Athos had spent the morning with the Spanish lieutenant again. Porthos had joined him…to help, he'd said. D'Artagnan wondered how much of it was help and how much was an excuse to get out some aggression. He'd joined them for a while, watching silently but making no move to intervene. Athos asked the questions. Porthos was clearly there as intimidation and muscle – the added force behind the threatening tone of Athos's voice.
Still, they'd made little progress.
They knew from Tréville that the Spanish had scouting parties on French soil. This group was the first they'd been able to capture, but they didn't know how many other groups might still be at liberty. And they had no idea where the Spanish had received their information. Clearly someone – someone in France – was supplying the Spanish with knowledge of French supply routes. They'd fallen victim to three raids in the past month alone. The soldiers at the front couldn't withstand the loss of any more valuable supplies, and Athos had sworn they'd put a stop to it.
But this Spanish lieutenant gave away nothing. Well, nothing except insults, that is. It was enough to make d'Artagnan wish he spoke Spanish. Some of those curses had sounded quite inventive.
Eventually they'd stopped, and Athos had left Cordero tied up and under guard, kept separate from the rest of his men in an attempt to divide and conquer, or at least grind down morale, while Athos returned to his own tent to reassess. He'd been in a foul mood all day, as had Porthos, leaving Marcoux to handle the other prisoners alone. The one time Marcoux had attempted to consult with Athos, the captain had merely told him to handle it on his own and not return until he had something new to report.
D'Artagnan winced and exchanged a commiserating look with Marcoux, who merely shrugged and went back to his assigned duties.
That left Athos silently brooding and mulling over dispatches from Tréville while Porthos stalked through the camp like a bear looking for someone to swat at. They'd spent the whole afternoon like that, Porthos too angry and Athos too lost inside his own thoughts to notice that the rest of the men were giving them a wide berth.
It left d'Artagnan a bit lost, following in their footsteps because he wasn't sure where else to be. They were all off balance. But then, hadn't they been that way for a long while now? Ever since Aramis had left for the monastery, they'd been like an injured man who refused to admit his own infirmity. And now, to find out where Aramis had truly been…had he ever even gone to the monastery?
D'Artagnan tried not to think of such things, but it was difficult. The reminders were everywhere. So instead he found himself holed up with his two brooding friends inside Athos's tent, the captain studying maps for the fourth time this afternoon while Porthos sat perched on a nearby stool and glowered like a thunder cloud as he set about cleaning and sharpening a dagger. D'Artagnan did not dare point out that the weapon was already sufficiently well cared for.
"Didn't Tréville give any idea of how many Spanish had crossed the border?"
Athos shook his head. "He did not. He merely referred to credible information that 'several scouting parties' were in French territory to gather intelligence and disrupt supply lines, and then directed us to begin our search in this vicinity."
"Well, that's not vague at all," Porthos muttered.
"Presumably Tréville's informants had no more precise information," Athos said, with a sharp look to Porthos before he returned to studying the map. D'Artagnan detected the slightest note of rebuke in his tone, a subtle warning that Porthos's bad mood did not excuse disrespect to their superiors…or at least to Tréville.
"Still…doesn't give us much to go on."
"It was enough to help us find this group," d'Artagnan pointed out. "So why not send out a few more scouts. Maybe we'll get lucky a second time."
"Two Spanish raiding parties operating in close proximity?" Athos raised one eyebrow. "Not likely. The other groups will be scattered throughout French territory."
"So we move camp then. Try a location to the west. Or the south. Either one would be a likely target. And we know their strategy now."
"Yeah, but it'd be a shot in the dark," Porthos said, looking down at the dagger in his hands. "We had good reason to suspect we'd find something here, but if we just make a random guess…we'll be as likely to be ambushed ourselves as anything."
D'Artagnan sighed. He knew they were right, but he was as frustrated as any of them. With the prisoners keeping quiet, they were essentially just sitting and waiting for another Spanish raid. And no one knew when or where they were most likely to strike next.
"I have two scouts out now," Athos said. "We'll see if they've found any tracks before we decide." Athos settled into a chair and ran one hand across his forehead.
Porthos leveled a speculative look at Athos before speaking, his tone hesitant. "We'd be better off if our…guests…could be induced to share some information."
Athos glared at him. "Obviously."
The two seemed to hold some kind of silent conversation, staring at each other for a long moment before Athos shook his head and looked away.
