Disclaimer: not my characters.
Summary: April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of Porthos' life. But in a strange way, it had probably been one of the best as well.
Savoy-centric origin story, in which Aramis is grieving, Porthos is a saint, and Athos just kind of shows up, eventually.
Winter, Late in Leaving
Chapter One [tw: blood, implied off-screen violence, vomit]
It snowed heavily the day that Porthos approached Captain Treville about a commission in the Musketeers. It was not a bad omen, luckily, just one of many storms that winter. Treville accepted him eagerly, and Porthos gained the fleur de lis on his sword arm just as 1625 began.
In the Court, a man had needed an independent streak. Foot soldiering had tried its best to beat that out of him, and after his allotted two years, Porthos was beyond eager to think freely once more. To challenge himself in this new regiment. His skills with a sword and musket were beyond sufficient, but it was his strength that had won him the more elite position. It was his strength Treville clearly coveted.
There was no way for Porthos to know that it was a different kind of strength he'd spend much of his time relying on those first few months.
He wasn't the only dark-skinned man in the regiment. But he was, it seemed, the only Court-raised musketeer, and this did matter- possibly only to his own mind, but that alone was enough to make a difference.
It wasn't hard to make friends, exactly. He'd never had a problem with easy conversation, casual camaraderie; this held true, and within weeks he knew the names and characters of all of his fellow musketeers. But there was no one in particular, and Porthos felt that lacking. Back in the court, he and Charon had been brothers in all but blood; here, he had friends, but nothing to match that lost relationship. Ah,well- perhaps nothing could.
Winter passed in a blur of training and sparring, longer and longer errands as Treville tested his limits, drinking around a fireplace or a game of cards as further storms raged outside. March arrived; the storms remained.
With a week left in Lent, a training mission departed for the border of Savoy; twenty-two musketeers of ranging experience levels were to camp in the forest, hone survival skills. That, coupled with men going on a few days' leave, nearly emptied out the garrison.
On Easter morning, Porthos dutifully attended Mass, taking up only four pews with the rest of the men who had no families to return to. Back at the garrison, Serge had cooked an abundant meal to end the Lenten fast. There were meats, stews, pastries and breads- and endless bottles of wine- and it seemed only two of the musketeers left declined to partake.
Treville stood together on the balcony overlooking the yard. With him was Athos, his unofficial second-in-command, a gloomy man who had earned his commission only months before Porthos but brought with him either previous military leadership or excellent schooling. Rumors varied. But whatever his background, Treville clearly counted him as a friend and respected his opinions- earning him the dubious nickname of petit capitaine.
Presently Athos and Treville had their heads were together, brows creased. Porthos looked away from the balcony and nudged the man beside him, a soldier named Emile. "What's Treville worried about?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
Emile didn't answer, but the man at his other side did. Henri and Emile had the kind of friendship that Porthos missed; they were hardly ever seen apart. There were a few such pairings in the garrison, and Porthos envied the lot of them. "The group at Savoy should have been back to Paris this morning," Henri supplied. "He's trying to decide whether or not to send a rescue party just yet."
"'sa bit hasty, innit?" Porthos mused, frowning despite himself. "Couple a' hours late- could be anything."
"Captain's got an extra sense about these things," Emile put in. "You'll see soon enough; he knows when something's wrong."
"Oh that's cheerful, Em," Henri grouched.
"It's true!"
"Lot of men at that training," Jacques put in, from across the table.
"Athos looks upset as well."
"Petit? He always does."
"I don't see why it had to be Savoy. There's plenty of forests around."
"Forests less likely to be full of Spanish."
"No need for the Spanish- the Savoyards hate us just as much."
The atmosphere of the meal had dampened, and Porthos tried not to feel guilty for having introduced the subject. The way the discussion took off, though, it was clear that Treville's mood had been on everyone's minds already. They still ate the puddings that Serge presented- but with slightly less enthusiasm than before.
When the meal had ended, Treville and Athos joined them in the yard. Porthos wondered if he should rise to his feet as the captain came to the table to address them, but nobody else had, so he stayed seated.
"You all know the situation," Treville began, blunt as ever, and the men nodded. "The training group should have returned by now. We shall give them the night, and if they haven't arrived by sunup tomorrow, I shall lead a party to investigate. Emile, Henri, Arnaud, Porthos, Jacques. Be ready to ride out at first light, though let us pray you won't need to."
Porthos nodded again, and glanced around the table; the men Treville had named were nearly a quarter of the musketeers still present. The thought of leaving so few men in Paris made him uneasy. Perhaps he had not found a brother among his regiment, but only months after his arrival, Porthos found he cared for the others much more deeply than he'd have imagined. So now he was worried. He was worried for the understaffed garrison, for the men at Savoy; worried for what their rescue party would find if they indeed were deployed. It was a poor ending to his first holiday as a musketeer.
