A/N: Apologies to all. This chapter was supposed to be posted the night before I left on my holidays, but FF.N was down that night. So it had to wait until I returned this week. Enjoy!
Aramis kept to himself after Athos left. He saw Matías and a few of the others shooting him glances, but none dared address him, as if they could see the anger roiling off him like steam from a furnace. Cordero, still sitting at a distance, said nothing. Aramis could only be thankful for that small mercy and hope that the lieutenant had heard nothing incriminating. He'd tried desperately to speak quietly and reveal nothing that couldn't be explained by his cover story, but given that Athos had blocked his view, Aramis was hopeful that Cordero had heard nothing of consequence.
Either way, there was little he could do about it now. And quite frankly, Aramis didn't really have the energy to care what Cordero thought anymore.
He couldn't keep his mind from replaying everything he had said to the others, every last condescending word as he tried to push them away. It seemed to have worked. Porthos had been fuming when he left. Aramis had known exactly which buttons to push. Treating Porthos as though he were a fool when he knew that his friend had always been self-conscious about his lack of a formal education, when Aramis himself had repeatedly assured Porthos that he was one of the smartest men he'd ever met... and then threatening d'Artagnan…. If there was one way to antagonize Porthos it was to threaten those he cared about. The moment his protective instincts flared up, it was all over. And d'Artagnan…God, that look had been full of hurt and confusion because he just didn't understand. He couldn't. Then Athos walking away from him, looking so bloody disappointed in him, had just been the nail in the coffin, the very last bit of anger and hurt that Aramis could take.
He wanted nothing more than to just find a hole to crawl into. But he couldn't. So he sat, alone, visibly closing in on himself as he indulged his self-pity.
He stayed that way until after the sun had set and the air had grown cool, when the musketeers brought over several flasks of water and some rations – remnants of bread and dried meat which were clearly insufficient to feed all eight prisoners.
Somehow, Aramis felt amused in spite of himself. Well played, Athos, he thought to himself. Very well played. The food and water would be enough to keep the prisoners alive and aware, but not nearly enough to satisfy the group of weary men who had spent a hard day fighting, only to find themselves battered, exhausted, and constantly on edge as the musketeers prowled about, watching them intently. It was a calculated decision, one step in a larger strategy to systematically demoralize the prisoners to the point where they were no longer capable of resistance.
And based on what he saw from the men around him, Aramis would hazard a guess that it was already working.
It was certainly working on Aramis.
He sighed heavily, bringing both bound hands to rub at one temple. His head was pounding again. He wondered if it was from the head injury or the beginnings of dehydration.
He glanced to the side to see his fellow prisoners eagerly dividing the rations amongst themselves.
"Hey, easy, Matías," he said, halting his friend as he attacked a water flask as though he planned to swallow the object whole. "Small sips. Don't waste it all at once. And eat slowly. It will do more good that way." Matías attempted to comply. Garza and Ramón, who were sitting nearby, seemed to follow suit. The others were clustered a good ten feet away, nearer to the lieutenant. Aramis watched as they ate, looking forlorn and grumbling at the meager meal they had been forced to split between them. Aramis took a sip from the flask that Matías offered him, then handed it back. "We don't know when we'll next see food, so don't rush through it."
The thought seemed to worry Matías.
"But they can't let us starve to death…can they?"
Aramis shook his head. "No, we're no good to them dead. But that doesn't mean they have to feed us well either."
Matías shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the crust of bread held between his fingers. "But Renato…what use are we to them alive? I mean, what will they do with us?"
Aramis closed his eyes and let out a sigh. God, these men were so young, so naïve.
"They're keeping us alive for information," Garza said. "Isn't it obvious from the questions they keep asking?"
It surprised Aramis to hear another voice, but when he looked he saw Garza and Ramón leaning closer to join the conversation.
Matías shook his head, eyes wide. "But I don't know anything. Not anything important." He looked to the others. "None of us do."
"The lieutenant does," Ramón said. "He must."
"But we don't," Matías insisted.
"Even if we did," Garza said, voice lowering to a hiss, "we wouldn't tell them. Right?"
"But then we're no use to them," Matías continued, working himself up into a state of near panic. "And when they figure that out…" he shuddered. "They might as well kill us now."