Porthos merely sighed and turned back to sharpening his dagger, while d'Artagnan leaned up against the table, staring blankly ahead. He wasn't sure what his two friends had just been silently debating, but he could guess. Interrogating prisoners was messy business, not to mention time-consuming. And there were no guarantees they'd learn anything of value even in the best of circumstances. And, of course, this didn't qualify as the best of circumstances.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, d'Artagnan looked up to see Marcoux enter the tent. Athos made no move to greet him, head still bent and one hand absently rubbing his temple as if messaging a headache.
"Captain?" Marcoux asked.
"Yes, what is it? And please tell me you have something new."
"Of a sort. Bernard didn't make any real progress, though he did rattle some of the soldiers a bit. But I've identified the other officer, Cordero's second in command."
Porthos looked up suddenly, interest piqued. "Yeah?"
Marcoux nodded. "Yes, sir." He looked back to Athos. "I've brought him, captain. I assumed you'd want to question him yourself."
Athos let out a long breath as he stood up again, pacing a few steps before he turned to Marcoux. "Yes. Good work. Bring him in." Marcoux nodded and exited the tent to retrieve his prisoner, and d'Artagnan couldn't help but notice the way Athos straightened, as if steeling himself for a particularly unpleasant task. This was good news, wasn't it? Everything they could learn from their captives increased their chances of preventing future raids. So why did Athos look so…unsettled?
Marcoux returned presently, pushing Aramis forward in front of him. And d'Artagnan had to resist the urge to let his disappointment show. Aramis as a Spanish soldier was bad enough. But an officer?
And there it was. A quick glance to Athos confirmed that this wasn't as much of a surprise to him as it was to d'Artagnan and Porthos, who shook his head in disgust.
"This is the second in command," Marcoux said. "One of the others identified him, and he confirmed it."
"Thank you, Marcoux. You may go," Athos said simply.
He left a deafening silence in his wake as the four of them stood stock still, no one daring to open their mouths to speak. For his part, Aramis looked like a statue, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. But d'Artagnan could see the rigidity in his stance, the way he braced himself, tense and defensive. His expression was wary and uncertain, as if he had no idea what to expect, but felt compelled to prepare for the worst.
If he was honest, d'Artagnan knew exactly how he felt.
Porthos huffed in frustration and looked away first, which seemed to break the awkward stare off. Athos stepped forward, seizing the chair he'd recently vacated and swinging it around to place it in the middle of the tent.
"Sit," he said, with a gesture.
Aramis looked from Athos to the chair as though he wasn't sure which of them was least trustworthy. He must have hesitated a moment too long because Athos seized him by the elbow, eliciting a slight wince from Aramis, and propelled the man forward. Aramis scuffed his feet, moving stiffly, but he complied, moving towards the chair where Athos pushed him down with one hand. Aramis sunk heavily into the chair, swallowing and taking a deep breath as he looked back at Athos. But the captain had already turned away, stepping out of Aramis's reach and beginning to pace around Aramis, like a predator circling its prey.
Still, no one spoke, and the silence was almost worse than anything. The only sounds were the scrape of metal as Porthos continued sharpening his blade, the soft padding of Athos's footsteps as he paced, and Aramis's breath, just slightly too loud and too harsh to speak of anything but nervousness.
And now that d'Artagnan had a moment to look, he saw bruises decorating Aramis's face – at his temple, one cheekbone – and dark circles under his eyes. Above those shadows, Aramis's gaze darted quickly around the tent, landing on each of them, cataloging each item, the table, the maps, before returning to each of the three musketeers. Thesilence grated on him, and d'Artagnan could see the moment when Aramis's natural inclination to speak overpowered his nerves.
"Athos…"
But he got no farther, cut off by Athos's cool, emotionless tone.
"How many other Spanish soldiers are currently in French territory?"
"Athos…"
"No!" the Captain snapped. "How many?"
Aramis's eyes sunk closed, as if in defeat. "I don't know."
"How many raiding parties have already crossed the border?"
Aramis shook his head, but didn't so much as open his eyes.
"When will the next supply raid take place?"
If anything, Aramis squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, head bent in resignation. But he made no move to speak.
"How did you learn to anticipate our supply routes?"
Still nothing.
"Who is your French contact who provides you with this information?"
At that, Aramis's eyes opened and he looked up. "I don't know," he said in a clipped tone.
Porthos chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Convenient how little you know, ain't it?"
"Less so than you might think," Aramis replied.
