Chapter Text
“I can’t believe that the King really agreed to this. 30 of our prisoners in exchange for ten of theirs?”
Porthos grumbled. He had been grumpy since they’d gotten the news. Athos understood. The journey to spain was long and uncomfortable, especially in July. The days were so hot, their skins were red and burning, several men had been left behind due to overheating. The nights hadn’t been much better. Either it was too hot to sleep or a thunderstorm would make them even more miserable. And all this for what? Getting 10 men of their own back to Paris.
But – despite the discomfort for the Musketeers – it was an intelligent move of the King. War has been going on for too long and spain had the upper hand for most of the time. France had to give in a bit in order to gain better chances in the peace negotiations. As far as Athos knew they had some very high-ranking officers in their captivity, one man worth as much as 10 soldiers at least.
“There they are.” One of their fellow musketeers announced as a door in the courtyard opened. A spanish guard was followed by a group of poorly looking men, dishevelled, injured, malnourished and dressed in nothing more than rags.
They heard some names being murmured, some men must have been recognized by their comrades. Athos and Porthos also looked at the ten soldiers, some were familiar but they couldn’t place where they’d seen them. But both stopped at the same man.
“Is that-“
“I think so.”
In union they took a step forward, trying to get a better look. But it was hard to tell. The man in question had his face turned to the floor, the hair long and greasy and covering most of his features. He was skinny, nothing more than skin and bones. His clothes torn and dirty, covered in a range of browns and reds.
“Aramis?” Porthos asked and as the shaky silhouette of a Musketeer moved ever so slighty, his head shooting up at hearing his own name after so long, Porthos couldn’t hold back. He knew Athos was right behind him as he ran forward. He wanted to crush his friend in an embrace but stopped in the last second as Aramis jumped at the motion and stumbled a step backwards.
The joy Porthos had felt suddenly turned into something heavy and painful.
“Aramis, you are alive.” Athos then just stated, noticing just as well that physical contact wasn’t wished at the moment. They both looked at the hollow face in front of them and wondered if the statement was correct. He looked more dead than alive, to be honest.
Aramis nodded before he looked back at the ground. None of them had missed, that their long lost friend hat yet to say something.
Their sudden reunion had to wait for a while as the Musketeers and the ten freed prisoners had to go back to camp. They’d had brought a cart and ushered their comrades on it, before the Soldiers sat on their horses and left the city as fast as possible. None of them truly trusted the short time of peace. They’d their hands on their weapons once they’d left the courtyard and turned their backs on the spanish soldiers.
The ride to the outskirts of the city felt longer than before, the sun burning down on them without regard of losses. Neither Athos nor Porthos could stop themselves from looking back to the cart every minute. Aramis seemed stoic, as he sat crisscrossed, starring into the open land they were passing through.
“Do you think he’s been there all this time?” Porthos then questioned, fear bubbling in his stomach to the answer.
“I fear so. It was obvious that something must’ve happened one the contact to him had died down.” Athos answered truthfully.
It’s been eight years since they’d last heard of Aramis. It was right at the beginning of the war as Aramis had gone undercover. He’d acted as a spanish soldier, sending the French important information of troop movements. And then, after seven month of a steady stream of letters, it suddenly stopped. They’d even tried to acquire a new spy to find out what happened to Aramis, but he never got to know what happened to their comrade. Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan wanted to search for him but they knew just as well as all others, that it would be useless. Aramis was gone.
A year later Aramis had been declared dead. And then he suddenly stands in front of them. Eight damned years later.
“We should have searched for him.” Porthos mutters, angry at himself.
“We wouldn’t have found him. It would have been suicidal.” Athos says what both men know.
“I don’t care. He’d been there all this time! Eight years in prison. Who knows what could’ve happened to him.”
“We can’t change it, Porthos. But we can try and help him. Get him back to Paris, feed him and you’ll see- he will be fit and healthy soon again.” In honesty, Athos did not believe a word he said. He’d seen what prison could make of men. And to all appearances, the prisoners hadn’t been treated well.
As they reached camp a couple hours later, Athos and Porthos immediately jumped off their horses and handed them to a lower ranking soldier to care for. They wasted no time in hurrying towards the cart, from which their freed comrades climbed. They didn’t miss the sluggish movements of Aramis, so untypical for the fast and elegant marksman, neither did they miss how he didn’t make any eye contact or tried to interact with anyone else. Once he stood back on steady ground, he just waited. His fellow sufferers were already spreading out in the camp, either so sleep, eat or wash themselves.
