Summary: "Death is forgivable," muttered Athos darkly. "Abandoning him is not."
Author's Notes: I read some stories about Porthos' mother and what happened to her. Most of them had her dying. Which is possible/probable. But he never said she died. I decided to to go another route with it. Because fixating on tiny things is what I do...
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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The morning sun was cheerful as Aramis and Porthos walked the streets of Paris to a local marketplace. Aramis could smell sausages cooking and he was heartily ready for some breakfast.
He looked back when he realized Porthos was no longer at his side.
Porthos had frozen in the middle of the market. It wasn't often Porthos looked pale, but he had managed it. His eyes were wide and searching. Aramis turned, trying to see what had caught the big man's attention. Dozens of people milled about, but nothing that looked out of place.
"Porthos?" asked Aramis, stepping nearer. "What is it?" Porthos startled, glancing at him and then back out over the crowd.
"I thought...for a moment..." Aramis watched the emotions flickering over Porthos' face. Hope and fear and pain and longing. "I thought I saw..."
"Who? Who did you see?" Aramis laid a hand on Porthos' arm and was shocked at the tremble beneath his fingers. The whisper was so soft, Aramis nearly didn't hear it.
"My mother."
"Well, that can't..." Aramis began, but Porthos shook off his hand like it burned and stepped away. And then another step and another. Aramis tried to close the distance and gentled his voice. "Porthos, wait." But Porthos didn't stop. Instead Porthos looked at him with grievous hurt. And then he turned and cut through the crowd. The people seemed to part for Porthos where they closed in and hampered Aramis. "Porthos!" He pushed through a knot of men haggling over the price of grain and skidded to a stop. There was no sign of the tall Musketeer that normally stood out in a crowd. Aramis took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.
Porthos was gone.
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"Did Porthos come back here?" asked Aramis the moment he entered the gates of the garrison. "Has anyone seen Porthos?" Athos and d'Artagnan rose from the table.
"What's wrong?" asked Athos.
"We were at the market and he thought he saw...someone. And he bolted. I lost him in the crowd."
"Porthos knows these streets better than any of us. If he wants to disappear, I doubt we'll find him," said Athos steadily as he poured a glass of wine and handed it to Aramis.
"Who was it he thought he saw?" asked d'Artagnan.
Aramis took a drink before he answered.
"His mother." Athos' brow furrowed.
"Okay," said d'Artagnan slowly in the silence that followed. "Why is this so strange?"
"He couldn't have seen her. Porthos' mother died when he was young," said Athos. D'Artagnan took a deep breath and nodded.
"You didn't see him, Athos. He was..." Aramis loved words and normally they served him well. But he struggled to name all the things he'd seen in Porthos. "He looked lost and so...anticipant. Why would he look so hopeful?"
"I've thought I've seen my father," admitted d'Artagnan. "A glimpse here and there through the crowd or just rounding a corner."
"To my knowledge, he has never done this before," stated Athos.
"Nor mine," said Aramis. "He never talks of her. And he's never acted the way he did today." He looked at Athos, trying to make him understand. "He ran from me, Athos."
"I doubt very much," said Athos knowingly, "that is was you he was trying to escape."
"If he never speaks of her, how do you know she's dead?" Aramis and Athos both stared at d'Artagnan. He shuffled a bit, but didn't back down. "Well? How do you know?"
"Porthos has said that he fended for himself since he was five," answered Aramis.
"I've heard him say the same," agreed d'Artagnan. "But that doesn't really answer the question."
Aramis pushed back at the anger that rose in him. Porthos was his dearest friend. At some point, Porthos must have told him this. He rifled through the things he knew, searched his memories. When he looked up again, he met Athos' bleak eyes.
"Have we known Porthos all these years," whispered Aramis, "and just assumed we knew what happened to him?"
"Easier than thinking she deserted him," muttered Athos darkly. "Death is forgivable. Abandoning him is not."
"We have to find him."
"We won't," said Athos. "Not until he wants to be found. You know that." Aramis blew out a frustrated breath. Helpless was not a role he was used to.
"He will return," assured Athos. "Be ready when he does."
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Hours past. Aramis paced the courtyard. He tried sparring, but Athos only called out his lack of focus. As darkness fell, a storm blew in, soaking and steady. Musketeers ran for shelter, hearth and home.
