"He got it in a duel with a red guard," Etienne whispered conspiratorially. "From what I heard, the guard had already admitted defeat when he grabbed the dagger in his belt and lunged for Porthos, who had turned to leave. They say he barely managed to jerk back in time to save his life. He was lucky to get away with only that jagged scar to remind him of the treachery of the Cardinal's men."
D'Artagnan looked away from Etienne's face, glancing over at a table on the far side of The Boar's Head where his three brothers sat drinking. Athos was sullenly off to one side - something that was not uncommon after they're return from his now charcoal mansion, the truth of his wife ripped out into the open for d'Artagnan to see. The barmaid, a pretty young thing with color high on her cheekbones and a rushed looked in her eye swung past, filling Athos empty cup and expertly avoiding Aramis' eye. Porthos caught d'Artagnan's stare from across the room, shooting him a wink that made the scar across his right eye compact and then stretch back into its original shape; the scar that was - at this very moment - being discussed with the utmost curiosity.
"That's not what I was told," Loring cut in, drawing d'Artagnan's attention back into the conversation. "Joly told me that he received it from a wealthy lady's shoe when Porthos was out fishing for a patroness. She threw it right at his head; sliced him up good. Had to wear an eye covering for a week before he could see out of the bloody thing again."
D'Artagnan found that one to be a bit too farfetched to believe, but then again, Aramis had almost been skinned alive by many a jealous lover when his less than committed emotions were brought into the light. Had this been Aramis they were talking about d'Artagnan would have believed it in a heartbeat, as it was, Porthos seemed to play things a bit more safely when it came to the whims of powerful women. Francois seemed to have the same idea as d'Artagnan.
"You can't seriously think that's what happened?"
Etienne quirked one eyebrow in a challenge. "Alright then my omnipotent French friend, tell us what really transpired."
Francois grinned over the top of his wine glass. "Porthos and Aramis weren't always as friendly as they are now and they didn't have Athos to sort out their messes for them either." A knowing smirk spread across Francois' face. "Gather round my fine friends, this is not just a tale of one measly scar; this story is the origin of the Inseparables."
D'Artagnan inched forward on the bench. He had taken a seat on his way across the pub when he had heard what the group of younger musketeers were talking about. It had long been a question that d'Artagnan pondered - the question of where Porthos had really gotten his scar - but it had never seemed like a good time to ask when he remembered about it, and he had come to realize since he had started hanging around the garrison more often that it was a question everyone seemed to wonder but not know the answer to. At least, not an answer that any two people could agree on.
Francois cleared his throat. "Back when Porthos first got offered his commission, Aramis wasn't nearly as accepting of the man. They seemed to take an instant disliking to one another, something to do with a hustled game of cards." That was something d'Artagnan could believe. "It started off small: side comments and jeers, scuffles when Treville wasn't looking, more vicious fights when they were paired together to spar. One day, when the two were in a particularly bad spat, Aramis grabbed a fork. He hadn't meant to - or at least that's what he said afterward - but when Porthos moved closer to shove him, Aramis raked the fork down Porthos face, scarring him forever."
D'Artagnan tried not to let his amusement show. To think, he had actually thought he was going to learn something. A fork? Seriously?
"Treville, not wanting to lose some of the best recruits he had ever seen, stripped them of their weapons and hauled them off to an empty room, locking them in together until they had solved whatever rift was between them. The two helped each other hobble out the next day, covered in bruises but smiling. Whatever occurred in that room made them fast friends, and they've been together ever since."
D'Artagnan couldn't take it, his laughter ripped out of his throat by its own accord, tears pricking at the corners of his vision. Going from smug to embarrassed in seconds, Francois pulled his best scowl and eyed the Gascon as he gasped out a quick, "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Etienne backed him up with a broad grin. "Of course it's stupid because I am obviously correct. Isn't that right d'Artagnan?" The man sucked in deep breaths of air to calm himself before he could reply.