“C’mon, let’s get you washed and some clean clothes. Alright?” Porthos asked cautiously. Aramis just nodded. Sighing because of the lack of communication, Porthos turned around and headed towards the stream which surrounded the camp on one side. Aramis stumbled along.
Not knowing which kind of injuries hid beneath his clothes, Athos and Porthos didn’t want to bring Aramis into any kind of situation where he could hurt himself anymore, so they offered to help him get out of his clothes. At that he just shook his head and started to strip his shirt off. It looked mechanical, as he stripped off his clothes, folded the rags neatly together and walked into the cold stream as his friends had suggested. They didn’t want to stare as their friends washed himself, but couldn’t help himself as one scar after another came to light once the dirt washed off. Aramis’ back was a mess of long, bulging scar tissue, a clear sign of one or several floggings. Most of his injuries looked old, healed a long time ago. His fingers looked bent and weirdly twisted, like they’d been broken some time ago. Only the dark blue bruising on his rips spoke of still ongoing abuse.
“What did they do to him?” Porthos wondered, his voice thick with pain for his friend.
Athos didn’t answer, there was no need to. None of them could imagine what Aramis went through in the past eight years, they had to wait for him to tell them. If he just would talk…
Once Aramis was clean, they handed him a new set of clothes, which he obediently put on.
“What else do you need, ‘Mis? Food, sleep?”
Aramis looked at Athos with wide eyes, surprised. He seemed to think about it for a moment, before he just shrugged. The Captain sighed, before he decided for Aramis. “Food it is. There is some good broth, you will love it.”
Wordlessly, Aramis followed the Musketeers back into camp towards the fireplace. He sat down once Porthos offered him a place and took the bowl of broth with shaky hands. Athos has never seen Aramis’ hands shake before. No matter how exhausted or injured he’d been, how unsure his walk was, his hands had always been steady.
“Eat.” Athos encouraged as Aramis just stared at the food in his hands. He seemed hesitant at first, but then he smelled the delicious smell of hot carrots and rabbits and couldn’t resist. He didn’t even care for the spoon, which Porthos had offered. Instead, Aramis just put the bowl to his lips and gulped down the food just like someone could take it from him in any moment.
“Wow, wow. Slowly or you will just get sick.” Porthos said, but Aramis didn’t seem to hear or care. He only lowered the bowl once it was empty. Porthos didn’t miss his friends gaze falling onto the pot. As Aramis didn’t make a move to take some more or ask for it, Porthos offered it to him. Aramis nodded slightly, before he gulped down another bowl of stew.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Athos asked, hopeful to get Aramis to speak to them. But the former marksman just nodded as he cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand, satisfied.
“Is there anything else we can do for you, ‘Mis? You need something for the pain?” Porthos then asked before the heavy silence could consume them.
Aramis just shrugged.
“C’mon, you have to talk to us or else we can’t help you.”
This at least earned him Aramis’ look at him. Brown eyes danced from one side to another, unsure and scared. ‘of them?’ Porthos wondered.
“Please. Tell us what to do.” The large soldier almost pleaded.
Aramis gulped, avoiding his gaze again. He seemed to fight an inner battle with himself, over something Porthos and Athos could not guess. He wringed his hands, before his lips parted and closed several times before a sound finally left them.
“Bandages?” It was more a question than a question, his voice rough and shaky, the volume barely loug enough for them to understand.
“Yeah, of course, we can get you bandages.” Porthos was up and gone in half a second, happy to be able to help.
“For what?” Athos then asked as they waited for their comrades return.
Again, Aramis needs some time to encourage himself to answer. “Ribs.”
Athos nodded. He wanted to keep asking, wanted to know what happened, but he knew that talking – for some reason – was a fight for Aramis. So he didn’t want to interrogate him too much. Porthos was back a minute later, handing the bandages to Aramis.
“We can help you.” Athos offered, but Aramis just started to wrap them around his ribs by himself. He winced every now and then, but otherwise he stayed silent as he finished to wrap his ribs. If they were bruised or broken the ride on the cart must have been hell for him. Why didn’t he say something earlier?
Porthos and Athos were unsure of what to do next. It was still to early to retire to bed, but there was not much else Aramis could do right now. They decided to just stay by the fire and talk about everything and nothing. They discussed the impact of the prisoner exchange, about the heat, about the new garrison that had been built last year and the queens second pregnancy. During that, Aramis just sat beside them, starring at the ground. If he was listening or lost in his own thoughts, they couldn’t tell.
