They traveled light, which suited Porthos just fine. All he really needed was his schinova, which Aramis had affectionately nicknamed 'Balizarde', and a fire in his belly. He had both as they crossed the outer boundaries of Paris, the sun at their backs. They'd traded their plumed hats for peasant headwear, their pauldrons for plain cloaks, and used the training horses rather than the war-ready Friesians that usually carried them on missions of this nature. There could be no chance that an errant word of their departure could reach Rochefort's ears or the entire regiment would be at risk.

"It's a day's ride to Soissons by this road," Athos finally spoke up, once they were clear of the city. "Grisier returned to us roughly ten hours from when they departed."

"Gotta keep a weather eye for the rescue party," Porthos grumbled a reminder, sarcasm accentuating his tone. "These cloaks won't fool those bastards 'f they get too close."

Athos lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

"Clearly our men were ambushed before reaching Soissons, but where?" Aramis wondered aloud.

Porthos frowned, eyes tracking the dusty road, seeing hundreds of hoof prints and wagon tracks. It was a well-traveled route; virtually impossible to track any one party. Riding a bit ahead of the other two, he looked out across the sparse tree line to their left and tracked it to where it began to grow denser a few miles up the road.

"If I were planning an ambush," he began, "I'd wait until my quarry 'ad reached those trees up there."

"Seems to be an embankment of some kind just there to the west," Athos said, by way of agreement.

Aramis kicked his horse into a canter, the others falling into line. When they reached the thickening grove of trees, they separated, each taking a branching path through the gloom. By Porthos' tracking of the sun, they'd been riding for nearly four hours when Athos suddenly called out. Porthos whistled to Aramis, who was riding far to his left, and they traversed the copse of trees until they located Athos.

He had dismounted and was staring at something on the ground. Porthos joined him and saw immediately what had caught the other man's attention: blood. Lots of it. Saturating the earth, staining the low-level foliage, smeared across the tree trunks.

"It appears there was a struggle," Aramis commented from atop his horse, the forced casualness of his statement belying the lines of concern folding around his dark eyes.

"Spread out," Athos ordered. "Search for…."

He didn't finish the sentence, but Porthos knew what they were to look for: bodies. For several stretching moments, all he heard was the crackle and crunch of fallen branches and leaves beneath their boots. He prayed he found nothing; in his mind, the best scenario would be for d'Artagnan and Treville to be with the men who'd ambushed the party so that they still had a chance at a rescue.

"Here!" Aramis' voice was high and tight, bringing the other two his direction almost instantly.

At Aramis' feet was a newly turned grave, large enough it could easily hold multiple bodies. The three exchanged silent looks, then grabbed loose branches and began digging. The grave had clearly been a hastily-dug one; it only took a few minutes to uncover the first body.

It was the prisoner with the broken leg.

"Well, 'e didn't make it far," Porthos grumbled. "Think they was droppin' dead weight?"

Athos brought his head up sharply. "Are you saying you suspect Laroche?"

"You don't?" Aramis challenged.

Athos sat back on his heels. "To be honest, not until this moment."

"'e shows up in Paris outta the blue, Rochefort willingly works with 'im—but never meets with 'im, as far as we know," Porthos tipped his hand out in a gesture meant to convey you fill in the rest.

Athos scowled; Porthos saw the mental punishment beginning and returned to clearing the rest of the grave. There were two other men, neither of whom they'd seen before. However, one thing caught Porthos' eye: tied around the wrist of one man was what appeared to be a scarf. A very familiar-looking scarf.

"Oi," he tipped his chin toward the piece of cloth. "What's that, then?"

Athos pried the cloth out of the earth, shaking it out. "Porthos…isn't this your head scarf?"

Porthos nodded. "It's my spare. Keep it in my saddle bags."

"It appears someone else knew that," Aramis grinned slightly.

"d'Artagnan took it with him," Athos said in wonder. "Why?"

"To keep us close," Porthos said, folding his brows as he caught Athos' eyes. "Guarantee you 'e's got somethin' of yours, too."

Athos and Aramis exchanged an unreadable glance. Porthos smirked as they each unconsciously patted a pocket.

