A/N: Look, a thing! Sorry that this story is slow-going, but it is coming along. And the million dollar question for this chapter: how long will it be before Aramis and Cordero come to blows?

Aramis woke the next morning feeling stiff and sore. His split lip stung and his head ached—people really needed to stop hitting him on the head—but his mind was clear for the first time in days. He'd fallen asleep praying, as he often did, for absolution and forgiveness of his many sins, but also pleading to God to make a way to end this. It was the first time since he'd left Paris that he saw a glimmer of hope at the end of this mission, a slim chance that he might come away from it all without either dying on some desolate battlefield or being marched home to face a traitor's execution.

He'd drifted off with those prayers running through his mind, and he woke with his fingers grasping the beads of his rosary. He lay there silently, surveying his surroundings. No one was stirring yet, his fellow prisoners silent and sullen. Cordero looked as though he hadn't moved all night, still sat by himself, hunched over and glaring out at the rest of the camp as though daring anyone to cross him.

Aramis decided that was a dare he didn't want to accept. He kept his distance, moving stiffly as he pulled himself into a sitting position and began to watch the camp awaken around him.

The morning was cool and crisp, and Aramis took a moment to savor it. His companions eventually began to stir, some simply lying on the ground as if there was no point in rising with the morning sun. He could understand the sentiment. It wasn't like they had much hope that the new day would bring anything but more questions and rough treatment.

The musketeers circled them, not approaching, but watching. Aramis avoided looking at their vigilant guards but he caught a glimpse of Bernard among them. The young musketeer kept his distance this time, but then Aramis knew Marcoux had warned him off after the incident yesterday.

"How are you feeling?"

The voice was enough to surprise Aramis, causing him to start and turn. He saw Matías hovering at his shoulder, and Aramis suppressed a sheepish grin. He must have been more distracted than he thought to allow his young comrade to startle him so uncharacteristically.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Aramis's gaze raked over him, visually checking his injuries, but there was no fresh blood and his wounds were bandaged, as Marcoux had promised the day before.

Matías shrugged. "I'm not the one they dragged away yesterday." He brushed his shoulder lightly against Aramis's, a brief show of support.

Aramis sighed. "Don't worry about me, Matías. Just keep your head down, all right? Don't draw any attention to yourself."

Matías looked as though he might argue, but after a moment, he merely nodded. Aramis vowed to keep an eye on him. The last thing he needed was a loyal young Spaniard putting himself in harm's way on his behalf. Aramis wasn't equipped to handle any more undeserved loyalty directed his way.

The prisoners passed another morning in silence. They were fed a light breakfast, probably just the scraps left over from the musketeers' morning meal, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Aramis ate slowly and noticed Matías eyeing him approvingly, even offering him a portion of his own meal, which Aramis refused. A quick glance at Cordero saw him choking down a piece of bread with a slightly nauseated expression. Aramis wondered if he'd been fed at all yesterday. Athos and Marcoux had been working him hard.

It couldn't have been more than an hour or two later that Marcoux came to take the lieutenant away. Aramis ducked his head as if nervous, but he cast a cautious glance upward to watch as Cordero stumbled and was led away.

More time passed. Aramis let his eyes close and his mind drift. He had no way of knowing how long it had been when a voice brought him back to full awareness.

"Renato?"

"Hmmm?" he opened his eyes. It was Garza looking at him nervously.

"Do you really think someone gave away our position?"

Aramis pretended to consider it for a moment before answering. "Yes. I do. It's the only thing that makes sense. These musketeers weren't surprised to find us. They were waiting. Somehow, they knew where we'd be."

Matías frowned. "But no one knew our route…not even us!"

"Just the lieutenant," he said softly, pausing a moment. "And his superiors. But their plans could have leaked somehow, or been intercepted. Or maybe….maybe someone left behind a clue that the Frenchmen found?" Aramis hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't know. There must have been something."

He let the words hang there, ominously. It took a few moments for the young Spaniards surrounding him to pick up on the implication.

Garza caught it first. Aramis knew he would. He was smart, educated, from good family, and Aramis suspected that Garza was already being groomed for an officer's commission, a role he would likely excel at one day—if he lived long enough, of course. There were no guarantees in war.

He watched as Garza's eyes widened in shock. "You think it was one of us!" he snarled.

"Shsh," Aramis hushed him. "'Quiet. And I didn't say that."

"But you think it."

Aramis frowned, looking uncomfortable as he fidgeted slightly. "I didn't say that," he repeated. "But maybe it was an accident?"

"No," Garza swore. "I won't believe it."

"I don't want to believe it either," Aramis said. "But you didn't hear those musketeers. They knew everything—every attack from the past three weeks, our mission, our location… They must've been tracking us somehow."

