hissing his name like it was a curse. "You killed Gerard and tried to blow up the garrison because you are a Spanish spy, ordered to plant chaos and disorder amongst the King's own guards. You were responsible for the explosion, just as you were responsible for that whole Savoy debacle," he went on, smiling at Aramis' sharp intake of breath. "Yes...I know all about that."

Aramis felt his blood turn to ice at the mention of Savoy. The faces of his dead brothers exploded like lightning bolts inside his head. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of voices filling his mind. What was the Cardinal's man implying?

"Do you really want the judges to know how you plotted, how you betrayed your fellow Musketeers into their early graves? How you hid yourself away and watched as they were butchered in their beds, while you bartered your life for theirs? Do you want them to know who you truly serve?"

"That's not true...that's not true," Aramis whispered. God...what was the man saying? No one would believe that. No one wo- "Those are lies!" he screamed, harder and louder than he had screamed before for any of his wounds. None, it seemed, had hurt and made him bleed as much as implying that his brothers were dead because he had sold them out. "Please...stop these lies..."

The shears moved once more, blades twisting around the same finger. The mere contact brought fresh tears of agony to Aramis' eyes, even as he looked on dispassionately. The tiniest pressure and it would snap free….

"Admit your guilt, Musketeer, and I might allow you to die without the shame of being branded a traitor by your own kind."

Aramis listened to the distant words through a daze of cold, swirling winds and the dying cries of twenty soldiers. There was something that he was supposed to do, he knew that much, but for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to find it important enough to be remembered.

Why was he doing this? What was so important that he had allowed himself to be pushed to the brink of madness and despair?

Different faces replaced the frozen, dead ones of that distant, cold forest. Burned ones, faces in pain, maimed brothers, attacked at home, once again killed in a place where they thought they'd be safe.

Aramis forced himself to focus, telling himself that if he let this go now, the Cardinal would never pay for what he had done to the garrison and those who called it home. His home.

He sucked in a breath, words rushing from his lips. "I can't confess...no one would believe it... Treville has -" he bit his lip, stopping himself from saying the rest, breath catching in his chest as he waited for the other man's reaction. Take the bait, he begged silently, please God, let him take the bait.

~§~

Porthos was fuming under his composed manner, more angry at himself for being such a fool than at Bourdon for being true to who and what he was. Going to the older man for help had been the last resort of a desperate man and, while it had brought them a step closer to Aramis, his foolish actions might as well have placed them miles away.

He knew Bourdon, had been under the man's tutelage for years until Porthos became too old for the kind of schemes that Bourdon preferred. He, Charon and Flea had moved on, working a scheme of their own and earning their independence, up until Porthos had decided that there was more to life than picking pockets and stealing trinkets from rich folk's homes. He had left it all behind -had left her behind- , joined the Infantry and hadn't looked back since.

He should've known that Bourdon wouldn't help him just for old-times' sake. Everything with the man was bartered and bargained for. Aramis' life would be no different, no matter how much Porthos wished it.

And now he had the lives of not only one, but two of his friends, in his hands. And those hands were shaking with anger and frustration.

Seeing Aramis' leather purse and knowing that his friend was within arm's reach, had sent Porthos' mind into overdrive. Anything Bourdon would've asked of him then, he would've said yes.

Not that Porthos had planned to rekindle his connections with the world of petty thieving, but he knew that, once he had Aramis back, safe and sound, he could easily deal with Bourdon and his schemes.

He'd forgotten what an old fox Bourdon was. And now, Porthos found himself with a shadow at his back and being pushed into killing some woman whose only crime - other than the thieving - was to work for the competition.

Soldiers didn't kill helpless people, women and children. It had been one of the first lessons he had been taught when Porthos had joined His Majesty's armies. It was a needless lesson for him, but a motto that he was glad to find in practice amongst armed men. It was one of the first things that had made him feel like he belonged there.

Porthos and the man Bourdon had sent with him moved like twin specters through the streets. Turning left, he could see the Moonlit Tavern at the end of the street, the sign above the door swinging gently in the evening breeze.

For a time, Porthos had entertained the idea of getting rid of his shadow and going back for Athos. Appealing as the idea was, he knew perfectly well that, despite his words, Bourdon would take his friend someplace else inside his labyrinthine little realm, someplace that would take time for Porthos to reach in time. Besides, he was perfectly aware that the shadow he could see was not the only person Bourdon had sent to keep an eye on him. Scattered through the streets of Paris, the old man had eyes and ears everywhere. Athos' throat would be slit and his body would vanish before Porthos could even take three steps in the wrong direction.

They waited outside the tavern. While Porthos' face was less known in those parts, his shadow was a well-known member of Bourdon's group. It would not do to enter a tavern filled with Sarazin's people and just search for their target. They would be dead faster than they could order a drink.

Each hour that passed while nothing happened, Porthos' anger and frustration grew. His stomach turned, acid burning his insides as he worried himself sick. He had failed to extract any guarantee from Bourdon that Athos would not be harmed and Aramis...

He'd seen the dark stains on the leather purse and, as much as his mind wished to ignore the implications, Porthos couldn't fool himself for long. He knew that Rochefort's treatment of his friend would have not been gentle; he knew what lengths were sometimes taken to push someone into a confession. When his mind wasn't busy trying to fool itself, it was engaged in conjuring up the most vile and tormenting forms of torture, imagining the condition in which they would find their friend...if they found him at all.

"That's her," his shadow supplied.

Porthos looked at the slender figure draped in a dark cloak as she passed, unaware of their intentions. She wasn't as young as Porthos had imagined, more of a young woman than a young girl, a beautiful woman from what he could glimpse. As if sensing his gaze, pale green eyes lifted from the ground and met his for a few seconds as she passed. Dismissing him as one more drunken vagabond wandering the streets, the woman paid them little interest as she hurried on her way.

Porthos and his shadow followed at a distance. The Musketeer grasped the hilt of the hidden blade inside his sleeve, honor and duty furiously battling with love and brotherhood inside his heart. The most dreadful question hammered inside Porthos' skull, threatening to render him senseless if not answered in haste. Was he truly prepared to sacrifice this woman's life to save his two brothers?

Covered in shame, and for a fleeting moment alone, Porthos dared to admit to himself that his answer was, unmistakably, yes.

~§~

AN: Bourdon means bumblebee in French.