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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His friend hung by his wrists in the middle of a small room.
Porthos' bare feet barely reached the blood spattered stone beneath him.
Athos stumbled forward. He lifted limp Porthos' head and the heat he could feel through his gloves was shocking. But warm meant alive.
His face was swollen and blood-covered. Bruises bloomed beneath so much of his skin...
"Porthos? Porthos, can you hear me?" When there was no answer, he looked past Porthos to d'Artagnan. "We need to get him down."
D'Artagnan had gone strangely pale. "D'Artagnan!" Wide eyes snapped up to meet his.
"Athos…" He motioned vaguely, his gaze slipping down again. Athos gently released his hold on Porthos and stepped around his dangling body.
Porthos' back was… Athos struggled for words, for breath, for balance.
Straight cuts and welts crisscrossed Porthos' back. Furrowed wounds covered his shoulder blades and spine, reaching around his ribs. Blood and sweat colored every bit of skin that wasn't a raw, gaping slash. Strips of flesh hung in tatters.
"We need to get him out of here," whispered Athos, finally finding his voice.
"How," d'Artagnan swallowed, "how do we move him?"
He didn't know.
Suddenly, desperately, he wished Aramis was there.
"We need a blanket, something clean to wrap him in or use as a stretcher. And a wagon. But first help me get him down."
D'Artagnan untied the rope across the room and slowly lowered Porthos down into Athos' waiting arms. He guided Porthos' limp form to lay on his side.
"I'll look for a wagon. See what the others found," said d'Artagnan, slipping out of the room.
Athos carefully sliced away the ropes around Porthos' wrists. He winced at the cut and raw skin underneath.
His hands hovered, uncertain how any touch would not result in more pain.
"You led us on quite a chase," said Athos, gingerly resting his fingers against Porthos' forearm. "But I've got you. I've got you now and everything will be fine. Just stay with me."
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A stiff tarp was used to carry and lift Porthos into the back of a wagon and horses were rehitched. It made Athos proud, how briskly and quietly everyone was moving. There'd been a low murmur of horror that rippled through the Musketeers when Porthos had been brought into the light of day. It had quickly turned to activity and determination.
"I'll ride with him," said D'Artagnan as he scrambled into the back of the wagon.
A search of the grounds had turned up nothing else.
Athos swung up into his saddle and cast another long look around the abandoned manor.
"There is no sign of anyone, Captain." Athos looked over at Theirry. "Looks like they took off in a hurry."
"I'm sure they fled as soon as they spotted us," agreed Athos. He hadn't really expected to find the monsters who'd tortured his friend lurking about, but part of him had hoped. Hoped he'd be the one to erase them from the face of the Earth. "Let's move out."
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Porthos rested on his front, so D'Artagnan lied down next to him, so he could see his face. If he woke or looked like he was in pain, d'Artagnan wanted to know.
The big man's shallow breaths brushed over d'Artagnan's cheek.
"Porthos, you're safe. I'm here. Athos is here. You're safe," he whispered. "We're leaving this place. Don't worry about a thing."
Porthos was silent and limp, moving in time with the rocking wagon. Like a doll. Like the dead.
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Athos removed his hat as he entered the surgeon's tent. Given the late hour, it was very quiet. It was a large space that was thankfully empty, save the head surgeon and a few assistants.
And Porthos' form on the table where Athos had seen him lain hours earlier.
"Ah Captain, come for a report?"
"If you have the time."
"Certainly, things are quiet here for the moment. Porthos has not woken yet."
Clean and stitched, Porthos' back was still a sight. Swollen welts and raw flesh crossed several lines of stitches.
It was brutal and hard to look at.
But Athos forced himself.
The broad back still moved. Still drew breath.
"Will this cripple him?" he asked, looking over at Delon.
"Well, the wounds are extensive, but they shouldn't be debilitating. The majority of the damage I can see is to the surface. Most of the muscle is intact. It will take some time for the skin to knit. There were many places I couldn't stitch, too little skin to work with, you see. To regain flexibility and strength will take even more time. If he lives, there is no reason I can see why he could not rejoin the fight, eventually."
"If he lives," repeated Athos.
"I'll be blunt, Captain, some of the wounds are infected. He's burning with fever."
"He will live."
"I certainly hope so-"
"He is too stubborn to do less," said Athos briskly. "Please notify me immediately if anything changes or if he wakes. I'll be by again in the morning."
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"Thierry thinks we should send another search party," said d'Artagnan, squinting against the early morning sunlight.
