Porthos woke with a groan. Everything hurt. His throbbing head was the worst though, beating time against his skull like one of those mad Celtic drummers from the King's last summer fete. He shifted to curl in on himself and gather his head in his hands but a searing pain in his side forced him instead to flop on his back, head rolling on something hard and damp. He groaned again, the sound oddly muted in whatever room he was being held.
That he was a prisoner, he had no doubt. The heavy manacles around his wrists were the only clue he needed. He realized though that they simply cuffed his hands together with a length of chain between them. He was not tethered to a wall. That at least was in his favor. He hated being chained in place.
Porthos forced his eyes open despite the thrumming in his skull. It was dark, as he expected and he allowed himself to lay still as his eyes adjusted to the blackness. The ache in his side was from a kick to the ribs. He doubted they were cracked, but it was enough to cause significant discomfort. His knee ached where someone had gotten in another kick. The fight was starting to come back to him as the pains in his aching body reminded him where they came from.
He shivered. He realized his back was damp and cold. He needed to move or his taught muscles would aggravate his injuries further and make it harder to move when he got out of here. Wherever here was.
Porthos rolled slightly to his right side, the side where he hadn't been kicked, and pushed up with his hands. He got himself into a sitting position, grateful that he had been dumped near the wall of his small cell. He scooted back slightly, positioning his back against the rough stone, his injured leg stretched before him and the other leg bent up at the knee. His eyes had finally adjusted to the light and an overturned wooden bucket let him know that the dampness had been lying in was what should have been his drinking water pooled on the ground beneath him. That did not bode well as he had no idea when or even if he would be getting more water any time soon.
He let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes again. Even though the room was dark the throbbing was more tolerable that way. The skirmish was coming back to him and what he could remember of it wasn't pretty. Three men had taken him down, rather quickly if he thought about it. He should have been paying more attention but the night had been going so well until then and he hardly expected being ambushed in a Paris street.
Of course, he hadn't been alone. Aramis had been there. He remembered him fighting by his side at one point but after the kick to his knee brought him down he had lost sight of the marksman under the bodies flinging themselves on top of him. Porthos really hoped he had gotten away. If Aramis was here too, then no one would even know they were missing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Porthos did not relish the prospect of either him or Aramis spending time injured and chained in a damp cell. He knew without a doubt that Athos and D'Artagnan would find them eventually, but what shape they would be in wholly depended on how long it took. He really, really hoped Aramis had escaped.
He must have drifted off for a while because he was pulled suddenly back to awareness by the sounds of a scuffle somewhere beyond the cell. Raised voices and shouts followed and while Porthos could not make out the words he had a feeling this had to be about him. As the sounds intensified Porthos decided there no way he was going to meet whatever was about to come by sitting on his ass in a pile of damp straw. Despite the pain and stiffness in his knee, he used his hands to push himself up to a standing position, leaning heavily on the wall as his head throbbed in counterpoint to his leg and his heaving lungs caused his bruised ribs to ache mercilessly. But he was on his feet and he was going to meet his fate like a Musketeer.
The shouting stopped and then staccato footfalls echoed throughout the corridor. A man stumbled into view, a big iron key ring held in a trembling hand.
"Open it," an authoritative voice demanded in a tone that no sane man would deny. Porthos steadied himself with a deep breath as he watched the man fumbling with the keys. It did not bode well for anyone that Treville was here.
As if summoned by the thought, the man in question stepped into view, a deep scowl playing across his face as he sheathed his sword. "Are you all right?" he asked gruffly.
"Been worse," was the best answer Porthos could come up with. "Aramis?" he asked, concerned that the marksman was not there with the Captain.
"At the garrison," Treville replied, "You are damned lucky he didn't end up in here with you."
"He's all right though?" Porthos asked, concerned that Aramis's absence meant perhaps he had been wounded somehow in his escape.
"A few bruises, nothing more," Treville's reply was cryptic and Porthos narrowed his eyes. He wasn't so sure he was going to like whatever Treville had to say next. He was spared the worry when the befuddled guard finally got the correct key into the lock and opened it with a resounding click. Treville nearly shoved the man out of the way as he pushed the rusted door open.
"Can you walk," he asked and Porthos could make out an arched brow in the dim light. In response, Porthos pushed himself from the wall and took three limping steps to stand before the Captain. Treville had pulled the key ring from the lock and had flipped through it to find the small key that fit the shackles. He had them off in two quick clicks and Porthos sighed in relief as the chains clanked to the floor.
"I really hate those things," Porthos said, gingerly rubbing his wrists.
"I'd think you'd be used to it by now," Treville grumbled, "Let's go before someone gets it in their head to stop us." Treville flung the key ring to the ground and Porthos followed him out of the cell, up a set of stairs, through a warren of corridors and out into the cool air of a beautiful Paris night. The chill air soothed the ache in his head and walking, while painful, was not as wretched as Porthos thought it might be.
They made it down to the end of the street before Treville whirled on him, easily pushing a startled Porthos back against a wall. Treville's eyes were a fiery blue and his hand pressed hard into Porthos's chest.
"Just how in hell do you it?" he fumed, "I give you a 24-hour leave and in less than three hours I'm bailing you out of the Chatelet for brawling with the red guards. You are damn lucky Aramis got to me as quickly as he did because if word had gotten to the Cardinal I'd probably be attending your hanging. What the hell happened?"
"Nothin' really," Porthos said sheepishly, "We won at the Pony and were heading back to the Wren when we were jumped. I guess the red guards didn't like that they were paying for the drinks that night. We weren't brawlin'."
"No, you were cheating at cards and they took exception," Treville sputtered, "How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the Pony, stay away from the card tables, and stay away from the red guards?" Treville gave him a small shove in the chest and then stepped back, pulling off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. He exhaled and Porthos watched as some of the tension drained from his shoulders. "This is the last time Porthos. Next time I'm leaving you to rot in there. Maybe then you'll learn your lesson. Let's go. Aramis I'm sure is nearly apoplectic that we're not back yet."
Treville turned abruptly on his heel and pushed his way back into the street, Porthos following close behind. Porthos thought about what Treville had said and realized he had possibly pushed the man one time too many. He felt badly that Treville was angry but at least he wasn't so angry that he had cancelled his leave. Truth be told, Porthos was more disappointed in himself than Treville could ever be. He really should have known better. He considered his options. There had to be a way to salvage the situation. If it truly had only been three hours, the night was still young. Aramis could patch him up quick and they could get to the Lost Maiden in time to join the game in the back room. He was tired and achy but nothing some wine couldn't cure. He had the better part of the night ahead of him, a full purse at his side and you know what they said – No rest for the wicked. Porthos resettled his hat and picked up his pace. If they could get into that game, this might turn out to be one of the best nights of R&R he'd had in a long time.