A/N: Thanks to everyone who sent me messages asking about this story. It's amazing to know that people are actually invested and eager to find out what happens next. I think some of you were starting to worry I'd abandoned it, but not so! I was on a long holiday, and then I got caught up in re-adjusting to real life and work. I do have the whole story planned out, though, so it's just a matter of making the time to finish writing it.

Aramis passed much of the morning in the same state of hazy fatigue, surrounded by his silent and miserable comrades until one of the musketeers came and began questioning them again. He'd started with Beltrán and Vicente, and Aramis wasn't foolish enough to think that was a random choice.

Cordero was still gone, taken somewhere else within the musketeer camp. But in his absence it would make sense to start with those who seemed closest to him, those who'd hardly dared to leave his side. Aramis hadn't failed to notice how their wayward group of captives had begun to fracture. He suspected the tension between himself and Cordero was partially to blame. Matías and a few of his friends had stuck close to Aramis, while others (like Beltrán and Vicente) had followed dutifully at Cordero's side, staying near him throughout the night. Even yesterday, the cracks had been obvious in the way the captives positioned themselves, spread out between Cordero and Aramis as if being pulled in separate directions until they formed two camps – those looking to Aramis for guidance, and those who followed Coerdro's lead in all things. And if Aramis had noticed the trend, there was no doubt that the musketeers had as well.

He winced as he heard Beltrán spit out a curse and take a blow to the jaw in recompense.

Aramis tried to listen as the musketeer continued questioning them, seemingly playing Vicente and Beltrán against each other, but Aramis caught only snippets of the exchange, quiet threats of a French prison mixed with implications that Cordero would eventually betray them. It was enough for Aramis to see the strategy: a classic divide and conquer tactic. Get the captives to distrust each other, wondering if their own friends would turn on them, and then see who would break first.

From his position on the opposite side of the group, Aramis remained quiet, straining to overhear while keeping his eyes averted. He didn't dare move closer. It wouldn't do to draw unwanted attention to himself.

When Vicente spit out a mouthful of blood and stared back defiantly, the lead musketeer must have decided it was time to switch tactics. Or victims. He scanned the group before his eyes landed on Ramón, hunched in on himself protectively.

Aramis bit back a curse. Ramón had been injured in the fighting, not seriously, but badly enough to make himself vulnerable. The musketeer stood above him menacingly. Clearly it was all Ramón could do to keep from shaking. So far, they'd treated the prisoners roughly, but not cruelly, limiting the damage to blows and bruises. But Aramis doubted Ramón could stand up to even that in his current state. Matías tossed Aramis a nervous glance, but he couldn't spare any visible reaction. As much as he hated it, he had made himself enough of a target already.

He twisted his bound hands in front of him, continuing to work silently at the rope.

"What about you?" the musketeer asked. Aramis noticed his Spanish was a bit awkward, not quite up to the standards of the musketeer who had questioned them the day before. "Perhaps you know something. What's your mission here?"

Ramón shook his head, looking down at the ground.

"How many others are in French territory?" Still, Ramón was silent. "We'll find them eventually. So tell me…how many Spanish are here?"

"I don't know anything," Ramón said quietly.

"You don't know or you won't tell me?"

Ramón met his eyes for the first time. "Both," he replied. Aramis saw the musketeer's expression darken in frustration just before he drew back his foot, kicking out at Ramón's stomach. The young Spaniard's gasp of surprise was soon followed by a groan. The musketeer lashed out again, catching Ramón's injured leg with his boot and pulling a sharp cry from his victim.

Aramis didn't consciously think about his actions when he snatched up a nearby rock and threw it at the musketeer, striking him square between the shoulder blades. Only when the musketeer winced and turned to face him did Aramis realize what he'd done.

Stupid, Aramis, he told himself. What was that about not drawing attention to yourself?

"You insolent dog," the musketeer growled.

"You're the one bullying an injured and defenseless man who has none of the information you require. I was told musketeers had more honor than that, but I was clearly misinformed."

Aramis was prepared for the punch aimed his way, dodging it with a quick duck to the side as he pushed himself into a crouch. But the next punch found its mark, knocking the wind from Aramis's lungs as it sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground. He curled over protectively, drawing his arms around himself as best he could and turning slightly to one side. That meant that when the next blow came, Aramis was angled away, protecting his injured side as much as possible. But it was still enough to leave him gasping as the musketeer's boot connected sharply with his ribs, sending a burst of pain throughout his torso as Aramis wheezed. Another kick made Aramis's eyes water and his chest burn, lungs fighting to expand even as his muscles seized.

