Author's note: Guys. Guys. GUYS. Season Three killed me. I'm not even joking. I have been trying for literal years to write this. I started, stopped, tried again, rewrote...nothing worked, until I realised that I couldn't follow the season as we were given it, that it just wasn't possible. So this is...inspired by Season Three. More or less. You'll see a lot of the same characters, a lot of the same situations, but not necessarily the way you expect to see them. Not everyone ends up in the same place they did on the show. But I hope you'll think they end up in the right place. Also, takingoffmyshoes is amazing, so is SailorSol, so is fandomlver. This would not have come to fruition without them. (Also also, don't kill me for certain decisions. Things will make sense, I promise.)

Chapter One

For a moment, Athos missed Aramis so fiercely he couldn't breathe.

He was used to it by now. Four years since the last time they'd seen each other, it didn't happen nearly as often as it once had; but every once in a while it hit him again, just as strongly as before. He ate breakfast with Porthos and d'Artagnan, and he missed Aramis. He watched the young boys train, and he missed Aramis. d'Artagnan got himself injured, and he really missed Aramis.

"It's nothing," d'Artagnan insisted for the third time. "The blast just knocked me off balance. I'm fine."

Porthos reached out and poked him lightly in the shoulder. d'Artagnan swayed, one hand moving towards his head before he caught his balance again. "Not fair," he said with a scowl.

"That's what happens when you charge a cannon," Porthos pointed out unfeelingly. "It's your own fault, really."

"Yes, how dare I try to stop the attack that was killing all our men," d'Artagnan agreed dryly. "Selfish of me, if we're being honest."

Athos caught Porthos' eye, and he subsided. The war had changed all of them, but there were times he barely recognised d'Artagnan anymore. "You should get some rest. You took a hard blow."

"We have a mission."

"The mission will wait until you can walk a straight line."

"Do you want to go back to Paris and tell Feron and Louis that we took Spanish prisoners and then let them escape because I fell over? We'll hang. And that's not even mentioning what Treville will do to us."

Porthos sighed, looking at Athos. "I hate it when he's right about things. It seems all unnatural."

"We're fortunate it doesn't happen more often," Athos agreed mildly. "Go and tell the men what we're doing. I'll make sure he at least eats something before we go. We should make the camp in a day or two." Porthos nodded, hurrying off, and Athos turned to d'Artagnan. "You could have allowed Porthos to take out the cannon, you know. It would have been much safer for him."

d'Artagnan shrugged. "I didn't think of it. I'm not used to thinking of it anymore."

That was a whole other issue, and one neither Athos nor Porthos could get him to talk about despite their best efforts. He didn't try this time. "There's bread, if the rats left any, or dried meat, which I know they left."

"They left it because it's inedible."

"Bread or meat, d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan sighed, and took the bread, and started packing for a short trip. Athos watched him, half aware of Porthos talking to the men around the nearby fire, and missed Aramis so fiercely he couldn't breathe.


Feron, with Louis' blessing, had established a series of camps for prisoners of war. Porthos had heard rumours, mutterings that Feron was imprisoning anyone he felt like, giving the Red Guard the run of them – but there were always rumours, and he'd mostly ignored them. The Musketeers hadn't been allowed off the lines to escort the prisoners before, but their commanding General was missing and Athos was taking advantage to get them away from the fighting for a little while. He'd picked three others who were struggling for the trip to escort their four prisoners. It wasn't expected to take long, but it would be better than nothing.

The prisoners were quiet and obedient as they traveled. Porthos watched as, one by one, the others relaxed: Athos was calmer without so many people to worry about, and the other three were joking and laughing by the second day. Only d'Artagnan didn't seem at all affected by their distance from the fighting.

They neared the camp in the afternoon of the second day. Athos halted the group and took Porthos with him to greet the gate guards, leaving the others to guard the prisoners.

"Miserable place," Porthos noted as they drew closer. Trees had been roughly hewn down to clear a long, wide space, and the trunks used to make fences. Through the gaps, Porthos could see roughly thrown together shelters and dispirited people wandering around. The ground was muddy and everything was coated in it.

"It's a prison camp, not a palace," Athos reminded him. "What were you expecting?"

"Something a little less 'Court of Miracles.'"

Athos glanced at him but didn't comment. They reached the gates and he turned his attention to the two Red Guards. "I need to see your camp commander."

"Commander's busy. What's it about?"

"We have some prisoners to hand into his care."

The guard looked past them at the group. "Spanish?"

"Are you keeping Frenchmen here?"

"We keep whoever my lord Feron tells us to keep. Bring them up here. We'll process them."

"These are Spanish officials, they must be kept safe. We may be able to ransom them for some of our men," Athos warned him.

"Everyone gets the same treatment," he said, sounding supremely bored. "If your Spanish know how to play the game, they'll be fine."

Athos eyed him for a long moment, then turned to Porthos. "Go and bring them up here. Just you and d'Artagnan."