“Oh, and d’Artagnan had been wounded a few weeks ago. But he’ll heal. He’s back in Paris. His shoulder had been broken during a battle – nasty wound.” Porthos told, hoping to get Aramis’ attention in some way. And indeed, the marksman’s head shot up at the mention of their fourth brother. He stared at Porthos, probably waiting for more information. As the big man didn’t quite know what exactly Aramis wanted to know (as he didn’t ask), he started to tell him almost everything about their youngest. Starting with the marriage with Constance, continuing with the little twins they’d gotten, how Constance managed the Garrison now, how d’Artagnan worked hard and fought even harder and how he’d fallen during a battle and run over by a horse. Porthos told him from the letter they’d got from him, telling them that he was healing and almost without any pain now.
Aramis seemed satisfied with that as he returned his gaze back towards the ground, nodding.
Not being able to stop himself from talking, Porthos added “We’ve missed you, ‘Mis. Thought you were dead. You can’t imagine how happy we’re to have you back. We should write d’Artagnan!”
A decade ago Aramis would have laughed, put his hand on his heard and answer in a sarcastic way of how honored he felt. Now, he just nod his head – crushing Porthos heart with that.
Sensing that Porthos was hurt and knowing full well that he then sometimes said or did things he didn’t mean to, Athos stepped in and suggested that Aramis could go and sleep in their tent. It was still bright outside, but the heat was getting less and Aramis’ must’ve been exhausted. He didn’t agree nor disagree, just did as he was told and vanished in their tent.
“Give him some time.” Athos suggested to Porthos.
And time they gave him. They cared patiently for their friend on the ride back to Paris. Three weeks, they offered him food and water, always made sure to have a fire going for him in the evenings, helped him dress his wounds and shushed him, when he twitched and cried in his sleep.
But time wasn’t enough for him to go back to his usual self. Aramis was gaining weight, looking healthier and fitter every day. Colour returned to his skin and the bruises on his ribs fated. Still, he only talked when he was directly asked something. He didn’t decide anything, didn’t even know if he wanted a second cup of tea or not. He just… functioned. Did as he was told and when no one said what he should or could do next, he just waited. On days were Athos and Porthos were busy, they left him by the tent in the morning just to find him in exactly the same spot once they returned. When they asked if he had even moved, had gone to relief himself or anything, he shook his head no.
Porthos couldn’t keep going like this. It was like talking to a doll. This wasn’t Aramis and the thought of bringing him back to the Garrison like this and having to leave him again in a few weeks, teared at his heart. What was worse was that he didn’t know how to help, didn’t know what had happened to their friend in the past eight years. They haven’t asked yet, had hoped Aramis would tell them by himself. But it was obvious he would not.
So, a few days before reaching Paris, Porthos decided it was time. As they had lunch together, he put his plan into action.
“Tell us ‘Mis, how did your ribs get so bruised?”
He’d notice that Aramis would answer direct questions, short and simple, but he didn’t dare to ignore them.
Porthos noticed the strict glare of Athos but decided to ignore it.
“Kicked by the guards.”
Porthos nodded, anger boiling in his chest. But he gulped it down, staying calm for Aramis’ sake.
“And the scars on your back? The flogging. Why did they do this?”
Aramis wringed his hands. “Spying. They’d found out.”
“And then? What did happen to you in the past ten years? Why did they keep you there all this time?” It’s a question Athos and Porthos had asked themselves several times. Why didn’t they execute Aramis right away? Not to sound ungrateful – they were happy that Aramis hadn’t been executed, but it was uncommon for enemies to act like that.
“Interrogated me. Tried to get me to give them information. First on troop movements, then on the majesties.” Aramis’ breath was now coming faster, his hands sweaty as he kept wringing them. “But – but I didn’t tell them. I promise! I didn’t speak!” He added fast – scared. Eight years and he did not break. Maybe it saved his life. If he would have given them what they wanted, they would have killed him afterwards. But for what price did he keep the French secrets safe?
“It’s okay, we believe you. We know you wouldn’t. It’s okay.” Athos reassured.
“I didn’t talk. I – I lied. A few times I… I wanted to talk. I… I lied… They stopped them. For-For some time.”
“You gave them false information? And what happened when they found out?” Porthos asked cautiously.