Aramis blinked against the darkness dancing at the edges of his vision and focused solely on breathing, while the musketeer grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him to a nearby tree. Then he attached a length of rope to Aramis's already bound hands, and hoisted the rope around the lowest tree branch, giving a harsh jerk before he tied it off. This left Aramis kneeling on the ground with his arms stretched out and suspended above him. He felt a brief flash of gratitude that he had been allowed enough slack to kneel, rather than being forced to stand. But when his vision cleared, any gratitude was chased away by the face of an angry musketeer and the glint of a knife pointed in his direction.

"Now who's defenseless?"

Aramis tensed, drawing back and pressing his spine against the tree behind him.

But before he could decide if he'd finally gotten himself in over his head, another musketeer, the one who'd questioned them yesterday, stalked over, grabbing his younger comrade by the shoulder and pulling him aside. He dragged Aramis's attacker several paces away, and Aramis allowed his head to roll forward in relief. The gesture probably made him appear as though he were only barely conscious – and considering that his throbbing head was now matched by aching ribs, that seemed like a fair enough impression.

"What do you think you are doing?" the new musketeer asked in French as he leaned close to his comrade.

"What you said to do…questioning the prisoners."

"Really? Because that's not what it looked like."

"Marcoux…"

"No, don't. Just…tell me what happened."

"He got… feisty. Tried fighting back. So I decided we'd better put him back in his place and make sure he stays there."

"Bernard, I told you. You have to keep your focus. Don't let any of them get to you."

"I know, but…"

"No! Look, I know you're frustrated and I know you're angry. But this isn't the time to let your emotions get the best of you. This is about learning as much as we can to help stop future attacks before we have to hand these prisoners over to the general. Focus on that. And only that."

The musketeer – Bernard – nodded. His comrade put one hand on his shoulder, his voice softening. "It's war, Bernard. It's not personal. And these men are not responsible for Lucien's death."

Bernard glared back, about to argue, but Marcoux was having none of it. "No. Go cool off. Get yourself under control. That's an order." The younger musketeer did as he was told. Aramis watched him through half open eyes. And he watched Marcoux as he looked over the prisoners, eyeing each one critically before moving forward, positioning himself in front of the assembled captives.

"We know there are other scouting parties, like yours, on French soil, and it's only a matter of time before we capture them, just as we captured you." He looked over the prisoners, watching as several of them shifted nervously. "There's no rescue coming for you. But this could be much easier for you all if you just tell us what you know. I suggest you think seriously about your options." With one last look, he turned and walked away.

Aramis sagged against the tree – at least as much as his new position allowed and tested the rope round his wrists, cursing to himself.

The rope securing him to the tree had been wrapped around his wrists, adding another layer to his bonds.

And he'd just been starting to make decent progress on loosening his ropes too.

Damn it. This would put a kink in his escape plans.

The morning proved just as fruitless as the previous day, and in a fit of frustration, Athos had left the Spanish lieutenant alone to stew. Porthos and Marcoux had both taken a crack at him, but they'd made no more progress than Athos had. All they received were surly silences, occasional insults, and vague threats.

Athos had finally called a break when it was clear that they were all weary of such work.

Interrogating prisoners wasn't anyone's favorite pastime really, but in times of war, certain measures were called for. Unfortunately, most of Athos's intimidation tactics were proving ineffective on the good lieutenant.

He sighed, returning to his tent and reaching for a flask. It was merely water, unfortunately, but he couldn't afford to drink the way he used to. Not when confronted with long days and hot, dusty battlefields.

Drinking deeply, Athos pulled out a set of maps, spreading them across the table to examine them more closely.

They'd left their position farther north, where his men had been working as scouts, snipers, and light cavalry support for the main army, after receiving the latest dispatch from Tréville and its information on Spanish scouts and raiding parties. Their supply lines had been attacked three times in the last month, and the disruption was no longer just a minor nuisance. In addition, a scouting party of musketeers had been ambushed just two weeks ago. Five men, all dead.

