Chapter 5

Light spilled from the open doorway as the Musketeers approached the Wren. Athos waived for Erias to remain hidden in the shadows across the street as he led the others silently to the tavern, swords drawn. Pushing inside, they were met with the remnants of chaos.

There were upturned tables and chairs as well as shattered glass littered across the floor. Dark purple wine stained the boards, and in a spot near where they had all been sitting hours ago, a brighter red liquid pooled in the scattered straw. A few paces beyond the blood, a familiar hat lay crushed, the bright peacock feather broken midway down the stem.

A groan to their right had all three turning to meet the threat.

Leon, the barkeep, lay sprawled against the bar, half sitting, half leaning on the filthy floor. His face was covered in blood, his eyes slits as he worked to hold his too-heavy head up against the rough wood behind him. D'Artagnan kneeled beside him and tilted his head gently, grimacing at the dark bruising under his eyes and blood still trickling from his nose.

"Leon?" the Gascon called softly. He patted the man's cheek gently. "It's d'Artagnan. Can you hear me? What happened here?"

'D'Artn'," the man mumbled in response. He blinked a couple of times and attempted to focus on the Musketeer. "'rmis…"

D'Artagnan shifted as Athos kneeled beside him and placed a hand on the wounded man's leg. "Yes, Leon. Aramis. What happened to Aramis?"

The barkeep managed to crack his eyes open and look around, groaning again when he noted the condition of the room.

"There were four – no, five – they wanted…" His eyes drifted to the left, widening as his gaze fixed on Erias who had quietly entered through the still open door. "Him…" he lifted a shaky hand and pointed accusingly. "They wanted him. Aramis wouldn't let 'em take him."

When they had returned to the city after their years away, none of them had dared hope to find the Wren a place they would still consider home, but Leon had welcomed them back with open arms, making sure they knew they had been missed. As he'd told them the first night as they'd gratefully drank the wine he insisted was on the house, the Red Guard had changed things for the worse. Knowing the Musketeers had returned would make most of the merchants and workers feel a bit more secure, the sweet smell of hope rising from the stench of corruption that had taken over Paris.

Unfortunately, it appeared their presence was not exactly in the man's best interest.

"Do you think they took Aramis?" Erias asked, his eyes roaming the destruction of the tavern.

Porthos skulked across the room and crouched down, retrieving the crumpled hat. He held it in his hands, brushing the broken feather reverently. "Aramis wouldn't have left this behind if he could've helped it." He chuckled, the sound more grim than joyous. "He loves this damn thing."

Athos stood, turning to face Erias. "Did you tell him?"

Porthos pushed himself up and returned to the others, standing just behind Athos shoulder. "Tell 'im what?"

"Why he was in Paris."

The big man frowned, his narrowed eyes watching LaMont. "I thought you said you wanted to find your long lost brother?"

His tone was accusing and Erias flinched. "It was… I mean, I… it was only part of the reason."

Porthos started forward but the Captain's hand on his chest stayed his movement.

"Did you tell him?" Athos repeated the question.

Erias had the grace to look ashamed. He shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I couldn't. I tried but," he shrugged. "We were going to discuss it tomorrow morning. When our minds weren't so muddled with drink." He looked up, throwing a heated glance to the big Musketeer who still stood behind the Captain. " Besides, I didn't feel it right to burden him with my troubles considering he was shouldering enough of his own."

Porthos growled at the insinuation, but d'Artagnan pulled him away, placing himself between the big man and the innkeeper.

"I doubt Aramis would've acted any differently having known why they were here," the Gascon pointed out.

Porthos reluctantly grunted in agreement.

"Do you think they know Aramis is your brother?" Athos inquired.

Erias shrugged. "I don't see how. Nobody knows our connection."

The Captain nodded and glanced around, his eyes finally coming to rest on Leon. The barkeep still sat, propped up against the side of the bar, a rag pressed to his bleeding nose. "Then there is little more we can do for tonight. Let us get Leon somewhere where he can be attended to and return to the garrison."

"We can't just leave Aramis out there," Porthos protested. "We have to do somethin'."

"What?" Athos asked calmly. "We have no idea where they would take him. It is quite late and there is no one to question other than Leon and I believe he has told us all he knows." He held up a hand to quiet any further argument. "Aramis is not Cardonne's objective and they cannot use a dead man as barter. We can assume they will use Aramis to trade for what they want."

D'Artagnan snorted a laugh. "And knowing Aramis, he'll make them quite eager to make that trade."

"Wait," Erias interrupted. "You're really not going after them?"

Surprisingly, it was Porthos who answered. "Aramis would want us to make sure you were safe." His lips curled into a fond grin. "And d'Artagnan's right. Aramis is more than capable of annoying anyone who has the misfortune to hold him against his will."

Athos huffed in agreement. "Cardonne has no idea what he's let himself in for."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The first thing Aramis noted as he regained consciousness was that he was no longer in the familiar comfort of the tavern. The ground felt cold and hard, the chill in the surrounding air leaving his skin prickling. The sour odor of waste that accompanied his intake of breath was almost enough to send him right back into oblivion, and it took what little mental fortitude he could muster to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

As his senses adjusted, he calculated the various aches and pains beginning to make themselves known. His head pounded relentlessly, making it difficult to form a coherent thought, and his shoulders and butt ached, stiff from the position he'd been sitting in for who knows how long. He could feel a worn wooden beam at his back, his arms pulled tight around it. Lifting his head was a trial in itself, his brain sloshing against his skull as he settled back against the rough wood behind him.

