Porthos leaned back from the table, pushing aside his now empty plate as he took a moment to release a deep breath. Daylight was beginning to fade, and Porthos couldn't help but feel that this day had already dragged on far too long. He'd rarely felt this exhausted unless he'd actually spent the day in battle.

Of course, he supposed, today had been a battle, of sorts, and not the kind he'd wish to repeat. Porthos glanced about him to survey the aftermath of the day's events.

Athos and d'Artagnan sat across from him, wrapped in their own silent contemplations. The table between them was lit by several candles and covered with maps and half-written notes, scattered between the remnants of their evening meal. Beneath the edge of d'Artagnan's plate sat a map of the Franch-Spanish border, sketched out by Aramis's hand, with an X to mark the camp where Aramis had formerly been stationed. At Athos's elbow lay a second map, on which Aramis had drawn the route they'd used as Cordero led them into France. Circles of various sizes showed where they had encountered French infantry or conducted raids on French supply routes. Two square boxes marked the locations where they had last rendezvoused with another Spanish raiding party, the dates of those meetings noted in Aramis's neat handwriting.

Athos had studied this map closely, comparing it to another on which his own notes marked the locations of French troops. They'd discussed every possible point of convergence, compared Aramis's marks to Athos's own records of Spanish supply raids and skirmishes between scouting parties. Porthos was fairly certain they'd poured over those maps until none of them could see straight anymore. Aramis certainly had been going cross-eyes by the end there.

The maps lay temporarily discarded, as d'Artagnan finished the last of his meal and Athos sat writing diligently, wholly engrossed in the words he was committing to paper.

Porthos spared a quick glance at Athos's discarded dinner plate, relieved to see that he had eaten most of his meal. That wasn't always the case, he knew. It had come as a surprise the first time he'd noticed, but Athos tended to neglect his own needs when he was absorbed in the duties of leadership. It was something that they'd all had to learn these last few years, and as Athos adjusted to being captain, Porthos and d'Artagnan had adjusted as well, learning to support him without undermining his command. It had taken a while, but they'd found a new rhythm, even in the midst of war.

Of course, Porthos mused, it would have been easier with Aramis present. He'd always been the one to look after the others, seeing to their health in small, subtle ways that only became obvious when he was no longer around to do so. Sometimes, in the beginning especially, every time Porthos had to pull Athos aside for a meal or bring him something to eat long after the others had fallen asleep, it had been a cold reminder that Aramis wasn't here to look after them anymore.

The thought of Aramis made Porthos turn aside, his gaze falling on the figure who lay curled up on a blanket in the corner of the tent, fast asleep. Aramis had eaten when prompted, then submitted himself to every question Athos could think to ask, drawing diagrams, and wracking his brain for any information that could possibly be of value, either to tracking Spanish troops or to unmasking the informant who was leaking French secrets. If Aramis had appeared exhausted before, he'd been half-dead on his feet by the end of it. They'd told him to rest, and he'd collapsed gratefully in the corner as they ate their own meal and reviewed what they'd learned.

Looking at him now, Porthos felt his heart clench.

He hated this. Hated that his best friend had lied to him. Again. It felt like a physical blow, a new betrayal as Aramis pushed him away once again in favor of his own secrets. He hated that Aramis had held them all at a distance, that after keeping his secrets about the queen, secrets that had almost ended them all, Aramis had turned around and done this… risking his life again to protect a secret of such monumental stupidity that one wrong word could easily see Aramis dead and left to rot in some far off corner of Spain. He hated that Aramis had taken that risk, that if things had gone wrong, Aramis could have died and Porthos would have never known why.

He hated that Aramis looked so battered, wrung out and weary. This wasn't Aramis, this shell that had shown up in their camp, sounding by turns bitter and defeated. He hated looking at him and seeing anything other than his cheerful, charming, hopelessly reckless best friend, a man so full of life who had been replaced by…this.

And above all, Porthos hated the thought of tying him back up and pretending to be his enemy.

"He'll be all right," Athos said, drawing Porthos's attention back to the group. Athos had stopped writing and regarded Porthos steadily. "His wound truly isn't too severe. By some miracle, it has not begun to fester. And I suspect it is exhaustion and dehydration that ail him more than actual blood loss."

