I don't own a single Musketeer.
This plot's been on my mind for a while now, and here it is. Please please please review.
Athos felt sick. He had felt sick before. But this was worse. He felt like everything was broken, like his heart would just stop beating. Maybe it would be better if it did.
He went through agony every day over his past. He couldn't sleep without the drink, he couldn't live without it. He had thought he had felt as bad as it was possible to, thought there was no worse than that hell. This was worse. The look in D'Artagnan's eyes when he found out. First it had been denial. Refusal to believe. Thought he was dreaming, having a nightmare, and he would wake up any second to the three men waiting outside in the courtyard with smiles on their faces and mirth on their lips. Then it had gone, and there had been that look. That shattered look. And he could see all the trust, all the admiration that he had hated, but at the same time reminded him that he could live again. D'Artagnan had turned away, and as he walked his shoulders were shaking. He had just dried his tears as well. He was set about being strong, not letting his youth show. He was set to be strong for Aramis. He couldn't take the betrayal of the man he idolised, the man he could have almost loved. The love was dead in his eyes as he turned away.
Aramis shook with anger when he found out. Then the rage had died and he had just been cold. Like ice. His mouth was straight, like there had never been a smile. His face had lost it's good looks, lost it's beguiling handsomeness that had attracted so many beautiful ladies. He didn't look like the man who lived off adrenaline, the man who had seen more sadness than it should be possible to and smiled through. He didn't look like Aramis the charmer, the doctor, the mischief maker. He was an empty shell, but at the same time so full of warring emotions and turmoil. The anger was still there. And a kind brokenness. Like he would never recover. Like he had been snapped in to so many times, but now he had been shattered. Like he would never heal again. His face seemed like all the life, the joy, the smiles, had been sucked out of him. He walked away too.
So Athos stood alone. Treville had sent him out. And it might of been out of his office, or it might have been out of the garrison. So he had gone to the nearest, dingiest, darkest inn. And they had refused to serve him. Because they knew Porthos. Knew the man with the easy smile and the gentle eyes. The man who could fight a bear and look after an orphan. The man who was fiercely protective of his friends. They probably knew him from all the times he had practically carried him, barely conscious, home. Had pulled off his boots and chucked him in bed. They knew Porthos. They knew of his death in the back of a cramped cart, knew of the manor that could have saved him. They knew of a man that was his brother and let him die. Just so he could hide from his past a moment longer. They knew of him. They chucked him out.
And he sat in the gutter. And as the cold seeped in through his clothes, he wept for the first time in a long while. Porthos was gone. And it was all his fault. He had lost everything. And he had been so taken over by the drink he hadn't even had the time to live it. He would never get the time again.
He remembered when he had been younger, when he had just watched the woman who he loved hang. When he had nothing but a smudged letter of recommendation to become a Musketeer. He had met Aramis and Porthos. He had been icy, he had been cruel to them. Yet they carried on joining him for dinner, defending him, talking to him. They duelled against him, annoyed him into teaching them moves with the sword. And, almost without him knowing, they taught him too. Aramis had been kind, getting everyone else to respect him. He'd been there many years, seen it all.
Porthos was different. He wasn't commissioned, though he'd been there for quite a while. He had come from the Court. Athos didn't know how he got out of the slums, he just knew that Paris was a safer place for it. He would save everyone, no matter the gender or skin colour. He deserved his commission, more than anyone. He would stay out till long past dark training with the sword, and before light again in the morning. While everyone else is drinking he slinks off to the narrower side streets. Aramis joins him only sometimes, and one time he followed the larger man. He follows him to a side street, where he sees a group of children gathered around. And he stands there as Porthos, hard working, kind Porthos, teaches them how to defend themselves.
Then, one week after he saw the heart warming spectacle, the king calls him in. Touches his shoulder's with his sword and commissions him. Outside there are a few celebrations, but only the people who would take any excuse to open a casket of wine. He feels a blow on his shoulder, knocking the life out of him. And there is Porthos, a big grin on his face. He's taken off to an inn, and a few of them gamble and drink. He feels like he's truly home, for the first time in two long. Then the rest of them leave, and there's just Porthos. And guilt sears itself into his heart. It was meant to be Porthos. He'd been there for two weeks, and Porthos had been here for months. Porthos had worked tirelessly every hour, helping others when he didn't have to. Yet it was Porthos who was the first to clap him on the back, the first to make him actually feel proud. The first man in a long time to buy him a drink and call him brother. It was Porthos who had smiled at him, had saved him from the nightmares for just one night. Aramis had gone to his rooms. He obviously felt bitter. Athos couldn't blame him. Porthos just had this effect about him that made you want to smile. He forgave you, and didn't let spite cloud his judgement. And later, when they all wore matching blue cloaks and were nearly inseparable, he couldn't remember a life without the loveable idiots. Without his loveable idiots.
Though the happy memories seemed to be crumbling away, slipping through his fingers like sand. He would never have them again. How hard would it have been? How hard to just say, I know of a place? How hard to just go back to the old, abandoned manor that held so many memories. Why didn't he say something? How could he stand there and watch his friend die? Watch his brother, the man who had always been there for him, always forgiven him, die in the back of cramped, stinking wagon? What kind of man was he?
Then he realised. He wasn't a man. The human part of him died the day his brother went limp in his arms. He had been changing, growing stronger, fighting off the demons inside. But now Porthos was gone. Porthos had died, and it was all his fault. He wasn't there to wake him up roughly after a night drinking, wasn't there to pound him on the back and laugh at him when something went wrong. He wasn't there to get him in trouble, he wasn't there to almost get him fired for one reason or another. He wasn't there to defend him in a bar fight, wasn't there to drag him home again. Wasn't there to cover for him in the morning, wasn't there to slip him a drink when he saw the tears coming and the anger rising. Wasn't there at all.
And when Porthos had died the last part of him that enjoyed living had died alongside. By killing Porthos he had killed himself.
There was nothing left. Nothing left without his smile, without his laugh. No reason to keep on living. He was the brains, Aramis was the charm, d'Artagnan wouldn't stop until justice was done. And Porthos was the soul.
He was the smile that kept them going.
He was the laugh that made you forget your mistake.
He was pat on the back after a hard mission.
He was the fist that protected you.
He was the tears at a fake funeral that made you remember that someone cared.
He was the roar that told you to take up arms.
He was the medication that somehow blocked out the pain.
He was nothing. And he was everything.