Aramis watched his three closest friends walk away, maintaining his stony expression and refusing to let his mask slip for a moment.
But behind that mask… Aramis couldn't even stop to let himself feel. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pull himself back together again.
He settled himself down on the ground, pulling his legs back underneath him to regain a semi-upright position. The movement caused a sharp gasp as the wound in his side made itself known. He shifted slightly, feeling the dampness sticking to his clothing just below his ribs. He'd managed to stop the bleeding once they'd arrived at the camp, but the wound must have reopened when Porthos hit him and he landed on the ground.
He bit back a breath that threatened to turn into something else.
God. Porthos had hit him. And he'd been asking for it.
He hadn't been sure it would work, had been scrambling to find the right words that would push Porthos away, convince them that Aramis really was what he pretended to be. And then he'd glanced over Porthos's shoulder only to see Athos returning with lieutenant Cordero and he'd known he had to end this before Cordero heard something he shouldn't.
While Matías and most of the others understood only a few words of French, Cordero was nearly fluent. If he heard Porthos, if he discovered that Aramis was once a musketeer….
At that moment, Aramis had known there was no going back. He had to take this charade as far as he could.
Even if it tore him apart inside.
"What did you say to him?" Matías asked, voice little more than whisper. He was clearly shaken by what he'd seen, even if he didn't fully understand it.
Aramis sighed. "I told him that I shot his friend…and then offered to finish the job."
Unable to twist his bound wrists into an appropriate position, Aramis settled for pressing his arm against his wounded side, hoping the pressure was enough to stem the bleeding.
The confrontation seemed to have disrupted the balance of the camp, but it quickly regained its equilibrium. New guards came to relieve the ones who had been watching over them. The others wandered off (in the direction that Athos had taken d'Artagnan, Aramis noted). Soon they could smell wood smoke and cooking meat. Aramis did his best to ignore the smell, grateful that meal time had taken away enough of the musketeers that they were left with only the guards. No more questions for now.
But as the musketeers settled, Cordero made his way over to Aramis, subtly and silently, until he knelt beside him. Aramis noted the bruises forming along his jaw and cheek bone, and the swelling around one eye. Given the stiffness of in his movements, Aramis could only assume there were other marks concealed by his clothing. Apparently Athos had not appreciated whatever Cordero had to say…or what he didn't say.
"What were you thinking? Do not speak to them," Cordero hissed, emphasizing each word clearly.
"They spoke to me."
"And now they know you understand their language. Do you not see how this places us at a disadvantage? Are you trying to betray our fellow soldiers by the wagging of your tongue or just get us all killed by provoking the Frenchmen?"
"I was trying," Aramis snapped, "to focus their attention on me. Or would you rather they questioned the others?" He sent a pointed look at the other soldiers, worn out and dejected as they were, and then looked back to Cordero, raising one eyebrow.
He saw Cordero follow his gaze and come to the obvious conclusion. His men were already despairing of their situation, too exhausted and afraid to withstand any serious interrogation. But like Cordero himself, Aramis was older and more experienced than most of these men. And that experience was why he had been assigned to Cordero's command. Well, that and his knowledge of the French countryside.
"Isn't it better this way?" Aramis pressed his point. "Now they are focused only on the two of us. We can keep them away from the others, and we are both better equipped to handle whatever they might do."
Cordero considered, but wasn't ready to acknowledge the validity of this logic. "And yet, they know that you have knowledge of France. How does this help our cause?"
"An unfortunate misstep on my part. I admitted that I had lived in France for a time. But that is all. It's just as I told you and the colonel…I lived in France for a few years and left when it was obvious that anyone of Spanish blood was reviled and treated with disdain. But knowing that does not give the musketeers any information of value, and it will serve to keep them focused on me."
The lieutenant huffed his displeasure, unwilling to concede even this much. "You play a dangerous game, Renato. Make sure you tell them nothing else. If that clever tongue of yours lets slip any information – one bit of strategy or troop movements or even the name of our superiors – I'll make sure it's the last word you utter."
"I rather think the French will see to that before you can." Cordero glared at him, and Aramis finally relented, nodding his agreement. "But yes, I understand. I know as well as you do the value of discretion. And I know what's at stake."