"You're missing the bigger picture," Porthos continued. "This means d'Artagnan's alive."

Athos shook his head. "All it means is that he wasn't dead when they buried these bodies."

Porthos grabbed his scarf and shook it in Athos' face. "This was left for us."

"On the body of a buried man," Aramis intoned, standing and stretching his wounded leg, a wince creasing his features.

"They probably made our men bury the bodies! 'e tied it around the wrist so we'd see it—wait, which arm was it on again?" Porthos asked suddenly.

"The left," Athos replied. "Why?"

"We go west," Porthos stood and clapped his hands together, unable to suppress his grin. "That boy is resourceful."

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" Athos stood, his blue eyes stormy.

"You forget about them pirates already?" Porthos stared at him in surprise.

Aramis and Athos exchanged another look, then, as though the move was choreographed, hooked their thumbs in their weapons belts, tilted their heads and asked, "Pirates?"

"Damn…," Porthos ran his hand down his face, tugging at his beard. "Forgot I didn't tell you 'bout that one."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this story?" Athos muttered as they began kicking the dirt back over the bodies.

"It was back just after my trial," Porthos began. "After Charon betrayed me…."


Nine months ago

Porthos was no stranger to wine; he just didn't have the tolerance of Athos. As he traversed the darkened tents and night fires of the Court de Miracles he found himself experiencing that strange juxtaposition of a head that seemed half its normal weight and a body that was two times heavier. Ignoring the side-eye glances and slightly incoherent mutterings as he stumbled through the Court—part of the populace by virtue of his past, but not one with them any longer by virtue of his present—he was allowed passage, but offered no warmth or solace.

It was the fourth night he slipped from the safety of the garrison to explore the Court. He hadn't sought out Flea again since she kissed him and walked away; his heart couldn't bear the burden of another goodbye. He was simply…lost. The faith in his brother's eyes as they proved his innocence balanced with the doubt in everyone else's had him questioning if fighting his way out of this maze was truly what he'd been destined to do.

He barely remembered his mother; his father was anyone's guess. He knew him by name alone, and even that was probably a fabrication. He was as God—and the Court de Miracles—made him: a brawler, a lover, a soldier. No longer the mulatto orphan from the Court, he made himself into a skilled soldier, formidable foe and, he liked to think, a loyal friend.

But he'd been wrong about Charon. So very, very wrong. And it had almost gotten him and everyone he loved killed. Were it not for Aramis….

"Oi, geroff wi' ya," growled a voice thick with wine. Porthos stumbled back as an arm pushed him away; he'd not seen the man in the dark and nearly trampled over his…home, for lack of a better term. "Find yer own place. This here's mine, an' I'll kill anyone what tries to take it."

"Meant nothin' by it," Porthos apologized, lifting his hands, palms up to show they were empty of weapons.

Too many sleepless nights in a row had started to catch up to him; the wine wasn't helping either, he knew. He couldn't breathe back in his quarters at the garrison, yet he didn't belong here anymore, either. He felt haunted. By both the life he chose and the life he left. Taking a breath of air heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, rotten meat, and the ever-present scent of blood, Porthos looked up, watching for a moment through a hole in the canopy that covered this section of the Court as silver-tinged clouds covered the bright, full moon.

On impulse, he began to climb the rickety structure that lined one wall of the Court, ignoring the brief cries and grumbles of protest as he caused it to sway with his weight. Once on the rooftop, he took another breath, this one free of the Court, of Paris, of any labels. Crouching, balanced, on the edge of the building, letting the moonlight wash over his face, Porthos felt he could be anyone, anything.

Soldier or beggar, gentleman or thief, it mattered not.

"Can't live on the rooftops, du Vallon," he chided himself.

However, he could feel the wine swim through his bloodstream, whispering that the impossible could be considered. That night would cloak his sins and no one would be the wiser. Listening to the whispers, Porthos took off across the rooftops that surrounded the Court, paying no heed to the structure beneath him or the direction he was going: he just wanted to move. The city would shelter him, he felt sure. He knew this city, he was raised by this city, he'd fought and bled for her.

Therefore, it came as quite a surprise when between one step and the next, the roof beneath his feet fell away.