"While I will admit that your story is the most reasonable of the explanations presented here today, I can neither confirm nor deny the facts of your tale. I have no idea how he managed to get that scar, but do not fear, I will find out if it kills me." Standing suddenly from his seat, d'Artagnan untangled himself from the bench and began to work his way to his friends, plans already forming in his mind about the best way to execute his brilliant scheme.
—
As it turned out, brilliant was not the most appropriate word to describe what d'Artagnan had in mind and plan was probably not the best term to explain how he went about it either. The best idea he could come up with was to ask around and, so far, it was getting him nowhere.
He started with the older members of the guard, people who had been around longer than Porthos had probably been alive. It panned out something like this:
"Beal, you know how things work around here."
"I should be 'oping so, whelp. Been 'ere longer than them there front gates; longer than that there wall; longer than the dirt yer standin' on. You young people an yer simple minded question, yer no-"
"I need to know something."
"Everybody's needin' to know somethin'. Yer needin' to be more specific."
"How did Porthos get his scar?"
"Well, that there's an easy answer. 'E was mauled by a dog. Chased 'im off myself I did; saved 'is life!"
Delmon, another of the older musketeers groaned. "Don't believe a word he say, boy. Beal's always a bit liberal with the truth." Beal grumbled something under his breath and shuffled off. "Porthos got his scar when he was cleaning out the horse's stables one night. Kicked right in the face he was, the skin split straight over the eye."
"And he's still alive?" d'Artagnan questioned disbelievingly.
"Miracle ain't it? God's watching out for that one." D'Artagnan nodded and began to back away carefully, not wanting to delve into Delmon's more religious point of view at the moment. Maybe another time when he had several hours to spare and nothing better to do with his time… or maybe not. "Miracle. Yes sir, that's what it was. Divine intervention to save Porthos life!"
D'Artagnan cut in before Delmon could continue. "Thank you for the help, but I think I hear Athos calling me right now." A pause. "Yes, there he was again. Enjoy your shift Delmon." Spinning quickly and rushing down the stairs, d'Artagnan didn't stop until he was safely seated at the table with his three friends again.
"What was that about?" Porthos asked with a strange smile splashed across his face.
D'Artagnan waved the question off and quickly drew the attention to something that was easily distracting: Aramis' love life. A sufficient diversion for Porthos, d'Artagnan quietly slipped back into his musing, his eyes locked on Porthos scar and his mind sorting through his next list of people to ask.
—
D'Artagnan's next attempt was just as fruitless: A scratch from a tree as Porthos tried to escape a swarm of angry bees.
Old Serge proved to be equally unhelpful: A falling meteor that barely missed landing on Porthos' head.
The responses became more and more absurd with each passing answer.
"A fishing accident with some wire and a hook."
"An enraged merchant who thought Porthos had stolen his goods."
"An obsessed woman that wanted to die with her beloved so they could be together forever."
"A dominatrix that preyed on Porthos masochistic tendencies in the bedroom and-" Yeah, d'Artagnan hadn't waited around to hear the rest of that story.
He was running out of options - short of making up an answer for himself - and it seemed increasingly more obvious that nobody knew what had really happened.
D'Artagnan lay in wait for his next target.
—
Treville was less than surprised when d'Artagnan cornered him one morning to ask him a "training" question. He had seen the young recruit running around the camp for the last few days, talking quietly with everyone he could get his hands on, looking for information. About the same time d'Artagnan began his strange game of questions, talk of Porthos scar began circling the camp again. It wasn't hard to figure out who had caused the uproar this time.
It happened every few years. Someone would get curious, they'd ask around and the whole lot of men at the garrison began talking - gossiping more like. His men were battle hardened warriors, but sometime they gossiped more than the queen's ladies in waiting. Not to say he wasn't curious himself; he was beyond curious actually. He was made even more interested upon realizing that, although he had originally thought Porthos to be oblivious to the constant mystery that surrounded his scar, he had since come to realize that the man seemed to enjoy the speculating of his fellow brothers. Every time a new theory came to light, a smile slipped across Porthos face as if he knew they would never figure out what had truly happened.
