Summary; People are dying in the masses inside Court of Miracles, and Flea comes begging for help. Porthos takes the time to disappear from the face of the Earth. Cue d'Artagnan going undercover on the streets of Paris in the midst of the untamed winter, and Athos and Aramis being worried mother hens as they all race against the clock to find their missing fourth before he too ends up dead on the streets.


LAWLESS LANDS

As a wolf in a lawless land as winter approaches,
I'm running, risking my life
I have no desire to die for a longing that hurts,
but it is too late to stop when I've made it all the way here

There was a pounding in his head as he woke with a start, and he groaned unhappily. You'd think a man would learn after too many nights out just how much wine one should drink before it becomes too much. Apparently he had not yet learned this, because his head was ringing loudly and every muscle in his body ached.

Although there were two types of poundings in his head, and that made no sense. The first one was nothing out of the ordinary after a night trying to keep up with Athos at the Wren. It was the common pounding, which he believed to be his brain banging itself repeatedly against his skull bone in anger of the abusive drinking. But the other sound was more distant, growing louder, but barely apprehensive through his clouded mind.

He wasn't sure if he was hung over or actually still drunk.

Turning his head he realized it was still dark out. Why would he possibly be awake if the sun wasn't awoken yet? This made no sense at all.

"Porthos!?"

Wait. The intense banging in his head was calling his name?

The moment his brain finally realized that someone was standing outside his bedroom door, banging their fists against it with all their might and shouting his name, he leaped out of bed as fast as he could, unlocked the door and wrenched it inwards.

There was a rush of movements as a clutter of blonde hair fell inwards along with the door as the support of the wooden door had suddenly disappeared. Porthos let go of the door and opened his arms to catch the woman as she fell like a maiden into his embrace.

"Flea?"

Arms and hair and bodies were twisted until they were both standing straight, looking into each other's faces. Porthos mouth was hanging open as his hands moved to her cheeks, keeping her upright, while his big thumb gently moved across her split lip, his eyes darting across the black eye and dried blood in her hair.

"What happened?" He asked, anger obvious in his voice as he dragged her inside and put her into a chair. She seemed to be in shock as he knelt in front of her, grabbing the bucket and rags he used for washing his face in the morning and gently begun wiping the mud off from her arms and face. She wasn't crying, but she was not far from it as her breaths were coming out in small hiccoughing sounds.

Porthos was as careful as he could while wiping her arms, his fingers moving across with a gently pressure in search of any wounds, and he exhaled relieved when he came up short. She was dirty and bruised, but there were no cuts of broken bones except from her face. He was still planning on getting Aramis, to allow his physician friend to look her over with the perceptive eyes of his to make sure there wasn't anything that Porthos could not see. But first, he needed to get her to talk because he could not leave her in this state.

He moved the wet rag across her face, soft hands moving along the cuts and bruises covering her face, her hand coming up to rest of her cheek, and she exhaled deeply as she moved her hand to place it on top of his.

"Porthos…"

"Flea, what happened?"

"The Court… Someone is killing us."

"What do you mean?"

"People are dying Porthos, dying everywhere in the streets. I can't prove murder, and no one is helping us. People are desperate. We need help."

"I'll help. I'll go there with y'right now and we'll sort it out. You're not alone."

Flea sat still for a moment before she nodded, her face leaning into Porthos' hand. He could not tear his eyes away from her, her bruised face and trembling hands. She would always be the love of his life even if he knew they would never be together. He had accepted that she was pleased to stay in Court, and even though he would always consider the Court as his homeland, he did not belong there anymore. They were not meant to be. He knew that. That did not mean he didn't care.

"Tell me ev'rything." Porthos begged, but soon realized they would not be getting anywhere that easily. She was all too shaken and scared to tell him anything, and he needed another way of approaching the subject. Leaving her side for a moment he walked over to his cupboard and pulled out a bottle he had kept hidden for special occasions. Bringing to cups with him he poured them each a cup of the strong liquid, before sitting down in the chair next to her, moving close to her, allowing her to lean towards his shoulder and using him for support as her world appeared to be swaying.

She took one look at the glass in front of her before reaching out with a trembling hand, and drowned the whole thing in one fluent movement before leaning back in the chair, exhaling slowly. Porthos sat still, anger fuming inside him, and had she not looked so shaken already, he would've already been up, punching a hole through the wall. He really had to focus on remaining calm if he were ever to get anything out of her.

It took her another glass and several long minutes where Porthos sat patiently waiting for her before she managed to get any words out, and she started with a deep sigh.

"It… It started a couple of weeks ago. People started showing up dead in the streets. Y'know, it's not uncommon, people die of hunger and sickness all the time, but… something is not right Porthos. I met people a few days before they died and they appeared fine… Then I stumble over them in the street."

