Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place
He thinks that maybe he used to belong somewhere, once.
It has all become so vague now, blurry are the edges of memories from times long gone, there are moments when Porthos doubt they ever were real at all.
The voice of a woman, a mother, singing soft songs in languages only spoken in foreign lands he has never been. Her hands, rough and callused from hours of labor, brushing against his, smoothing back his curls. Her heat keeping him warm against the freezing cobblestones of Paris in winter.
But her voice got drowned out by sickly coughing and then a silence that shook his soul and set him running, so far and so long he can't remember her face anymore.
Porthos wonders where she lays buried sometimes, if anybody even bothered to at all.
He didn't belong after that, except maybe to the streets, to the night. To holding out bleeding hands at the harbor in hope of a few gold coins. At night he scraped them against stone walls to burrow in whatever dirty hole was available, digging in discarded heaps of rotten food when he got too hungry.
There were others there, like him, outcasts living along the edges of society.
They called the Court of Miracles their home, lead down their heads among comrades and told stories of stolen wealth while sipping bootleg booze around burning trash. And for a while, so did Porthos.
For a while, he could tell himself that maybe this was where he belonged. Between beggars and thieves. Devils and rats. Sickness and death.
He could tell himself that Flea loved him and Charon needed him and they would be together, the three of them, until their fallen kingdom would burn down beneath them, turn into a court of despair.
Of course that didn't work out, nothing ever works out the way it's supposed to.
So Porthos left, turned his back upon those he thought were like him and never looked back. Knew he didn't belong there, but saying so out loud too much to bear.
Because if you can't even manage to fit in with those that are alike to you, where do you fit in at all?
He tried working and he tried pick pocketing. He tried brawling and sometimes they beat him down, but Porthos never stopped standing back up again, with the taste of his own blood in his mouth.
And eventually he tried the musketeers, earned his place among its ranks somehow and gained friends along the way somewhere.
He's unsure how still, while they're sitting in the barracks at nightfall, reciting stories of their exploits with unnecessary dramatic flair that has them all riled up to see who can come up with the most unbelievable tales next.
Maybe he fits, maybe he has found where he deserves to be after all...
But Porthos need only look in the mirror to know they're still different.
He is not like D'Artagnan, with a farm and a home waiting for him to return. He is not like Aramis, with a sister and a family somewhere who still care. He is not like Athos, with memories of a childhood mansion and a life worth living.
He is not like them, he never shall be no matter how hard he tries, and sometimes that realization comes to him, when he sees the children on the street. Tiny things with sunken eyes and dark skin, broken nails and tangled hair. It pains him.
But it is a hurt quickly forgotten by the thrill of battle and the glory found in honor and brotherhood.
The musketeers is where Porthos is now. It might not be where he belongs, but it is where he is, and it works just fine for him.
Look at that, my first Musketeer thingie. (I love this series and I love Porthos ok?)