"You're an officer in the Spanish army," Athos stated, and it wasn't a question.
"I've already said that I am."
"And you are Cordero's second in command."
"Yes."
"But you expect us to believe you don't know anything of value?"
Aramis sighed. "What you believe really doesn't matter much at this point."
Porthos swore and tossed his dagger to the ground, standing so abruptly that Aramis tensed at his sudden movement. "Like hell it doesn't. Do you have any idea how close you are to a traitor's execution right now?"
"I am acutely aware of it, yes."
"Yeah, well this time there will be no rescue and no noble cause to comfort yourself with," Porthos said, coming to stand directly in front of Aramis. "You won't be dying to protect the queen." Aramis winced, his gaze dropping immediately to the ground as his bound hands shifted nervously in his lap. "There's no noble death here, no last minute pardon, and no miraculous escape. So you'd better start talking."
He didn't look up, eyes fixed on his bound hands, and when he spoke, his voice was neutral, but d'Artagnan heard the tinge of hurt beneath the calm voice. He knew Aramis well enough to notice. The others must have heard it too. "I have nothing to say," Aramis said.
Porthos clenched his jaw, his frustration evident in the lines of his shoulders.
"You? Speechless? Come on, you can't expect me to believe that. It's been over two years. How can you have nothing to say?" Porthos demanded.
"Perhaps I'm just picky about my choice of conversation partner."
"Pickier than in your choice of comrades, I suppose? Well, it shouldn't surprise me with the way your romantic liaisons changed from day to day. Why should your professional loyalties be any different?"
Aramis drew in a sharp breath. His fists clenched and d'Artagnan saw a shudder pass through him, shoulders shaking slightly as he restrained himself. Watching this was like waiting for a powder keg to explode in front of him, and d'Artagnan could see how close Aramis was to giving Porthos exactly the kind of explosion he was after.
Aramis's voice dropped to a low hiss. "You don't know anything about my loyalties."
"Perhaps not," Athos said. "But if your loyalty to us ever meant anything, then I'd suggest you start answering our questions. Honestly, this time."
"Come on, Aramis." D'Artagnan stepped forward, catching his attention. Aramis's eyes darted towards him, then back to Athos, and finally landing on Porthos. For a moment, he looked like a caged animal, eying his captors warily and waiting for one of them to strike him. The defensiveness in his eyes almost made d'Artagnan forget that Aramis no longer considered himself their friend.
Aramis looked down, hands fidgeting nervously while he chewed on his lip.
"Even if I wanted to tell you," Aramis said, "I don't know anything of value to you."
"That seems unlikely," d'Artagnan said. "You've been with the Spanish for long enough. You have to know something."
Aramis didn't look up, avoiding d'Artagnan's eyes, only giving a small shake of his head in response.
With a frustrated sigh, Porthos turned away. "Ya know, I'm not sure it matters. After the kind of garbage you've been spouting off since we found you, I'm not sure I'll believe anything that comes out of your mouth."
D'Artagnan thought he saw Aramis wince at that, but it was so subtle he couldn't be sure. Either way, Porthos hadn't seen it. He'd been walking away, his back to Aramis as he spoke, retreating to his stool in the corner of the tent where he picked up his dagger again.
"Where is the nearest Spanish encampment?" Athos asked. His tone was still perfectly level, cool and calm, as he returned to his questions. Porthos looked deflated, giving up even the attempt to rile Aramis. And d'Artagnan felt wrung out by the tension that hung between them all, stretched so thin it could snap. But Athos…he was just as calm as though this was nothing, as though it was a simple duty and Aramis was no different than any other prisoner.
Even after all this time, it was unnerving how Athos could go so still, could make his expression so stony and unreadable. D'Artagnan had gotten better at reading Athos over the years, could usually sense his moods now, the way Porthos and Aramis had always done. But not when he got like this. They'd joked once that it was his leadership face, all blank authority that demanded unquestioned obedience while giving nothing away. He remembered how they'd laughed then, first at the joke and then even more at the distinctly unamused expression Athos had given them in return. But it wasn't funny now.
"Who gave you orders to enter French territory?"
Aramis said nothing.
"Who commands the other raiding parties?"
Again, nothing. As Aramis sat, silent and still, d'Artagnan wondered how long Athos would go on like this. But he didn't stop. Aramis let himself slump forward, looking exhausted. But he offered no more response than the occasional shake of his head or a mumbled "I don't know." It didn't seem to deter Athos, who continued battering him with questions.