Porthos didn't even have time to yelp with surprise. The plummet that would have easily crippled him was abruptly halted when two hands wrapped around his wrist and jerked him to a sudden stop. He gasped as the muscles in his arm stretched painfully and his belly slapped roughly against the beam that braced the rest of the roof.

"You want to maybe quit swinging your feet so much?"

"d'Artagnan?!" Porthos bleated. "How in the bloody hell—"

"Story later. Up now." d'Artagnan's voice was strained from the effort of keeping a man nearly twice his bulk from falling the rest of the way through the roof.

Porthos reached up his other hand to flatten it against the roof; d'Artagnan leaned back, digging his heels into the roof's surface, and pulled. With some creative shifting, Porthos soon had a knee over the crumbling edge of the hole and the two of them heaved until they'd rolled away from the weak spot. Wordlessly, they crawled to the wall that edged the outside of the roof and put their backs to it, both gasping for breath.

"'ow did you find me?" Porthos asked, dropping his head back against the ledge.

d'Artagnan pulled his knees up, resting his forearms on the bend and grasped one wrist with his opposite hand. "You were the one who thought it would be a great idea to teach me to run across the…what did you call it? The Ceiling of Paris?"

Porthos rolled his head to the side, staring at his friend's profile in the moonlight. "That's not an answer. 'ow did you find me here?"

Swallowing audibly, d'Artagnan dropped his gaze and addressed the rooftop. "I followed you."

"What?" Porthos pushed upright from his slump. "Why?"

d'Artagnan tipped his head, worrying his bottom lip in a shrug. Porthos bumped him with his forearm, the adrenalin from his near-fall having cleared his head a bit. Moonlight had turned d'Artagnan's normally tanned skin a grayish hue, and the lad was twisting his fingers nervously. Brows pulled close, Porthos tried to think back across the last four days as to what might have transpired that would trigger such a reaction in his young friend.

"I was…concerned."

"About me?" Porthos asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

d'Artagnan pushed to his feet and stepped away several feet, carefully avoiding the weak point in the roof that Porthos had been clever enough to discover. As Porthos watched, the young Gascon shoved a hand through his hair, rested his palm on the hilt of his sword, then finally turned to face him with his arms crossed over his chest, fingers tucked beneath his biceps in a stance that was so intrinsically d'Artagnan Porthos had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"Look, I owe you an apology," d'Artagnan finally blurted.

Porthos blinked. He had not seen that coming.

"When you were accused of killing that man, I…," d'Artagnan looked out over the rooftops of Paris, toward Notre Dame. "I wondered if you might have done it." He lifted a hasty hand. "I don't really know you—any of you—that well, and…well, you can be pretty scary sometimes."

Porthos stared at the younger man for nearly a full minute before barking out a laugh. d'Artagnan jumped at the sound, which made Porthos laugh even harder. Looking both relieved and confused, d'Artagnan hedged a smile.

"That's why you want to apologize?"

The younger man nodded and Porthos laughed again.

"Hell, lad, for a bit there, I wondered if I'd done it," Porthos revealed.

d'Artagnan's eyebrows shot up with surprise. "You did?"

Pushing to his feet with a grunt of effort, Porthos continued. "I couldn't remember a thing about that night. Woke up with m'head splittin' and a dead man next to me. Pretty confusing."

"I'd say," d'Artagnan nodded.

"What swayed you?"

d'Artagnan rubbed the back of his head. "Aramis at first. He, uh…took exception to my suggestion that it could have been you."

Porthos chuckled appreciatively. "'e's a good man, our Aramis."

"Then I just…started putting the pieces together," d'Artagnan shrugged, "and I knew."

"So, you've been followin' me around all this time…to apologize?"

d'Artagnan cringed. "Kind of."

Porthos waited while d'Artagnan stared at the rooftop once more.

"Spit it out 'fore you choke on it."

"I wanted to get to know you better. See where you go when you're not on duty. How you spend your time. What makes you…you." The words seemed to tumble over each other, tangling up and falling from d'Artagnan's lips in a rushed confession.

Porthos blinked again, more surprised by this than anything else the lad had said. "You wanted to…get to know…me?"

