A/N: I should have mentioned that this story is partially a response to a prompt from the Musketeers prompt meme over on Dreamwidth. I had this idea in my head a few months ago, but put it aside until I saw a prompt requesting Spy-Aramis who gets captured by the Inseparables (who are ignorant of his mission). So, here we go. Apologies in advance for impending angst. ;)
They were each bound with rope and gathered together, herded like cattle and marched to the musketeers' camp. Aramis kept his head down, looking at no one, remaining huddled in the crowd of his fellow captives. He spared only enough time to make a quick count of the men they'd lost. Eight captives, himself included. That meant five dead. He dared not look at the bodies, dared not try to distinguish the Spanish corpses from the French.
Shoulders hunched, he allowed himself to be shoved and prodded along, dragged back to the camp where they would no doubt be detained for questioning. In light of the surprise attack, it was clear that the French hadn't been aiming for maximum destruction; they'd been looking for captives, for war prisoners and the potential information they could provide. Ironic, really. Their mission here was to gather information about French troop movements, raiding and sabotaging along the way. Instead, they would be providing information to the French. Or the others would, at any rate. Aramis hadn't yet managed to sort out his role in this little tableau, let alone begin formulating his own plans.
The pounding headache he'd been given interfered with rational thought, so he merely did his best to remain unseen and inconspicuous while flashes of various scenarios flew through his mind: visions of escape and a return to Spanish territory, images of betraying Cordero and confessing to the musketeers (or betraying the musketeers and confessing to Cordero), being shot for desertion by the Spanish, imprisoned as a war criminal by the French….
It all made little sense at the moment.
One step at a time, Aramis, he told himself, taking his own advice literally as he kept his eyes on the ground, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other to keep himself moving.
His focus was so complete that he almost jumped when Cordero made his way to his side, brushing subtly against his shoulder to get his attention.
"What happened back there?" Cordero asked, a whisper of anger barely detectable as he kept his voice low.
Aramis kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. "What do you mean?"
"You were supposed to take out their leader," Cordero whispered furiously. "How did you let this happen?"
That did get Aramis's attention, forcing him to cast a quick glance at Cordero. He saw the tight line of Cordero's jaw, but in his mind all he saw was Porthos, standing in his line of sight as he jerked the musket aside at the last moment.
"I don't know. My grip must have slipped when the musket went off."
"Slipped," Cordero scoffed. "Or perhaps you're a liability after all."
Aramis clenched his jaw, refusing to look at the lieutenant. "Hey, if I hadn't had your back, you'd have been killed the moment you charged those musketeers. So which one of us is a liability?"
Cordero huffed. He might have replied, but before he could, Aramis felt a rough blow to his shoulder, making him stumble. He looked up to a see a nameless musketeer glaring at him.
"Keep moving and be quiet," he ordered.
Aramis nodded and did as he was told.
"You're damn lucky the ball didn't get lodged in there," Porthos muttered.
D'Artagnan merely grunted in acknowledgement as Belvoir finished the last stitch and tied off the thread. He wiped away the last traces of blood before Porthos patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks, mate. I can finish up here." He waved Belvoir on, leaving him free to help the others as Porthos grabbed a bandage and began binding d'Artagnan's arm.
"It's not that bad," d'Artagnan insisted.
Porthos frowned. "It took a chunk out of your arm. I'd say that's bad enough."
He began winding the bandage tightly around d'Artagnan's upper arm to cover the wound, working silently.
"Are we going to begin questioning the prisoners?" d'Artagnan asked.
Porthos nodded. "Yeah. Marcoux already started. Athos took their lieutenant to question him separately, but Marcoux was going to see what he could learn from the others. They're under guard on the other side of the camp."
"How many did we lose?"
Porthos secured the end of the bandage with a quick tug. "Three, but I'm not sure about a couple of the wounded. Could be one more before the night's out. Several of their men didn't make it either. We captured eight in all."