"But it couldn't have been…none of us would…" Matías stuttered. He glanced over his shoulder at where Cordero had been, his place now occupied by Francis, Vicente, and Beltrán huddled together. They sat leaning against one another, weary and dispirited, ignoring the hushed conversation of their comrades. A few feet from Matías sat Ramón, hunched over and looking miserable. He was listening, looking attentively at Aramis but not venturing a word. Matías shook his head in determination.

"No. Even if…No, it's not possible. We've been together the whole time, all of us. Even if someone wanted to…no one would have had the opportunity."

"Well, that's not entirely true," Garza said softly, lowering his voice.

Aramis's gaze flicked up to his face, studying him closely. "What do you mean?"

Garza glared back, somehow looking both hostile and hesitant at once. "The lieutenant and I split off that once, a few weeks ago. Who knows what the rest of you got up to while we were gone?"

"What? When was this?" Aramis demanded.

"You were on guard duty," Garza said. "Remember when we made camp in that rocky canyon. You were stationed up on the ridge keeping watch all afternoon. The lieutenant said he wanted to scout out towards the east and ordered me to accompany him. We were gone for two hours, maybe a little longer. You were still on watch when we got back. But all of the others…"

"We stayed in camp," Matías said. "No one left."

"So you say," Garza grumbled.

"It's the truth."

"Are you certain?" Garza pressed, leaning forward. "You kept track of everyone, every minute, during the whole time we were gone?"

Matías frowned, jaw tight. He looked away, unable to meet Garza's gaze.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," Garza said. "So anyone could have slipped away and let loose some hint of our plans. Accidentally or not." The bitter emphasis on the word accidentally was enough to convey his thoughts on the matter.

"Garza," Aramis said softly. The young Spaniard looked up at him, and Aramis saw what lay behind that bitterness—fear. "That might not be what happened. We can't know for sure."

"But you said…"

"I know, but it's just speculation. And I don't know, maybe…" Aramis sighed. "The musketeers seemed to know everything. But perhaps they merely misled me, hoping I would give something away. I can't be sure, and I have no proof of any misconduct among our comrades. But I do know that we mustn't turn on each other. Not without more evidence to support these suspicions."

Garza chewed on his bottom lip, looking younger than he had any right to. Aramis felt the urge to reassure him, an irrational impulse, all things considered. "For now, let's just…"

Whatever Aramis had hoped to say died on his lips when he heard a sharp command in French. His head whipped around to see Marcoux standing there with a furious glare.

"You," he said, pointing at Aramis and switching to Spanish. "What are you talking about?"

Aramis said nothing, sinking back as if to make himself appear smaller.

"I told you we weren't done with you." Marcoux stepped forward to grab Aramis by the arm. He heard Matías whisper his name urgently, but there was time for nothing else as Marcoux manhandled him to his feet, pulled him away from the prisoners, and marched him across the camp.

"You have them fooled?" Marcoux asked in a whisper, once they were far enough away from all of the others.

"It seems so. And you have them scared."

"Good," Marcoux said. "That was our goal. I hear you and Cordero had a bit of a scuffle."

Aramis had to suppress a growl of frustration.

"Yes, and if you'd be so kind as to avoid hitting me on the head again, it would be much appreciated. Between the both of you, I've been knocked about quite enough."

Marcoux chuckled softly. "All right. Fair enough."

He led Aramis back to the captain's tent, and ushered him inside, untying Aramis's hands once they were out of sight of the rest of the camp. But once inside it was clear that said captain was nowhere to be found.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis said. He was sitting casually inside—alone, Aramis noted.

"Aramis." D'Artagnan stood and rose to greet him. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, surprisingly," he said mildly. His eyes flicked to d'Artagnan's arm, still bandaged. "And, uh…your arm, is it…?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "It's fine. As I keep saying. Please don't add to the fussing. I get enough of that from Porthos these days."

Aramis felt an embarrassed grin tug at his lips. "Well, in this case I can't help it. It was my shot after all."

There was an awkward silence as they stood facing each other. Aramis was only vaguely aware of Marcoux standing behind him as he struggled to decide where to look, eyes flitting away from d'Artagnan as he was unable to keep his friend's gaze.

Marcoux, bless him, broke the silence with an irritated huff. "You two planning to stand there all day?"

Aramis chuckled lightly, obediently stepping forward at the same moment d'Artagnan did, bringing them directly in front of one another. It would have been impossible to tell who moved first, it was almost as if they'd reached an unspoken agreement as they embraced lightly, smiling. For that blessed moment, it was almost as if the years hadn't passed and they were still the best of friends.

When they pulled apart, d'Artagnan was grinning. "It is good to see you again, my friend."

Aramis felt a slight flush and resisted the urge to look away. "Even under these circumstances?"

"Yes. Even so."

