The short intake of breath made d'Artagnan turn towards Porthos. He hadn't noticed it earlier because his attention was focused on Sylvie - on the bloody gashes on her back, on her whimpers, on the metallic smell of blood- and on Athos. He was mesmerised by his friend's behaviour. He knew how kind and caring the man was but he had never seen him so tender, so delicate. What amazed him most was the expression in his eyes. There was no anger, no vengeance in the clear irises but such a sadness ... The young man frowned when he managed to read something else: disgust. Athos' eyes still bore the disgust he had felt when he had discovered Sylvie tied to that pole in the middle of a raging crowd.

He averted his gaze when Athos bent over the young woman's neck and murmured something in her ear, brushing an uninjured spot on her shoulder with his thumb.

Again, Porthos' breathing made him turn his head towards the tall man who stood on the other side of the door, as rigid as a statue, his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him, his mouth curled downward. He was literally radiating anger.

When they left the room and the door had closed behind them, Porthos almost collided into d'Artagnan while striding along the corridor. The young man froze, staring at the large impressive back.

"Go and talk to him." Constance whispered, squeezing his husband's arm.

"But …"

"No buts, I am fine, I will fetch more cloths and stay with them. Porthos needs someone, he is upset, something is wrong, and you are the only one available for now. Go. I will call if I need you."

She briefly brushed her feverish lips against his. Her eyes were veiled by unshed tears and the young man opened his mouth to argue but she laid a finger on his lips to silence him.

"Go." She whispered again.

He kissed her forehead and turned around.

When he left the building, he was momentarily blinded by the setting sun which had finally managed to pierce the clouds. He blinked and squinted until his vision cleared enough to see Porthos entering the archway leading to the streets, his angry steps making the mud of the puddles splatter. He ran to catch up with him.

"Porthos, where are you going?"

"Leave me alone." The big man growled.

D'Artagnan managed to grab his arm but the man dislodged his hand with an abrupt movement.

"What's wrong Porthos?"

He didn't answer but walked even faster.

"Porthos, talk to me, what's the matter?"

Porthos stopped and turned around, his eyes blazing, the lines of his mouth even more bitter.

"What's the matter? How can you ask?" He snapped.

"I … You …"

Suddenly, Porthos bowed his head and his hand landed on the young man's shoulder, his fingers painfully squeezing the taut muscles at the base of his neck, while his other hand grabbed his arm as if the strong man needed a support to stay upright. The short shallow breaths were back. D'Artagnan lifted his hands, slowly, and seized Porthos' wrists.

"Are you alright?"

Porthos shook his head negatively without looking at him.

"I'm angry."

"I can see … feel that." D'Artagnan answered quietly with a soft smile.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't. Just tell me. Let's sit down a moment."

Porthos let go of him and d'Artagnan stifled a relieved sigh when the strong fingers ceased to knead his flesh. They went to the first step of the stairs where they sat together. The young man waited patiently. Slowly, the breathing became calmer, deeper.

"Where is he?" Porthos breathed out, the words seething between his teeth.

"Who?"

"You know who." Porthos answered, looking at him, at last.

"Aramis." D'Artagnan sighed. "I suppose he is …"

"With her, of course. When they need him." He added with a movement of the chin in the direction of Athos' room. "He is a selfish idiot."

"Just because he is at the palace? Though probably because Athos sent him there"

"You don't know that." Porthos retorted harshly.

"You don't know either if he is with … her." D'Artagnan answered calmly. "You are still angry because of what happened earlier."

"N …"

"You are, Porthos. We all are."

"Why does he always think that he has to sacrifice himself?" Porthos muttered sadly.

"Because we all think that. If we thought otherwise, we would be farmers or bakers or … lace makers." He replied a smile gracing his face at the end of his sentence.

Porthos briefly forgot his dark mood and clapped his young friend's back. Two cadets crossed the courtyard chatting and they lowered their voice as they passed them. Porthos and d'Artagnan listened silently.

"He came back an hour ago. You should have seen his face. Head down…" The first one, a redhead boy with clouds of freckles on each cheek and bright blue eyes said, illustrating his words by a ridiculous imitation.

"So you couldn't see his face, Paul!" The second boy, as dark as his comrade was pale, replied, laughing.

The other slapped him on the back of the head.

"Bertrand, it's true! No need to see his face. Géraud says that he was with the minister. Believe me, he looked like a child punished by his father."

"He is always so proud and confident." Bertrand mused.

"He didn't even wear his beloved …" Paul added.

The rest of the sentence was lost in the sound of a waggon entering the courtyard.

"So he is here." Porthos whispered. " I can't believe it. He is here and he didn't even bother to visit Sylvie and Athos." He added in a frustrated tone.

