A/N: Yeah, so, uh...this is a thing. I know some of you must have thought I'd given up on this story. I hadn't, I assure you. I've never given up on it. I was just sidelined by mundane, real life stuff.
I don't feel like this chapter moves the action along as much as I would have liked, but it sets up the stuff that will unravel in the next two chapters. Which I'm working on. I promise!

Aramis allowed himself to be led through the camp, surrounded by silence as shadows deepened and daylight died away. He felt the stares of the musketeers, and he hunched his shoulders, curling in on himself just a bit more. The occasional stumble in his steps was intentional, all part of the act. But the weary sag of his shoulders and the way he relied on the support of Porthos's firm grip was not. He'd slept just enough to revive his senses, to help him remain alert and clear-headed. The tinge of over-tired hysteria that had dogged his every movement had receded. But in its wake, he was left with only weary resignation.

He felt the hand on his arm tighten slightly, and he resisted the urge to lean into the contact. And, God, Aramis couldn't even describe the sense of relief in feeling Porthos at his side, silently supportive, though he did his best not to show it. It mustn't look as though he was too fond of his captor—even if he was.

Time for a bit of drama, then…

Aramis made a show of fighting, pulling away and tugging harshly against Porthos's grip. Porthos responded in kind, jerking Aramis back and squeezing his shoulder with enough force to make him wince. Aramis flashed a quick glance at Porthos, who was scowling, and Aramis resisted the urge to wink at him. The tiniest hint of a grin tugged at his lips before Aramis ducked his head and looked away, as though intimidated by his captor's fierce countenance.

He had to admit, the role of cowed prisoner was a bit more fun when he wasn't the only one in on the act.

Porthos gave Aramis a rough shove forward. Aramis stumbled—fake stumbled…well, mostly fake—allowing Porthos to grasp his arm and drag him along. "Come on, then, keep moving," Porthos ordered. "We don't have all day." He propelled Aramis forward, then brought them to a halt as they stood before the group of Spanish prisoners. Porthos seized Aramis by the arms and grabbed his bound hands, tugging at the rope to test the surety of the knots.

Aramis let out a hiss as though in pain, and cast a quick glance at the prisoners scattered before him. Most kept their heads down, casting only furtive glances his way before they resumed their submissive positions, heads bowed as if hoping to avoid the attention of their captors. But there were two exceptions: Cordero and Matías stared right at him, one with poorly concealed anger and the other with naked concern.

A hand landed between his shoulder blades and shoved, sending Aramis sprawling forward so that his knees hit the ground with a jarring impact, his bound hands slamming into the rough ground as he attempted to catch himself. The jolt of impact was enough to make his back ache and his head pound again. Aramis twisted to look behind him, scowling in mock defiance. He saw Porthos and Marcoux both glaring at him, though he thought he saw a slight wince from Porthos. He'd obviously shoved Aramis with more force than he'd intended. Even when putting on a show, Porthos hated to think he'd caused Aramis pain.

But at moments like this, with Cordero's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, Aramis cursed the gentle side of Porthos's nature. It was probably minor enough to go unnoticed, but if Cordero was astute enough or suspicious enough, he might happen upon the truth if Aramis couldn't convince him—

A rough blow to the back of the head sent Aramis reeling. Momentarily disoriented, he moaned, breathing harshly as he found himself bent over and leaning on his hands to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground.

"There's more where that came from, Spanish dog," the words hit like a slap, and only as Aramis's vision cleared did he realize Marcoux was speaking to him in Spanish. "Just think about that, 'cause we're not done with you yet." He let out a dark chuckle. "We've still got so many plans for you, and I can guarantee they won't be pleasant."

Aramis stared up at him, eyes wide in shock that was completely genuine. He'd have to compliment Marcoux later on his acting skills…and his quick thinking.

Marcoux leaned forward, fist clenched, and Aramis flinched, pulling back as if prepared for a blow that never came. A shiver ran down his spine and Aramis went with it, allowing himself to tremble just slightly. Marcoux spit at the ground in front of him and then spun on his heel to leave, Porthos following with a self-satisfied nod.

Aramis let out a shaky breath.

Well, that went…rather well actually. He shifted his weight and then groaned. Okay, so if he ignored his now sore knees and the renewed pounding in his head, then it had gone well. Still, a small price to pay all things considered.

Rough hands seized him by the collar and swung him around with enough force to make him dizzy. Startled, Aramis stared up to find Cordero on him, his bound hands gripping the fabric of Aramis's shirt and his eyes flashing in anger. He found himself pressed backwards, one leg twisted beneath him, pinned in place and with only the lieutenant's grasp to keep Aramis upright.

"What did you tell them," he hissed, so close that Aramis could feel the heat of his breath.

Aramis leaned back, trying to pull out of Cordero's grasp, but the hands tightened and Cordero, crouching over him, dug his knee into Aramis's hip, effectively halting his struggles as Aramis gasped.

"What," he repeated, "did you tell them?"

"Nothing."