Aramis shook his head in wonder at the ease of d'Artagnan's forgiveness, the generous manner in which he offered friendship as though it cost him nothing. Yesterday, his attention had been riveted on the others, first with Athos as the captain methodically stripped away Aramis's defenses until all of his secrets were laid bare before them, and then with Porthos as his righteous anger swept through Aramis's excuses like a storm. Through it all, he'd barely been able to spare a thought for d'Artagnan, the young man they'd all tutored as a recruit and guided through his training as a young musketeer. To see him now, standing before Aramis, his enthusiasm tempered with experience and the weary look of a man who'd weathered the trials of war…

"I have missed you, my friend." Aramis reached out to grasp his shoulder. "I've missed all of you. Every day."

"Likewise." And Aramis saw that beneath the weariness, there was still the boyish grin, the warmth and the vigor that had always characterized d'Artagnan in his mind. "It's been strange without you. The others won't say it, not even now, but it was never quite right when you were gone and now…it's good to have you back."

Aramis struggled with a sheepish grin, suddenly feeling embarrassed and ashamed in the face of d'Artagnan's earnestness. He cleared his throat, doing his best to deflect attention away from his own discomfort.

"And where are the others? Porthos and our intrepid captain?"

"Right here," Athos's voice cut in as the tent flap opened. He entered, Porthos following closely.

"Been busy?" Aramis asked lightly, surprised at the teasing note that slipped so naturally into his voice.

It was quickly squashed by the sarcastic look from Athos. "Some of us have a war to run and a spy to catch."

"Um…yes, of course." Aramis lifted one free hand to rub the back of his neck nervously. "Did you learn anything useful from your scouts?" Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. "Nothing of note. They found no trace of any other Spanish soldiers, nor a trace of any courier who might be carrying Cordero's orders." Porthos settled in at the table and Athos cast him a glance.

"And I've 'ad no luck with your reluctant lieutenant."

"He's rattled," Aramis said. Porthos nodded his agreement.

"Yeah. Rattled, but quiet. Hasn't said a word all day."

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you've had better luck than we have?" Athos said, regarding Aramis seriously.

Aramis grimaced. "Not exactly." He saw Athos scowl and hurried to cut him off. "But give me a bit more time. The other prisoners…they're scared, and I think I can turn them against each other. If one of them knows something, I can get it. I just need more time."

"I'm not the one with the power to grant you that time, Aramis. We need to head off the next raid, and my courier will reach Tréville by nightfall, tomorrow morning at the latest. That is the deadline you should worry about."

Aramis nodded, already thinking of how he would accomplish this minor miracle. If he pressed Cordero, and the others were willing to back him instead of the lieutenant…

"Hey." He looked up to see Porthos standing in front of him, his eyes serious. "No need to figure it out this instant, eh? Come over here and sit down for a bit."

Aramis shook his head. "No, I should—"

"You should do as the man says," Marcoux piped up. "After all, you won't be going anywhere for a while. I'm sure your interrogation will take most of the afternoon."

"Interrogation?" Aramis asked. Marcoux smiled at him in response. "Oh, yes. I suppose you're right."

"We can't send you back out there too early," d'Aratagnan added. "Wouldn't want to look suspicious."

"So we might as well have a drink," Athos added. Aramis spun around to see the captain settled at the table and pouring glasses of wine with an ironic half grin playing about his lips.

Aramis chuckled. "Yes, that seems perfectly reasonable."

They spent the afternoon that way. Porthos checked Aramis's wound. Athos reported on the intelligence he'd gathered so far, and they debated the merits of various plans. Marcoux wandered off at some point, and between Athos and Aramis, they drew up two possible search patterns that they hoped would lead to discovering the nearest squad of Spanish soldiers. Athos would hold back for another day or two, in the hopes they could learn something more concrete, before he sent out more search parties.

It was almost like old times, if you could ignore the way they all tried so hard to pretend that it was just like old times. The undercurrent of tension was always there, the sense that all four of them were holding their breath, waiting for something else to happen and break the illusion of comfortable normalcy.

By the time the afternoon had begun to fade, Aramis had been fed and rested. It was enough to fortify him to sally forth once again into the strange battle that awaited.

When the time came, Marcoux rebound Aramis's hands and returned him to the prisoners, shoving him roughly to the ground beside Matías. Aramis had to look away to hide his discomfort as Matías worried and fussed over him. It was awkward. How was he to act when the men he betrayed treated him as a friend, and the men he helped, his oldest friends, still looked at him warily, as if holding him at a distance?

Some time passed before Cordero was returned and the prisoners were given food for the evening. They ate in near silence, Cordero and Aramis occasionally sneaking glances at each other across the camp. This awkward truce only lasted until dusk, when it became clear that Cordero had had enough. Quietly, he made his way across the prisoners' little corner of the camp, and Aramis tensed.

