Note; Sorry there are no tildes on the n in Senor, when I figure out how to do it I will come back and fix it!

Chapter 2

Aramis and d'Artagnan have been gone for three full days now. Actually, Athos doesn't know precisely at what point they'd been ambushed, but they'd departed the Musketeer's camp three days earlier, delivered their correspondence to the Captain of the small French outpost the same day and spent the night within the safety of the stronghold. Early yesterday morning they'd saddled fresh horses since one of theirs had thrown a shoe and the other seemed to be suffering unduly from the cold. They bid the Captain farewell and headed back towards the Musketeers camp. Aside from their horses and belongings, no one has seen them since.

The fact that no bodies have been found is the only thing keeping their hope alive. Henri chose to lead the patrol that Athos had ordered sent to the outpost himself. Athos had wanted them to ride out the previous afternoon, as soon as Hubert and his men had returned with Aramis and d'Artagnan's horses, but a fresh snowfall prevented the anxious Henri from departing with Lacroix, Laurent and Pierre and they'd been forced to wait until early this morning. The four young Musketeers had just returned an hour earlier, sometime near dusk, disappointed that they'd received no helpful information, aside from the fact that the dispatches had been safely delivered. On the road to and from their destination the Musketeers hadn't found any new clues, nor had the scouts that had been scouring the area all throughout the day.

Athos and Porthos have spent the past two hours conferring with the scouts in the mess tent. They'd gone over maps, discussed possible hiding places - an old mill and a derelict monastery – between the Musketeers camp and the area around the main Spanish stronghold of Arras that the Spanish could be using as an outpost or a way-station between the French troops and the walled town. Athos was almost certain that his Musketeers were not actually within the walls of the Spanish-held Arras…yet. The General has his own spies, diligently following every movement in and out of the fortified walls of the most important Spanish garrison in their immediate area, and comings and goings have apparently been limited in the past week, with no sign of the two Musketeers being taken into the town. Porthos confirms this by riding to the General's camp himself to meet with the spies, who assure him that neither them nor any of their comrades who patrol the area around the clock have seen any sign of Aramis or d'Artagnan. The fact that they are almost certainly not within the walls is a huge relief to Athos; mounting a rescue mission inside of Arras would be suicidal and logistically impossible.

The scouts are four men who are military trained and hail from the areas around Arras. They are not Musketeers and they report directly to General Dubois and are 'on loan' so to speak to the Musketeers whose own scouts are exemplary but do not know this northern terrain like Michel, Alphonse, Denis and Nicolas do. These are pseudonyms since the men fear for their families and their property, seeing as their homes are so close to Arras and the Spanish troops stationed there. They wear non-descript clothing and always have their faces covered, even from their superiors so Athos has never seen them without their hats, cloaks and scarves tied around the bottom of their faces.

Porthos cannot hide the fact that he doesn't trust them. He doesn't doubt their skills; they are cunning and stealthy and move like ghosts around the countryside and have not disappointed the Musketeers in any way since they've be assigned to the regiment . But Porthos had complained to Athos on more than one occasion that it's unnerving to speak to these men who hide their faces behind dark, muslin scarves; if you can't see a man's expression, he insists, you can't tell if he's lying or telling you the truth, if he's an honest man or a thief, and these four men hold the lives of thousands in their hands. They do no interact with the rest of the regiment in any way, shape or form; they eat, sleep, bathe and pray on their own they even have their own latrines as they do not want anyone to see any recognisable scars or marks they might have on their bodies. Athos tends to agree with Porthos to some extent but he also understands that these men have families to protect, the job they do is very well paid but comes with a high personal risk, he can't blame them for being cautious. They are also probably their only hope of finding Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Athos and Porthos have not discussed what a prolonged absence of their brothers could mean. It hasn't been necessary. They are both fully aware of the fact that although they might have been alive when they'd been taken – a hope they'd been clinging to due to the absence of anything to prove otherwise – one or both of them could easily be dead by now. Or the Spanish may be torturing them for information, something they'd become quite notorious for despite the treaties that had been signed laying down a set of standards for the treatment of prisoners of war. If the amount of blood found in the snow is any indication, one or both are probably injured, something that makes Athos even more apprehensive, as he doubts their wounds would be treated properly.