"Yeah, probably. But that's not what worries me." Athos gave him a raised eyebrow that made Porthos nod in surrender. "A' right, that's not all that worries me then."

"Are you still angry at him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos sighed. "I don't know. Maybe. I'm not as angry at 'im at least." It was true. He'd been furious. All the pent up anger over Aramis's affair with the queen that he'd never truly had a chance to express, all his hurt and betrayal not just at Aramis's leaving, but his refusal to respond to Porthos's letter, the way he'd cut himself off so completely, as if rejecting their friendship once and for all…

Well, at least now Porthos knew why.

"I just can't believe he'd do this again," he said slowly. "He lied about…well, about her for months. An' I know why he did it, but it doesn't make it any less stupid. So now to find out he's been lying about something this big… And that he wouldn't even tell us when we captured him…it's like he intentionally pushed us away again." Porthos sighed again. "I just wish he'd start trusting us instead of trying to handle these problems on his own."

"I doubt it's a matter of trust," Athos said. "Not in this case at least, and certainly not when it came to the queen."

Porthos leveled Athos with a firm stare, but the captain returned it easily. By silent agreement, none of them ever mentioned the queen in connection with Aramis, not by name nor by title. If possible, they never even alluded to what had happened between her and Aramis. And no one was more insistent on that silence than Athos. That he would speak of it so openly now, even in private, spoke of how strongly Athos must feel about this.

"He truly was trying to protect everyone by keeping silent," Athos continued. "Aramis may allow his heart to rule him at the most inopportune times, but he's kept his secrets out of prudence, not mistrust. You know he would do anything to protect those closest to him. And that includes the queen, but also the three of us."

Porthos nodded. "Yeah. I know. It just…" He trailed off, shaking his head helplessly.

"Knowing doesn't make it hurt any less?" d'Artagnan offered.

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." Porthos took a quick drink of wine, setting the glass down with a clunk. "And anyway, what about you?"

"Me?" Athos looked at him in surprise.

"Yeah. Aren't you angry with him? Either of you?"

Athos merely shook his head before looking at d'Artagnan, who sighed.

"Well, I wish he'd said something," d'Artagnan began. "But I guess that can't be undone. And he did shoot me. But Athos was right; if he'd seriously wanted to harm me, he would have. I'll be fine." He took a minute to fiddle with the cup in front of him, fingers running around it absently as he took a moment to think. Porthos knew that look on d'Artagnan, and he waited. "Some of the things he said…" d'Artagnan began haltingly, "out there," he waved a hand to gesture towards the camp outside. "I've never heard Aramis like that before. So bitter, almost cruel." He looked back up then, meeting their eyes. "I'm not sure how I feel about that. But right now I'm more worried about what we'll do next."

"Fair enough. So Athos…Why aren't you angry at him?" Porthos asked.

Athos offered a half-hearted shrug, but then his eyes grew distant, staring off into space as though looking into the past. "I suppose," he spoke slowly, softly, "I merely understand him. At least in this one instance," he added with a wry grin. "After all, who knows better than I the lengths to which one can be compelled by duty…even against the natural inclinations of one's heart."

Looking at Athos, Porthos felt the last vestiges of his anger bleed away. It was clear now where Athos's mind had gone – to Milady and the day he had ordered her to be hung, following the dictates of his duty even at the cost of his own heart. And Porthos wondered how Athos had lived with it every day since, had fought against her all those times when part of him still loved her. It wasn't the same, he knew. Athos knew it too. But it didn't change the similarity – didn't change the fact that both Athos and Aramis were forced to deny their love of a woman to satisfy some version of duty and honor. And for Aramis, he'd walked away from everything, motivated solely by duty, regardless of what he'd truly wanted. When he'd told them he was going to the monastery in Douai, he's said it was what he wanted. With all my heart, he'd said. What a lie that had now been revealed to be. Leaving the queen and his son, abandoning his friends, walking away from his life as a musketeer, even forsaking his desire to serve God and renew his faith…Porthos now thought that Aramis must have acted against every inclination in his heart.

Athos's voice jerked his attention back to the present.