"Then don't forget it." Cordero scowled at Aramis as he moved away, ostensibly to check on the others.
Aramis sighed and pressed his elbow more firmly against his injured side, suppressing a wince. He saw Matías cast a concerned glance his way, but he ignored it, settling down to make himself as comfortable as possible while he waited. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, but he was certain that this tentative peace wouldn't last. It was just a matter of time before Aramis would have to make a move, one way or another.
Now if he could just figure out what that move might be.
"It just doesn't make sense," d'Artagnan grumbled.
Porthos was still simmering with anger from his position across the fire, but he said nothing, picking absently at his food.
"I tend to agree," Athos said, "but Aramis can be capricious as well as stubborn. And it would be understandable if he felt a measure of resentment toward the king."
"Doesn't excuse treason." Porthos scowled into his stew.
"I never said it did. But if we're looking for an explanation, it makes some amount of sense."
"But the things he said…" d'Artagnan trailed off, one hand coming up to cover the bandage on his arm. It was probably an unconscious gesture, but Athos found his gaze following it, imagining what would have happened if that musket ball hadn't veered off target.
D'Artagnan looked up and caught both Athos and Porthos staring at him, eyes locked on his wounded arm. He flushed at their scrutiny, dropping the hand that had been absently rubbing the injury.
Aramis's last words seemed to echo in all of their minds. Athos had known Aramis for many years and knew that he could be spiteful at times, even cruel when he felt slighted or trapped. Backing Aramis into a corner was a bit like confronting a wild animal, and if you didn't keep your distance, you could find yourself on the ground with your throat ripped out. On rare occasions, when they'd pushed him too far or when Aramis felt bullied into something he didn't want to do, he'd even turned his sharp tongue on Athos or Porthos. So Athos wasn't entirely surprised by his outburst. But he'd never expected Aramis to outright threaten d'Artagnan.
"He always could be a ruthless bastard when he wanted to be," Porthos mumbled.
Athos hummed his agreement, nodding. "And sometimes war does things to a man."
When he looked up and caught the look on d'Artagnan's face, Athos felt his heart clench; for a moment, d'Artagnan's expression reminded him far too much of Thomas when his favorite puppy had gone missing. He'd mourned the loss of it for weeks.
He knew that d'Artagnan felt the sting of Aramis's actions deeply, even if he was trying to put on a brave face. Athos had to look away, unable to withstand that look and wishing he had the gift of words to somehow soothe d'Artagnan's sadness away.
"I wrote to him," Porthos said suddenly. "I sent a letter to the monastery at Douai."
"When?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Not long after we left for the war. It never sat right with me, ya know? We never heard anything from him, and when Tréville denied our request to go and see him… well, I just wanted to let him know I missed him…to say that things wouldn't be the same without him."
Athos could understand the sentiment. While this was d'Artagnan's first real experience of war, the rest of them had been on campaigns before. Porthos and Aramis had experience in the infantry, years ago. But for Athos, his only campaigns had been in the musketeers, with Aramis and Porthos always at his side.
It had been hard to get used to the absence of one of their own…far harder than Athos would have admitted out loud. They'd been together so long that it almost felt like losing a limb.
"So I sent him a letter," Porthos continued. "But a few weeks later it was sent back with a note from the abbé saying that Aramis couldn't receive it. Said he'd renounced the things of the world and devoted himself solely to God." Porthos couldn't quite hide his own grief even as he spoke. "Aramis asked that my letter be returned and wished to inform me that his new calling left no room for the trappings of his old life." Porthos set his bowl onto the ground, giving up even the pretense of eating. "And now we find him…like this."
Athos stood, rooting around in the bag he'd thrown down at his feet and pulling out a bottle of decent wine. He held it out to Porthos. "Drink."
Porthos took it, drinking deeply. "The good stuff? How long have you been hiding this?"
Athos shrugged. "Long enough. Today's as good a day as any."
Porthos nodded, drinking again before he passed it to d'Artagnan.
"I don't suppose you learned anything valuable from their leader?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Other than that he is called lieutenant Cordero and that he speaks passable French, no. He refused to say any more, so we still have no idea if there are other encampments set up on our side of the border."