Tréville's latest intelligence suggested that the Spanish were receiving information from someone inside France, and had provided a location where at least one Spanish party was located. That was how they'd found themselves here with their uncooperative Spanish captives, but they were no closer to learning where the Spanish officers were getting their information on French supply routes.

Of course, that information could have come from Aramis.

But that didn't make sense either. When they'd altered supply routes, specifically to confuse any Spanish raiding parties, the Spanish had caught on in a matter of weeks. Yes, Aramis knew the area, knew the French roads, even knew the military strategies that Tréville and Athos favored most. But he couldn't have known the precise location of French suppliers a matter of weeks after the new routes had been implemented.

And what's more, something about this situation with Aramis still bothered him. Well, no, everything about it bothered him. Anything that led them to fight on opposite sides was just wrong. Yes, Aramis was no doubt bitter about his separation from his son and the queen. Athos could accept that, knew how Aramis would long to hold his son and how he would chafe at the necessity of staying away from the dauphin for his own protection. And yes, Aramis was clearly resentful of the king, feeling justifiably angry at the way the king's capricious and selfish nature had caused hardship for them all. All of that Athos could understand, at least to an extent. He could even understand if Aramis was angry at him on a personal level. Athos had never hidden his disapproval of Aramis's reckless behavior and his treasonous affair. But that Aramis would turn his ire on Porthos and d'Artagnan baffled Athos. That he would go to such extremes as to actually joining the Spanish cause…

As a military commander, Athos knew he should use this opportunity to his advantage, making full use of his personal knowledge of Aramis to press him for information. In spite of everything, he knew Aramis well, knew things about him that could be turned to the musketeers' advantage. Athos knew how to rile him, which buttons to push to make him feel most vulnerable, knew the exact words that would make Aramis most likely to break and beg. He could manipulate him with information about the dauphin or play on Aramis's guilt to force him to reveal Spanish secrets. Athos had no doubt it would be more successful than his attempts with Cordero had been.

But something stopped him. He couldn't put his finger on it yet, but something from yesterday's confrontation bothered him, something about the way Aramis spoke…quietly, with an air of defeat and an undercurrent of…something.

He sighed, sweeping aside the maps with a gesture of frustration.

Perhaps Athos was just too much of a coward to interrogate a man who he had considered his brother. After all, he'd never been able to follow through on punishing someone he loved, even when the betrayal warranted such a punishment. He thought of Anne and of Thomas, then shook his head.

He'd leave Cordero to stew for the afternoon and take the time to send out scouting parties of his own. He'd check in with Marcoux later. Then he'd decide what to do about Aramis. Maybe later he' be able to face what had to be done.

But not yet.

Midday passed and as the afternoon hours began to drag by, Aramis allowed himself to doze off – at least, as much as possible given the discomfort of his current position. Still, he had no one to blame but himself. Porthos always did tease him for acting rashly, especially when he was too angry or too tired to properly think through his own actions.

And this, my friend, is how you find yourself tied to a tree as a prisoner in a musketeer camp.

Still, despite the pressure on his knees and the ache of his stretched shoulders (not to mention the stinging rope burns around his wrists from where Aramis had tried to loosen the rope), he must have managed a few snatches of sleep because he returned to full awareness when he heard a voice talking nearby. Accented-Spanish. Must be another musketeer. Again.

"I can assure you, it will be better for everyone if you cooperate. We're not interested in all of you. Just tell us: who is the lieutenant's second in command?"

Aramis was careful not to react, but he did shift his position slightly so he could observe covertly through half-open eyes. It was Marcoux this time (apparently Bernard was still banished, much to Aramis's relief), and he stood less than ten feet away, questioning Francis, who sat on the ground looking for all the world as though he wished to disappear.

"We know there's another officer here," Marcoux said. "And the rest of you are just grunts…common soldiers. We don't have any special interest in you. So why don't you just tell us…who do we want? Who's the next senior officer?" Francis shifted nervously under the musketeer's scrutiny. He said nothing, but Ramón, sitting close enough to witness his friend's interrogation up close, sent a quick glance in Aramis's direction. It was only a split-second, an unconscious gesture probably, but Marcoux noticed, turned abruptly, and looked Aramis straight in the eye.

Aramis merely stared back, too tired to muster any response. Both Francis and Ramón looked at the ground, radiating guilt.

