Chapter Text
Aramis almost made it. Of that he prided himself.
If he had only been a little faster; faster in scheming to be alone, faster in unlocking his chains, faster in running. If he had been but a little faster he could have made it to the woods and there he could have lost his captors in the forest terrain.
But he hadn’t been. And now he found himself face to face with Lucian Grimaud once again. But now the man had slipped up, by shouting the order of not to shoot. Aramis pushed the nearest guards away, not that he knew it helped much but just for the sake of it.
“You still need me alive!” he smugly yelled at Grimaud, who were sitting in front of him astride his horse, his pistol aimed directly at his head.
The man however showed no sign of remorse or fault. No emotion flashed in his face yet his voice held a superior and confident tone as he spoke. “But not intact.”
Aramis’ smile faded from his lips when the implication of those words hit him as hands circled around his arms. He waited with baited breath as the pistol never wavered or even lowered but no sound came and he was dragged away from the barrel’s trajectory by the guards. It had been a desperate attempt, he knew from the beginning. He couldn’t take all of the guards placed by the ruins but he had hoped to try and outrun them for a bit. Spread out, he could have faced them one by one. But time, or fortune, it seemed had not been by his side.
But he had had to try. He wasn’t going to be a pawn in Grimaud’s political war games. Not when he and Anne had tried so hard to negotiate for peace. His heart clenched mournfully at the thought of the Queen. The chances of him seeing her again had now dwindled remarkably and even so, he wondered how he could face her after this. He had disgraced her. And by disgracing her, he had failed all of France. his brothers, his son … All would suffer because of his failures.
His miserable thoughts got cut short as he was wrestled back to his prison but instead of being hung on the wooden beam, a booted foot connected with the back of his legs, which buckled immediately and his knees hit the dirt. Two pairs of hands were still tightly coiled around his arms, restricting movement and holding him down on his knees. He felt strong fingers twist into his curly hair, grab a firm hold of the roots and pulled, harshly forcing his head upwards. He was but a few inches from Grimaud’s stern face. His cold eyes were staring into Aramis’ brown ones and the Musketeer did his best to harden his gaze.
It wasn’t particularly difficult. Looking into the eyes of a man who had hurt all three of his brothers not long ago tended to bring out the worst and bitterest of feelings.
“Why do Musketeers insist on making matters more difficult?” Grimaud pondered out loud, annoyance clear in his voice. “You could have accepted your fate and made this much simpler on yourself.”
Aramis glowered at the man before him and when no words came to him, he did the only thing he could to show his disgust. He spat him in the face.
The anger that flew across Grimaud’s features sent a peculiar mix of apprehension and satisfaction coursing through Aramis. He did not know what that action would cost him yet for the moment it felt worth it. Grimaud released his grip on his hair with a push and Aramis felt his neck snap harshly at the sudden movement. He continued to stare down at his captor with as much spite and hatred as he could muster.
Grimaud ignored his heated glares as he wiped his face from the spit and muttered to one of his men to get the fire going anew. Then turned his head back to the captured Musketeer, a triumphant look in his eyes. He raised one of his hands and from his fingers swung Aramis’ rosary, which he had used but a few minutes ago in his daring escape attempt. It looked just as vile and wrong in Grimaud’s grip as it had the first time he took it from Aramis’ pocket.
“I told you when this was all over that I would be the one you needed to fear,” Grimaud calmly said while turning the cross over and over in his hands.
“I do not fear you,” Aramis countered confidently. His insides however churned slightly in unease.
“A stupid mistake, no doubt bred from Musketeer loyalty.” The rosary now hung from his hands, dangling right in front of Aramis’ nose as if Grimaud was daring him to make a move for it. “I was mistaken earlier. It did help you. Almost.”
It was followed by a smug grin. He turned away then from the Musketeer to the flickering fire. He crouched down and stuck the metal cross into the flames. He watched it with fascination as it slowly grew warmer and brighter while he continued to talk, Aramis only vaguely paying attention as most of his focus was directed on the unholy act of burning the cross. Again.
“I have never understood the need for these things. Never found the need to ask for guidance. That lies with me and me alone.”
“Perhaps that is why you are working for the wrong side in this war.”
“War produces opportunities. I only chose the best one.”
“War produces only monsters such as you.”
Grimaud huffed slightly before rising to his feet, the burned cross precariously balanced in his gloved hands. It was a miracle the hot metal did not burn through the leather. Or it did and the man just didn’t care. “I am not a product of war, simply benefitting from it. Trust me; war creates far more dangerous creatures than I.”
He nodded to one of the men behind him and Aramis’ leathers and shirt was pulled away from his shoulder, so the bare skin over his heart was revealed. Aramis struggled to pull further back but the grip on his arms held him firmly in place.
“Greed. Brutality. Fear,” Grimaud said with each step as he came nearer. An inch from his face, he stopped. “And pain.”
The heated cross came down on his chest and Aramis felt the metal burning its way into his flesh. It sizzled and the rancid smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. His world became nothing but pain as white-hot as the cross, etching its way into his skin. He did his best to hold his tongue, determined not to cry out or show any sign of discomfort. The longer it stayed, the harder it became. Finally, Aramis couldn’t hold back the tormented yell from exiting his throat.
Then the pain left. Slowly, comprehension returned. His senses sharpened, feeling his sore, aching body in full. Grimaud’s disheveled face slowly swam into focus. The man tossed the remains of the rosary back into the fire carelessly, his eyes never leaving the musketeer in front of him.
“God only wants to hurt you,” he casually said while he pulled out a thin-bladed knife, twirling it expertly in his hand. A wicked smile crossed his face and he leaned in close.
“If he didn’t… he wouldn’t have left you with me.”