Aramis fortunately has been, for the most part, fit the past few months, which is to his advantage if he's been injured but d'Artagnan has only recently began to eat normally and he's managed to regain only some of the endurance and the strength that had eluded after the injuries he'd sustained four months prior. He's still far too thin and lacks the stamina he'd had when they'd left Paris but he's lost the gauntness that had made Athos physically cringe and his colour had returned, the waxy-paleness giving way to the return of his natural, swarthy Gascon colouring.

The only reason Athos had allowed him to accompany Aramis on his urgent mission instead of Porthos was due to Porthos' ill health, that and the boy's irritating and insistent needling that he be allowed to go and his heated complaints that Athos was treating him like something broken and fragile. If he had done so, it was not consciously, because although Athos had a very special place in his heart for the lad, he is also exceedingly careful not to show any deference to him since doing so would sow discontent, something Athos would not tolerate in his regiment. In the end Athos had relented, and he hopes to God that his decision hadn't caused any undue harm to come to either of his brothers; although Aramis is an experienced soldier and superb marksman he would expect d'Artagnan to have his back and by the same token he shouldn't have to take care of a weakened d'Artagnan. The fact that Aramis himself had encouraged the decision to take their youngest along does nothing to soothe Athos' conscience in any way.

It's snowing again and it's far too late into the evening to make any further progress tonight so it has been agreed that the scouts will check the areas they'd mapped out together at first light. Porthos has borrowed a cot from the infirmary and made Athos' tent his temporary home until the others are found as he refuses to miss even one update or report given to Athos. He's asleep now, exhausted from his mad dash to the main French camp earlier to meet with the General's spies, as well as under the weather. He and at least a dozen other Musketeers had been suffering from a bout of winter ague; chills, fever and a sore throat and it's the first time the big man has actually slept soundly in the past few days. If Athos had accidentally put a drop of Aramis' special sleeping potion in Porthos' wine, well no one is the wiser, and his brother desperately needs the rest, especially since he's insistent on going along with the scouts on their morning mission. Athos will likely send Henri along as well; someone will need to keep an eye on Porthos and the scouts, while decent men, are not going to worry about Porthos' health whereas Henri is not only one his best soldiers, he is one of the kindest young men in the regiment, he'll watch over Porthos as d'Artaganan or Aramis would if they could.

…and as they will again, as soon as they're found, safe and whole.

Aramis has spent the entirety of his second day in captivity confined to his sickbed. His shoulder injury had started to show signs of infection and the physician had reopened the wound , cleaned it and sewn it shut again, and to do it he'd forced a sleeping draught down Aramis' throat – literally at gunpoint by one of the Spanish officer's men, and with the threat of harm to d'Artagnan as an incentive to swallow.

By nightfall he's awake again, fevered and restless, and a literal army of men comes to tend to him with the haughty Spaniard standing watch at the door of his cell, supervising. Any protest from Aramis is followed by threats to his brother so he simply gives in for the moment since it's the best way he knows to keep d'Artagnan safe until they're rescued.

He's asked the physician repeatedly if anyone has seen to the boy but although the old man appears sympathetic he says nothing. He is a skilled healer and he works quickly and efficiently and Aramis is sure the infection will pass quickly. The only problem with that if he's lucid and well, the Spaniard – a important and titled General the physician had informed him earlier in the day - will expect him to give him his decision regarding his and d'Artagnan's fate. For the moment, he plays possum and tries to appear much sicker than he really is when the General sits in the chair beside his bed and requests exactly that.

"I'd given you until this morning to decide how you wanted to proceed, Senor, and I've been patient due to your fevered state. However, my physician informs me that despite your condition, you are well enough to discuss…business with me," the General says in an arrogant tone. "Now, what do you say, my dear sir?"

Aramis pries his eyes open, blinking theatrically and he pulls the blankets up to his neck, shivering and sinking deeper into the mattress. "With all due respect, can this…wait…until tomorrow? I fear…I am too…unwell to think clearly, Senor," he says, stuttering the words through chattering teeth, doing his utmost to convince the loathsome Spaniard that he is too ill to be fully coherent.

"I hope you're not trying to deceive me, Senor Aramis, because if you are, the boy will receive those five lashes I'd promised last night. Now, are you truly too ill or are you trying to buy that wretch a reprieve?" the General demands of Aramis.

