Summary: It was hard to say how long ago they'd captured him. No one thought Spanish scouts had infiltrated this far into France.
Porthos hoped he lived long enough to get word back to Athos and the French forces.
Author's Notes: Companion to my story, "You Weren't There". I wasn't sure about this, but Red Tigress encouraged me and put up with my random messages and questions and emoting. And I appreciate it more than I can say.
*This is not a happy fic and contains scenes of physical torture and violence. Nothing too graphic, but it ain't sunshine and roses.
**Takes place during the war and with the possibility that Aramis did not re-join the Musketeers for it.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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It was hard to say how long ago they'd captured him. No one thought Spanish scouts had infiltrated this far into France.
Porthos hoped he lived long enough to get word back to Athos and the French forces.
The man in front of him studied him for a long moment.
"Just tell us what we need to know. This can all be over." Porthos looked over the Spanish officer and his two men. "I do not like hitting you, señor. Truly, I don't."
"Coulda fooled me," muttered Porthos, pulling at the bindings that held him to the chair.
"Where will the French attack next?"
"No idea." The punch snapped his head back.
"Where will the French attack?"
"Couldn't say, been a little tied up." The next blow whipped it the side.
He touched the split lip with the tip of his tongue. Porthos looked up at the Spanish soldier and smiled.
"Keep it up, chico, you're finally getting somewhere."
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He tried to wrap around the pain.
No breath for smart remarks now.
He focused on holding his muscles tight, absorbing the punches that pounded his stomach and sides.
Keep breathing.
Even as his lungs faltered and seized.
Keep breathing.
Athos and d'Artagnan would find him.
The light changed.
Morning?
Keep breathing.
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"You think," murmured the Spaniard, "that you have known pain? You know nothing of what we can do to you."
"You don't know a thing 'bout what I've survived," retorted Porthos.
"We'll see."
Porthos had no warning of the blow that struck him from behind.
The world went grey and tilted.
When he came to, he was hanging from a rope through a loop set in the ceiling. His toes just reached the ground. He lifted his knees and bounced, but the metal and rope held. The rough fibers bit at his wrists.
It was dark by the time the Spanish returned. Their leader stepped in front of Porthos and playfully swung a whip in his hand.
Porthos' eyes were fixed on the sight.
Not just a whip.
A cat. Its many tails meant to tear skin and draw blood.
Punishment for slaves and criminals.
His heart was racing, but he forced his chin out.
The Spanish officer leisurely walked behind him.
No fear.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
He wasn't a slave.
He wasn't a criminal. Not anymore.
A slap of sound and a line of fire ignited across his bare back.
Worse than he'd imagined. And he had imagined it. So many hellish stories.
He clenched his aching jaw, choking on a scream.
Another crack of flame.
"Tell us."
Another.
The pain spread, licking at his sides, climbing up his shoulders.
Another.
"Tell us the location of your encampment."
His whole back blazed with pain.
He could feel blood slipping down his skin.
Smell it in the air.
"Tell us."
"Go to hell."
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He pressed his swollen, hot cheek to the cold stone floor.
It felt good against his shoulder, the length of his arm.
The room was dark.
Maybe it was night.
He didn't know anymore.
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Porthos couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled from his torn lips.
"Something amuses you?" Porthos let his head fall against the back of the chair he was once again bound to and tried to glare at the Spaniard through puffy eyes.
"My friend...Aramis...is going to...tear you...apart," he wheezed.
There was blood pouring down his chin.
He hoped his grin was a terror.
"Aramis'll come…"
"I hope he does," said the Spaniard as he fisted a hand in Porthos' hair and pulled. "I hope he finds you in pieces."
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They were still hitting him.
The room swayed and jarred in time to the strike of leather on flesh, but he couldn't feel it.
Pops of sound.
Someone yelling.
Impact, but not pain.
Punishment.
Endless.
Couldn't remember why.
What'd he done to deserve it?
But he knew it was still happening.
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The ground was ice.
He tried to curl up against the chill, but he felt strangely heavy.
Nothing moved right.
Wasn't it just summer...running the streets, sunlight in Flea's hair...
Where was his shirt? His mother would be cross if he came home without his shirt.
When had it gotten so cold?
He should go.
Just a rest.
Then he'd go home.
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