"That's better than we'd expected. Do you think that's all of them?"
Porthos shrugged. "Well, our information said it was a small detachment. So probably. Hopefully Marcoux can find out." He reached out to squeeze d'Artagnan's shoulder as he stood. "You good?" D'Artagnan nodded. "Good. I'm gonna go see how Athos is coming along. You…stay here and take it easy."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, says the man who got shot."
"In the arm. It's fine."
Porthos grunted. "Just take it easy, all right?"
He didn't wait for a response and d'Artagnan watched him go, striding purposefully toward the tent where Athos had taken the Spanish leader.
To his credit, d'Artagnan did try to stay put and rest. But as he'd said, the wound wasn't bad, and his curiosity got the better of him. Standing to stretch his legs, d'Artagnan wandered through the camp, checking in with several musketeers, taking a moment to observe while Belvoir and the others were tending to the wounded. They seemed to have everything well in hand, so with no plan in mind, d'Artagnan found his feet taking him to the other side of the camp. He stopped fifteen feet from where the prisoners were held.
They were tied and bound, sitting in a loose group as Marcoux questioned one of them, several other musketeers standing guard.
D'Artagnan scanned the group of prisoners, assessing them. Most were silent and huddled on the ground, neither speaking nor looking at one another, appearing dirty and battered. Most sported bruises and cuts, some of which were surely from Marcoux's questioning. He appeared to have worked his way through most of the prisoners, interrogating the last few while d'Artagnan watched.
As d'Artagnan looked on, his eyes caught on one figure, a dark-haired man kneeling beside an injured comrade. He watched the man fumble with a poorly secured bandage looped around his friend's shoulder. Like the others, his hands were bound in front of him, making his actions clumsy and awkward.
He was about to look away when suddenly the Spaniard turned to look behind him, as if sensing d'Artagnan's presence. For a moment, d'Artagnan was startled. The man looked so much like Aramis that d'Artagnan's heart almost stopped. He took a deep breath and looked away, trying to get a grip on the overwhelming sense of nostalgia.
When they'd first left Paris and war had begun in earnest, Aramis's absence had left a palatable hole in their midst. They would be riding along and Porthos would turn to throw a joke in Aramis's direction, only to realize he wasn't there. Or d'Artagnan would see an injured comrade and begin to call for Aramis before the words died in his mouth, realizing a fraction too late that Aramis wasn't there. It had seemed as though Aramis's ghost was everywhere, haunting them with his absence as they went off to war.
So this wasn't the first time d'Artagnan had seen a dark-haired man and momentarily mistaken him for their old friend.
But when d'Artagnan looked back, the resemblance was still there, even stronger than before. And the Spanish soldier was still looking at him. D'Artagnan saw his gaze move to the bandage around d'Artagnan's arm and linger there before briefly meeting d'Artagnan's eyes and then quickly looking away.
D'Artagnan found his feet drawing him towards the prisoners without any conscious thought. When he was only a few paces away, he stopped, shocked. This was no trick of memory, no mere nostalgia.
"Aramis?"
The Spanish soldier didn't look at him, but he spoke roughly, in French.
"You mistake me, monsieur."
"No, I don't think I do," d'Artagnan said, taking two more steps forward. "Aramis, what happened? Why are you…" he gestured vaguely towards Aramis and the other prisoners.
Aramis did look up, but only met d'Artagnan's eyes for a moment. "I repeat, you are mistaken. Whatever you may be thinking, you're wrong." His sharp voice emphasized the last word, pausing before his voice took on a harsher tone. "I am not your friend."
D'Artagnan felt his heart clench, but pressed on. "Aramis, I don't…"
"How's the arm?" Aramis asked abruptly.
"It…it's fine."
"Too bad," Aramis spat out the words. D'Artagnan flinched. There was a cruel glint in Aramis's eyes that was utterly foreign to him. "Despite what you think, you don't know me." Aramis looked away with a disgusted scoff. "Perhaps you never did."