"Stop it," Aramis said. "Thinking like that will definitely get you killed. You need to stay calm." His eyes moved about the group. "All of you. Just calm down." He waited, watching Matías take a deep breath and making eye contact with all three of them. When he was convinced they were listening, he continued. "Now, if they wanted us dead, we would be. So let's stop worrying about that and just get through the night, shall we? Take things one day at a time."
They all acquiesced, returning to finish the few meager crumbs of food. They offered him his own share, but Aramis ate little. He took one more sip of water before handing the flask back to Matías and gesturing for him to finish it. While they were finishing, Aramis checked the gash in his side, relieved to see that the bleeding had stopped (again), though his shirt was stiff with dried blood. Finally, they worked to settle in for the night, trying to find some way to sleep despite their various individual pains and general discomfort. As they all lay down, growing quiet, Aramis sat watching the camp. The stars were beginning to come out and the evening chill sent a shiver down Aramis's spine.
He watched the guards pull their cloaks about them, some sitting nearby, leaning against a tree trunk or sitting by a fire. Others walked around, stretching their legs. The rest of the camp was still, but it was a stillness that Aramis knew well – the dull quiet of a soldier's camp at rest, the quiet of the night stretched taut with readiness as every soldier, even those already asleep, lay poised to spring into action if necessary.
Off to Aramis's right, past the sleeping forms of his companions, Cordero sat upright, watching over the remainder of his men. He exchanged a brief look with Aramis, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before he stared back across the camp. Aramis wondered if he was formulating an escape plan. He hoped not. The risk was too great, and Aramis wasn't ready to see any more soldiers killed today.
Aramis flexed his wrists slightly, testing the rope that bound him. It still dug into his wrists, stinging at the movement, and he worked gently to stretch it as much as possible. He continued to fidget, twisting his hands together, unaware that every movement rubbed his wrists raw as his thoughts continued to race, turning events over and over in his mind.
As the rest of the camp slept, Aramis sat quietly, huddled up against the cold and simply stared at the sky. He gazed at the stars until they began to blur and merged with the angry stares of his friends emblazoned across his memory and dancing before his eyes.
He replayed every moment of the past few days, examining how he'd gotten to this point. He tried to plan his next move, testing out possible conversations and actions…confronting Cordero with the truth, or confessing to Athos or Porthos or d'Artagnan, even begging them to release him so he could return to Spain and complete his mission. He practiced the words he would use. For hours he ran through dozens of scenarios, from escape plans to his carefully rehearsed surrender, to an admittedly insane plan that involved usurping Cordero's command, defeating Porthos in single combat, and escaping to Paris to demand that Louis call a cease fire and end the war. It was at about that point that Aramis realized he was no longer thinking clearly, as though his sleep-deprived and stress-addled mind was finally succumbing to hysteria.
Eventually, deep into the night, he found himself praying, hands awkwardly grasping for his well-worn rosary, fingers moving steadily over the beads, awkwardly counting the ones he could reach.
When dawn broke, Aramis was curled up on the ground, head resting on his bound hands. He hadn't slept. Instead he emerged from the stupor of a restless night to a hazy early-morning wakefulness, head pounding and a growing sense of nausea slowly tightening its grip on him.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so miserable.
He heard the other captives stir around him, but made no move to sit up. He simply stayed there, lying on the ground, staring blankly ahead. Some musketeers came. They asked questions in French and in heavily accented Spanish. Then they left again, new guards taking over for the morning as the camp slowly came awake. The familiar sounds of campaign life surrounded them – musketeers muttering to one another, food cooking, the metallic sounds of weapons being cleaned and sharpened – all signifying the start of another day at war.
Aramis found himself both hating it and aching to be part of it, to join the other musketeers in the comforting familiarity of battle preparations.
"Get up." Aramis didn't. "That's an order, Renato." It took Aramis a moment to register his Spanish name and realize it was Cordero speaking to him, not a musketeer. He twisted his head, rolling back to see the lieutenant crouched beside him.
Stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position, he squinted against the new day and rubbed at his head.
"What do you want, Cordero?"
"I believe that's 'lieutenant' to you."
Aramis grunted an acknowledgement.
"I need you to tell me…what's their plan?"
"How should I know?"
"Don't lie to me, Renato. You lived in France. And you clearly know something of these musketeers. And I need to know their next move"
"What are you going to do? Escape? We're outnumbered by… I don't even know how many. It would be suicide."
"What," Cordero hissed, "do you know about the musketeers?"
