Soooo...this was meant to be an entry into the Fete des Mousquestaires challenge for February but alas I was too late. So here you go anyway haha. Enjoy. The prompt was "Fear"
Beta'd by the wonderful Arlothia, who rallied me in the fourth quarter to get this thing done haha.
Courage is knowing what not to fear.
Plato
When faced with a battle, Porthos' world narrowed. His entire being focused on the moment at hand; on the adversary in front of him; on his brothers beside him. Athos could usually be found somewhere in his periphery and Aramis' presence always hovered at his back, guarding him as fiercely as only Aramis could.
Porthos never had to worry about someone coming up behind him. It was one of the few certainties in his life – Aramis would always have his back. Even when they were separated and driven apart in the midst of battle, Porthos never worried. He'd known Aramis to draw and fire one of his pistols unerringly across a heated battlefield to protect Porthos, all the while hardly pausing in his swordplay.
Which was why the sudden looming presence bearing down on his back came as somewhat of a shock.
Porthos whirled, deflecting what would have been a killing blow and shoved the man away. He spun back to the enemy he'd been fighting before, but too late. The bite of steel against his side drew a sharp hiss from him as he struck out to defend himself. It wasn't a bad cut, but blood was blood.
For a moment, all Porthos could focus on was the two men doing their best to kill him. It wasn't until he'd finally killed the one in front of him and fully turned to face the one who had crept up behind that Porthos realized anything was wrong. A tug in his gut warned him something terrible was about to happen to his brother.
Over his opponent's shoulder, he saw Aramis being backed towards the edge of the grassy cliff where only minutes ago they'd been standing to admore the raging river below.
Four men were bearing down on Aramis, forcing him closer to the drop off step by perilous step. Porthos bellowed in fear and fury and struck out at the man before him. His blow was lethal and the man dropped like a stone. Porthos surged forward, sprinting to cross the distance between him and his brother.
"Athos!" He called for help as he ran, but the ringing of swords behind him told him Athos couldn't come.
Porthos was still twenty paces away when Aramis' heel slid out over open air. He watched something ignite in Aramis' eyes – that ruthless and furious will to survive that had been bred into him by his father. Aramis was always a ferocious and remarkably skilled warrior, but when truly backed into a corner, he was terrifying in his ability to cut down those in his path.
Aramis killed two of his attackers when Porthos was fifteen paces from them.
He disarmed the third when he was twelve paces away and killed the fourth when he was ten.
The third moved in close and Porthos saw the flash of the sun on a small dagger.
He was still eight paces away when the dagger sliced through leather and was buried to the hilt in Aramis' side. His brother, never one to acknowledge a meager thing like pain even at the best of times, landed a solid punch to the man's face that sent him stumbling backwards into open air.
Porthos was five paces away when the man wrapped a hand around Aramis' wrist and dragged him over the edge with him.
Porthos didn't shout. He didn't scream. Such things required his heart to be somewhere other than lodged in his throat.
He dove forward, chest slamming into the ground as he reached with every bit of will he had, begging the God Aramis believed in so faithfully that he would be quick enough, that his arms would be long enough. He prayed that Aramis remained as attuned to him as he always seemed to be; that Aramis would know he was coming; that Aramis would reach for him just as desperately as Porthos reached now.
There was a moment of absolute terror as his fingers brushed the leather of Aramis' sleeve and he feared the man would slip right through his grasp.
But then his fingers wrapped like a vice around Aramis' wrist.
The air whooshed from his lungs at the sudden jerk of weight and Porthos cursed as he was dragged a few inches over the edge himself, just over half his chest and his legs the only thing on solid ground.
But it was the bark of pain from Aramis that stole his attention. Such a thing was rare enough to warrant immediate concern.
Aramis' hat was gone now, Porthos could only just see it fluttering down toward the river. And there, still clinging to Aramis' other arm, was the man who had pulled him over in the first place. Aramis was caught between them, arms being pulled in opposite directions with death on one side and salvation on the other.
"'Mis," Porthos gasped, sucking in a breath when he slid another inch over the edge.
Aramis' eyes, wide with pain he would never admit to, shifted up to him. There was trust there, too, Porthos realized. Trust in him. Porthos prayed he proved worthy.