Cordero gave him a rough shake. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not," Aramis snapped. He shook himself free, shoving at Cordero's shoulder. The lieutenant leaned back, releasing his grip at the show of defiance. Aramis fidgeted, looking away from the intensity of Cordero's gaze, shuffling backward and projecting as much nervousness as he could muster.

"If you didn't say anything, then why'd they take you?"

"They know I'm an officer. That's it. I had to tell them or…" Aramis trailed off, his gaze shifting to Ramón who was watching intently. Cordero followed his gaze and Ramón looked away in shame. "Would you rather it had been one of them?" Aramis asked softly.

"I'd rather," Cordero gave him a shove, rocking Aramis back on his heels, "you tell me everything. And I'd better like what I hear." His voice dropped to a threatening growl.

Aramis wanted to deck him. But he didn't think now was the right time to escape from his ropes. It was far too early to tip his hand.

"I didn't tell those Frenchman a single thing. But it doesn't matter. They already know everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? They know, Cordero. They've known all along. They knew where we were camped, how to ambush us—they've been toying with us all along, making us think we were attacking supply lines when it was all just a decoy to lure us here, into this trap."

"No." Cordero shook his head. "No, that's impossible. You're lying."

"I'm not," Aramis said firmly, maintaining eye contact with the Spaniard. "They said…" he swallowed roughly before continuing. "They said they've been tracking us, just waiting for their chance to take us down. We've been at their mercy the whole time." He let a note of fear creep into his voice and Cordero pounced on it.

"You fool," Cordero spat. "They're trying to mess with your head. And you're stupid enough to let them. They don't know anything."

"No, you're wrong. They must know. How else would they have found us so easily? Don't you get it, lieutenant?" Aramis ground out the title with a low note of contempt. "Someone must have betrayed our position. It's the only thing that makes sense. We've been walking into a trap all along."

"Stop being so paranoid," Cordero snapped. But his eyes narrowed and Aramis thought he saw a hint of concern there. "You just worry about keeping your mouth shut, and let me handle the rest."

Aramis scoffed. "Yes, because you've done such a fine job so far."

Cordero swung his bound hands, striking Aramis across the face. It took Aramis a moment to recover, but when he did, he turned to face Cordero with a furious scowl, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth.

"That's a warning," Cordero said. "Keep your insolent tongue in check, both to me and to the French."

With that, the lieutenant slunk off, putting as much space between them as he possibly could. Aramis looked around him. The other prisoners had all seen the confrontation, watching warily. None seemed to want to get involved. Their guards had seen it too, watching with smug satisfaction. They'd kept their prisoners confined to a corner of the camp, but seemed willing to let them fight amongst themselves, giving them enough space that Cordero and Aramis could take up positions on opposite ends of the group. They were still well within the confines of the perimeter set up by their guards, but the rift between them was clearly growing. The musketeers made no move to interfere with that rift. Aramis caught a brief glimpse of one familiar guard, Bernard, the one he'd foolishly provoked earlier in the day. Bernard looked at Aramis now, then to Cordero, before he suddenly turned and strode off in the opposite direction. Aramis shrugged. Whatever that meant, there was little he could do about it.

"Renato?" Aramis turned to the soft voice, seeing Matías suddenly at his side. "Are you all right?"

He nodded wearily. "Yeah, fine." He spit out some blood and wiped the last of it from his mouth before closing his eyes, grimacing in pain that was half-real, half-exaggerated.

"I'm sorry," Ramón said. "It was my fault they took you. I should never…"

Aramis shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They would have found out eventually." He shifted, let himself slump a bit as if exhausted by the weight of the day. And truthfully, it had been a very long day.

"Are you hurt?" Matías asked.

Aramis shook his head again. "Leave it, Matías. It doesn't matter." His answer made the young man frown. "Is there…" Aramis paused, licking his dry lips. "Did they bring you any food this evening?"

Matías and Ramón exchanged quick glances.

"They did," Garza's voice broke in. Aramis looked up in surprise to see him sitting nearby. He'd expected him to ally himself with Cordero if he were honest, but here he was, sitting a few feet away, but clearly closer to Aramis than Cordero and his closest followers. Interesting, he thought. "They brought some supper, or what passes for it, a while ago, before you were returned." He looked around. "I'm sure it's all gone by now."

The others looked chagrined, but Aramis merely nodded. "It's fine," he said again. "At least they don't mean for us to starve."

Matías turned and scrambled back to retrieve something, then returned with a water skin. "I have this. There's not much left, but I saved it…" he trailed off, holding it up to Aramis. He almost refused, hesitant to take the last of their water when he didn't truly need it. But stoicism wouldn't help his cause any, not if he wanted to appear more battered than he truly was. And it would be nice to wash away the tang of blood from his split lip.

"Thank you." He accepted it gratefully, taking a sip. He was tempted to rinse his mouth and spit it out, but the water was too precious to waste. He swallowed, then took a longer drink before handing back the now empty water skin.

"Renato…" Matías began again. Aramis waved him off.

"Not now. There's nothing to be done for it now." He settled down on the ground, curling up on his side and closing his eyes. "Just get some sleep Matías. All of you. There's nothing else we can do for now."