"And look where?" D'Artagnan shrugged and Athos shook his head. "We have no leads, no trail, and my best tracker is-"
A low roar echoed across the camp.
He stopped, his head snapping around to find the sound.
It was coming from the surgeon's tent.
Porthos.
He was running before he thought to do so, d'Artagnan close behind.
The tent was a confusion of voices and men, uncertain and uncomfortable. Several Musketeers had gathered, watching uneasily.
Athos pushed through them and felt his focus narrow.
"Aramis!" cried Porthos. He thrashed on the surgeon's table, fighting against the assistants holding him down.
Wide bands of cloth had already been secured to the legs of the table.
"What is this?" snapped Athos. He rounded on the head surgeon. "Delon?"
"We're attempting to restrain him. He's going to pull out all his stitches or worse."
"You were supposed to send for me if he woke up! You cannot tie him down."
"I don't see-"
"He was bound! For days!"
"He isn't aware! He is mad with fever!"
"You think he doesn't know what you're trying to do to him?"
"I doubt very much-"
"Get away from him."
"How else do you propose…"
"You will not-"
Athos broke off as Porthos let out a hoarse cry, a dim facsimile of his normal bellow, choked with a sob. And his whole world went red.
"I am the surgeon in charge of-"
Athos let out a snarl, grabbed the nearest stand and hurled it over. Basins and bandages scattered across the ground.
"You. WILL NOT. Tie him. Down." He panted as though he'd run a great distance. "If you and your assistants are too incompetent and cannot handle him, then I will assign you someone who can. If I find out you have disobeyed me in this-" Athos took a deliberate step toward Delon. "Do you understand?"
The surgeon swallowed and nodded.
Athos turned on his heel walked to Porthos, men parting around him like water.
Porthos' hands scrabbled at the wood, unable to crawl away or push himself up. His movements were fading and weak.
Athos moved to the head of the table and caught his hands, held them easily.
"Aramis." Porthos' voice was barely more than a whisper now. "Aramis."
"No. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me," said Athos as calmly as he could. He couldn't let the men d'Artagnan was herding away hear his voice tremble.
He did not want Porthos to know how the sound of his futile calling broke his heart. He squeezed Porthos' hands. "You need to calm down. I am here. I will stay with you."
Porthos fell still, his rasping breath too fast.
Athos wanted to believe it was the sound of his voice, the comfort of his touch.
But there was no recognition in Porthos' eyes.
His fingers limp in Athos'.
No sign he heard Athos at all.
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Athos rolled a cup between his fingers and pondered opening another bottle of wine.
After Porthos had fallen into a fitful sleep, Athos found several Musketeers lingering suspiciously close to the surgeon's tent. Alain had offered to spell him and keep an eye on Porthos. Athos had accepted and returned to his tent.
He'd have to set up some sort of rotation.
Yet another thing to worry about.
Before he could get up to find another bottle, d'Artagnan stepped into the tent. He stood and waited until Athos motioned him to a chair.
Truthfully, Athos had expected him sooner.
The younger man eyed him for a long moment before he spoke.
"You can't…Athos, you're the captain."
"I know. My behavior was inexcusable, captain or not. I will make my apologies to Delon and his staff." Athos rubbed at his face. "I don't know what came over me."
"I do," said d'Artagnan lightly. "And I don't blame you for it. At all. But you can't be-." Athos flinched and d'Artagnan pressed on. "France needs Athos. Smart and level. If we need a hot-head, let it be me."
Athos snorted, a twist of his lips that neared a smile.
"I don't have to let you. You usually find your way there, just fine." D'Artagnan grinned, but it faded.
"Should we send for him?" Athos didn't need to ask who.
"No."
D'Artagnan frowned at him and then paced. One end of the tent to the other. Regarded him again as he came to a stop. He crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them.
"Are you sure?"
Athos fought the urge to sigh.
How many times had he picked up pen and paper to do just that? Chosen the words he'd use. Thought about which courier would be the fastest.
"It would take weeks for the message to reach him and for him to arrive here, if he chose to do so. By then..." His voice nearly caught and he had to steady it. "Porthos will be on the mend. Or he won't. And I do not want him to come all this way to only find a grave."
D'Artagnan looked away sharply, jaw tight. Athos waited a moment before he went on.
"Aramis made his choice. We may not like it or agree with it, but we must abide by it. Find a way to live with it."
The young Gascon shook his head, avoiding Athos' gaze.
"How could he just...I could never…" He broke off with a snarl and rushed out.
Athos slumped forward wearily.
"No," he whispered to the empty tent. "I'm sure you wouldn't."
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A/N: Gods, this story is hard.
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