"Lying in a sin, Senor," Aramis says with contrived affront.

The General rises and paces the floor of the cell, his silence is unnerving to the anxious Aramis.

"And yet, I think that you are lying to me, Senor, despite that fact," he says finally. "My physician says that you are indeed fevered, but not incapacitated," he informs Aramis calmly.

Aramis frowns. "Regardless, I do not feel that I am capable of making an informed decision at the moment. I am in a great deal of pain and my head is throbbing from the fever that has taken hold of me," Aramis informs him weakly, praying that he sounds convincing as d'Artagnan's well-being depends on it.

"I wonder if I should test your sincerity, by, say, bringing the boy in here and giving him a good thrashing. Would you suddenly improve and begin to talk? Or maybe even rise from your sickbed and defend the whelp or would you just lie there, listlessly, too ill to raise your head from that pillow. That could be an interesting exercise, indeed."

Aramis knows the bastard General is goading him and he's trying his utmost not to rise to the bait. "If you were to do something like that it would be dishonourable of me to not attempt to shield him, whether I'm physically capable or not. He's barely older than a child, can you not find it in your heart to show him some compassion?" Aramis asks feebly, continuing his ruse.

"He's a murdering bastard! And you keep saying he's just a boy, but my men say he's old enough to be married!" the General replies angrily, still pacing. "The more you defend him, the more you provoke me, Senor Aramis, I suggest you spend your time sharing some of your Musketeers' secrets instead if you want to keep him alive, because it's obvious you are not interested in going free and leaving him behind. My new offer is this; give me information or he's whipped every day, three times a day, five lashes at a time, so that he will never heal, every stroke of the whip will fall on some older wound, making a disgusting, infected, pulpy mess of skin on his back. And he will suffer, I promise you that, he will feel every single strike, and in between he will lie on the cold, stone floor of his cell where he will writhe in agony and burn with fever, alone, hungry and thirsty, his wounds festering…"

"ENOUGH!" Aramis roars, and he eases himself up until he's sitting in his bed, both hands buried deep in his hair, tugging at the sweaty strands in horror and frustration and pure fear. "Enough! I will do what you ask, just please, let him be," he mutters, desolate. The wound in his shoulder is throbbing and his skin is burning, and he knows he's fevered again. And he's expected to negotiate for the life of one of his brothers, their youngest, and the only one of the them that is still mostly untainted by the violence and the brutality of the life of a Musketeer and a soldier and Aramis, desperate to keep him safe, feels utterly lost.

"Alejandro, it seems that our monk has indeed committed a sin; he's been lying to us," he says to one of his men, indicating Aramis, who no longer resembles the shivering and weakened patient he did moments before, "and as a result his friend will be punished. Five lashes for the filthy whelp will do for now, and in the meanwhile we will give Senor Aramis a chance to contemplate and repent for his sin while he mends."

"NO!" Aramis cries out and he swings his legs over the side of the bed, quickly losing his balance and he crashes to the floor, his head hitting the uneven stones violently and he momentarily loses consciousness.

Seconds later he is being lifted, gently, to his bed and the General commands that the physician be summoned to see to the cut on the side of his face and the swelling on his temple. His shoulder has gone numb but Aramis expects the pain to return with full force once he catches his breath.

But that never happens, because the physician appears at once and a vile potion is once again poured down his throat and despite his rambling protestations, and his fever induced, near-hysterical begging for his little brother's life, the General appeared unmoved.

"If you hurt him, I won't help you," Aramis warns for the hundredth time, his now words slurring.

"But if I don't hurt him you won't help me anyway," the General replies flatly, "because you have yet to take my threats seriously."

For the first time in many years, Aramis finds himself without his infamous restraint and his uncanny ability to use his wit and charm to keep control of even the most difficult situations; his injury has rendered his body weak and the fever and the drugs have made his mind cloudy, and he is powerless to do anything to stop the odious General from putting d'Artagnan to the lash.

The sleeping draught is potent and it quickly takes hold, and Aramis tumbles anguished, and against his will, into a dark and dreamless sleep.