"Shake him off," Porthos growled.
Aramis' head turned back to look down at the man hanging on to him for his own life now. But he made no apparent effort to dislodge the enemy's grip.
"Aramis!" Porthos snapped.
But Aramis just closed his eyes and drew in a labored breath.
"I can't," he admitted, a strain in his voice that Porthos wasn't used to hearing. "My shoulder… He's pulled it out… I can't…"
Porthos cursed, loudly and without reservation.
"Athos!" he called desperately over his shoulder. The clanging of steel behind him rose in intensity but didn't stop. Athos still couldn't come.
The man hanging on to Aramis flailed and Porthos slid another inch over the edge.
Aramis was staring up at him now, and Porthos saw the moment Aramis realized what was happening. He saw the flurry of emotions fly through his brother's eyes. Shock, fear – for Porthos, never for himself – fury, and finally determination.
"Porthos…"
"No!" Porthos snapped. "Don't say it! Don't even think it!"
"You have to."
"No!"
"You'll fall with me!" Aramis argued.
"As it should be!" Porthos snapped. "Together – that's how we do things. Even into death, remember?"
Aramis had never looked so absolutely furious with him as he did in that moment.
Porthos' torso slid a bit further over the edge.
And Aramis opened his hand.
"Damn you!" Porthos shouted, tightening his own hands around Aramis' wrist, but without his brother returning the grip, he was already starting to slip. "ATHOS!"
"You'll be alright, Porthos," Aramis assured with a calm that Porthos couldn't fathom.
"No! Don't talk like that. I'm not letting go!"
As if to mock him, Aramis' wrist slid a bit further through his hands. He only had a hold of the marksman's hand now. He scrambled to tighten his grip and slid a bit further over the edge for his efforts.
"Mi hermano…" (My brother…)
Porthos froze at his brother's tone. He met Aramis' eyes and recoiled at the apology there – at the acceptance.
Aramis twisted his wrist and slipped free.
Porthos scrambled after him, grasping at air, and would have followed him down but for a sudden grip on the back of his trousers.
Someone was screaming and it was with only a distant sort of realization that Porthos recognized those soul-torn cries as his own.
Someone pulled him back, bodily dragging him fully onto solid ground, but Porthos fought. He clawed his way back to the edge, desperate to follow Aramis, to pull him back.
"Porthos! LOOK AT ME!"
Porthos' focus snapped back at a sudden stinging slap to his cheek.
He whirled on Athos with a snarl and his brother held up a defensive hand.
"We have to follow the river," Athos insisted sharply. "If he survived the fall then we need to try and get ahead of him!"
Porthos stared at him, one phrase repeating over and over in his head.
If he survived…
He might not be dead.
Aramis might be alive.
Porthos ran for the horses, hardly noticing that Athos was following at his heels. Esmé was gone, likely having taken off in pursuit of her master the moment the river had swept him away. Porthos vaulted onto Fort and dug his heels in, urging the powerful creature into the trees to follow the flow of the river, too. He could sense Athos close behind but they didn't speak.
Porthos had no words to say.
They found the edge of the river and followed it as quickly as the terrain allowed. Eyes glued to the raging waters, Porthos felt as if his chest were caught in a vice. He could hardly breath. He could hardly think. Only those three words held meaning for him.
If he survived…
If…
What would he do if he didn't? If they came upon his lifeless body, or worse – never found him at all?
They road for what felt like hours, then days, then weeks before they saw anything. Porthos nearly missed it in his haste, but there, washed up on the bank in a calmer bend in the river, was Aramis' hat.
Aramis loved his hat, more than any man should ever love such a thing, or so Porthos thought.
But it had been a gift from Treville on the day of his commissioning and Aramis had not been parted from it since but for very brief times.
Despite his urgency, Porthos dismounted to retrieve it.
The feather was gone but the hat, though wet, seemed to have survived relatively unscathed. Porthos clutched it to his chest and climbed back into his saddle. He didn't look at Athos, but he could feel the other man's eyes on him.
They didn't speak.
They rode on.
Porthos was looking out over the river, searching for any sign of their brother, when Athos finally broke the silence between them.