"We can't leave them here, Athos," Porthos protested.

"We have no choice." Lowering his voice, he added, "We'll return to Paris and petition Treville directly, but we can't bring them there. Feron will be able to shut the regiment down if we bring Spanish prisoners into the city without orders. We'll just have to hope they survive that long."

Porthos grimaced, but he turned away, collected d'Artagnan and the prisoners, and brought them back to the gate. The guard made a show of collecting their information before taking manacles from a crate and tossing them to Porthos. "Get them chained up."

"So you can move them three feet through the gate?"

"The gate doesn't open until they're chained up."

He looked questioningly at Athos, who nodded glumly. "They ain't violent," he said, turning to the first. The manacles were old and clogged with dirt; he had to force them closed, wincing as he did so.

"I'm glad I have your assurance," the guard drawled, tugging on the chains to test them.

The other guards were busy making sure no one was near the gate on the inside. Once it was clear, they unlocked and dragged the gates open, and the Musketeers escorted the prisoners inside. The head guard led them to the only stone building; once inside, they found it was mostly guards' barracks and partly an office.

"What's your name?" Athos asked the guard, currently rummaging in a stack of paperwork.

"Marcheaux, captain in the Red Guard." He came back with some paper. "Sign here."

Athos looked at it. "It's blank."

"I'll fill it in later."

"You expect me to sign it blind?"

Marcheaux showed his teeth in what might have charitably been called a smile. "I don't want to delay you. Paperwork takes such a long time."

"Why don't I have Porthos help you? His writing is quite legible."

Marcheaux scowled again. "My writing is not the issue, Captain."

"Then stop wasting time and let's get going. We have a battle to return to."

Marcheaux attempted to stare him down, and lasted a very credible seven seconds before blinking and looking away. "Have your men take them to Barracks three. That's the prisoners' area."

"The whole camp is supposed to be 'the prisoners' area'," Porthos protested. "And what about the chains?"

"One of my men will be around."

Porthos looked at Athos again. He tilted his head and Porthos sighed, turning to lead the others away.

The barracks were messily laid out and half falling down. They found number three after asking the fourth guard; the first three sent them in completely different directions, and Porthos was starting to wonder if anyone actually knew where anything was or if they just renamed everything any time anyone asked. There were only two empty bunks, but the prisoners seemed resigned, sitting together to wait to be unchained.

"This is unbelievable," d'Artagnan said as they left the barracks again. "I wouldn't house our pigs somewhere like this."

"I was just thinking it reminds me of home."

"The Court was nothing like this."

"Not the bits you saw, maybe," Porthos murmured, but he let it drop. "These aren't Frenchmen. The guards think they can do anything they want. I wouldn't be surprised if they're encouraging the other prisoners to attack them."

"Not Frenchmen. Aren't they? Have you heard any Spanish spoken?"

Porthos hesitated, looking around. The inmates were keeping their distance, so he hadn't really noticed what they were saying. "Have you heard French?"

"I'm fairly sure."

"You think Feron is holding Frenchmen?"

"I think we should take a little walk around and see what we find."

Porthos nodded. "Marcheaux did say the paperwork might take a while."

"And with the way this place is laid out," d'Artagnan added, "who could blame us if we got a little lost?"

Porthos snorted. "Don't push it. Let's go."

Neither of them noticed the monk standing on the path some distance back, staring after them.


They split up after a while, wandering around the badly laid out streets. The whole camp was knee deep in mud and other, filthier things, and none of the buildings seemed to be entirely constructed, balanced precariously against each other.

Although he was looking around, d'Artagnan was paying more attention to the monk that was following him. He couldn't see a face; the hood was up, shading him completely. He wasn't surprised to see a monk here, but he was a little surprised to be trailed by one.

He ducked behind a building, leaning against the wall to wait. It shifted perceptibly behind him and he froze, ready to move if it came down. It held, though, and he watched as the monk walked past, scanning the path ahead.

d'Artagnan stepped warily away from the building, back onto the path. "I know I'm interesting, but am I really worth following around a place like this?"

The monk froze, and d'Artagnan took a couple of steps closer. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

He turned, pushing down his hood. d'Artagnan blinked a couple of times.

Aramis watched him steadily. "I thought you'd recognised me."

"Through your hood? I'm good, but not that good."

Aramis frowned. "No, I…"

"What are you doing here?" d'Artagnan asked, turning to start back towards the main barracks.

"Spanish-speaking priests are few and far between. I'm needed to minister to the prisoners here."

"Can you do that now?" He wasn't really interested, but it would keep Aramis distracted until they got back to Athos.

"Enough. d'Artagnan…"

"Are they keeping Frenchmen here?"

"French men?" Aramis repeated.

"This is a lot of people to be prisoners."

"French men?" Aramis stopped in the middle of the path. d'Artagnan paused, looking back at him. "Are you not looking at all?"

"Looking at what?"