Well, now or never…

Hovering at Aramis's side, Cordero spoke in a low voice. "This has gone on long enough, don't you think?"

"Our imprisonment, you mean? Yes, I'd say so. If you have any bright ideas for our escape, I'd be more than happy to hear them." Aramis didn't raise his voice, but his flippant sarcasm carried just far enough to attract some attention from the others.

The noise Cordero made in response could only be described as a growl. "Shut up with your insolence for a moment. Tell me what you learned."

"Learned? Nothing. How could I?"

"What aren't you telling me?" Cordero demanded.

"Nothing," Aramis replied, then turned on the offensive. "But I could easily ask you the same question. We both know there's more going on here. Perhaps it's time you start being honest with me."

"No." Cordero shook his head. "Why would I be honest with a snake like you?"

Aramis bristled. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me." He jabbed Aramis in the chest. "I don't trust you, Renato. Never have. Our superiors think you're valuable, but all I see is an opportunist."

"What exactly are you getting at?"

"You lived among the French for years, must've been friendly enough with them, given how much you seem to know of the language, the land, hell, you even know enough to recognize the captain of the musketeers on sight. But after all those years of rubbing shoulders with Frenchmen, you left to join the Spanish army at the first hint that it might earn you status and glory. And it worked, didn't? An officer's commission for a new recruit is no small prize. Well, who's to say you haven't changed your mind? That you aren't willing to sell us out now if you think they can give you a better offer?"

"That's what you think?" Aramis growled. "I left because they hated me, because they treated our countrymen with scorn and disdain. But even if you were right, even if I had been sympathetic to their cause, I wasn't the one who knew our route and the ambush sites. You kept that information all to yourself. So if anyone was able to give away our position, it was you, not I. We were betrayed, lieutenant, but not by me. I had neither the opportunity nor the information required. But you did." Aramis let his voice drop to an accusatory growl. "Stay away from me, Cordero."

Aramis pulled away and turned his back on Cordero, settling down on the ground as if to sleep and clearly putting an end to their discussion. He could sense the stunned silence of the other prisoners around him, and eventually heard the rustle of Cordero shuffling away, roughly ordering everyone to go to sleep and keep their mouths shut.

They all did.

Aramis wondered if he had Cordero just where he wanted him or if he'd just tipped his hand too far.

Later that night, after it grew dark and the stars had come out, Aramis found himself lying on the ground and thinking. He could hear his comrades breathing quietly around him, but it wasn't the deep breath of sleep. Apparently they were as troubled as he was.

"Garza?" he asked hesitantly.

"Hmmm?" The man was only a few feet away, wide awake and sounding defeated. A few others shifted, listening to their quiet conversation. Aramis sat up and looked towards Garza where he lay, not making eye contact.

"You said that Cordero took you to help scout the terrain to the east."

"Yes."

"He never said anything about it. Not to me anyway." Aramis let the words hang in the air. "He should have. He broke protocol and he left the rest of us with no warning and no orders to guide us if he had not returned. Why would he do that?"

Garza say up to face him, letting out a deep, unsteady breath. "He must have had a good reason."

"Where did you go?"

"Renato, I…" Garza sighed. "I don't know if I should be telling you this. If the lieutenant didn't tell you, I'm sure he had his reasons."

Aramis looked him firmly in the eye, dropping his voice so it was low and harsh. "Reasons that may have led to our capture? Reasons that may have put us here?"

Garza sighed, looking uncomfortable. "We…" he broke off, wetting his lips and swallowing harshly. "We passed through a narrow wood until we came upon a clearing. There we found a modest hunting lodge. It seemed empty. Perhaps the owners abandoned it to escape the war, but I can't be sure. The lieutenant left me to stand guard and went inside. I don't know why. He wasn't there long before he emerged and we left. It all seemed…pointless, to be honest."

"That makes no sense."

Garza nodded. "I thought so too, at the time. But you know the lieutenant. He isn't one to share more than necessary."

Aramis raised one eyebrow. "And perhaps there's a reason for that?"

"You can't be serious?" Garza demanded. "You have no proof."

"No. No, I don't. But where was this hunting lodge? Near a road of some kind?"

"No. It was remote. Hidden."

"And an hour's walk from where we were camped?"

"Yes. Or a bit more maybe. The lieutenant was in a hurry. We doubled back a few times, though. Like he was worried about being followed."

"I'm sure he was," Aramis muttered.

"Renato, what are you saying?" Garza pressed. For a long moment, Aramis didn't respond.

Finally, he answered. "I'm not saying anything. But I think we all know what happened here."

He said nothing else, letting his suspicions prey on everyone's minds as the night grew darker, and thinking to himself that obviously no one knew what was going on here. But that confusion might just be the opportunity he needed.