Summary: "Before you say they are 'like us', D'Artagnan, you should know that I would slaughter them in their sleep, if given the chance. If they touch him, I will."
Author's Notes: I asked asked for some prompts from SeeMeAsIAm101 and SupernaturalGeek and I started this long before the events of s02e05 (and the writers totally stole one of my ideas). But I'll choose to think of this fic as laying the ground for that episode. ;) This takes place between Season 1 and 2.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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Porthos was straining against the hands that held him and Aramis was shouting. D'Artagnan didn't grasp what was happening, but he understood the panic in Aramis' voice and the tension in Athos' face quite clearly. There was yelling, a mix of French and English, shoving and hitting until a pistol was held up to Aramis' head.
A silence fell over the hallway.
"Move. Or he dies," muttered one of the man in accented French.
The fight left Porthos instantly. He nodded and allowed himself to be led further down the hallway. Away from them.
"Porthos."
D'Artagnan winced, stuck by the anguish in Aramis' voice.
"I'll be alright," called Porthos. "Nothin' I can't handle."
The rest of them were shoved into a bare, middling sized room with small, high-set windows. The heavy door slammed behind them, followed by the sound of the lock.
"Where are they taking him?" asked d'Artagnan. No one answered. Aramis leaned against the wall, face hidden by unruly hair. "What just happened?"
"He'll be kept separately," said Athos, his voice carefully neutral.
"But why?"
"Servants aren't held with soldiers."
D'Artagnan blinked. Opened his mouth and shut it again before he found any words.
"They think...but why...?" he trailed off. "He's wearing a uniform." D'Artagnan kicked at the door and raised his voice. "He's wearing a uniform!"
"It won't matter. It might make it worse."
"Make it worse?!"
"You are a formidable fighter, d'Artagnan. And a good man." Athos sat down wearily. "But you have much to learn of war." D'Artagnan crouched and looked at Athos critically.
"This has happened before."
"Despite what has transpired since you joined us, we are not often taken prisoner," said Athos dryly.
"But?"
"You're not wrong. During the siege at La Rochelle, a number of French soldiers were taken prisoner. We did not..." Athos paused. "We were not all celled together, which did not seem that odd. The French army overran where we were being held and freed us. It was only then we realized Porthos was not amongst any of the soldiers. When we found him..."
"They'd beat him," seethed Aramis, ending his silence suddenly. "They broke his arm. For daring to call himself a soldier. For denying he was a servant."
The scene in the hallway, the anxiety and the tension.
Aramis' voice as the English dragged Porthos away.
It all suddenly made sense.
D'Artagnan cleared his throat.
"So what do we do? Wait for rescue?"
"Unless an opportunity for escape presents itself, I see no other option. There is always the chance for exchange," said Athos.
"What, they'll trade us?"
"For English captives of equal rank, yes."
Aramis made a pained sound and pushed away from the wall to pace the length of the room. D'Artagnan watched him for a moment and turned back to Athos.
"Of equal rank," he repeated slowly. Worry twisted his gut. "What about servants?"
"More often than not, slaves and servants merely change masters." Athos closed his eyes, voice soft and sad. "Or they're killed outright."
"No." The denial was out of d'Artagnan before he'd even realized he'd said it and stood. "No," he calmly repeated, "the Captain will get us out of here, one way or another."
Athos inclined his head slightly, but didn't open his eyes.
Aramis kept pacing, despair rolling off of him in waves.
"They wouldn't," said d'Artagnan reasonably after several quiet minutes. "They're soldiers, like us. Surely they wouldn't just kill him like that."
Aramis approached d'Artagnan in the gathering darkness.
"You've seen the way people look at him. No one in the regiment, at least, not anymore," Aramis' voice was low and lethal. "Rarely at court. But in some places?" He shook his head and stared at d'Artagnan, his voice a razored whisper. "Porthos is kind. Selfless. The bravest man and the best friend I have ever known. That these English would dare think him less? Because he looks or lived differently than them? That they would treat him with so little honor? Deny the station he has fought so hard to achieve? Before you say they are 'like us', D'Artagnan, you should know that I would slaughter them in their sleep, if given the chance." Aramis turned to lean against the wall again. "And if they touch him, I will. Pray that they are more like you than me."
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The hallway seemed endless. Aramis ran as fast as he could, shouting and listening for any sound from his friend.
There was sobbing coming from behind the last door. Heartbroken weeping, the likes that Aramis had never heard from Porthos.
Aramis kicked and kicked and kicked until finally the door gave way and the sobbing stopped. The stink of sweat and blood and unwashed bodies rolled out of the tiny room.
"Porthos!" Aramis knelt next to the big man and rolled him gently to his back. Porthos' face was bruised and swollen nearly to be unrecognizable. "Porthos, we are freed." Aramis searched for wounds, wincing as the bones in Porthos' arm grated under his hands. "Can you move? We need to go. They're on the run, but I don't know how long we have."
When there was no answer, Aramis carefully palmed Porthos' cheek. The skin was cold and strangely stiff.
He snatched his hand back in horror at the wrongness of it. He rested his ear on Porthos' chest and waited but found only silence and stillness.
Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. The crying had started again, echoing through the room, rebounding around him.
"Nononono," he murmured, seizing Porthos by the doublet. Though he was rigid and heavy, Aramis hauled him into his lap, tears soaking the soft, black curls as he pressed his face into Porthos' hair.
The torches dimmed and the weeping grew deafening.
Sorrow was a crushing weight.
As the darkness became absolute, Aramis realized the sobbing came from him.
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Aramis jerked awake, gasping for breath. He searched the room frantically.
D'Artagnan slept against the far wall and Athos sat in the cool glow of the moon, watching him.
He ran an unsteady hand over his face and then through his hair.
Nightmare.
Aramis got up to sit next to Athos and looked up at the light that came from the high windows and the nearly full moon. His heart had finally stopped pounding when Athos spoke softly.
"Bad dream?"
"It was La Rochelle again. That tiny room, that stench...but this time..." Aramis shuddered and pretended not to notice when Athos pressed closer, their arms touching. "I was too late, he was already dead."
They both resumed their contemplation of the moon.
"Never again," Athos whispered finally. "I swore I'd never let something like this happen to him again."
"And how were you do keep that vow, Athos? In a world such as this and a life such as ours? What could you do? What could either of us do?"
"Death in battle, honorable and earned is one thing. But this..."
"I know." Aramis leaned into Athos' shoulder. "I know."
I didn't mean for it to be a multichapter fic. But it will be.
Also, I'm on tumblr. I'm not good at it. But I'm trying.