"Something's wrong." D'Artagnan said, standing up. "Go and see him, Porthos."

"Why?"

"Because you need it. Because he probably needs it."

D'Artagnan squeezed his friend's forearm.

"I need to go back and help Constance. Will you be alright?"

Porthos nodded sadly and turned his back. D'Artagnan watched him walk towards Aramis' quarters. He sighed when he saw how Porthos moved, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.

The sun had disappeared again and even though it wasn't very late, the courtyard was darkened by heavy slate grey clouds fringed with a narrow ribbon of burgundy red, which were about to bring more rain. When Porthos reached his friend's lodgings, he noticed that a candle had been lit in the room, its glow filtering underneath the door. He lifted his hand to turn the knob but withdrew it as if the metal was white-hot. It was the first time in all the years they had known each other that he didn't dare to enter this room without being invited. He raised his hand again to knock but just laid it on the wood. He tried to calm his breathing but his mind was still too full of anger. He turned around, ready to leave when the sound of glass breaking reached his ear through the thick wood. He approached the door, his lips almost touching it and called.

"Aramis, are you alright?"

Silence.

"Aramis, open the door, please. I need to talk to you."

Silence.

"Aramis, please."

Porthos hated his pleading tone. Of course he was angry, but now, he was worried too. He remembered his friend's face when they had rescued him, the bruises forming on his forehead, the way he walked, slightly hunched, a hand intermittently covering his sternum.

"Aramis. Are you hurt?"

"Go away, Porthos."

"Ar …"

"Go away. I have things to do."

Porthos' forehead was now against the rough wood.

"Like what? Dying from hidden injuries or brooding alone in your room? Or both?"

"I … letters … I have … letters to write."

Porthos winced at the tone of the muffled voice. He knew his friend well enough to read this tone. He was clearly sad, irritated, frustrated and … in pain. Ignoring Aramis' request, he tried to open the door but it was locked. He sighed and slammed his fist into the wall.

"You are a stupid selfish stubborn mule." He growled at last. "Aramis?"

" … away!"

Porthos roared angrily and turned around. He breathed deeply and the cooling wet air calmed him a little. The light drizzle which had started to fall again blurred his vision. He let it soothe his nerves until he shivered. He shook his head like a wet dog and wrapping his arms around his chest, he headed towards his own lodgings and … bumped into an agitated d'Artagnan.

"Hey, what is it?" He asked worriedly.

"Nothing."

"Weren't you married last time I saw you? What are you doing in the courtyard, alone?" Porthos asked curling an arm around the young man's shoulders.

"I forced Constance to sleep a little. Did you speak to Aramis?"

"Yes … and … no. Why are you here?"

"Because I am worried and because … I …"

Porthos tightened his grip.

"It's unfair. Why does Sylvie have to suffer like that? And Athos … Why?"

"I don't know ... How is she?"

"She was screaming in her sleep. I … came to retrieve the soiled cloths and … I couldn't stay. Her screams and Athos … his eyes, Porthos, I couldn't … I …" Not trusting his voice, he stopped talking.

Porthos grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at him. He met a pair of deep brown eyes underlined by dark shadows. Small drops of water trembled on his long black lashes, and Porthos wondered if it was from the cold drizzle or ... The young man's jaws were so clenched that it must hurt, and his lips were pursed in a grim line they knew too well. He realised then that they were all exhausted and depressed and if they weren't careful it would break them, it would break their precious bond.

"Now you listen to me. We will make it right. Sylvie will heal, Athos will be happy, Grimaud and his acolytes will pay, Aramis will be normal again … Well, I'm not sure a normal Aramis exists."

They both laugh quietly, easing a little of the tension, then Porthos continued.

"Now you will go and rest for a few hours with your lovely wife and I will go and see if Athos needs help."

"And Aramis?"

"Someone told me once : don't pray to saints who don't do miracles. Let's leave him alone for now, he will come to us. Go home now."

D'Artagnan nodded freeing himself from the strong grip. Porthos smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Not a child." D'Artagnan grumbled.

"If you say so." Porthos laughed.

He watched the young man slowly walk away and his smile disappeared, leaving his jaws sore from the effort he had made to grin stupidly. He had wanted to sound strong and cheerful and it had been an ordeal. He had lied to his friend and to himself. He didn't believe a word of what he had said. He feared that Sylvie wouldn't recover, he couldn't believe that Athos would be able to find happiness in his earthly life, he knew that Grimaud was one their worst enemies and the only one able to stand up to the Inséparables, he knew that Aramis had lost something years before, the light which had been his trademark had faded and was about to die. He wanted to believe that what blurred his vision was that damn drizzle.

To be continued...