With his eyes closed, Aramis couldn't see their reactions, but after a few moments he heard the rustling of movement as the others settled in for the night. Only much later—when the air had cooled around him and he heard nothing but the sounds of soft, steady breathing—did Aramis open his eyes. He saw the forms of his sleeping comrades. And there, sitting some six or seven meters off, as far away as he could get without drawing the guard's ire, was Cordero, hunched in on himself, stress and tension etched in every line of his body. No one was around to see it, the guards paying them no mind. But to Aramis it was clear as day.

Cordero was worried. And that was the first sign he'd seen in days that made Aramis think he might actually have a chance to pull this off.

As they'd left Aramis behind, marching back to re-join Athos and the others, Porthos couldn't help but worry. At his side, Marcoux seemed impassive.

"So," Porthos said, breaking the silence and trying to keep the frustration from his voice. "That back there…was that really necessary?"

Marcoux looked up at him. "What?"

"You know what." Porthos ground out the words. "I know we have to make it look good, but he's not actually the enemy, ya know."

"I know, but…" Marcoux sighed. "Cordero knows something's up. I can see it."

The words took a moment to sink in. "Damn. You think his cover's already blown?"

Marcoux shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so, but…" he shook his head. "I think your friend is running out of time."

"You seem awfully certain he's my friend."

Marcoux shrugged. "Well, you clearly care about him, and he's clearly not a Spanish soldier."

Porthos huffed. "No, he is a Spanish soldier, all right. For now anyway. But that's not all he is." He paused, but it had to be said. "Look, Marcoux…"

"I understand," Marcoux cut him off. "It's like I told the captain: I won't say anything. I know when there's more going on than meets the eye and I know when to stay out of it."

Porthos nodded. "Good. But I was just gonna say…thanks. For not making a big deal out of this. And for being the one to hit him back there. You're right; it probably was necessary. Didn't mean I wanted to do it, though."

"I know."

They'd nearly made it back to Athos's tent when another musketeer caught up to them.

"Marcoux, I…" he trailed off. "Uh, I apologize, sir," he said, glancing to Porthos. "I did not mean to interrupt."

Porthos waved him on, and Marcoux reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it, Bernard?"

"When you both left, the prisoners…well, they had a bit of an altercation."

Porthos stiffened. "What kind of altercation?"

"The lieutenant and the other officer…they argued." He looked at Marcoux. "The lieutenant didn't seem very happy. Kept warning the other officer to keep quiet and stop being paranoid. Seems they think someone might have betrayed their position."

Marcoux nodded. "That's good, Bernard. That's what we want. If they start to turn on each other, we can use that. Don't get involved, just keep an eye on them, make sure no one tries to make an escape, and make sure they know they are constantly being watched. Make them nervous, but don't do anything to interfere unless it looks like they're preparing to do each other serious harm."

Bernard nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And Bernard," Marcoux added. The younger musketeer looked up at him. "Don't make it personal. Keep your emotions out of it and focus on your duty. All right?"

Bernard nodded again. "Yes, sir. And…I'm sorry. About before. You were right and I behaved inappropriately. I'll do better."

Marcoux gave him a tight smile. "Good."

He turned about and Porthos watched him go before turning back to Marcoux.

"What's that about?" Porthos asked.

Marcoux sighed. "I don't think you really want to know."

"Well, now you have to tell me."

"He got a bit, um, emotional earlier today. With your little friend back there." He raised a hand before Porthos could protest. "Don't even say it. I know. But it probably helped sell his cover anyway. And Bernard…" He trailed off and sighed. "Lucien was his best friend." Marcoux quickly saw the blank look of confusion on Porthos's face and hastened to clarify. "Lucien was with that party that was attacked two weeks ago – the ones that were killed before they reached the rendezvous point."

"Oh." Understanding dawned quickly as Porthos recalled the incident. It wasn't something one was likely to forget.

They'd gone looking for a group of missing musketeers and found only bloody corpses. They'd been slaughtered and left to rot. Ambush, most likely. When they'd stumbled upon the scene, they'd been greeted by buzzing flies and mud stained dark with blood. It was yet another grisly reminder that war was a brutal, despicable business. And he knew that many of the younger musketeers had been deeply shaken. Few had ever seen this level of death and destruction before.

"I've been working with Bernard since," Marcoux explained, "trying to get him to move past it. He's got to learn to think with his head and not his heart. He's always letting his emotions influence him in battle when he can least afford to do so. You know the type, hot-blooded and quick tempered."

Porthos nodded. "Yeah. I know the type." He gave Marcoux a grin that was somewhere between ironic and sheepish. "I may have worked with a few musketeers that fit that description."

Marcoux grinned. "I thought you might have."

Porthos thought of how hard Athos had worked to teach d'Artagnan that very lesson. Head over heart, he'd said, over and over again in practice sessions. Porthos thought of all the times Aramis had pulled some reckless stunt in the heat of the moment, acting on impulse, a spark of passion overriding his cooler judgement. And then he thought of himself, his quick temper and the way he'd let it fly against Aramis earlier that very day.

He couldn't resist a low chuckle.

Yeah, he knew that type all right. All too well.