Summary: His brothers were dead. All that was left was the storm.
Author's Notes: Been toying with the idea of berserkers, Norse warriors who were reported to have fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trace-like fury. I could see Porthos in that.
Berserkers and storms.
"I liken Porthos to a human hurricane - on the inside, the eye of the storm, you'll find peace, serenity, beauty… cross him or those he loves, the Musketeers, and you will find yourself in a tempest of discomfort." - Howard Charles, on playing Porthos
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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"Report," prompted Treville.
"We've spotted some scouts, but they've made no move toward the river. Cannon artillery set up, but aimed further south."
"Your position?"
Porthos pointed at the tree across the open field where he'd left Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan.
"There, the base of that bank. Nice and outta sight." Treville peered through his glass and nodded.
"Draw back. They haven't launched much of an offensive yet, but I doubt they'll hold back much longer. I don't like you that far from the main force."
"Aye, Captain." Porthos prepared to leave, but a salvo boomed across the sunlit grass below them. Porthos looked in time to see the little rise, the land that sheltered his brothers disappear in an upheaval of fire and shattered timber.
Dirt and grass rained down, smoke rolled over the field.
They were dead. And they'd gone without him.
The place they had been was nothing but exploded earth.
Earth, brown and rich like Aramis' eyes.
Like d'Artagnan's.
Eyes he'd seen sparkle with laughter over a table and a shared a bottle of wine. Or drawn in concentration over crossed swords while sparring.
Never again.
He didn't remember drawing his sword, only realized it was in his hand.
There was murmuring. It might have been voices, but it turned to thunder.
Then he was out on the field, beneath the blue sky. Blue that brought to mind Athos.
The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He didn't smile enough.
He'd never smile again.
The blue bled away, and left only steel.
Grey skies and dead earth. Muted and hazy.
The grey of gone.
The rolling, booming thunder grew and filled his head, his chest until it flowed out of him in a roar.
Men ran at him. Faceless, nameless.
Men who'd taken his brothers.
His sword was lightning.
His fist was the wind.
Effortless.
And the men fell before him like trees. Their blood dropped like rain. He welcomed the warmth of it, it cleansed away the pain.
There was no passage of time.
There was only the storm.
Terrible and great.
All would face its wrath.
"Porthos!"
He stopped, a voice cutting through the grey of the storm.
He searched the dull earth, the leaden air.
Aramis.
Aramis was coming toward him and he looked terrified.
No, that couldn't be right.
Aramis was dead and gone. Gone to his God that he loved.
There should be no fear for Aramis, not anymore.
This was a trick.
"Porthos?"
Aramis' voice, saying his name.
The sky began to lighten, clouds parting.
Aramis didn't look dead and blown apart, scattered on the ash.
Not a trick, a dream.
He tilted his head, trying to understand.
Had he found them again? The place his brothers had gone without him?
The storm was growing distant.
And Aramis was so close.
But he looked afraid.
Why was he afraid?
He wanted to reach out to Aramis, to feel him alive and whole, but he couldn't lift his arms.
Porthos looked down as his sword slid from his numb fingers to the grass.
There were strong hands on his arms, his back, moving him, leading him away from lifeless earth and slate skies.
All at once, his legs gave out and he dropped to the ground.
No, not the ground. The floor. Where were they?
Something warm and solid stopped his fall.
"What were you thinking?" gasped Aramis, the sound of his voice rumbling under Porthos' cheek, more powerful than any thunder. "You great idiot, were you trying to get yourself killed?"
Killed.
Porthos reached up with a heavy hand and gripped the front of Aramis' jacket.
It felt real enough.
"Not dead."
It wasn't a question exactly, but it didn't feel like a truth.
"No," answered Aramis, "not yet, though...the day is..." The words trailed off.
Porthos tightened his fist, desperate to fell the leather in his hand, as he opened his eyes and looked up.
Aramis was staring at him from mere inches away, eyes dark and shining.
"That's what you thought," he whispered. "You thought we were dead."
Porthos couldn't find any words to explain.
They'd been gone.
He settled for wrapping his other hand in Aramis' jacket.
Pain and anger and sadness chased their way across Aramis' face, but it was understanding that settled there.
"D'Artagnan spotted the change in the artillery, we moved position at the last moment," he explained quietly. "I didn't realize no one saw us." Aramis let out a shuddering breath and slid his hands under the high collar to grip the back of Porthos' neck. "We weren't there. We're fine."
Porthos nodded, his forehead meeting Aramis' lightly.
"We weren't there."
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"What did you think you were doing?" asked Athos, trying to keep his voice level.
"I dunno."
