For Snow-Glory, who prompted a thing and then my brain ran away from me.

Is berserker rage a trigger? If it is, WARNING WARNING WARNING.

"Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man's survival."

-Carlos P. Romulo

Porthos tired of being used as bait or assigned to some ridiculous mission alongside his brothers, but there they were once more. On this specific occasion they'd been tasked with drawing out a particularly nasty fellow with nefarious and violent plans. Said individual, one Englishman by the name of William the Grim, had amassed a small yet growing following which made him one of the Musketeers' endless priorities.

The plan had been to sneak Grim's wife out of his camp in order to lure him away from his main force, and Porthos couldn't argue with that logic. As much as he loved a good fight, fewer fanatics with swords was always better. And this part of the plan had been executed with perfection. The four Musketeers managed to pass the woman off to a secondary team without being detected, and then when William drew near they led him on a wild chase. The trick became staying alive and uninjured while they waited for Tréville to show up with a larger force to take William into custody.

"We need him alive," Tréville had said. "The king wants him brought to Paris for questioning." Porthos rolled his eyes at the memory. Having abandoned their horses nearly half an hour ago, the Musketeers were dodging and weaving through a thickly forested area. This too was part of the plan. "Get him on foot. It'll be easier to take him down. I'll meet you in the meadow." He decided to tell Tréville exactly what he thought of this plan the next time he saw the captain.

Athos saw the designated meadow sprawling before him and found new energy as he tore across the open space and shot rent the air. At the very least he and d'Artagnan managed to dive into the cover of the trees on the other side several seconds prior to William and his lackeys emerging into the clearing behind.

"Come now, gentlemen, I've no wish to play hide and seek. Surrender now and this will be much easier on all of us." The man waited what was surely considered the appropriate count among villains before sighing as though he'd just been told the kingdom had run out of toast. "Well, then I suppose we'll do this the hard way."

At the wave of their leader's hand, several men staggered out of the tree line dragging a barely conscious Porthos between them. They dropped him, unceremoniously and without care or compassion, at the feet of their commander.

From his vantage point Athos witnessed Porthos' struggle to regain some level of uprightness and awareness and observed how the movements of his friend's limbs were uncoordinated and sloppy. Porthos maneuvered his right hand across his frame to apply pressure to the wound painting his left side damp crimson, but the approach was too fast and clumsy, delivering him more pain than aid. Athos watched his shoulders slump, could hear the ragged gasps of his brother's breathing even from that distance.

"Damn," Athos muttered and let his forehead fall against the bark of the tree sheltering him from view.

"What?" d'Artagnan, squatting behind a bush adjacent to his leader's position, could not see the scene unfolding in the meadow.

Athos held up three fingers and counted down. D'Artagnan assumed from Athos' resigned expression that whatever was going to happen at the countdown's end was something of a common occurrence which displeased Athos immensely.

When the count hit zero, two shots rang out with hardly more than a second between them. Two enemy henchmen fell dead as Aramis stalked out of the forest.

"What is he doing?" D'Artagnan demanded in a harsh whisper, having moved to see once the gunfire shattered the air.

"They just had to hurt Porthos," was all Athos said in return.

D'Artagnan looked between Athos and Aramis several times until he could no longer tear his eyes away from Aramis unsheathing his sword and prowling before the six remaining lackeys, William having put several paces between himself and the man with murder in his eyes.

"Athos," the Gascon breathed, unease coloring his voice.

"Stay back."

"We can't leave him to fight six men all on his own," he pleaded.

"Leave it, d'Artagnan."

"Athos!"

"His mind is in a different place right now. He's not thinking in terms of friend and foe. He sees only Porthos and men endangering him. If you go out there, he won't hesitate to kill you with the rest of them."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos with a hopeful light in his eyes. "We only have to stall for time, right? You said Tréville's bringing help."

Athos gave a slow nod and turned his back to the tree before easing down to the ground.

"What if Aramis needs help?"

"He won't. Let's just hope the captain arrives before Aramis can get to our target."

D'Artagnan watched in tense silence as their enemies drew closer to Aramis, felt his stomach begin turning at the pleasure their upcoming actions seem to bring the marksman. Gone was his typical finesse, his grace in motion. Some primal and predatory instinct devoured it and left an animal in its place. Like a wolf, d'Artagnan thought even as Aramis unleashed a feral snarl at any man who so much as breathed in Porthos' direction.

He recalled when Athos wanted to press on despite Porthos' dire shoulder injury. Then there was the memory of when he himself questioned Porthos' innocence after the murder trial. In those instances Aramis snapped at his friends. How brutal would Aramis be when faced with enemies causing Porthos harm?

The tension in the air grew so thick d'Artagnan wondered how they were able to draw breath. He lifted his foot to step out into the clearing and do God knows what when Athos suddenly broke the silence of their hideout.

"There are old Norse tales of men who fight with a wild madness and fury. They call them berserkers."

D'Artagnan tore his gaze from the marksman to look at Athos, and he wondered how Athos could appear so calm, head leaned back against the tree's trunk with his eyes closed and breathing steady, when he knew what was about to transpire.

"Although there are those who believe mushrooms were involved in those instances." Athos opened his eyes and turned to meet the younger man's stare. "I used to think they were nothing more than legend…" He cast a glance to where Grim's henchmen grew ever twitchier. "Then I met those two."

Aramis waited for one of them to make a move, allowed their fear to drive them to carelessness. His heart beat with wild anticipation and his breath came faster than normal. As he prowled back and forth before them he briefly considered how much more addictive that protective rush was when compared to his usual lust for danger. He felt his hold on his mind slipping as the need to preserve his brotherhood swept him away like waves out to sea, but he held out for as long as possible. He knew what happened when he got like this, rather he'd been told what happened. He never remembered it, and perhaps that's why it was so addictive: he wasn't kept in check by the haunting memories of his actions.

The plan. The plan. Remember the plan. He couldn't let the Grim die, or all of this would be for nothing. He couldn't let Porthos' pain be for nothing. He looked at his brother; he bled into the dirt not two feet from where Aramis stood. If there had been any shred of hope that Aramis could somehow regain control, it was crushed in that moment. No one hurt Porthos and got away with it. No one.

When at last one of the men stepped forward, Aramis' vision reddened and he lost control.

A/N: I started wondering what would happen to fools who hurt Porthos….