D'Artagnan spent the previous night huddled in the corner farthest from the open window, the two frozen stone walls on either side his best protection against the wind. In the morning, he'd nearly wept from gratitude when he opened his eyes and realised that his unlikely friend had indeed managed to close off the broken window from the outside, using what appears to be a tarp that although thoroughly covers the entire opening, still allows enough light to pass so that d'Artagnan will not be bathed in total darkness.

He's not much of a praying man, and he doubts with his multitude of sins that he'd ever find his way to Heaven, but d'Artagnan spends the better part of his day begging God to keep the seriously wounded Aramis safe while they wait for Athos and Porthos to find them. He's become somewhat delirious from cold and hunger and thirst and without realising it, his prayers become a continuous mantra. He prays for Aramis and for a swift rescue before his brother dies. Aramis is a devout man and more so now after his time at Douai, surely God would protect such a man from further harm? He thanks God for the benevolent lieutenant and begs Him to keep the man and his family safe from harm. He prays for the safety of his regiment and his brothers, Athos and Porthos, who he knows will be out of their minds with worry. And he prays for Constance, the kindest and most generous soul in all of France. He'd told her this once and he'd meant it with all his heart, and he asks God to give her strength in the event that he returns to Paris in a box instead of mounted on his horse.

The day wanes and d'Artagnan drifts between sleep and awareness, rising only once on trembling legs to relieve himself. There is no chamber pot so with no other choice he kicks some leaves and twigs into the farthest corner and when he's done he covers the puddle of urine with the debris that had fallen into his cell in from the window, and he hopes that the dank cell does not begin to reek from the smell. When he's done he stumbles back to his corner where he holds his injured left arm carefully with his right and huddles miserably under his cloak until sleep takes him again.

At some point in the evening the heavy door opens and he's shocked awake as four soldiers enter his cell and drag him to his feet. His shoulder is jarred painfully and he bites the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out. Behind them, the General strides in, carrying a lamp, and d'Artagnan can see his face is twisted into a mask of rage. The soldiers release him and d'Artagnan struggles to stay upright but his pride doesn't allow him to fall.

"Strip down to your drawers," he demands in perfect French and d'Artagnan goes rigid with shock.

"I'd rather die," the Gascon says defiantly, as he imagines what removing his clothes could mean.

The General steps forward and deals him a hard blow to the face that sends him hurtling backwards towards the wall.

"Filthy degenerate, we are Christian soldiers, you French pig!" he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. "Now strip or my men will do it for you!"

With no other choice, d'Artagnan slowly begins to remove his clothes, dropping them into a pile in the corner until he's only wearing his shirt, stockings and drawers.

"Everything aside from your underclothes, off!" the General demands and d'Artagnan complies, wondering if he could manage to break the General's neck before his men kill him. He's tempted, by God he wants to rip the man's entrails out but he wills himself to remain calm, mostly for the sake of his brother, whose fate is still unknown to him.

Standing in only his drawers, expression defiant, he is pushed out of the cell and into the freezing corridor by the General's men and he's marched up the cold stone steps and shockingly, outside into the darkened courtyard. He walks over the snow covered ground as steadily as he can but his bare feet have gone numb and he stumbles, only to be righted viciously by one of the soldiers, who drags him forward by his injured left arm.

A few more steps and he pushed against a post, his hands pulled above his head, wrenching his injured shoulder and this time d'Artagnan cannot stop the scream that escapes from his dry and aching throat.

"Your friend, the monk, has failed you, filthy wretch, and you will pay the price for his stupidity," the General hisses. He takes a long, leather horse whip from one of the guards, making sure that d'Artagnan can see him running his hand over the smooth strip of hide like he's caressing a lover.

D'Artagnan remembers seeing some of his comrades sporting marks from the lash, some so deep that even decades later their backs are still scarred. A few of them even still complain of pain, whether phantom or real, but he's never felt the sting of the lash himself and in all honesty he's afraid, not of the marks or the pain, but afraid that he won't be able to retain his dignity when the sleek leather falls and rips the skin from his back.

Five hard strikes come, each one like fire licking across his back, tearing deep into his skin, through flesh and muscle, and it happens so fast he never even gets a chance to scream. When they cut him down he's panting and gasping for breath but nothing, not even a whimper escapes his throat, the shock and the erratic pounding of his heart stealing all the breath from his lungs and rendering him mute. He is dragged back to his cell in a daze by two of the soldiers who throw him onto the pile of clothing he's left behind. The General enters, using a cloth to wipe away d'Artagnan's blood from his hands, and when he meets the Gascon's defiant gaze, he lets out a booming laugh.