Aramis gestured wordlessly around them, and d'Artagnan shrugged. "It's a lot of people." It wasn't a lie, he told himself fiercely. Aramis would take it one way, it just wouldn't be the way d'Artagnan meant it. But it would keep him quiet for now. "Let's find Athos, I'm sure he'll have some questions for you." He tried to smile. "It really is good to see you. I'm sorry I haven't… I'm surprised, that's all."

Aramis softened, as d'Artagnan had known he would. "Of course this is difficult for you. I should have thought."

"How is it for you? Are there many injured?" He started towards the main barracks again.

"Not many. A lot of hungry people, but that doesn't hurt me quite the same way."

"That's something, at least."

They reached the barracks, where Athos was talking to Marcheaux. If he was surprised to see Aramis, he didn't show it, just stepped away from Marcheaux to join them.

"How are you enjoying your prayer and contemplation?" he asked dryly.

"Right now I'd very much like to contemplate someone's head into a wall. What's happening?"

"We're leaving some Spanish prisoners. I had some concern when I saw this place, so we're investigating. Quietly. What can you tell me?"

Aramis studied them both for a moment before turning on his heel. "Come with me."


The guards never bothered to stop him anymore. Aramis blessed them as he passed anyway. It didn't mean anything, as he hadn't been ordained yet, but it seemed to give them pause whenever they thought about trying anything.

Athos and d'Artagnan stayed close behind him, not trying to question him. He assumed Porthos was around somewhere, but he didn't bother asking. Either he was hiding and shouldn't have attention drawn to him, or he was openly somewhere and they'd meet up in a while.

He slowed as they neared the fence into the second part of the compound. "Stay silent," he murmured to them, nodding to the guards. "These people don't trust authority."

The guards opened the gate and Aramis led them through. No one was nearby; they tried to avoid the area around the gate as much as possible, he knew. He headed for one of the barracks, knocking politely.

Sylvie came to the door, starting to smile before she registered the others behind him. "What's this?"

"Friends of mine. May we come in?"

"Rather you didn't. Elodie's having a day." She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe.

Aramis nodded. "Very well. My friends have some questions about the camp, I hoped you might help them."

"Oh? Are we the entertainment now?"

Athos took a step forward. "We are King's Musketeers, mademoiselle—"

She looked him up and down before turning back to Aramis, waiting for his nod to tell Athos. "Sylvie."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. "We understood that the prisoners here were all Spanish."

"Did you? Who told you that?"

"Be nice, Sylvie," Aramis murmured.

"I'm all out of nice," she retorted, but she did soften a little. "Feron sends anyone he wants here. He says he's keeping people with Abilities here, because they might fight for Spain otherwise."

d'Artagnan stirred. "He thinks the best way to keep them on France's side is to keep them here?"

"No one ever said he was smart."

"And is he?" Athos asked. Sylvie raised an eyebrow, and he clarified, "Keeping people with Abilities here."

"Think I'd tell you?"

"Fair," he allowed, looking at Aramis.

"I've seen no evidence of Abilities," Aramis said carefully.

"Does Louis know about this?" d'Artagnan asked Sylvie.

"How would I know?"

"You're right, of course. My apologies."

"My guess would be he knows about the camp and doesn't care for the details," Aramis said. "Sylvie, thank you."

"Come back soon. Elodie settles best with your help."

"You have my word." He took a step back and Sylvie vanished back into the barracks.

"How long has this been happening?" Athos asked.

"The camp has been running for a little more than two years now," Aramis said tiredly, turning to head back to the main gate. "I've sent letters to Treville. He tells me he's doing his best. But Feron's powers allow him to do this."

Athos nodded. "d'Artagnan, go ahead and send the others back to the line. We'll ride to Paris and report to Treville. Our testimony in person may make a difference."

d'Artagnan nodded, moving ahead as they neared the gate, and Athos turned to Aramis. "Are you staying here?"

"These people need a lot of help," Aramis didn't quite answer.

"Your testimony may help get this place closed down."

"Do you think so?"

"What he means is," Porthos said from just behind his shoulder, "come back with us." Aramis tried to hide his jump; he wasn't used to Porthos anymore. He couldn't tell if he was successful, but Porthos took a step away.

"Was I unclear?" Athos asked dryly.

"I have work here," he reminded them, but he knew it wasn't convincing. "Is d'Artagnan all right?"

He hadn't meant anything by it, but the looks the other two exchanged had him immediately on edge. "Why do you ask?" Athos asked, looking back at him.

"He seemed... not himself."

Porthos snorted. "He went to war, Aramis. He's been fighting the last four years, killing for France. What did you expect?"

"Is he hurt?" He hadn't sensed anything, but…

"He went to war," Athos echoed. "Are you coming? We're leaving now." And they both turned and walked away without waiting for his answer.

Aramis stood for a moment, undecided. Then he hurried after them. If he could change things here, he had to.