The men did not return from Savoy. Dawn found Porthos shivering in the yard, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Arnaud in an attempt to stay warm. When was the last time winter had been so late in leaving? He couldn't remember. Treville and Athos joined the men as the sleepy stablehands finished seeing to the horses. There were eleven: seven to ride and four to carry supplies. Porthos couldn't help but notice that those four extra horses would not be nearly enough to carry back twenty-two men, if there was in fact the need for a rescue. Maybe Treville thought the men were fine, still had their own horses- or maybe he thought they wouldn't be riding back at all.
Porthos shivered anew.
"We'll take the same path they took," Treville announced, "and hope to encounter them along the way. The border is twenty hours' hard ride. The plan, as it stands, is to make well over half of it today, camp for the night, and arrive at the training grounds with plenty of light left tomorrow."
Though March was coming to a close, it was hellishly cold as they rode. The day passed in a blur of trying to stay as warm, and as cheerful, as they could, while snow fell and stopped again and Treville visibly worried at the head of the group. They made camp at sunset. Porthos drew a watch for the following night, and so lay down with the promise of a full night's sleep; still, he stared up at the sky for at least an hour before dropping off.
The first morning of April began just as the last of March had. They ate quickly then, shivering, loaded their horses and set off for the border of Savoy. But there was a difference, Porthos mused. Today they'd find why the men were late in returning- find out if they were delayed by some innocent mishap. Or otherwise.
"We're nearly there," Athos called, just after they'd finished a hurried in-saddle lunch. He was consulting a neatly-folded map. "It shouldn't be more than half a lieue this way." Porthos found his heart beginning to pound as they made their way down the thickly-wooded road.
And suddenly, the trees parted.
In the clearing: blood on snow, gunmarks on trees. Upended pots, ravaged tents.
And bodies. Bodies. Bodies.
The massacre was endless, a horrific scene of violence and loss. Porthos felt his own hot breath gusting over his fingers; it was only then that he realized he'd clamped a hand to his mouth in dismay.
Their horses halted in unison. To his right, Henri gave a choked-off cry, dismounted, and was sick. Instinctively, Porthos turned to face his commanding officer; Treville's face betrayed no emotion, but his hands trembled slightly on the reigns. At his side, Athos' eyes were wide, his mouth fallen open.
This was beyond their worst case scenario. This was a nightmare come to life.
Twenty-two musketeers had come to Savoy. And twenty-two musketeers, it seemed, would not be returning.
Seeming to sense his men's eyes on him, Treville dismounted. The others did the same, still looking to him for instruction. "Take five minutes," he said evenly. "But no more. We must identify these poor souls and set up a guard before nightfall."
Porthos wasn't sure if it was a kindness to allow them a moment of grief, or a cruelty to keep them from the distraction of work. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to argue. His stomach was sick, his heart pounding in his chest, so he took the five minutes. He took the time that Treville was offering, to give into the overwhelming sorrow.
Porthos scanned over the bodies littering the clearing, every tallymark sending a fresh wave of grief through his core. He knew these men. He knew every one.
The man sprawled beside the tree was Vincent, who'd been the first to make an overture of friendship to the dark-skinned, Court-raised new recruit.
The man who'd died with a musket in both hands was Pascal, whom Porthos was helping to practice his hand-to-hand.
Georges was beside an upended soup pot. Bernard had taken a ball to the shoulder.
Big Jules. Little Jules. Etienne. Phillipe.
Worst of all, there were bodies whose faces were unrecognizable.
Porthos felt the sting of tears, and turned away from the scene before he could lose himself completely. He drew a few slow breaths, and the feeling receded.
He looked around him. Jacques was standing still as a statue, hardly seeming to breathe; Arnaud had fallen beside Etienne's body, weeping helplessly. Emile was crouched at Henri's side while Henri continued to retch.
Treville, on the other hand, had ignored his own advice and gotten right to work; he and Athos were huddled together, speaking close and low, papers passing between their hands.
All at once, Porthos didn't want those five minutes after all. He didn't begrudge the other men their motionlessness, but he himself needed to get to work.
Needed to bring them home.
"Captain." Treville looked up as Porthos approached. "How should we start?"
Treville seemed to assess him for a moment; Porthos could feel eyes scanning him, searching for signs of denial, signs that his new musketeer didn't comprehend the situation. In response to the gentle probing, Porthos drew himself up. "I appreciate your giving us a minute, sir, but I'd honestly rather get going."
Another scan, and then Treville nodded. "Understood. Athos has a list of the twenty-two musketeers assigned to this mission. Our first task is to- to count." Athos' hand found Treville's shoulder as the captain's voice shook for the first time that day. "We must confirm the deaths of all twenty-two men on this list. If any are unaccounted for, we must search for them. And two of you must set off immediately for Paris, to return with carts. But Porthos, I think you'd do more good on this front." Porthos nodded and turned to Athos.
"I'll, eh- go over the right side," Porthos muttered. "If you'll take the left." Athos nodded.