"Your friend said you are a highly decorated Musketeer. All I see is a skinny, dirty whelp with an unnatural tolerance for pain. Are you one of those degenerates who uses pain for pleasure?" he queries.

D'Artagnan wants to ask him how such an upstanding Christian gentleman such as himself would even now about such things. The bastard has mistaken pure shock for some sort of twisted pleasure, obviously too stupid to realise that his body's reaction to the pain was wholly physical and not in any way unnatural. He knows the agony is yet to come, when the adrenaline rush wears off and his breathing and heart rate slow, and the damaged flesh begins to try to mend itself, swelling painfully, pushing out any dirt and debris stuck in the wounds, crusting over with painful, itchy scabs. He's had enough similar injuries from swords and daggers to know exactly what it will feel like…only worse.

D'Artagnan just lays there, his chest and face thankfully resting on his discarded clothes, shivering ferociously from the cold and trying desperately to catch his breath. He is unaware of the fact that the General and his men have left and that someone else has entered his cell.

"Peace, it's just me," the lieutenant from the previous evening tells him quietly. "I'm here to tend to you, I warned the General that his fun would end quickly if your wounds became infected and you died too quickly," he says, and d'Artagnan can hear the disgust in his voice.

"Please tell me…have you seen my comrade…is he well?" d'Artagnan inquires desperately, stuttering the words out in between harsh pants.

"He's fine, I told you, the General is terrified to harm him, he fears the wrath of God, the pompous ass."

"What's your name, friend?" d'Artagnan asks, his voice a coarse whisper, his breath still coming in bursts and gasps.

"Miguel, and I know from the others that you are d'Artagnan," he says kindly. "This will hurt, my friend, brace yourself," he adds, clearly pained.

"I know, just do it," d'Artagnan replies dully.

"I must work quickly so you don't' freeze to death," the Spaniard explains succinctly, "we need to get you back into your clothes as soon as possible. Listen, I know you're married, you told the Captain that your wife is a fearless young woman, tell me about her, it will take your mind off the pain," Miguel encourages, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water.

The wet cloth gently wipes across the bleeding welts on his back and d'Artagnan can't help it, he cries out.

"Come on, now, friend, I saw you kill a man double your bulk while you were near death, surely you can withstand the sting of a bit of water on your wounds?" Miguel cajoles, his hands moving quickly and efficiently. "Now tell me about your girl, I'm guessing she was a child bride by the looks of you?"

"No, she was a widow, actually, when we finally married," d'Artagnan replies with great effort.

"Ahh, so an older woman then?" Miguel teases.

"Only by a year or two, she'd been a child bride to her loathsome first husband," he says whispers, his teeth clenching as he remembers Bonacieux and his nastiness.

"And how did you meet?"

D'Artagnan can't stop the moan that escapes when Miguel begins to rub something foul-smelling into the wounds. "I kissed her," he slurs, "I grabbed her in the market and kissed her to save my hide. Then she threatened to gut me for taking liberties, it was love at first sight," he says, the memory bringing a warmth to his soul that he hasn't felt in months. "She saved my life, multiple times, she's the most fearless woman I've ever met. But she was married, and I was madly in love with her for a very long time before we were able to be together as man and wife."

"Ah, so you became a couple as soon as her husband died?"

"No, I am ashamed to admit that we carried on without the blessing of marriage even before his was murdered by…bandits," he replies, not wanting to explain the whole sordid affair behind his nemesis' death. "We finally married the day I rode off to war," he adds, teeth chattering from the cold.

"True love, d'Artagnan, cannot be judged by man or even by God," Miguel tells him kindly. He's done with the salve and is now bandaging the wounds. "You'll need to sit up, my friend, so I may wrap the cloth around your chest and keep the bandages in place. I promise to be quick," he adds sympathetically. "Tell me, what does this feisty lady of your look like? Is she dark like you or pale like the English or maybe olive-skinned like the Spanish?"