So on this quiet morning in the corner of the garrison during practice, Treville was more than happy to be pulled aside by d'Artagnan to be questioned.
"Captain, I was wondering if you could help me with something." D'Artagnan looked like he was running out of options.
"He had it before I knew him."
"How'd you-? But I-" The young man's mouth opened and closed for a few seconds before he shook himself out of his shock and sighed. "Never mind, you know everything."
Treville smiled, genuinely amused. "Everything but this, you mean."
D'Artagnan let out an exasperated breath. "I've asked everybody I can think of and I get a different story every time. I even heard the one about the dominatrix that-"
"No need to continue," Treville's face flushed slightly, something he blamed on the warm heat, not the truly sordid tale that accompanied those few words from d'Artagnan. "I've heard that one before as well."
"See! I'm out of options. Nobody seems to know!"
Treville paused before answering. Never in the time that these stories circulated did it seem that anyone asked Porthos what had happened, or Aramis and Athos for that matter. "Have you asked him how he got it?"
D'Artagnan froze, already prepared to launch into another rant about the situation at hand. He swallowed, turned his bright red face away from Treville's laughing eyes, bowed and hurriedly excused himself.
Well, d'Artagnan thought as he walked away, that was embarrassing.
—
D'Artagnan saddled up beside Aramis and Athos as they entered the garrison the next morning. "How did Porthos get his scar?" he blurted before he could stop himself. Tact had never been his strongest skill and d'Artagnan wasn't about to change his nature now.
The two men froze and looked at each other before turning to face the newest brother in their small group.
"Well you see, it's a quite fascinating story," Aramis began, smile spreading across his face.
"Very riveting," Athos added.
"So riveting in fact," Aramis continued, "that Athos would be much better at telling it than me."
Just as Athos said, "Aramis could explain much better than I can."
"You see," Aramis continued after a beat, "I was very drunk when he explained the events to us and I can't seem to recall them all."
Athos raised an eyebrow but nodded his head in understanding, "I think it went- No, that can't be right- You must know better than I Aramis."
The two men eyed each other carefully, while d'Artagnan's eyes darted back and forth between them. When nobody attempted to continue the story, d'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh.
"You don't know either." Of course they didn't.
Aramis jumped in before d'Artagnan could say anything. "In my defense, it never came up-"
"Not once," Athos interjected.
"And I didn't want to pry-"
"It never crossed my mind to ask," Athos continued.
Aramis nodded. "Yes, never crossed our minds."
D'Artagnan observed the two with amusement. "Then we must ask him together."
—
Porthos had more than enjoyed the last few days.
He had caught on to what was happening early on in d'Artagnan's search for information. Whatever Etienne was, quiet was not one of them and it had been easy enough to catch what was being said the first time he had walked by the table on the way to the back of the pub. Aramis was busy making a comment about the many qualities that he greatly admired in the beautiful barmaid serving their drinks - loudly and not so subtly in her direction - but Porthos was barely listening by the time he had finished, choosing instead to watch d'Artagnan closely as he pulled up short beside the table and slide onto one side of the bench.
Interesting.
D'Artagnan's eyes flicked over to the table where Porthos sat and he gave the young recruit a wink, a smile pulling across his face. So it will begin again.
And begin it did.
The next clue that confirmed the nature of d'Artagnan's questioning was the shouts of Delmon across the court yard the following morning. There were only two things that Delmon considered a miracle: Treville allowing the day off (an occurrence that was so rare when it did come around a miracle was probably the best - and only - explanation) and Porthos' scar. Seeing as how the garrison was still full of men actually attempting to work and paired with the facts Porthos already knew there was no other option. The mystery of Porthos scar would begin to grow once more.
When d'Artagnan had managed to make his escape - something that Porthos found more than a little surprising (Delmon could certainly talk) - he looked at the young man he called brother, grinned and asked, "What was that about?"
"Simple training question," the Gascon answered, but his guilty face was enough of a giveaway that Porthos didn't even begin to believe him.