"Damn," Porthos swore. "It's bad enough on the front, but to have them sneaking troops across the border this far from the rest of the fighting...it can't mean anything good."
"Do you think they intend to circle back and attack the main army from behind?" d'Artagnan asked.
"It's possible," Athos said, considering the possibilities. "But it's also possible that this group was only a lone scouting party. Or they could be one of several raiding parties sent out to disrupt supply lines. We won't know for sure until we can get one of them to talk."
"Let me have a crack at them," Porthos said. Athos raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. "Not Aramis, but one of the others. Maybe I can scare something out of 'em."
"Maybe tomorrow. For now, Bernard is on guard duty and keeping his ears open to glean anything they might say to one another. And Marcoux thought he was close to making some progress with one or two of them." And though he didn't say it, Athos was content to hand over this duty to the two of them. Though Athos's knowledge of Spanish had improved over the past two years, he was thankful to have two men in his command who understood the language well enough to make themselves useful.
"They might not even know anything of value," d'Artagnan pointed out, "especially if the Spanish are keeping their troop movements so carefully guarded."
"Cordero should know something, at least, even if the others don't."
"Who's the second in command?" Porthos asked.
Athos shook his head. "We're not certain yet." He didn't want to say that he had his suspicions. He'd surveyed the group carefully when he returned Cordero. They were young, mostly. And according to Marcoux, Cordero had been leading the main ambush, but the first shots had been fired from the opposite side of the clearing. Athos was willing to bet that those shots had come from the second officer of the group.
He exhaled heavily and stood. The others glanced up at him expectantly, but he waved them off. "Stay here."
"Where are you going?"
"To have a little chat with our prisoner." Porthos started to rise as if to follow, but Athos shook his head. "No, no. You've already had your say. I'll handle this myself." He looked between them. "Check d'Artagnan's wound when you get the chance. I won't be long."
He didn't look back as he strode off towards the prisoners. He intercepted Marcoux on the way, conferring with him briefly.
"Anything?"
Marcoux shook his head. "Nothing new, captain. No one's made any moves to escape, and they're not talking…not even saying much to each other. We've questioned a few of them, off and on, knocked them around a bit. They might not be saying anything yet, but their morale is definitely low. It's like they're all trying to keep their heads down, hoping if they're quiet we'll ignore them."
"Any serious injuries?"
"Not that we've seen…not that we examined them closely, but everyone seems more or less intact. Plenty of bruises and gashes." Marcoux grinned slightly. "I might have added to those." Athos felt his mouth twist slightly with a half grin in response. "A few of them managed to bandage each other up, so I wouldn't be worried about valuable prisoners dying on us."
Athos nodded. It was a fine line between keeping them alive to provide information and never allowing them to feel safe or comfortable.
"You planning on letting them eat tonight?"
"Eventually… for now, let them enjoy the smell of our food. Just before nightfall we'll give them some water and bare rations…enough to dull the hunger without providing real satisfaction."
"Yes, captain."
Athos clapped him on the shoulder in approval and then surveyed the prisoners.
Cordero sat apart at one end of the group. He appeared to be sleeping sitting up, although that might have been a ruse. The others looked miserable, spread out a bit, with some leaning against each other for support, all carefully avoiding looking at the musketeers surrounding them. Then, on the opposite end of the group from Cordero, sat Aramis.
He looked nearly as miserable as the others, slumped forward with his arms held tight against his body. Some instinctual, protective impulse urged Athos to walk over and take pity on him, as he would have done in the past. But not now. Not now that Aramis had chosen his own side in this war, at the expense of their brotherhood. Athos could still see the hurt and grief painted across Porthos's and d'Artagnan's faces.
Athos could overlook much when he chose to. But not that.
As he stared at Aramis, a young Spaniard sitting nearby looked up and noticed him. He looked from Athos to Aramis before speaking softly. "Renato." At the name, Aramis's head jerked up. The young man tilted his head toward Athos, and Aramis followed his gesture to meet Athos's eyes.
Athos sighed and walked forward until he was standing directly in front of Aramis.
"I don't suppose you could do us both a favor and make this easy for yourself?"