It didn't take long. Though his instincts pleaded with him to settle the bodies more comfortably, to shut their eyes and cross their arms, Porthos forced himself to merely identify them. If any men were missing- possibly alive- their safety took priority. For the same reason, he fought hard to keep the tears back as they tried to swell again and again; there would be time for mourning later.
Porthos knew most of them on sight. The few that were too bloodied, he quickly recognized by scars or tattoos, or well-known bits of clothing. Once finished, he went to Athos, and they ran over the list; the quill trembled in Athos' hand as he marked off the names.
In the end, only two remained.
Walking close together, they returned to Treville; he and Emile flanked Henri, and were speaking to him gently. Jacques and Arnaud, it seemed, had been sent back for the carts.
"How many?" Treville asked, the moment he saw them approach.
"Twenty," Athos said. The word did not seem to carry on the wind as a voice should have; instead it hovered bleakly in the space above their heads.
"Twenty," Treville repeated. "Who?"
"Marsac and Aramis."
The second name must have been clear to all the moment that the first was uttered. Marsac and Aramis were another pair like Emile and Henri- like Porthos and Charon, once upon a time- and it only made since that wherever they were, they were together.
But where were they? Had they survived somehow, gone to seek help or shelter? Had they simply died elsewhere? Or had they been taken? Porthos shivered. There were few things worse than death, but being an enemy's prisoner could easily be one of them.
"Find them," Treville said, simply.
Porthos, Athos, Emile, and Henri spread out in four directions; Porthos went east. The trees rapidly grew thicker. He struggled to keep track of where he'd checked and where he hadn't, but there were no signs of anything anywhere: no musketeers, no raiders, no Aramis or Marsac.
Nothing but snow and trees, trees and snow.
Another man, a man who'd grown up somewhere else, might have found it peaceful, might have taken a moment's respite in the utter solitude so close by the scene of destruction. Porthos, who hadn't left Paris until old enough to grow a beard, shivered.
Then: "Here!" It was Henri's voice. "Oh my god- he's alive!"
It was coming from somewhere left of him; the voice was faint, but Porthos was fairly sure of that much. He raced through the trees- and then he found them.
Aramis sat, propped against a tree, a haphazard bandage tied about his head. Dried blood coated the right side of his face. He was moving scarcely more than the corpses in the clearing, but thin clouds of breath issued from his mouth.
Henri was crouched at his side. He'd laid his cloak over Aramis' lap and was rubbing the man's arms almost violently, trying to bring him warmth. Aramis wasn't reacting.
Porthos stripped his own jacket- he didn't have his cloak, never liked to ride in it much- and added it against Aramis' chest. Aramis only stared off into the forest, back towards the clearing. But his face came alive again as another set of footsteps crunched towards them.
"C'ptain," Aramis wheezed. Treville was at the man's side in an instant, kneeling beside him, holding his face in both hands. Henri and Porthos moved respectfully back.
"I'm here, mon fils," Treville soothed, rubbing his thumbs along Aramis' cheekbones. "You're safe now."
"Tried t'keep the rav'ns away." The man's voice was urgent. "Shouted. Hit th'm. But thissis where- thissis where he left me. So I wanted t'come back here."
"Who left you, Aramis?"
"Marsac," Aramis whispered. "He went tha' way." He pointed off into the trees.
Porthos' gut clenched.
"Dunno why," Aramis continued. "I tried t'keep the ravens away, Captain. Fr'm the bodies."
"I know you did, Aramis. And you did well," Treville said firmly. "Aramis, was Marsac hurt?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? Was Marsac to be found as yet another corpse, who'd stumbled off into the forest so that his best friend wouldn't have to watch him die? Or was he a deserter?
Which was worse?
"No. He wasn' hurt. Jus' left."
Porthos nails dug into his palms as his hands became fists; Henri inhaled audibly.
"I told him not to," Aramis bleated, but Treville moved a finger to his lips before he could say any more.
"You've done all you could, fils. We're taking you home now. Do you think you can stand?" Aramis nodded. With Treville's help he climbed to his feet, and took to them better than Porthos had imagined he would. Slowly, but without stumbling, he let Treville lead him to the horses.
Henri and Porthos caught each other's eyes, united briefly in the same dark expression; they retrieved their outerwear wordlessly, though Porthos' blood had grown so hot with anger that he hardly wanted his jacket any longer.
Notes: According to dialogue in The Good Soldier, the massacre at Savoy took place on Good Friday, which was March 28 in 1625. Easter, therefore, fell on March 30. Porthos and the others departed Paris early on March 31, and arrived the afternoon of April 1. According to google, it is not unreasonable that a horse could keep moving at 25km per hour, making the 500km journey to the border of Savoy a roughly 20 hour trip. Anyone covering that distance could therefore do so in under two days, assuming they were fit to keep moving.
A lieue, or lieue ancienne, is an archaic French unit of measure roughly equivalent to 3.25km. It would be translated as "league", but is not equivalent to that modern measurement.