They'd have to work on his poker face together.
—
Porthos had heard them all over the years: the flying shoe, the swarm of bees, the falling meteor - even the one about the dominatrix (that one had been mildly disturbing, not so much because of the theory behind the tale, but more because of the disturbingly accurate details with which the information was presented). His particular favorite was the one about the estranged lover that hired a brutal assassin to carve out his eyes so as to stop him from ever looking upon any other woman again (it left nothing to be desired and the gory details of his triumph were really quite spectacular); he wondered if d'Artagnan had heard that one yet.
To be honest, he was surprised that no one had ever asked him directly about where the scar came from, not even Aramis or Athos. The real story behind what had happened was much less interesting - certainly nothing to boast about - and watching the musketeers make up the "real" events was a much more entertaining way to get through the less exciting moments over the last several years. Which was why, almost a week after the beginning of d'Artagnan's search, he was more than a little intrigued when d'Artagnan strolled over - determination written across his face - with Aramis and Athos trailing behind him like lost puppies, or lost… tigers - yes, Athos would like that much better.
In true d'Artagnan fashion, the question was out before Porthos had even said good morning. "Can you tell me how you got your scar?"
"You mean the one on my left leg? Just below the butt cheek? How'd you find out about that one?"
D'Artagnan didn't even bat an eyelash. "The one over your eye."
"This old thing? Ask around, everyone knows." Porthos almost laughed out loud at the scoff he received from d'Artagnan.
"I have been asking. I even asked Athos and Aramis and they have about as much idea as the rest of the camp put together. Do you know the stories I've heard? The horse! The fish hook! The dominatrix!" The last word was shouted a little too loudly and d'Artagnan sank down in his seat as the musketeers around them glanced over.
Porthos chuckled lowly, enjoying the whelp's discomfort. "It's a very anticlimactic tale."
"Come on then," Aramis said, getting into the conversation, "Disappoint us." Athos tried and failed to look disinterested from where he sat off to one side.
"It happened back when I was in the Court of Miracles." The three men shifted closer. Porthos almost never talked about his time in the Court and this was a prime opportunity for d'Artagnan to learn more about his friend. "I was snatching a purse - nothing new - except this time a guard that I had somehow managed to not notice caught me in the act; chased me through the streets like a dog, shouting about what he was going to do to a little thing like me. I tripped - typical if you ask me - and smashed my head into a step at the bottom of one of the houses along the road. I was a bit dazed and I guess I wasn't moving, but by that point the guard had caught up to me. He looked at me for a second, prodded me with a shoe and then wandered off, mumbling about how I was saving him time by dying before he could get his hands on me." Aramis growled angrily. "That fall probably saved my life and the scar reminds me of what I have to be thankful for. It reminds me that I got out, but not everyone else was as lucky."
Athos was the first to respond. "I'm sorry that this happened to you." Aramis was still fuming and d'Artagnan seemed to be at a loss for words.
"Don't be. It was a long time ago." Porthos grinned. "Besides, the ladies are very fond of scars these days. It's helped me get more than one fine catch." Aramis nodded appreciatively.
Finally seeming to find his voice, d'Artagnan grinned mischievously attempting to help lighten the mood. "Speaking of your lady friends, would any of them be able to tell me about the scar you have on your… more intimate area?"
"No need for that d'Artagnan, I personally know the story there," Aramis intervened. "It started with this exotic fruit called a pineapple and, well - this may take a while."
AN: I've had this prompt for a long time just waiting to be written and the urge just suddenly came over me. The prompt is: "I just really want a fic where we find out how Porthos got the eyescar. My personal headcanon is that no one really knows so it's this source of myth and rumors. Every time the story is told it gets more and more outlandish, and Porthos just laughs and shrugs it off until the truth is revealed and it is hilarious or sad or shocking or actually crazy bananas. But you know, I'll take anything"
Hope you enjoyed it and please don't forget to leave me a comment and tell me if you liked it, loved it or loathed it.