Cracking his eyes open, he was met with darkness. The last thing he remembered was fighting the men who had come for Erias at the Wren, but he had no idea how much time had passed. From the stiffness in his body, he assumed he'd been here for at least a few hours, but could not discern whether the darkness was due to his current accommodations or if night still blanketed the city.

With a groan he shifted, pushing himself up further to take some of the strain off his neck and back. He instinctively twisted his wrists, trying to work them free. His attempts to loosen the ropes only managed to inflict a burning pain and he quickly aborted the effort. He swallowed roughly, licking his dry lips, wishing absently for a sip of wine to ease his parched throat.

Forcing his lids wider, he squinted through the dim light, his eyes landing on the cracked wall opposite him. He was in a room, barely the width of a fully-grown man, probably a washhouse or storeroom. The thick beam he was bound to sat in the center of the room, his outstretched feet almost touching the weathered wood of the far wall.

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision he could see small cracks in the wood. No light penetrated. It was still night. Knowing he hadn't been out for too long made things a bit more bearable. He'd hoped Erias would make it to the garrison and return with reinforcements before the soldiers were able to overpower him, but it would seem that was not the case. He distinctly remembered the blond man stating they'd come for his brother, but he hadn't taken the time to ask why. No matter what Erias may have done, it was obvious these men intended him harm, and Aramis would not allow that under any circumstance. He fancied himself a good judge of character and despite his bias toward his own flesh and blood, he'd sensed a malevolence in the soldiers that he did not see in his brother.

Approaching footsteps outside the room broke his train of thought and he managed to plaster a defiant smile on his face as the door to the small space creaked open.

"I see you're awake, Musketeer," the blond man greeted as he stepped through the threshold. "Perhaps you are more willing to cooperate now."

"Does knocking a man unconscious and tying him to a post normally garner good will where you come from?" Aramis asked flippantly.

Blondie laughed. "It usually does the trick."

"Remind me to avoid visiting there."

"Tell us where we can find Erias LaMonte and you need never step foot near Everoux."

Aramis felt a tinge of relief knowing they had not managed to capture his brother as well. "I assume by now he is safely ensconced at the garrison under the protection of the Musketeers." Aramis grinned, insolent. "Far out of your reach."

"If that is true, I need only send my men to fetch him. I have already met with your Captain; Athos is it? He has assured me of his assistance in this matter."

Aramis knew Athos would never hand Erias over and forced himself not to react to the man's suggestion.

"Athos would never turn anyone over to the likes of you," he spat. "Not without a direct order from the King."

"Then perhaps I will petition the King," Blondie shrugged. "I'm sure the word of a Comte would carry more weight than that of a Musketeer. Especially one who is protecting a thief and murderer." The man pulled his hands behind his back and stepped fully into the tiny room. He walked around the post to stand at Aramis' back and the Musketeer twisted, straining to keep him within sight. "I must admit, though, I am surprised someone as mundane as LaMonte would have a Musketeer for a brother. Apparently the King will take anyone these days."

Aramis seethed at the dispersion cast toward the regiment – and his brother – but did not rise to the bait. "The Musketeers remain the most honorable of Louis' forces. It's a shame that distinction is not echoed in lesser regiments."

He gasped at the flash of pain as Blondie grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, his already pounding head exploding as it slammed into the unforgiving post. "Be careful, Musketeer. You are not our prize and I have no problem using you to get what I want."

"Kill me and they will hunt you down," Aramis managed through gritted teeth.

"I'm not going to kill you." Blondie's breath was hot against his cheek. "But you will help me send your friends a message." He shoved Aramis' head forward and stood, backing through the door. He nodded to someone just out of the Musketeer's line of sight. "Make sure the message is loud and clear," he instructed to whomever remained outside. He turned back to Aramis, his smile cold. "I wouldn't want his Captain to misinterpret our meaning."

Aramis swallowed as Blondie stepped away and another of the men he remembered from the Wren – the one he'd hit with the table leg if the large bruise on the side of his face was any indication – filled the threshold. The man smiled and raised his hand, slapping a suspiciously recognizable piece of splintered wood against his palm.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

A pounding on Athos' door brought the Captain to full wakefulness. He could tell from the way the sun slanted through the window that it was just after dawn. Worry for his friend had kept him awake most of the night, dropping off at his desk what felt like only moments before. He rubbed a hand down his face, his eyes surveying the other men crowded into his quarters.

Erias sat on the bed, his back against the wall. His eyes were open but distant, no doubt contemplating the havoc he had brought down on his younger brother's shoulders. Both d'Artagnan and Porthos had deigned to stay close. The young Gascon lay sprawled sideways across Athos' desk, head pillowed by an arm Athos was certain would prickle with pins and needles from its position throughout the night. Porthos sat in one of the rickety chairs normally situated across the desk. He'd pushed it to the far wall near the door, leaning back, one foot hooked in the rung as the other kept purchase with the floor. The chair dropped with a thud the moment the knock sounded against the wood of the door.