"Porthos…"
Confused by Athos' tone – some odd mixture of anxiety and hope – Porthos pulled his eyes away from the swirling water to look at his brother, but Athos was staring at something ahead of them. Porthos followed his gaze and felt his lungs seize.
Esmé.
She was pawing frantically at the edge of the river bank. As they watched, she took a few agitated steps into the water only to retreat and rear up on her hind legs in frustration, stamping her front hooves back down angrily.
Porthos put his heels into Fort, rocketing across the distance between them and the agitated horse, heedless of the treacherous terrain. But Fort was surefooted and carried Porthos to Esmé's side in record time. Porthos slid from the saddle, putting a settling hand on Esmé's neck even as he scanned the river.
There!
Aramis was clinging precariously to a limb from a tree that had fallen partly into the river from their side of the bank. Even as Porthos watched, Aramis was trying to pull himself up, dragging himself inch by inch along the branch towards the thicker part of the tree. But with the water rushing against him, trying to sweep him away, the effort was obviously exhausting.
Porthos eyed the tree. It was starting to rot, but appeared sturdy enough for now. He took a step towards it.
"Here! Tie this around you," Athos suddenly thrust the end of a rope into Porthos hands. Then the swordsman ran towards Fort, tying off the other end on the horse's saddle. "If you fall in, too, we'll tow you out. GO! He won't be able to hold on much longer!"
Porthos ran, looping the rope around his waist as he did. He took a brief moment when he reached the fallen tree to tie off the knot securely. It wouldn't do either of them any good if it came loose. Then he leapt onto the trunk.
He forced himself to move cautiously, to do his best to avoid falling in, even when all he wanted to do was throw himself down the length of it at full speed. The goal was to save Aramis, not to need rescuing himself.
As he got closer, he went to his hands and knees, crawling the last bit of distance until he was level to where Aramis had pulled himself halfway up the branch.
"Aramis!" Porthos shouted to be heard over the rushing water.
Aramis, whose complete focus had appeared to be on moving one hand in front of the other, snapped his head up and stared at him in disbelief. Then his expression promptly melted into stark relief, but he didn't try to reply. Porthos doubted he had the strength to.
Porthos offered a reassuring grin and reached out, stretching as far as he dared with one hand while he held onto another branch with the other. Aramis grimaced and shifted, prying one hand off the branch and extending it as far as he could.
Porthos stared at the worryingly pale, scraped, and shaking hand and then glared at his own.
They were too far apart.
"No!" Porthos growled, shifting and stretching further.
Too far.
Aramis' jaw shifted stubbornly and Porthos watched through awed eyes as the marksman tightened the hand he had wrapped around the tree and then just seemed to heave himself against the current.
His fingers brushed against Porthos' and the larger man lurched the last few inches they needed, his own weight nearly unbalanced. Still clinging to his branch with one hand, Porthos found himself gripping Aramis' wrist like a vice for a second time that day.
"I've got you!" Porthos shouted and then started to haul them both to safety.
When he got himself in a more secure position, Porthos pulled Aramis closer and then wrapped an arm around his chest, heaving him out of the water and onto the trunk in front of him. Porthos sat, straddling the trunk and helped Aramis shift to mirror the position. Porthos thought perhaps Aramis would need a moment to catch his breath, but then, after coughing wetly, Aramis spoke.
"What took you so long?"
Porthos stared at him, hardly believing the light, teasing question had just come out of his brother's mouth after the situation they'd just faced.
But then Aramis' lips quirked into a weaker version of his usual playful smirk and Porthos found himself chuckling.
"Oh you know," he mused idly, "stopped to enjoy the scenery. Have a picnic lunch."
"No bother," Aramis replied, pausing to cough again. "I was just hanging about anyway."
Porthos rolled his eyes and pushed himself up.
"You've got the worst sense of humor."
"You'd be bored to tears without me," Aramis fired back, allowing Porthos to help him to his feet. All sense of amusement fled from Porthos when the marksman wavered, nearly tumbling back into the water.
"'Mis?"
"Been a bit of a day…" Aramis mused, his voice taking on an odd airiness that sent off warning bells in Porthos' head. "I just need a moment."