At that, Aramis started shaking his head from one side to another. He pulled his knees to his chest, his hands grabbing strays of his hair and he pressed his eyes closed. “No, no.” His hands started shaking and Athos shot Porthos an angry glare. Why did he push them that far?
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell us.” Athos said. He wanted to hug Aramis, comfort him, but since the rescue Aramis hadn’t allowed any physical contact form them and would surely not welcome it.
“I’m sorry, ‘Mis. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Porthos murmured, guilt bubbling up, closing his throat and starting a storm in his stomach. “It’s okay.”
Coming back to the Garrison had been exhausting for all of us. All the welcoming backs, the questions, the shock at seeing Aramis again. They’d made sure to shelter him from too many curious looks and annoying questions and brought him into an empty room. D’Artagnan and Constance were the only ones in addition to Athos and Porthos who had been allowed in his room. Aramis reacted well to them, which was good as Athos and Porthos still had their duties to attend to. As d’Artagnan still needed a lot off rest, it was Constance who was with Aramis most of the times. She’d told them that he seemed calmer and more relaxed in her presence, sometimes he even spoke without being asked. He’d let her help her with his ribs and had even allowed her to hug him after a terrible nightmare.
“I’ve got some apple pie for you.” Constance announced with a smile as she entered Aramis’ room, which he hadn’t left by himself since they’d arrived 9 days ago. He looked up from the bible he was reading, a shy smile on his lips. She handed him the piece of cake and a fork, before she started to strip the bed sheets. She noticed Aramis’ guilty look, but chose to not comment it. His sleep was rough and he had many nightmares, causing him to sweat so much that his sheets had to be changed almost every day. She then remembered the talk she’d had with Porthos last night and decided to give it a shot.
She said down on the opposite of the table and gave Aramis another warm smile.
“’Mis, you know, we only want the best for you, right?” He nodded, unsure.
“And you know that we can only help you when we know what pains you? Like with your ribs. We only know that we have to bandage them, when you tell us. It’s just the same with memories. We can try and help you with your nightmares and your fear, but only when we know what caused it. I know you’ve been captured, beaten and interrogated many times before, and you always handled it well. So what was different now?”
Aramis immediately avoided her gaze, his fingers grabbing his hair and pulled slightly
“I’m not sure. I… it’s been so long. I don’t know. Please don’t be angry. I-I don’t know what you want to hear.”
“Hey, shsh. I’m not angry. No one here is ever angry with you, okay? We just want to help. Maybe start at the beginning?”
Aramis knew he was fucked once he felt the cold metal of a barrell against the back of his head. He’d been in the General’s tent, searching for information to send to France. There was no way he could talk himself out of the situation. He could try and act like a noisy spanish soldier, but who would believe him?
The next hours were a blurr, everything happening so fast that he could barely comprehend what was happening. He was led towards the Generals, interrogated and sentenced in the span of a few hours. He’d soon broken the façade of being a Spaniard, useless as it was. He’d then been brought stripped of his shirt, his wrists bound to two poles after the first part of his sentence was to be carried out. Fifty lashes. At ten he felt blood trickle down his back and into his pants, at fifteen he stopped being silent, at twenty-five he tried to move away, at thirty, he screamed. At forty, he was unconscious. After that he was brought into the General’s tent, bound to a pole. He remembered how the rough wood of it burned against his open back as he came back to consciousness. There were some more fists and kicks, questions and shouts. But soon they noticed that he would not talk and the Soldiers had a battle to fight. So they brought him back to the city, where he was held in a room dark as night, not big enough to completely stretch out into any direction. When he stood up, he had to duck his head, when he lied down, he had to pull his legs to his chest. There, he’d lost any sense of time. Reality and dreams were a muddled mess, so he could not tell Constance much of it. There were beating and interrogations, but he didn’t remember much of it anyway. He just remembered that it was easier to comply and do what he was being told, that fighting was useless. He’d soon learned to follow his keepers instructions and not think for himself. Sometimes they gave him options, but they were never good. Every decision he could make or had to make, was a trap. “Do you want to drinks something?” His interrogator had asked him after two days without water. He’d said yes and gotten what he’d asked for: water. A rag had been put over his face and water had been poured on it until he thought he was drowning. He then was allowed a few rapid breaths before they continued.
“It’s cold here, you want some warmth?” He’d agreed. It had been winter, his cell not warmer than the outside and the memories of Savoy so dangerously close. In the next moment a hot iron had been pressed on his chest, burning his chest until bubbles formed on his skin.