"You know Aramis would never have willingly lied about this. He must have truly believed he had no other options. While Aramis can be reckless and stubborn, even he would never wish to keep something like this from us."

"Yeah." Porthos nodded. "I know." He glanced back to Aramis. Even in sleep, he looked haggard, his eyes shadowed by dark smudges and his clenched jaw betraying the tension that hadn't left him, even when he'd finally allowed himself to rest.

God, this whole situation was just a mess.

"You finished with that letter to Tréville?" Porthos asked. Athos seemed unperturbed by the sudden shift in subject matter.

"Nearly so. Why do you ask?"

"Because I've got a couple of words for him."

"Such as?" Athos's voice dropped, low and mild, but still cautious.

"You just tell him that if he ever again dares to pull somethin' like this behind our backs, then he'd better watch his own. I'm tired of secrets, and he should know better than to keep them… especially this kind of secret. An' he's not my commander anymore, so he better not be expecting I'll overlook this out of some sense of duty, 'cause I won't."

Athos shook his head, an expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "I shall be sure to convey your displeasure to him."

D'Artagnan snorted. "Perhaps slightly more diplomatically?"

Athos did not suppress a weary grin. "Perhaps." He returned to his writing then, adding a few more lines to the letter, though Porthos could not make out what he wrote. Probably, as d'Artagnan suggested, he was more diplomatic than Porthos himself would have been. Still, there would be time to make his feelings clear. When next they returned to Paris, perhaps…

"It's nearly dark," d'Artagnan said.

Athos nodded. "Yes." He signed the letter with his typical elegance, pulling the nearby candle aside to melt the wax and seal the missive. "I'll call Marcoux. He should have arranged the courier by now. And he'll need to return Aramis before the prisoners become suspicious."

Porthos frowned but gave a reluctant nod of assent.

He still hated this. But it had to be done.

As Athos left to find Marcoux, d'Artagnan rose and went over to kneel by Aramis's side, one hand grasping him by the shoulder.

"Aramis," he said, giving him a gentle shake. Aramis's eyes flew open and he pulled back abruptly, glancing about as he sought to orient himself. "Hey," d'Artagnan raised his hands in surrender, "it's just us."

"Where…" Aramis's voice cracked. Porthos was at his side in two quick steps, offering a cup with the remnants of his own wine. Aramis took it with gratitude, drinking slowly.

"Athos went to retrieve Marcoux," d'Artagnan said slowly. Aramis looked confused for a moment before his gaze cleared and he nodded.

"Good," he managed, voice slightly steadier. He began to push himself upright, but Porthos stopped him with a hand.

"Not yet. Let me check that bandage."

Aramis shook his head. "Porthos, it's fine. And besides, it can't appear as though you've given me any special treatment. It's bad enough…"

"Don't," Porthos snapped. "You're not winning this one. The bandage is beneath your clothing. No one will see. An' besides, have you seen the state of you? You look bad enough as it is."

Aramis looked down at himself, noting his dirty and ragged clothing. The dried blood stains were still there, as were the bruises scattered about his body. And Aramis couldn't even see the state of his face, with bruises along his check and temple, his eyes sunken and his complexion pale. Even a bit of uninterrupted sleep couldn't disguise his fatigue.

Without waiting for Aramis to offer any further complaint, Porthos quickly set about checking the wound and adjusting the bandages. The edges of the wound were a jagged red, with dried blood along the seam in Aramis's torn flesh. But there was no fresh blood, and the wound had not begun to fester. It was the best they could hope for in these circumstances. Porthos had just finished re-fastening the bandages and covering them with Aramis's shirt when Athos and Marcoux returned.

Athos held up a length of rope. Aramis sighed and raised his hands in resignation. Athos set to work securing them, wrapping the rope around his wrists several times until it covered the rough cloth that Athos had previously used to bandage the rope burns. The extra loops and knots made it appear as though they had taken extra care to ensure that Aramis could not escape. But Porthos could see that Athos had actually done the opposite, taking care that the bindings were not tight enough to disrupt the circulation or cause any undue discomfort. When Athos finished, he tugged lightly on the rope. "How is that?"

Aramis twisted his hands, gently testing his range of motion. "Good. Thank you."