If the way Aramis was clinging to Porthos' shoulder was any indication, he needed far more than just 'a moment'.
"Porthos…"
The sudden call was all the warning Aramis gave him before the marksman's eyes rolled back and he crumpled. Porthos ducked, hauling Aramis up over his shoulder before the marksman could fall back into the river.
He turned, holding Aramis securely on his shoulder while making his way carefully back to shore. Again, he forced his steps to be slow and sure. The cargo he carried was too precious to risk losing it again.
Athos was waiting at the base of the tree. The swordsman's face was as impassive as ever, but it was deathly white and his eyes were wide with worry.
Porthos let Athos steady him as he stepped down from the tree.
"We need a fire," Athos decided. "I'll gather wood. Get those wet clothes off of him."
Athos didn't wait for the nod of acknowledgment Porthos offered before he jogged off towards the nearby tree line.
Porthos made his way further from the water to where Esmé was waiting anxiously in a small patch of grass. He carefully knelt and lowered Aramis to the ground, catching his lolling head so it rested down gently.
Esmé touched her nose to Aramis' temple, snorting softly before giving him a nudge.
"He'll be alright, girl," Porthos promised soothingly. Esmé snorted again and then shifted, pressing her nose to Aramis' side.
Porthos watched her in confusion, frowning deeply when she looked up at him with a meaningful glance that he had no hope of interpreting.
"I'm not the one who can read your mind," Porthos pointed out. "You're going to have to spell it out for me."
Esmé blustered in annoyance and then nudged gently at Aramis' side again.
Porthos frowned at her and shifted closer to see what she was fussing about.
His heart stalled and then started pounding mercilessly when he saw the neat cut in the leather.
The stab wound. How had he forgotten the stab wound?
Porthos quickly attacked the fastenings of Aramis' doublet and pushed it aside. The once-white shirt beneath was stained watery red. Porthos tore the shirt open, already hearing Aramis' complaints in his head.
But I've got a trick for getting out blood, Porthos! And holes can be mended! Why would you destroy a perfectly good shirt!
"To bloody well save your life, that's why," Porthos grumbled as he leaned closer to inspect the wound. It was still bleeding, but sluggishly. He thought that might be good. He needed to clean it. That came first.
He looked up at Esmé but she had already shifted to give him easy access to her saddlebags, and the medic kid Aramis kept stored inside.
"He's lucky to have you," Porthos praised her gently as he received the kit. "Thank you for always lookin' out for him. I'll take it from here," he assured warmly as he rubbed her neck.
She stared at him for a long moment and then, after touching her nose to Aramis' head one last time, wandered away.
Athos came back with arms full of wood just as Porthos knelt back down next to Aramis.
"Good God," Athos hissed, dropping the wood down and sinking down to kneel at Aramis' other side.
It was then that Porthos noticed what he had overlooked during his discovery of the stab wound.
Aramis chest was mottled with patches of rapidly darkening purples and blues. Porthos imagined his back probably looked similar…or worse.
"Not the biggest concern believe it or not," Porthos pointed out wearily, gesturing at the bloody wound low on Aramis' side.
"When did that happen?"
"The fellow that got close enough to pull him over the edge in the first place."
Athos frowned, something dark and self-loathing in his eyes. Porthos didn't doubt the swordsman was blaming himself in some way for not getting to them fast enough. Porthos understood. There was enough self-blame to go around. He was the one who had dropped Aramis after all.
"There were too many of them," Porthos pointed out quietly. "He had four to himself," he nodded down at Aramis. "That's what got him into this situation. You did the best you could. Kept me from going down with him, at least. Thanks for that."
Athos simply nodded and rested a hand briefly on Porthos' shoulder before turning away to start working on the fire.
Porthos sighed and dug into the medic kit, retrieving the flask of cleansing spirits Aramis kept just for wounds. He gave himself only a moment to mentally rally. He hated causing pain to those he cared about, but at least Aramis was unconscious.
Porthos poured the contents of the flask over the wound.
He was unprepared for Aramis to come awake with a strangled shout and a sharp left hook. Athos rose quickly, intending to intervene, but Porthos waved him off, blinked away the stars in his vision and shaking his head slightly to clear it from the ringing of the blow. Though looking reluctant, Athos left him to handle their brother as he went back to work kindling the fire.
