Summary: "I admit, this will be particularly enjoyable, because this one is special." Rochefort pulled a dagger out of his belt and toyed with it. "But he won't be the last. Everyone you love, every girl you've ever been seen flirting with, every witless Musketeer I can lay my hands on, I will drag them before you and you will watch them die."
Author's Notes: Now, Aramis has not been favorite lately. Or...ever, but that is beside the point. I have not had much patience with him, but a reviewer, Deana, made a comment about how scared Aramis must have been in the dungeon during "Trial and Punishment". And it inspired me a bit.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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Aramis looked up as the cell doors creaked open and Rochefort stood before him. His hands ached to punch that smug smile off his face.
"Execute me, torture me in the market square for all to see. It doesn't matter. I will not confess anything to you."
"Oh, I will execute you. And it will be slow and painful in the coming, I promise. But not yet. I can't have the Queen thinking of you as a martyr to her cause. I don't want anyone believing you noble or good. No, before the end, I'll see you broken and begging and declaring whatever I tell you to."
"Never."
"Stupid Musketeers," mused Rochefort, making a motion toward the door. "You wear your loyalties like those ridiculous pauldrons, for all to see." There were sounds of steps and scrapes as Porthos was dragged into view.
Aramis' heart froze.
This wasn't possible. Porthos was supposed to be in Spain, getting the leverage they needed to exonerate the Queen. To save them all. He couldn't be here.
"Porthos…" The name was out of his lips before he could stop himself. The big man's doublet was missing and he stood, swaying unsteadily, his wrists bound. Porthos' eyes searched and rolled, seemingly unable to focus. "Let him go. You have no quarrel with him."
"Of course I have a quarrel with him!" roared Rochefort. "Just as I have a problem with all you damned Musketeers. But I admit, this will be particularly enjoyable, because this one is special." Rochefort pulled a dagger out of his belt and toyed with it. "But he won't be the last. Everyone you love, every girl you've ever been seen flirting with, every witless Musketeer I can lay my hands on, I will drag them before you and you will watch them die."
"Don't do this," said Aramis.
"Well, that all depends on you, doesn't it?" mused Rochefort. "Admit what you've done. Admit to sleeping with the Queen and plotting against the King. And I'll let him live."
Aramis looked at Porthos. His dark eyes had finally found Aramis, though he still looked dazed.
Aramis couldn't do it. He couldn't sacrifice Anne on Rochefort's word to spare Porthos.
Porthos was a soldier.
He'd told Aramis to deny it.
He had no choice.
The words were death and ash in his mouth.
"I will not betray my Queen."
Rochefort smiled.
And plunged the dagger into Porthos' stomach and lifted.
Aramis bellowed and his vision went as red as the blood soaking Porthos' shirt.
Aramis pulled and jerked, but his shoulders held.
The wall refused to crumble and the chains would not give.
Porthos fell.
First to his knees.
And then to his back.
Aramis strained, but his thumbs would not break.
Blood and more spilled through Porthos' tied hands and onto the rock of floor.
Aramis twisted and clawed, but the skin of his wrists would not tear.
The big man lay just out of reach.
No matter how Aramis raged and thrashed and kicked.
He couldn't get to Porthos.
Rochefort and the Red Guard were gone.
Only Aramis and Porthos remained.
"Porthos," cried Aramis, leaning as far as he could. "Porthos. Look at me. I need you to come to me. I can't reach you and I need to tend that wound."
Porthos turned his head to look at him, gasping for air. Aramis beckoned with numb fingers.
"If you just...just a little distance, Porthos. I'll fix it. It'll be alright, I just need you to reach out. Everything will be okay."
"You're still...still lyin'...to me." The words slammed into Aramis like a weight.
"No," he said, shaking his head frantically. "I didn't-"
"You did," interrupted Porthos with a wet growl. "You are. 'M dead." He held up crimson hands, and the blood pooled around him. "It's bad."
"You don't give up. Not you!"
"I'm dead," continued Porthos. "The Queen'll be dead...soon enough. Athos...d'Artagnan… Country'll fall…"
"Don't say that, don't! We'll find a way. We always do." Aramis reached out, stretching. "Please, Porthos, I need you. Just try. I can't reach you!"
"No...can't," whispered Porthos. He coughed and his lips were stained ruby red. "Aramis…"
"Porthos?" His eyes had gone dark and empty. "No! Porthos?!" The broad chest was still.
The only movement was the blood.
Creeping.
Spreading.
Staining.
Aramis screamed.
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There was no air in his lungs.
Aramis staggered to his feet, thrashing against the binds that held him.
He clawed at his wrists, only to find no manacles.
Aramis blinked at the grey light slowly growing with rose hues.
Gasping, he stared.
No dank dungeon, but a clean country breeze.
No gloating Rochefort, but a startled looking d'Artagnan.
His bedroll strewn about the grass, not bloody stone.
"Aramis?" D'Artagnan's voice was soft. Wary. "Everything okay?"
No blood anywhere.
He couldn't seem to get enough air.
A dream?
A memory?
Aramis looked up into concerned eyes.
"Where's Porthos?"