Porthos frowned – he didn't like the sound of that.

"How many?"

"Close to thirty in the last three weeks."

Porthos eyes grew wild. Flea was right – dead bodies in the streets of the Court were nothing uncommon, but it never reached those numbers. Something was certainly amiss.

"Who's king now?" Porthos said quietly, his eyes meeting Flea's. She had told him briefly at another point that there was a new man, but he didn't know more of him.

"Tison. He's a good man Porthos."

"So was Charon."

"He is nothing like Charon." Flea mumbled, the tremble in her voice gone and replaced with anger as she looked deeply into Porthos' dark eyes as her own eyes narrowed in warning.

Porthos sighed, having so much to speak of when it came to the subject of the man who had once been his best friend, only to turn around and attempt to blow up the entire Court and everyone in it. Charon had left deep cuts of worry within Porthos, trust issues he had not wanted to be thinking about but could not rid of.

This though, was not the time.

"Alright. Do y'know anything?"

"No. We don't know what's is happening nor why people are dying. I believe someone is exterminating us – cleaning up the Court. It wouldn't be the first time."

"And I assume y've sent for help?"

"Of course, but we'll never see that comin'."

Porthos nodded. The King hated the Court of Miracles, it was considered to be the filthiest part of Paris, and had it not been for the people living there protecting it so fiercely, it would've been gone decades ago. King Louis XIII might not go ahead and empty the ghetto by force, but he wouldn't stop anyone who did either. Help would never come.

Or at least it would not be coming from the Louvre Palace.

"I'll come. Y'know that. Now tell me what 'appened to you?"

Flea's eyes sank to the floor.

"There's a man – I don't know his name. I've heard whispers of le Faucon. I was intruding his turf, trying to find any of value, when I met him. He wasn't exactly… courteous as he kicked me out."

"I'll kill him." Porthos growled. No one put a hand on Flea. No one.

"I know you will. First I want to know why he's doin' this."

"We'll 'ave a talk to 'im. In the meantime I want you 'ere, stay 'ere and I will wake the others. Then we return to Court together."

Flea nodded, a small smile appearing on her lips. Help was coming. And not a day too late.

"You alright with me leavin' you a moment?"

"Of course."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I know."

And with those last words of affirmative, Porthos quickly got dressed, wrapped his boat cloak around his shoulder, and hurried out the steps. It was in the midst of the winter, and they were having a very cold one so far. One of those breezes kept going through the city, a breeze made of ice that would slip through any clothes were you to leave an opening, and it would freeze you from the inside. Porthos hated the cold, he hated the shivers it brought with them, he hated seeing his breath as he walked with rapid steps towards Athos' apartment, and he hated the already disgusting streets of Paris being covered in wet snow. It was slippery, slurry, cold and made it almost impossible to move down the streets in high speed. He couldn't wait for summer to arrive.

And not just was the snow difficult to manoeuvre. The fact that it never seemed to be light outside was driving him mad. The nights were pitch dark, even though the white snow had helped a little bit, it just never seemed to be as light as it would be during the summer nights. He missed the sun. Hopefully it would make a reappearance soon enough.

But first he had to get to Athos. Then while Athos ducked his head into a bucket that had frozen from being left outside, he would go and locate Aramis. That was usually rather tricky, but he had seen him leave the bar a few hours prior with a lady on his hip. Hopefully he was being faithful to her – for the night being that was.

D'Artagnan would be easier, he was most likely mopping around in his room, still upset about not having the lovely Constance in his arms. Porthos understood why she decided to stay with her husband – that didn't mean he approved. D'Artagnan loved Constance and she loved him back, in difference from the marriage she was already committed to.

Porthos wrapped the cloak closer around him as a shiver jarred his spine, and he sighed as he kicked some of the snow in front of his feet. The snow was piling on the streets, covering the entire filthy roads in white. Aramis used to love it, Porthos remembered. A long time ago. When they had first met, Aramis would make men made out of snow, and he would place snowballs into what Athos called pyramids and they would place candles inside of them to spread light in the dark nights. Aramis would then often take the snowballs and try his best to throw it so it would land at the back of Porthos' head, and the cold snow would slide down his neck.

Aramis didn't love the snow anymore. He could still be childish sometimes, but he was not in a very joyous mood when the snow placed its blanket upon the city. Memories replaying in his mind would always pull Aramis deep below the heavy blanket, threatening to suffocate him every time it fell. Aramis had once loved the snow. Now all it brought him was the sight of dead comrades, frozen to the ground. And Porthos hated seeing his friend close himself into his memories. He hated watching Aramis as he stared out into the white landscape, his body still but his mind racing behind his eyes, terror and fear of his own memories pushing him over the edge.

Porthos hated the snow.

And that was the last thing on his mind before someone struck him from behind, his world falling even darker than the winter's night.