Porthos caught Aramis' second strike with his own hand and forced the injured man back down onto his back.
"¡Suélteme!" (Let me go!) Aramis shouted, flailing with remarkable strength considering every one of his limbs was shaking with fatigue.
"Aramis! It's me! It's Porthos!"
Aramis paused, breaths coming in harsh pants. Porthos didn't dare let down his guard yet.
"It's Porthos," he said again, more gently.
Aramis blinked at him and then relaxed, the fight draining out of him as he all but melted back onto the ground. Porthos slowly released his wrists where he'd been holding them back from any further attack and sat back, blowing out a breath and waiting for his own heart to slow.
"Did I pass out?" Aramis asked suddenly. He was blinking up at the sky in confusion, limbs laying loose on the ground, though Porthos could still see a vague tremble in his hands.
"Swooned like a fair maiden," Porthos teased in reply as he leaned to get a look at the wound on Aramis' side.
"If it had hit anything important I'd be dead already," Aramis stated blandly.
Porthos glanced up at him and arched a brow at the dismissive tone.
"I hate it when you do that," he scolded sharply.
Aramis sighed, looking every bit as exhausted as he should.
"I know," he allowed. But he didn't apologize. He never did and Porthos never asked him to. A tiger couldn't change his stripes any more than Aramis could change the damage the years with his father had done.
"You should clean it again to be safe," Aramis suggested quietly. "Then stitch it up."
Porthos grimaced.
"I won't hit you again," Aramis promised.
"I know," Porthos replied steadily.
Aramis was far too controlled about what he revealed when he was conscious to allow such an outburst again. He wasn't worried about getting hit. He was worried about how much this would hurt for Aramis.
"Porthos."
He raised his gaze again to meet the familiar warm brown gaze of his brother.
"It's fine. Just do it."
Porthos did.
And Aramis didn't make a sound.
Porthos wasn't sure what would have been worse – the silent clenching of Aramis' fists as he contained and channelled the pain into some internal place where it would never see the light of day, or if he had actually screamed. Sometimes Porthos found it hard to fathom how he could hate one man as much as he hated Julien d'Herblay for teaching such a skill in the first place.
When he was done, Porthos set about stitching the wound. He expected Aramis to criticize him the entire time for the sloppiness of his work, but the marksman kept his jaw firmly clenched and his gaze on the clouds above them. A testament to his exhaustion and pain, Porthos was sure. Aramis was only ever quiet when something was terribly wrong.
By the time he had finished with the wound, reset Aramis' dislocated shoulder, and carefully helped him change from his wet clothes into a dry pair of trousers and one of Porthos' spare shirts – here Aramis had scolded him for ruining his own shirt by ripping it, making Porthos feel a little better – Athos had the fire burning brightly.
Porthos settled Aramis down on top of his bedroll close to it and then dropped his own blanket over him.
"Sleep," Porthos ordered firmly as he sat down next to Aramis' head.
Unsurprisingly , Aramis was too tired to argue and was asleep within minutes.
"I'll take the first watch," Athos decided, nodding towards Porthos' bedroll.
Porthos found he was too tired to argue either, and did as he was bidden.
Porthos hung over the edge of the cliff, hands wrapped tightly around Aramis' wrist.
"I've got you!" Porthos assured.
But no sooner had he spoken the words than Aramis' wrist slipped through his hands like water through a sieve. Porthos lurched after him, grasping at air as he tried to find purchase again.
"No! NO! ARAMIS!"
But Aramis was falling.
Porthos flinched awake, inhaling sharply and casting a startled glance at his surroundings.
Aramis was sleeping less than two feet away, face relaxed, breathing even. Porthos let out a breath of relief and sat up.
"I was about to wake you," Athos commented idly, drawing Porthos' gaze. "It's your turn for watch."
Porthos nodded and cleared his throat. Athos continued to watch him in that assessing way he had, as if he were calculating your weaknesses and measuring your worth. But as was typical, the swordsman said nothing and simply laid down on his bedroll.
Porthos yawned, stretched his back, and settled in to take over the watch.