"When will the next raid take place?
"Which roads are being watched by Spanish troops?
"How long did you plan for this mission?
"How did the Spanish recruit you?"
Athos stopped for a moment, stepping forward to tap Aramis on the check and get his attention. His eyes looked a bit unfocused, as though he'd stopped listening at some point and only now noticed that Athos had moved closer to him.
"Come on, Aramis. Who provides you with information about French supply routes?"
He shook his head yet again. "I don't know."
"Were you part of the force that attacked a company of musketeers two weeks ago?"
"No," Aramis answered instinctively, as though he'd momentarily forgotten his own determination to keep quiet.
"Have you ever been to the waters of Forges?" Athos asked.
Aramis's head jerked up, his eyes wide and suddenly meeting Athos's, the glazed expression replaced with unmistakable surprise. "What?" his voice broke, croaking on the single world.
Athos leaned in closer, speaking slowly. "Have you ever been to the waters of Forges?" Aramis opened his mouth, but no words came. If he'd been less confused, d'Artagnan might have been amazed at the sight of Aramis so clearly tongue-tied.
"Answer me, soldier!" Athos snapped.
Aramis drew in a quick breath and answered softly, voice suddenly going calm and quiet. "No, I've never been. I planned to once, but I was detained on business and forced to change my travel plans."
Athos nodded before responding coolly. "What a shame. They say the waters of Forges have healing properties, though I understand they do little for musket wounds. And where did your business take you?"
D'Artagnan frowned, confused by the abrupt change in both the conversation and in Aramis's demeanor. What did Forges have to do with anything? He exchanged a quick glance at Porthos and saw him watching curiously, but when d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow in question, Porthos merely shrugged and shook his head, apparently as baffled as d'Artagnan.
"To Calais," Aramis said. He was still looking Athos in the eye. "I was searching for a jeweler and a thief, but they turned out to be one and the same."
Aramis said nothing else, but the apparent nonsense about Calais and thieves must have meant something because Athos nodded, taking one step back. He turned around for a moment, letting out a long sigh and rubbing his forehead wearily with one hand. When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. "Damn it, Aramis."
Aramis nodded. "I know."
Athos spun around to face Aramis again. "How long?" he demanded.
"Since the day I left Paris."
Athos cursed under his breath.
D'Artagnan glanced wildly between the two of them, but they paid no heed, locked in a standoff that carried some secret meaning known only between themselves.
When Aramis spoke again, it was a soft whisper of resignation and regret. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" The words came from Porthos, an incredulous growl that immediately commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
"Sorry for what?" Porthos pressed, stalking forward until he stood directly in front of Aramis once again, crowding into his space. "Sorry for lying? Sorry for betraying the musketeers? Or sorry for turning your back on us?"
Aramis looked up at him, dark eyes dull with weariness. "Porthos…"
"No, you tell me. What are you sorry for? For treason? Because the last time you committed treason, you didn't seem terribly sorry afterwards. In fact, you lied about that too."
"To protect you."
Which was apparently the exact wrong thing to say as Porthos seized Aramis by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. "Don't. Just don't." He gave Aramis a shake. "I don't want to hear it anymore. I'm done listening to your justifications and your sanctimonious speeches."
Aramis's breath hitched and he closed his eyes briefly before meeting Porthos's gaze head on.
"Then what are you waiting for? You might as well put me out of my misery before Louis gets around to it."
Porthos flinched as if the words stung. But d'Artagnan saw his anger still bubbling, one hand gripping Aramis by the shoulder hard enough to bruise, while the other first clenched tightly around the collar of his shirt. It was like they were caught in a web, held up only by the tension pushing them apart. But when it looked like Porthos would be the first to snap, the first to lash out physically instead of with mere words, the sound of Athos's voice shattered the tension.
"Porthos, let go of him. He's not our problem anymore."
Porthos jerked, his head spinning to stare at Athos, incredulous. "What are you talking about? He's a Spanish soldier, 'an he's our prisoner. Of course he's our problem."
Athos shook his head. "Not anymore. He's outside of our jurisdiction now. You can't lay a hand on him." Porthos stared back, unmoving. "Let go of him, Porthos."
"Why?"
"Because Aramis is an agent of the French crown, and as such, he's beyond our authority."
A/N: I wasn't going to post this until I had the next chapter mostly finished. But it's been a crappy week, so I figured, why not? But...my apologies for the ending, I guess.