"Just don't hurt yourself or try to escape this time," Athos warned.

Aramis gave him a small grin, a hint of mischievousness playing about his lips. "No? But if I could…"

"Aramis," Athos scolded.

He nodded reluctantly. "As you say, captain." There was nothing ironic about the way Aramis used the title. When Athos used that tone, he was every inch the captain, just as Tréville had once been. Still, it sounded strange to hear Aramis address him as such…Aramis who hadn't been here for the learning curve, to see Athos gradually settle into the role they all knew he could fill so well.

"Good." Athos then turned to Marcoux, gesturing him forward. "Now, you were saying?"

"Yes, of course." He turned to Aramis, still seated on his makeshift bed. "As I told the captain, the prisoners have seemed restless this evening. Cordero, in particular, has been on edge since he learned that we'd taken you for questioning."

"I'm not surprised. He's already warned me several times to keep my mouth shut. He probably worries that I will give something away."

"Which you have," d'Artagnan pointed out. Aramis sent him a glare, but it melted almost immediately, as if the sight of d'Artagnan, hesitant but still looking at Aramis with open friendship, was more than Aramis could resist.

"Fair enough. But best I don't let Cordero know that."

"If you're to convince him, you'll have to make it seem that we've treated you poorly. Cordero's not in the best of shape himself. He'll suspect if you don't seem equally…well," Marcoux hesitated, "if you don't seem to have suffered similar mistreatment."

Aramis let out a harsh, humorous laugh. "This afternoon your little friend roughed me up and tied me to a tree. I've spent nearly two days bound and stiff and bruised, and I still feel the effects from when I was bashed on the head during our capture. So I'm fairly certain I can muster an outstanding performance as an abused prisoner, such a performance that would make the best actors in Paris swoon with envy."

Porthos frowned, making a mental note to ask for the full story of that bit about being 'tied to a tree.' But it was the slight tinge of bitterness to Aramis's words, and the way his heart clenched in response, that made Porthos wish to call the whole thing off and damn the consequences. "Aramis…"

"No," Aramis snapped. "I've already said. We're doing this. And I told you, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Porthos growled. "You don't sound fine either."

Aramis looked Porthos in the eye, and whatever he saw there took all the fire out of him. "Porthos…" he sighed. "I will go out there and exaggerate every minor ache and pain until they think you've worked me over for two hours straight. And I will still be fine." He waited, but Porthos could think of no response. "Trust me, my friend. Please."

With the gentle, pleading note in Aramis's tone, Porthos couldn't possible deny him. "All right." He took a deep breath, then turned to Marcoux. "But I'm coming with you."

Marcoux nodded. "Good. It will look more convincing if we take him back together. Having you there might shake Cordero's confidence, as well. The more nervous we can make them, the more likely someone will make a mistake."

"Just promise me you'll leave the others alone," Aramis said. "They don't know anything of value."

"We will attempt to do as you say," Athos said. "But Aramis, the security of France is always our first priority. Whatever chance we have to find the intelligence leak, we must take it."

Aramis nodded. "I understand."

"We'll give you the morning to see what else you can learn while we compare the information from our latest scouting parties to what we have here." Athos gestured to the maps still strewn across the table. "Perhaps we can learn something even if you cannot. We'll plan to separate you and Cordero at midday." Aramis nodded and Athos reached out a hand, hauling him to his feet and keeping one hand on his arm to steady him. When Aramis nodded a second time, Athos gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before he stepped back, leaving Aramis on his own two feet. He seemed steady enough, and Porthos moved forward to take him by the arm.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get this over with." Marcoux moved to Aramis's other side as they escorted him outside the tent. But once outside, Porthos paused. "Can you give us a minute?" he asked. The other musketeer nodded, moving off to stand against a nearby tree to wait. Porthos held onto Aramis tightly and took him around the corner of Athos's tent, out of sight of the rest of the camp. When he leaned close to speak, Porthos kept his voice low and calm.

"There's one thing I need to know."

"Anything," Aramis promised.