D'Artagnan allows Miguel to help him sit, doing his best not to utter one sound as the Spaniard manoeuvres him upright. His pride and his dignity are already in tatters, and he expects that much worse is yet to come.

"Pale as alabaster, dark blue eyes like the sea at dusk, red-brown curls like the finest imported silk," d'Artagnan says sincerely.

"You have the heart of a poet, it seems," Miguel tells him fondly.

"No, that is what she truly looks like my friend, the most beautiful and the bravest and kindest woman in all France."

Miguel smiles indulgently and d'Artagnan gets his first good look at the Spaniard since the night of the duel. He's looks to be about Aramis' age and has similar features and colouring, aside from his eyes which are green. The Spaniard quickly and efficiently wraps the bandages around his torso and then helps him slide his shirt over his head.

"And you, Miguel? Are you married to some lovely Spanish beauty?" d'Artagnan asks, panting with the effort to get his breeches and stockings on. Seeing his struggle, Miguel pushes the Gascon's hands aside and put his stocking and boots on for him. D'Artagnan is shocked by the gesture but extremely grateful.

"Well my friend, you haven't answered my question?"

Miguel's expression goes blank and he begins to gather the medical supplies. He then puts a cloth that contains a piece of bread and an apple on d'Artagnan's doublet and removes a flask from inside of his coat.

"My wife and son died of a fever 10 years ago. I left my family estate and joined the military soon after, there was nothing left for me anymore," he says dully, his heartache blatantly obvious on his handsome face.

"I'm so very sorry to hear that, my friend," d'Artagnan says sincerely, not sure what else he could say to ease the Spaniard's pain. Constance has been in peril far too many times over the past few years and the fear had been crippling. He doesn't know how he would have survived had she been taken from him.

"When it happened, I prayed for death, but that's a mortal sin, as is suicide, so I decided that the army was a good place to meet my maker honourably, and be reunited with my beautiful Esme and little Carlos in heaven."

D'Artagnan recoils physically. "Please, my friend, don't tell me that you are helping me to facilitate your death all the quicker? That would simply be cruel!"

Miguel frowns. "Of course not, d'Artagnan, that would be a dishonourable way to die, I'd never do that to you or anyone else!"

D'Artagnan visibly relaxes. "I'm glad to hear that, you're a fine gentleman and caring soul, it would be a horrible loss to the world for you to be taken any sooner than the time that God has planned for you."

Miguel sighs and shows d'Artagnan the flask. "This is wine with a pain draught added," he says, changing the subject, and he pours it into the metal pitcher that had held water the previous day. "Drink it after you eat and it will help you sleep, the pain has yet to fully set in and during the night you will suffer greatly if you don't take it."

D'Artagnan nods. "I doubt that I can eat right now so I will hide what you've brought for later. Can you help me with my doublet?" his asks, his voice hoarse from dryness and pain.

Miguel shakes his head. "Don't put it on tonight, it will put undue pressure on your back. Drink the wine and lie down and I will cover you with your doublet and cloak before I go. Hurry though, friend, the others will get suspicious. You seem to lack a chamber pot and fresh water to drink and wash, I will do my best to rectify this tomorrow, I promise."

D'Artagnan drinks the wine from the pitcher and lies down on the straw carefully, and he turns slightly onto his side. Miguel covers him and shoves the food under his cloak so that no one will see it and take it away from him. The candle that the Spaniard has been using for light has almost burned down completely and the older man hastily gathers his things to go.

"Wait, Miguel, please," d'Artagnan says, remembering something urgent. He sticks his left hand out from under the cloak and offers it to the Spaniard.

"Can you take my wedding band to my friend Aramis? You said he won't come to harm, if I die here, I'd like him to take it to my wife," d'Artagnan says earnestly.

Miguel hesitates, his expression torn, but he nods and kneels down once again and slides the dull and scratched gold band from d'Artagnan's thin finger.

"I promise I will do my utmost to get it to him, if I cannot, I will return it to you, agreed?"

"Agreed," d'Artagnan says drowsily, the effects of the drugged wine, the exhaustion and the pain finally stealing the last of his strength from him. "Thank you Miguel, God bless you," d'Artagnan whispers.

"And you my friend," he hears Miguel say before the candle goes out and the door closes, leaving him alone again in his dark and frozen prison.