D'Artagnan stood in shook, staring for a long moment, before he spun around and stalked away.
This was insane. It made no sense. He had to find Porthos. Find Athos. They would figure this out, set things right.
Aramis let out a shuddering breath as he turned back to Matías, fumbling again with the crude bandage he'd fashioned before Matías batted his hand away.
"What did he want?"
"Nothing."
"It didn't sound like nothing." Matías didn't speak French, but he'd apparently picked up on something in the tone of their conversation. Aramis didn't respond, looking away and hearing Matías sigh. "Renato," Matías said, "just please be careful. There's no need to antagonize them."
Aramis nodded dully, and reached to check Matías's bandage again, but his companion ducked aside. "And stop fussing. It's fine. I think the bleeding's stopped. There's nothing more you can do for me."
Sinking back on his heels, Aramis forced a long breath out through clenched teeth. Nothing more you can do for me. Or for anyone, it seemed. And Aramis had a feeling matters were going to become worse before this was over.
He had no desire to lie to d'Artagnan, but he was under orders not to reveal his real mission to anyone. Ever. And here, surrounded by enemies – friends disguised as enemies, enemies who felt like friends – one wrong word could blow his cover, get him hanged by the Spanish as a spy, or by the French as a traitor, or by King Louis simply because Aramis failed to follow his orders to the letter.
Aramis closed his eyes tightly and found his stiff fingers reaching for his old rosary, a prayer for wisdom already jumping to his lips. He could certainly use some guidance about now.
"D'Artagnan are you sure you weren't mistaken? You didn't take a blow to the head you're not mentioning, did ya?"
He glared back. "No. And I'm telling you, Aramis is part of that Spanish troop."
"Aramis is safe back in some stuffy monastery. It must just be someone who looks like him."
"You go over there and then tell me that." D'Artagnan pointed towards the guards still gathered about the prisoners.
Porthos sighed. "Fine."
He marched over to the prisoners, and d'Artagnan knew he was only doing this to humor him. But it didn't matter because once he drew nearer, his whole demeanor changed. Porthos glanced back to d'Artagnan who merely raised an eyebrow – a clearly communicated "I told you so." Porthos hesitated a moment before he closed the last remaining distance and roughly seized Aramis by the shoulder, pulling the man towards him as if to get a better look at him.
Aramis was on his knees, shoulders tense and back held uncomfortably straight. But he didn't so much as flinch when Porthos grabbed him. D'Artagnan watched in stunned silence as his two friends stared at one another.
And then the moment was broken as Aramis jerked back, pulling away as he wrenched out of Porthos's grasp. It was enough to snap Porthos out of his speechless stare.
"You can't be here," Porthos said, voice tight, although whether it was from anger or the sheer relief of seeing his friend again, d'Artagnan couldn't tell. "You're supposed to be in a monastery." Aramis merely glared back at him, dark eyes unreadable. Porthos sighed as he let his arms drop to his sides. "Okay, then if you haven't been at the monastery this whole time, you better start explaining. What are you doing here?"
"I should think that would be self-evident," Aramis replied.
Porthos looked past Aramis to the other prisoners, several of whom were watching the exchange. "You're with them?"
"Yes, obviously. What an astute observation." The patronizing tone of Aramis's voice felt like a slap. It was the tone Aramis used when he unleashed his wit on someone he considered to be a complete dolt. Both Porthos and d'Artagnan had heard that tone before, but never directed at themselves.
"You can't be fightin' for the Spanish." Porthos's voice dropped, taking on a rough edge.
"Why not? It's better than fighting on behalf of a petulant child who rules France like a tyrant."
Porthos tilted his head, considering. "Are they forcing you? Were you captured and conscripted somehow?"
Aramis choked on a surprised laugh. "No. You should know that no one can force me to do something I don't want to do. I joined up willingly of my own free will." Aramis glanced between both Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Don't look so surprised. After everything that's happened, how could I pass up the opportunity to help show the illustrious king of France what a dithering fool he really is?"