"I wrote to you. When you left, I mean," Porthos paused, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. "I wrote you and my letter was returned, unread. It was sent back to me with a note from the abbé at Douai. He said you refused to receive my letter…said there was no place in your new life for the friends you'd left behind an' that you'd renounced everythin' from your old life when you accepted your calling."

The anger Porthos had felt every time he thought of that letter threatened to return…until he took one look at his friend standing before him. The pain on Aramis's face was almost a physical thing, his eyes closing as he looked away in shame, a small whine escaping his lips. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I never…" his words trailed away as he sucked in a rough breath to steady his voice.

"You said you've been here the whole time," Porthos pressed, "that you left Paris and went straight for the Spanish army." Aramis nodded. "So how'd you send the letter?"

His eyes shot open as Aramis looked up sharply. "I didn't. I would never…" he broke off, swallowed. "I would never say those things. Never."

And Porthos felt a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying suddenly slip away. "A'right. I believe you, but then…"

"Where did you send it from?"

"Sorry?"

"The letter. Where were you when you sent it? Did you send it directly from Paris to Douai?"

Porthos shook his head. "No. We'd already left Paris by then. We were stationed a few days west, gathering troops."

"So you sent it back to Paris through regular courier and then on to Douai?" Aramis asked. When Porthos nodded, Aramis grimaced. "Tréville sent it."

"He what?"

"If you sent the letter through a standard courier, it would have gone to Paris first, with the other dispatches. Tréville could intercept it there. He may not have written the reply himself, but he could have arranged for it to be written, by a local priest, perhaps, to add credibility to the story." Porthos could see Aramis's brain spinning as he put the pieces together, grumbling as he continued. "We discussed it before I left, the possibility that you wouldn't let it go so easily. I insisted my story about going to Douai would satisfy you all, but…" Aramis shrugged. "He worried that I would tip you off somehow, that you would become suspicious. It was too dangerous to let you get involved. Not," Aramis hastened to add, "that either of us believed you would divulge my mission, but we couldn't be sure who else might become suspicious. Nor was it worth the risk of displeasing the king when he had sworn me to secrecy." He sighed. "I should have known Tréville wouldn't leave it alone. He must have been prepared to do whatever was necessary to make you drop the matter."

"Course he was," Porthos muttered, looking away as his mind turned over this new development. He thought he might have to add to those choice words he'd asked Athos to pass along to Tréville.

The feel of Aramis leaning closer brought his attention back to the man in front of him.

"Porthos, you have to know…you have to believe that if I ever did leave the musketeers willingly – to retire or to settle down or to join the church or anything – I wouldn't cut you out of my life. I couldn't. I would write you so often you'd grow sick at the sight of my handwriting, and if you didn't reply I'd hunt you down and…"

Porthos laughed, in spite of himself. "Yeah. Yeah, a'right, I get the point." He smiled softly. "And thank you. That was all I needed, right there." Porthos took a moment to drink in the reassurance, breathing deeply. But he knew they couldn't delay much longer. "I guess we should…" he waved towards Marcoux and the rest of the camp.

"Mmm, yes. I guess we should." But it was clear that Aramis couldn't muster the tiniest bit of enthusiasm for what lay ahead.

"Hey?" Porthos stopped him. "You heard Athos. We'll take care of this."

Aramis nodded. "I hope so." He blew out a long sad breath. "All right. Let's go." He visibly gathered as much energy as he could, then strode forward determinedly. Porthos hastened to catch up and take him by the arm, trying to project an air that he was leading Aramis and not the other way around.

Marcoux nodded to them both as they reached him before leading them across the camp towards the prisoners.

With each step they took, Porthos could feel Aramis slip deeper into his role. Aramis hung his head, shuffling his feet, the slump in his shoulders meant to convey exhaustion or defeat. Porthos did his best to make it appear that he was dragging Aramis, giving a slight tug now and then for dramatic effect. He thought of Tréville and the king and everything they'd demanded of Aramis, everything they had kept secret, and he used his anger to fuel a scowl that would be convincing to any onlookers.

He tried not to feel the stares of the other musketeers as they watched Porthos manhandle the prisoner across the length of the camp.

Just a bit longer, Porthos told himself. A few days at most. This wouldn't be forever. Eventually, somehow, things would go back to the way they were supposed to be.

They had to.