I don't own a single Musketeer, let alone four.

Porthos has a scar on the back of his neck.

He wears high collared shirts to hide it. The years have made it fade. But it's still there.

To Aramis it stands out a single drop of blood on a clean cloth. It isn't meant to be there.

It is long and straight. Aramis traces down it with his hand. It leads down his back, a steady track. Porthos catches his hand. He turns his head to look up at his friend. His eyes are deep and searching.

It wasn't left by a sword. Not a knife or a bullet. Not a scar from the wars that they've fought and the battles they've won. It's deeper, darker. It hints at a darkness. One that they both try to suppress. They build their brotherhood around that scar. They try to forget what leads to it. It only resurfaces in nightmares, when they are alone in the dark.

For Aramis that nightmare is one of the worst. For Porthos it is one of many. It is a blurred memory, as faded as the mark it leaves. For Aramis it is the greatest injustice of his life.

He had grown up in a wealthy family. His father was a priest, but he had wanted to live lace to the full. So he had packed his bags and left his family. His father's letter of recommendation finding him a place as a soldier. He was one of the first people chosen to be a Musketeer.

Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miricles. He had been hungry and a thief. An orphan. Treville had given him a path to claw his way out of the gutter. He walked into the Garrison with a look of wonder in his eyes, and pride in his step.

Their friendship had started with curiosity. Aramis had wondered how somebody could face such trials and still laugh and smile. So he had approached him. Porthos hadn't trusted him at first. Everyone else looked down on him, thought him not worthy because of his skin colour. He expected Aramis to do the same. They became brothers. Aramis would sew his shirts. Porthos would cook for them. They defended each other in bar brawls, then on missions. Porthos worked tirelessly, and still no commission came. Then Athos walked in. They did a mission together. Porthos saved the new man's life. When they arrived back Athos got commissioned. Porthos clapped and cheered him on. He drank with him. Aramis had been so angry. Porthos had calmed him down, had helped him forgive Athos. Then Porthos's commission came. And they celebrated like they had never before.

They were brothers now. The three of them. And Aramis had never felt trust like it.

Then he had lost control.

He had started sleeping with more women, barely escaping their husbands. He was seen. He was taken to trial. He got fined. Treville berated him. Then it happened again. He got fined more money this time. He had to send a letter to his parents begging them for funds. They were not well pleased.

Then he went to far.

He slept with a visiting dignitary's wife.

And before he knew it they had left the city and he was standing before a judge. And the he was saying those words. Execution. Dawn.

Then there had been pounding footsteps.

And a booming voice he knew so well proclaiming that it was him.

And he was thrown back into the crowd. Athos and Treville restrained him as Porthos was pushed forward. More men held him back and the judge sneered. He called him a half-breed, a slave's spawn, a dog, a mongrel. And he was saying those words. Lashing, tomorrow at dawn. It should be a fine. It was his first offence. It shouldn't be this. He shouldn't have to pay this way. Not for another's crimes.

Aramis pressed his face towards the bars. Porthos stood on the other side. His brother. And he was begging, pleading with God above him that his brother wouldn't have to pay for his crimes. Pleading, begging, bargaining.

And there was silence. The air was heavy. A mast had been mounted in the middle. All Musketeers had to be present. They had to watch.

Porthos was pulled out. His lip had burst, his nose bleeding. His eye was swollen shut, black and purple. He was tethered to the mast. His ripped shirt was removed. Aramis felt arms holding him back. Athos was struggling opposite him. Treville was just standing there, every muscle tense.

The Red Guard brought the whip down. It parted the skin. It came down again and again and again. And he was letting out a roar of pain, like that of a bear with knife in it's leg. And the whip came down again. And the Red Guards had to hold back the Musketeers, trying to save their brother's in arms. Recruits were called. Aramis was oblivious to it all. He could only hear the sound of a whip hitting flesh, only smell the flood which was dripping onto the flagstones. Too much blood. There was too much blood. And then fifty had been counted and Treville charged forward, batting away the Red Guards surrounding him. He ripped the whip out of his hand and dropped it on the floor. The Red Guards left, their laughter echoing as the walked away.

Aramis cradled Porthos's head in his hands. He was untied. His eyes were glassy, and he let out a whimper of pain as they pressed clean bandages into his raw back. They were blood soaked in seconds.

And he was lying on his bed. On his front. And his back was a mess. There wasn't even enough skin left to sew together in some places. And he let out a sound that contained such pain it felt like a dagger was slowly being twisted in Aramis's heart.

Porthos has a scar on his back. The pain of that day has faded for him. But Aramis will always remember. He will relive that day every night in his sleep. He will wake up sweating and screaming.

He will always remember.

Why Porthos has a scar on his neck.