What he remembered was the first time he’d broken. He had been forced to stay awake for days, a heretic fork around his neck, forcing his head upwards all this time. They’d put shards of glass beneath his feet as he’d stood on his tip toes. Of course, he couldn’t hold this position long and soon had to stay on the shards, the soles of his feet a bloody mess. As they then had started to break his fingers, taking all hope of ever firing a weapon again, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d begged them to stop. He’d cried as they’d offered him to take off the fork and bandage his feet. He’d been forced to kneel in front of them and truly beg for it. And he did. He didn’t care for the humiliation at this point anymore, he just wanted it to stop. As they said he could rest once he told them of the troop movement plans of France, he did. He told the the most plausible lies he could wrap his mind around. He’d sent thousand of Spaniards into their deaths and been allowed to rest afterwards.
Until they’d found out. This day, he remembered just as well. It was the day, he’d lost every last spark of dignity. He’d been grabbed from his cell and brought into the interrogation room. There he’d been bound to a pole and stripped. He’d noticed how packed the room was, definitely more guards than usual. He soon found out for what they were there, as the first men stepped behind him. The ordeal went on for hours, they kept going as he couldn’t keep himself upright anymore, didn’t care about the blood running down his legs, about his cries. He truly thought he would die right there and then.
Unfortunately, he’d survived and had to live with the shame and unbelievable pain.
It didn’t stop him from lying though. The next time, he told them from a spy in their highest ranks. They executed their second minister of war before they looked through the lie.
They now tried a different method. Having soon found out about his religiousness, they turned it against him and soon he found himself nailed to a cross in the courtyard. Two days and nights until they took him off and threw him into a regular cell with seven more inmates.
From then on, the interrogations had gotten less. The French probably didn’t truly believe anymore to get him to talk. He’d learned to keep himself silent and in the corner of the cell to not be bothered too much by his inmates. Before his imprisonment, he would have dealt with them easily. But his time with the Spaniards had soon weakened him and most of his inmates where there only for a short amount of time. He tried to hold up the act of being a Spaniard, but a few times he’d been seen through and beaten up. Even criminals were patriots as it seemed. In his new home, he waited. He didn’t believe in rescue anymore, so he guessed he just waited for death.
He tried to make things as easy for himself as possible, followed orders, only spoke when spoken to. It worked, most of the times and the next years were tolerable. He ate, when his inmates didn’t take the food from him first. He stopped fighting. A beating here and there, a interrogation every few days or weeks, but he could live through it. Sometimes he caught himself wondering for what he kept going. He could just stop eating, stop drinking and finally leave this place forever. But he was too fearful of what would wait for him then.
And then suddenly, he was free to go. He saw daylight after an eternity in the darkness, he saw his friends which he’d almost forgotten, he was given food and water, was allowed to bath. And it sounded too good to be true. At first he’d thought it was a new kind of interrogation tactic as the guards told him he would be free. He knew it was real once he’d seen Athos and Porthos. He saw them and finally knew that he was safe. And still, he’d been so scared. He soon noticed he could not give them what they wanted, he’d seen the sadness in their eyes and was scared of what they would do. He’d learned the hard way what men are capable off. They asked so much, wanted him to decide so many things. But he was scared of the consequences. He saw a trap behind every choice he had been given. “Do you want some more tea?” Would they pour it over him and burn him with it? “Do you want to bath?” Would they drown him? “Do you want to go to sleep in the tent?” Would they come in and take advantage?
Aramis had talked an eternity, leading to him being held by Constance, crying openly. He was scared and drained, but maybe it would help. Constance hoped so. At least they could now understand him, could make sure to not trigger him anymore. After a while, she took Aramis’ wet face in her hands and looked him in the eyes.
“Listen, ‘Mis. You’re as SO, SO incredible brave and strong. And I am sorry for what you had to go through. And the boys are as well. Please believe me, when I tell you that we just want to help you get better. There are no traps, no lies. When we give you a choice, we just want to make sure we do what you want the most. We will never ever use something you do or say against you, right? And we will do nothing, you don’t want to do. But for that, we need you to make choices, tell us what you want or don’t want. Okay? No one will ever be angry with you for whatever you choose. We’re your friends, your family. We’re NOT the spanish. We’re family.” She repeats and waits for Aramis to comprehend. He finally nods.