"So to spite the king, you left the monastery and joined the Spanish army…just like that?"
"Yes, with pleasure."
"You were willing to throw everything away…your loyalty, your honor, our friendship…for the sake of the Spanish?"
Aramis scoffed. "Blind loyalty to a corrupt country is worth nothing to me. And there's no honor," Aramis spat the word like it was bitter on his tongue, "in France anymore. Not after the way it's been tarnished by the likes of Richelieu and Rochefort…by Louis himself." Aramis's eyes flicked away for a moment, staring past Porthos before his gaze snapped back, eyes glinting sharply. "You may be content to prostitute yourself to the filth of French nobility, but I won't."
Porthos stiffened, shifting back slightly as though recoiling from a snake that could strike at any moment. For his part, d'Artagnan blanched, struck by the venom in Aramis's words, his blood beginning to boil at the insult to everything d'Artagnan and the others had defended with their own sweat and blood. But Porthos kept on staring, assessing, as Aramis met his eye with a stony glare.
"You should watch your mouth before your slander lands you in more trouble than you're already in."
"Slander? Hardly. It's the truth, as any halfwit would tell you. Only a fool would throw aside their dignity to serve as a slavering lapdog of the decadent French court. You're not a soldier, you're nothing but a pawn who's too insensible to realize he's being kept on a leash."
Porthos stepped forward angrily, crowding Aramis's personal space. "Well, maybe you're the fool. You're blinded by your own resentment, that's what I think." D'Artagnan could see his growing anger in the tightness of his stance, the edge to his voice. Aramis had pushed him about as far as he was willing to go.
"Quite frankly," Aramis growled, "I don't give a damn what you think. I'm done with France and I'm done with you."
Porthos shook his head. "And what if I don't believe you?" he asked. His voice was steady, but d'Artagnan could hear an odd note in his tone – it sounded like an ultimatum, like a man offering one last olive branch as a final, desperate attempt at reconciliation.
Aramis's face twisted into a cruel grin. "I'd be happy to convince you. Give me a pistol and I'll prove it to you by finishing the job I started on d'Artagnan's arm."
The words knocked the breath out of d'Artagnan's lungs, and he hadn't even remotely recovered by the time Aramis hit the ground, slammed back by the power of Porthos's fist connecting solidly with his jaw.
The smack of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the camp as Porthos landed a second punch, winding his fingers in Aramis's dirty tunic to pull him up and hit him again when suddenly Athos was there at Porthos's shoulder. He let Porthos strike one more time before he seized Porthos by the arm.
"Enough," he said. Athos's voice was steady and calm, with the undeniable note of authority that cut through any resistance.
Porthos released his hold and Aramis dropped to the ground, drawing in a harsh breath. He shot a fierce glare up at the two of them and d'Artagnan was struck by the utter wrongness of the sight before him: Aramis cowering on the ground as Athos restrained a furious Porthos.
And now that he looked closer, beneath his calm veneer of command, Athos appeared almost as angry. D'Artagnan glanced around and saw two musketeers holding the Spanish lieutenant between them, and he realized that Athos must have finished questioning him for now and decided to return him to the rest of his men. If Athos had stumbled upon this twisted scene, what must he be thinking? How much had he overheard?
"Leave it," Athos commanded. "We'll finish questioning him later." His eyes wandered across the rest of the prisoners, all watching warily. "As well as the others. Perhaps then they'll be more cooperative." Athos cast a pointed glance at the Spanish lieutenant, who seemed to understand the implied threat in his words.
Then Athos turned his full attention back to Porthos. "Come. We should eat. They aren't going anywhere, and we'll have plenty of time to continue this later."
Porthos nodded and stalked off, anger radiating off him like a storm cloud.
Athos looked down at Aramis for a moment, then he turned as well, his hand coming up to touch d'Artagnan lightly on the arm and lead him away.
None of them looked back.