"Try." The big man's brow furrowed.
"I was reportin' to the Captain about our position. The bank...where you were...it blew up. Nothin' but a ragged hole and..." He shut his eyes, jaw clenching. "And then there was Aramis, leading me away. Leading me here." He motioned to the room at the inn where many of the soldiers were quartered.
"That's all?" Porthos shrugged. "Then allow me to tell you what I saw. I saw a Musketeer disobey a direct order and run, alone, onto the field of battle."
"I didn't. It wasn't my meanin' to do that. I just..." Porthos looked at him, lost. "Nothin' else mattered. I thought all of you were gone."
"You mean dead." Athos hated the way Porthos flinched, but he went on. "We are soldiers, Porthos. No matter what you thought, or how you wished to die, we have a responsibility to the Captain, to the regiment..."
"I know my duty," Porthos fired back angrily, rising to stand. "Don't you talk at me like I was tryin' to...I wouldn't!" He stood, glaring at Athos, his chest heaving. "I wouldn't," he repeated, his voice low and strained. He brushed by Athos to the door. "I need to wash," he muttered.
The door didn't slam.
Athos almost wished it had.
"Well, that was certainly bold." Athos glanced up as Aramis walked in to the room and sat down.
"Was it?"
"You, lecturing about not dying? Remarkably so."
"Eavesdropping?"
"Hardly necessary. I'm fairly sure the whole of the inn heard most of that exchange."
Athos looked at Aramis, but said nothing. Aramis smiled knowingly.
"And try looking lofty somewhere else. Do not forget, Porthos and I were here when you joined the Musketeers. We remember how you courted Death."
Athos frowned.
"He disobeyed a direct order."
"I doubt he heard it." Athos allowed himself a deep sigh.
"I am certain he didn't. But something had to be said and I told the Captain I would take care of it." Aramis softened slightly.
"How angry is Treville?"
"To be honest," said Athos slowly, "I think he was frightened. And that in turn, made him angry."
"Frightened?" asked Aramis, his eyebrow raising. "Of Porthos?"
Athos ran a hand down his face and sat down next to Aramis.
"For him."
"The Captain is no fool. Porthos was...berserk. I've always seen that potential in him," murmured Aramis. "But he didn't want to die." He looked at Athos with haunted eyes. "He just wanted to be with us."
"I know," whispered Athos.
"I cannot say I would have done differently."
"Perhaps that damnable nickname is too true." Aramis smiled wryly.
"Inseparables?"
"Why are you saying it like it's a bad thing?" Athos and Aramis looked up as d'Artagnan appeared. It was clear he'd been listening for a while, as well.
"If we forgo our duty for one another, then it is a bad thing," answered Athos.
"It looked like Porthos was doing his duty, fighting the enemy for France. Did you see him? Did you see how many men he took down? Thirty, at least. He killed thirty men alone." D'Artagnan shook his head in awe. "He was...magnificent. He was a force of nature. I've never seen anything like that." He gave Athos a hard look. "He could have let the first man he met kill him. All he had to do was not fight back."
"Not fight back?" snorted Aramis. "Have you met Porthos?"
"Exactly," pointed d'Artagnan. "He wasn't giving up. He doesn't know how." Athos looked up at d'Artagnan with an unreadable expression.
"It does not change the fact that he disobeyed Treville. But," Athos held up a hand to silence d'Artagnan, "I think he's been chastised enough."
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When Porthos returned to the room, he had changed his shirt and washed away the dirt and blood he didn't remember acquiring. His whole body ached.
He'd fought. He must have. But he couldn't recall any of it.
He was incredibly weary.
When he opened the door, his friends were seated around the table, wine and food before them. Aramis smiled at him and motioned to the open chair.
It was almost like the whole day had been a terrible nightmare.
Porthos sat down carefully, his legs shaking. D'Artagnan poured him a glass of wine. He looked around the table at his comrades. His gaze stopped on Athos.
"I know we have an obligation," Porthos began. "I have sworn to protect the King. To serve France. My life is the King's to do with as he wants. I know that he may order me to die for him. But I hope I'll die with you."
He let his eyes drop to the glass in front of him.
"I can't be sorry for it."
Aramis' hand on his arm was immediate.
"You shouldn't be," he said, dipping his head to meet Porthos' eye. "I pray every day that none of us will walk into or out of battle alone. Every day, Porthos."
The big Musketeer looked up. D'Artagnan nodded, solemn. Athos raised his glass silently.
"So here's to us," said Aramis brightly, raising his own glass. "Dying together on some forgotten battlefield."
It shouldn't have made Porthos smile.
But it did.