Marcoux came to stand before Aramis, regarding him steadily as if assessing his potential value. Aramis stared back just as steadily, as if he was sighting down the barrel of a musket, refusing to back down even in his bound and vulnerable position.

"So, it looks like the captain does want to speak with you after all," Marcoux said, still speaking Spanish.

Aramis had to resist a groan. You have no idea, he thought. This man, Marcoux, was not one of the many musketeers who Aramis remembered. He must have been recruited after Aramis left. Or perhaps he'd been pulled into the musketeers from the regular army. Either way, it was clear that he didn't know Aramis. Which meant that Athos had said nothing to his men, nor had Porthos or d'Artagnan. Aramis had to wonder whether this was a good sign.

"Tell me…is he right?" Marcoux gestured towards where Ramón sat, his eyes conveying a hundred apologies that Aramis easily accepted. The kid wasn't ready for any of this, and Cordero had done nothing to prepare him.

"Are you second in command of this motely bunch?" the musketeer demanded.

Aramis looked up with a tired defiance, lips sealed.

"How many other scouting parties are in French territory?"

Still, Aramis said nothing.

"Look, let's be reasonable about this. I need answers to report, and if you don't give them to me, I'll have to go back to asking one of the others. So just answer the question. Are you Cordero's second?"

Aramis opened his mouth, but found his voice cracked, rough from disuse and lack of water. He coughed roughly until he'd regained his voice. Then he looked the musketeer in the eye and replied, switching from Spanish to his native French.

"Two of my comrades were injured in yesterday's ambush. If you have someone clean and bandage their wounds, I'll answer your question."

The musketeer's eyes widened at the sudden switch to French, then looked at him curiously, seeming to seek out the truth in his eyes.

Finally he nodded. "All right. I can do that." Aramis waited, making it clear he would say nothing until the musketeer acted on his word.

Marcoux kept his eyes on Aramis as he turned to call for one of his friends, who ran to retrieve some bandages. When he had returned, Aramis nodded towards Matías and Ramón, watching as the musketeer set to unwinding the crude bandage Aramis had secured around Matías's shoulder.

Then Marcoux drew a dagger and reached out, grabbed the rope that kept Aramis's arms suspended and sliced it. The sudden jolt was almost more painful than the previous position as Aramis sunk heavily to the ground. He breathed deeply, flexing his shoulders gingerly to test their range of motion.

"I'm a man of my word," Marcoux said. "They will both be taken care of. Now…your answer?"

Aramis took a deep breath, coughing once more to clear his throat.

"Yes. I am Cordero's second in command."

Marcoux grinned. "And how many other scouting parties are on our side of the border?"

Aramis shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The musketeer swore softly. "Liar. Try again. You said you'd answer my questions and so soon you break your word?"

"Well," Aramis said with the hint of a grin, "technically I said I'd answer one question."

Marcoux drew back and Aramis was sure he was about to receive another blow, but to his surprise the musketeer let out a huff of laughter. "So you did." He seized Aramis and hauled him to his feet. "But that's enough for me. I'll leave the other questions to the captain." He steadied Aramis on his feet, then gave him a shove forwards, keeping one hand on his shoulder as he urged him forward. "We'll see if he finds you as amusing as I do."

He always did before, Aramis thought to himself, as he was shoved and prodded through the camp. Well, usually. Except when he was just exasperated with me. Now that he thought about it, Aramis had to resist the urge to swear. Actually, Athos was usually exasperated with me…ah, hell.

When they stopped, they stood before a tent at the other end of the camp. Aramis was held by two guards while Marcoux entered the tent alone. A few moments later, he came out and pushed Aramis inside.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, Aramis found himself faced with not just Athos, but Porthos and d'Artagnan as well. And none of them looked terribly happy to see him.

"This is the second in command," his escort said. "One of the others identified him, and he confirmed it."

"Thank you, Marcoux. You may go," Athos said simply.

So now Aramis was alone with all three of his former brothers, watching as Porthos glowered at him before looking away, pointedly avoiding eye contact and fiddling absently (and menacingly, Aramis thought) with a dagger. D'Artagnan stood back, arms crossed and back straight, frowning with an expression somewhere between surprise and dismay. And Athos… Athos just stood there. Impassive. Stony gaze revealing nothing.

Oh, how Aramis hated that expression. And he hated nothing more than seeing it directed at himself.