Aramis sighed. "Only their reputation…that they are the king's elite guard with more specialized skills than the regular army. And this is clearly their main force because the regiment's captain is here."
"How do you know?"
"I recognized his uniform."
"You know nothing more…no idea as to their plans?"
"No. How could I? Look, I heard rumors about them when I lived in France, everyone did. And I saw a few musketeers in a tavern once, when I was visiting Paris. But I don't know anything else about them. Certainly nothing useful. I lived in the south, and only for a few years. I left because I knew of the French disdain for Spaniards and it was no longer safe."
Cordero grunted. "So you've said."
"I don't know what else you want me to tell you."
The lieutenant gave him a long, appraising look, eyes narrowed with what Aramis feared might be suspicion. Aramis stared back, trying to project honesty, letting his exhaustion and vulnerability show and hoping it was enough to convince Cordero that he was not lying.
"They'll question us both again."
"Probably," he agreed.
"Tell them nothing."
Aramis nodded in acknowledgement, but Cordero jabbed him in the chest, capturing his full attention with a glare. "You've already failed me once, Renato. You failed to kill the leader of that scouting party. If you tell them anything, even the smallest detail, I will count that as a second failure and a betrayal. Understand?"
"I won't say anything," Aramis said. "I swear."
Cordero held his gaze before finally shoving his shoulder as he pulled back, an implicit threat before the lieutenant turned away to check on the others, keeping low and moving on his knees to avoid drawing attention to himself.
One by one, the captives woke, and cautiously watched the guards circle them. Eventually, someone came to take Cordero away. Aramis didn't even look at him as he went.
It was obvious the lieutenant didn't care much for Aramis. He never had, truth be told. But he'd valued Aramis skill with a musket, his knowledge of French language and trade routes, and his ability to rally the men in the midst of battle. But it felt as though this grudging admiration might be turning to suspicion.
Or perhaps Aramis was just being paranoid. It was difficult to tell.
As the musketeers continued to ignore them, the prisoners merely sat in uneventful silence. A few hours must have passed like that. Aramis thought he had dozed off sitting up when Matías's voice caused him to jerk back to full alertness.
"You were right. No breakfast. And they only took the lieutenant for questioning." Matías looked at Aramis with eyes that were far too young and anxious for a soldier, and Aramis felt his heart go out to him. "What do you think will happen to us?"
Aramis reached out to touch his shoulder, feeling that he needed the contact as much as Matías did.
"They'll keep us until they are convinced that we have told them all we know of value. Then, when we are no longer useful as informants, we will probably be moved. Maybe they'll take us to a prison camp somewhere deeper in French territory. If we were important, they might take us to Paris to be imprisoned there. But I suspect we're not worth that much trouble." Aramis didn't mention that he might be worth such trouble. "If not a prison camp, we may be ransomed, or used in a prisoner exchange if they think we are worth something to our commanders back in Spain."
"But are we? Worth something?"
Aramis shrugged. "Cordero is. I think Garza's family has some influence. But it depends on how many French soldiers and officers are already captive back in Spain. They may need as many prisoners as possible in order to buy back their own men."
It wasn't Aramis's preferred scenario. If they were meant to be part of a prisoner exchange, the French would never turn him over – not with what he knew about French military strategy. If Cordero really was useful, they might keep him as well. Then the two of them would be taken back to the nearest army fort (or even back to Paris) while the others were exchanged with Spain. Even if they did ransom him back to the Spanish, if his commanders were willing to pay for his return, Aramis doubted that Cordero would ever trust him again – not once the seed of doubt had been planted. And it would only take a few words to spread that mistrust, to ensure that Aramis was an outsider and therefore useless as a spy…and so useless to the king.
Aramis fought against the headache that had returned, fidgeting restlessly and shifting against his bindings. He didn't see any way out of this that involved both staying alive and out of prison and also completing his mission successfully.
Maybe he should just make a run for it and take his chances on his own, far away from the war. He closed his eyes to shut out the world around him, breathing deeply and allowing his mind to picture someplace safe and peaceful. He found his mind returning to his family home, relishing memories of a time that was simpler. But then Isabelle's face flashed in his mind, and his breath hitched. He opened his eyes, saw the dirty musketeer camp, and realized that while his life had never been simple, it was too late to try and hide from it.
This was the reality he was faced with, and somehow, by the grace of God, he would have to decide what to do about it.