Aramis didn't respond, his eyes slipped across the camp to land on Cordero. Athos noticed and moved to stand between them, his back to the lieutenant, blocking him from Aramis's line of sight.
"What do you want?" Aramis asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion.
Athos considered the question carefully. "I'm not entirely sure myself. An explanation, perhaps? Or perhaps I just want to confirm what Porthos has already said."
"I don't need to justify myself to you." His voice was soft and controlled, but Athos could hear the tint of anger beneath it.
"Even if you tried, I doubt even you could find sufficient justification for treason."
Aramis scowled slightly, looking towards the other captives before his eyes darted back to Athos. "You may call it treason," Aramis said quietly, "but I see no shame in abandoning the service of a king who would command his most loyal servants to be executed based on nothing but rumors."
For a moment, Athos was reminded of his own restless night in the châtelet, awaiting his execution before Aramis and Porthos had rushed to his rescue at the last possible moment, Aramis waving his pardon like a banner as he ordered the guards to stand down and release him. The images blurred with those of Aramis, being hauled away before he was eventually sentenced to death by Rochefort as the king stood idly by.
"We're soldiers. We live and die at the pleasure of the crown. It will be no different for you now that you are fighting on behalf of a different king. The only difference is that you have thrown aside your last shred of honor when you betrayed your king and your countrymen only to exchange one master for another."
Aramis looked at the ground and Athos saw him tremble slightly, but his voice remained calm and quiet. "You talk of loyalty and honor. But come now, Athos, you know it's not as simple as that. Porthos and d'Artagnan may be naïve enough to follow Louis without question, but you and I know better. You especially, with your upbringing. We both know that the monarchy is in disarray. The king is foolish and easily manipulated. He is surrounded by advisors who care only for their own interests. And through it all, it is the people who suffer. And now he extends that suffering to the Spanish, lashing out like a petulant child. You're not a fool; you must see it. But you're content to sit by and do nothing." Aramis looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. "It makes me sick," he muttered.
Athos scoffed. "You can ply me with noble speeches Aramis, but I didn't come here to debate with you. This isn't about political alliances; it's about personal ones."
"They're one in the same, Athos."
"No, they most certainly are not. We've dealt with the political intrigues of court before. We always knew what we were up against, but we always stood against it together. Until now."
"You expect me to apologize for that?"
Athos clenched his fist to keep himself from lashing out.
"After everything we have been through together, you walked away from us. And you lied about it. You joined forces with our enemies. You shot d'Artagnan. And yet you still show no regret… only insolence and self-righteousness."
"Is that what really troubles you? That I shot your precious protégé? I've done far worse. But if that's your main complaint, you should rethink your own actions. You can hardly condemn me for something you've done yourself."
Athos winced, taken aback as much by the callous tone as the actual words. "I'm not the one who chose to turn my back on everyone he claimed to care for in the name of a misguided cause and his own injured pride."
At these words, something inside Aramis seemed to snap. Anger flashed in his eyes and his jaw tensed in fury as he pushed himself up off the ground and onto his knees to face Athos on more equal terms.
"It's better than bleeding and dying for the sake of a childish king who disregards his own soldiers without a thought, who'd betray his most loyal supporters, his personal guard, even his own queen, on nothing more than a whim. Just wait, Athos. He'll betray you too."
The furious hiss of Aramis's words was enough to give Athos pause. He regarded the man kneeling before him, shoulders tense and face livid. When Athos replied, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
"Louis is, as all rulers, as much a victim of duty as we are, and he has often fallen to malicious advisers in the past. But he is still our king. And even if you are right, I am no stranger to betrayal." Athos paused, searching every line of Aramis's face for some hint of his friend behind the image of this Spanish soldier. He wished that he had Aramis's gift for reading people; maybe then he would have been able to find something besides bitterness and anger. He shook his head sadly. "But I never expected such betrayal to come from you."
Athos spun on his heel and left, unable to deal with Aramis's hostility for another moment.
When he returned to his friends, d'Artagnan appeared to be dozing, leaning back against a nearby tree. Porthos sat near the fire, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. He looked up expectantly, but Athos merely shook his head.
They sat across from each other for some time in companionable silence, wordlessly grieving the loss of a once loyal friend.