"You cannot sit in the rain being wretched," said Athos.
"I could."
"You won't. You hate being wet and you're terrible at being alone."
"I am not leaving," stated Aramis firmly.
"I suggested nothing of the sort.," Athos fired back. He motioned toward Porthos' room in the barracks. "If he returns, he'll go there. But by all means, sit in the rain to punish yourself, if you think it will help." The older man turned and slipped into the night.
Aramis sighed deeply. As if Athos had any room to talk.
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It was deep into the night when door opened. Porthos stopped and did not look the least bit surprised to see Aramis sitting in his candle-lit room with a bottle of wine.
"You disappeared rather suddenly this morning," greeted Aramis. Porthos stepped into the room and shut the door against the blowing rain.
"You think I'm crazy," grumbled Porthos, shedding his drenched cloak.
"I do not. I just didn't think it was possible. I believed she was..."
"Dead?" Aramis lifted his shoulders helplessly.
"You never said much about her, talked about looking after yourself."
"I said I've been on my own since I was five," snapped Porthos. "I never said she died."
"No, you didn't," said Aramis softly. "I assumed and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
"Fine. I'll out with it, then?"
"Don't. Only if you want to, Porthos. You owe me nothing." Porthos looked at him, weighing.
"Not a long or interestin' story," Porthos said finally. "And if I can't trust you with it, then there is no one." He paced the small room slowly. "While my mother was workin', I stayed with a friend of hers, Emmeline. Lived in the same buildin'. One day, she didn't come back. Strange, but I weren't scared. I spent the night with Emmeline." Porthos stilled and stared into the shadows, unfocused. "She didn't return the next day. Or the next."
Porthos shook himself slightly before going on. "I remember walkin' the streets, searching for her. Askin' if anyone had seen her. No one had. Emmeline looked after me best she could for a while. But she was old. Died that winter." Aramis' heart ached at the desolation in Porthos' voice. "And my mother didn't come back. Not ever."
"Porthos, anything could have occurred..."
"Don't you think I've thought of that?" thundered Porthos. "Do you think I have not imagined every scenario? Each terrible thing that might have happened? Every way she could show up?" Porthos stood there, stiff and hunched, for a long moment. He took a shaky breath and sat at the table next to Aramis. When he continued, he was much quieter. "When I was young, I thought of monsters in the night. Was she dead in an alley? Had she been taken by a slaver and shipped to God knows where? Then I thought she'd taken ill and just couldn't get back to me. Maybe she didn't remember the way home. I grew up. Got angry 'bout her bein' gone. Maybe she'd run off with some gentleman who didn't want a bastard hangin' around. Was she livin' in comfort somewhere while I..."
He shook his head, eyes distant.
"Part of me wished her dead. But most of me was always hopin' she'd come back."
Aramis fingers twitched with the need to comfort him, but didn't begin to know how. He remembered the way Porthos had backed away from him in the market, pain in his eyes.
Porthos didn't go on immediately, but when he did, his voice was deceptively light.
"Fitting weather, this," said Porthos, motioning toward the rain-streaked window. "I don't remember much 'bout my mother. I think I recall her face, but I'm not sure of it. Not really. Coulda been anyone this morning. But I do remember somethin' she said. Said it all the time. 'The rain's only friend is a tough skin to roll off of.' As I got older, I understood it better. Realized how hard life was, 'specially for people like us. How she must have suffered."
When Porthos looked at him, his eyes were shining.
"Maybe she just couldn't bear the rain any longer."
Caution be damned. Aramis slowly wrapped his arm around Porthos broad shoulders. The big man didn't pull away. All the fight seemed to have burned out of him and left nothing but sadness in its wake.
"I want to hate her," said Aramis gently. "I want to curse her for leaving you. But I cannot. You are kind because you know what it is like to have nothing. You are brave because you have faced hardships alone. You protect because you know what it is to lose." He carefully turned Porthos' face to his. "I wish you had not had to do all those things. But they made you who you are. And you are a good man, Porthos."
Porthos closed his eyes, tears making their way down his cheeks. Aramis lightly thumbed them away.
"She should be proud of you. Wherever she is."
Aramis settled against Porthos' side.
When dawn found them, the rain was long gone.