As he stared into the flames of the fire, he found himself thinking back on the day – on the terror and the horror and the rush of relief when he'd pulled Aramis from the river and back to safety. It was only as the events of the day truly settled in around him that Porthos remembered what happened on the cliffside.
Aramis had twisted his wrist. He had forced Porthos' grip to falter so that he slipped away.
Aramis had chosen to fall.
Porthos stared blankly at the fire and then turned his gaze on his sleeping brother.
And suddenly Porthos was furious.
He reached over and sharply nudged Aramis' shoulder.
The marksman came awake immediately, hands clenching around phantom weapons as his gaze focused sharply on Porthos. Almost immediately, he relaxed again, blinking blearily.
"What is it?" he grumbled.
"I ought to throttle you," Porthos hissed lowly, wary of waking Athos.
Aramis frowned at him and then slowly sat up. He still looked far too pale, Porthos noticed, but he wasn't shaking anymore.
"What for?" Aramis wondered without any apparent concern.
"For making me drop you!"
Aramis blinked at him.
"Oh… That." The complete lack of regret or care in his tone had Porthos nearly growling.
He stood, snatched Aramis up by his arm – he was careful to grab the one that hadn't been dislocated – and dragged him away from the fire so they wouldn't disturb Athos, only just keeping in mind to be gentle enough so he didn't open up the side he had stitched up only hours before.
Aramis allowed the manhandling with nothing more than an eyeroll and then stood patiently with an arched brow as he waited for Porthos to speak.
"What in the bloody hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.
"I wasn't bringing you down with me," Aramis countered calmly.
"Athos was nearly there! We could have pulled you up!"
"I didn't know that and neither did you," Aramis pointed out sternly. "I wasn't bringing you down with me," he said again.
"And if it had been you holding me?" Porthos challenged.
Aramis clenched his jaw and cut his gaze away.
"Right," Porthos scoffed. "That's different. You can die for me, but I can't do the same?"
"No," Aramis stated firmly.
Porthos shook his head in bafflement.
"He really messed you up in the head, didn't he? Why do you still let him influence you?!"
Aramis' chin lifted defiantly.
"This has nothing to do with my father."
"It has everything to do with him!" Porthos snapped. "And all the ways you still let him control you!" Aramis opened his mouth to argue but Porthos cut him off. "You do. And it's been getting worse ever since we met him a few months ago."
Aramis looked away again and Porthos felt cruel. They had encountered Aramis' father in the midst of an investigation just over three months ago. The reunion between father and son hadn't been a pleasant one and Aramis had been in an odd headspace since.
"What are you trying to prove?" Porthos asked quietly.
Aramis blew out a sharp breath.
"I don't know," he admitted lowly. "That I'm not like him, maybe," he added nearly under his breath.
"You're not like him, Aramis. There have never been two men more different."
Aramis shook his head.
"You know that's not true."
Porthos sighed in frustration.
"I know it is," he countered. "And either way, you've got nothing to prove to me or to Athos or to anyone else. So stop trying. I might not be there to fish you out of the river next time."
Porthos was utterly baffled when Aramis grinned and huffed a chuckle.
"What could you possibly find funny?"
"Nothing, it's just...there I was, falling to what could have been certain death, and I wasn't afraid."
Porthos arched an eyebrow.
"I wasn't afraid because some part of me knew that if I could just get to where you could reach me, you would fish me out of the river." Aramis grinned widely at him.
Porthos shook his head.
"Well I was bloody terrified the entire time, no thanks to you. Nearly dove in after you... Would have if not for Athos pulling me back."
Aramis' eyes widened in genuine surprise, as if shocked that Porthos would have done such a thing for his sake. But just as quickly his expression smoothed into an easy grin.
"Well, thank God for Athos then, or we would have really been in trouble."
Porthos rolled his eyes and hooked an arm over Aramis' shoulders to steer him back to the fire.
"Yeah, thank God for Athos."
End of Stones Under Rushing Water
Some angst, some hurt, some comfort, some bromance, some hints at things in this universe that you've yet to see ;) I feel like this begs for a companion from Athos' point of view eventually. Maybe I'll add onto this one day.
Next month I'll try to be on time! haha
Until next time!