"Come," Athos bellowed. He cleared his throat as the door swung open to reveal Brujon holding a wrapped parcel in his hands.

"This was left for you, Captain."

Porthos snatched the parcel from the started cadet's hands as soon as he stepped into the room.

"Thank you Brujon. Who delivered it?" Athos trained his eyes on the parcel as Porthos gently laid it on the cluttered desk.

Brujon shook his head. "The man was cloaked, sir. He tossed it to the guard on duty and rode off. Deluca thought it best to bring it to your attention rather than pursue."

Athos nodded. "Thank you."

The cadet returned the nod and slipped back through the door as Porthos stepped back, hands on hips, studying the package as if it held the answers to all the world's problems.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked from Athos' right. The young Musketeer had pushed himself erect in his chair and was also eyeing the wrapped package with trepidation.

With an uneasy glance at Porthos, Athos grasped the dagger lying on the desk and forcefully cut through the cord holding the wrappings closed. As the material fell away, his heart skipped a beat.

Lying before them was an achingly familiar pauldron. The worn leather was streaked with blood, sticky and dark where it soaked into the etched fleur-di-lis.

Porthos reached for the pauldron as Athos slowly opened the small piece of parchment crumpled atop it.

"We hold your Musketeer," he read, his voice flat. "We will exchange him for the murderer and thief, LaMont. Leave word with the innkeeper at the Wren. Do not delay. Your man will not last long." He folded the note and glanced around at the somber faces circling the desk.

Erias had joined them and stood directly behind d'Artagnan's chair. As Athos tossed the note onto the desk, LaMonte made a move toward the door but was thwarted by Porthos' grip on his arm.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" the big man growled.

Erias tried to shake off the hold, but the Musketeer held firm. "I should never have come here. When I'm gone they will have no reason to hold Aramis."

Porthos yanked him back and tossed him down into the chair beside the door. "You're not going' anywhere." He snatched the pauldron from the desk and held the bloodied piece of leather directly in front of LaMonte's face. "You see this? They cut this off 'im." He shook the pauldron angrily, the severed straps swinging from the bindings. "This is your brother's blood. The brother who took on five men to save your worthless hide."

"Porthos." Athos stepped around the desk and laid a hand on the big man's arm, only to have it shrugged off as Porthos leaned closer to Erias.

"Aramis didn't hesitate to sacrifice himself for you, and you're goin' to turn away?"

Erias pressed back into the wall but turned his face up, giving Porthos a defiant scowl. "I'm not a fighter, I'll admit. I don't want to see him harmed. Perhaps if I leave they will follow."

Porthos snorted a laugh. "If you leave, they'll kill 'im! This is how you repay him for welcoming you with no questions asked?"

"That's rich coming from a man who continues to hold Aramis' vow to God against him." Erias stood, forcing the Musketeer to take a surprised step back. "You haven't said a civil word to him since I arrived. All because he chose a different path than the one you wanted him to. Is that how you repay him for years of friendship?"

Porthos looked like he was going to hit the man for a moment before dropping his shoulders and clutching the pauldron in his fists.

"You're right," the big man admitted. "I'm angry. I had to learn to live without my best friend, the man I always trusted to have my back and it made me resent the God he'd chosen over us." He turned away, avoiding the eyes riveted on him. "Aramis' absence made me feel cut open in a way I'd never felt before and I hated it." Finally he looked up, catching d'Artagnan's then Athos' gaze. "I don't mean –"

Athos waved the explanation away, favoring his friend with a sad, knowing grin. "We know." He glanced toward d'Artagnan before again focusing on Porthos. "We both felt the same. Some holes cannot be so readily filled."

Porthos nodded in agreement. He turned back to Erias. "Whatever is going on between us, we'll work it out in time. I don't doubt that. But he needs us to have his back now. He needs you to have his back."

"Those are pretty words," Erias scoffed, unconvinced.

Porthos held up a hand. "I admit I've been struggling to find a way to trust Aramis again, to believe he's really and truly here to stay. But I would never turn my back on him when he needs me. I would lay down my life for him without hesitation as I know he would do for me." He stood to his full height and returned Erias scowl. "You, as his blood brother, shouldn't hesitate to do the same."

Erias deflated, Porthos' challenge warring with the fear Cardonne and his men elicited. "But I'm not a Musketeer. I'm just an innkeeper who got in over his head. What could I possibly do besides give myself up and face the Comte's injustice? I don't want to die for something I didn't do."

Athos moved closer and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "We won't let that happen," he assured the innkeeper. He chuckled as he glanced at the other two Musketeers. "Aramis would never forgive us if we allowed anything to happen to you."

Porthos held up the pauldron, his face a mask of furious intent. "Forgiveness is something this compte is goin' to be askin' for when we get through with his men."

Erias took a moment to study each of the three men his brother held in such high regard. Finally seeing what he needed in their determined stances, he took a deep breath and nodded. "All right. What do you want me to do?"

TBC