"Well…yeah," d'Artagnan shrugged. "You three…you're all I have now. I can't go back home; the farm was my father's, and he's gone. Paris is…; well it's my home now. And that means you're…you three are my family. Such as it is."

Porthos felt like he'd been hit in the gut, the air rushing out of him. He stared at d'Artagnan while the younger man stared out across the city. In the months since d'Artagnan had found his way to their garrison, Porthos hadn't given much thought to the lad's past or future. He was simply there, part of them now. He'd become accustomed to having the younger man around.

It struck Porthos that roots had never really mattered to him. Growing up in the Court de Miracles meant learning how to blend, to hide, to be quick to run and slow to settle. His first true home had been the Musketeers and the garrison. Seeing d'Artagnan reach for some kind of indication that he could stay, that he belonged, that he had a home there, made Porthos take another look at how he'd treated the lad.

"Right, well," Porthos cleared his throat. "If you're going to follow me around like a puppy, least I can do is take you some place 'at's more interesting than a rotted old roof."

"Hardly a puppy," d'Artagnan grumbled.

"C'mon," Porthos waved a hand at him, leading him toward an easier way down from their perch.

"Where are we going?"

Without answering, Porthos led the young Gascon down to street level, winding through several alleys, and circling around two rather questionable altercations, then entered the lantern-lit Rai d'Or tavern—which was anything but its namesake.

"How are you at cards, lad?"

"Terrible," d'Artagnan answered honestly.

"You have coin on ya?"

"I do."

"Good," Porthos clapped his hands together. "You keep the wine flowing; I'll teach ya a couple tricks I have up my sleeve."

He didn't miss d'Artagnan's smirk or his mutter of, "Literally," before he parted ways and sought out a table.

The first few games went as he expected them to, and after that he was able to keep everyone at the table in their cups by his generosity. For Porthos, gambling had never been about the money but about the challenge. Could he beat them honestly, did he need to pull out that card from his sleeve to keep his opponent from taking it out of his flesh, how long would his luck hold out? It was a test of skill and he was a master.

d'Artagnan sat close, his dark eyes missing nothing. Porthos watched how much wine the lad consumed with the amount flowing around them, and was proud to see that he needn't have worried: d'Artagnan was too focused on learning Porthos' trade to fall nose first into the bottle. During a brief interlude between games, Porthos huddled close to d'Artagnan, testing what he'd learned, observed, absorbed.

"Everyone has a tell," Porthos informed him. "You find that, you own them. Works for battle just as well as cards."

"How long do you have to play them before you discover their tell?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos smiled; he liked how quick this boy was to absorb information. "Depends. Some are easy, clear habits. Like crossin' yerself at mass. North, South, East, West, yeah?"

d'Artagnan nodded.

"Watch this next one," Porthos advised. "I've played against 'im before; 'e's crap at cards. Leans left just so when 'e's getting thin on funds. 'is back-up card is tucked into 'is left sleeve. I bring up something about travelin' West, and 'e gets rattled."

Porthos was pleased to notice d'Artagnan's eyes on his opponent and couldn't help but grin when the lad said casually, "I'm going to turn in early, I believe. Heading West in the morning."

Porthos split his winnings from that hand with the young Gascon. After another hour of sweeping the table, Porthos found himself tired by the events of the day and was about to rise and collect his winnings when a man dropped into the seat across him.

A deep hood was pulled over the man's face to the extent that only the tip of his nose and chin was visible. A pipe was clenched between his teeth and when he struck a match to light the tobacco, the flame reflected in his eyes like a demon. He smelled of salt and cold and his fingers bore deep, old scars.

"Thought I'd try my hand," the man stated, dropping a bag of coin on the table between them.

"Was just about to leave," Porthos said, a false but amicable smile splitting his face. "Maybe next time."

"How about just one hand?" the man pressed. "As recompense for cleaning out most of my crew."

Porthos glanced around at that and saw four or five of the men he'd out-played standing around the gloom of the tavern, pints in their hands and scowls on their faces. He felt d'Artagnan tense from his perch at Porthos' shoulder and willed the lad to stay quiet as he handled this. He should have realized a stubborn lad from Gascony would never be willing to sit idle.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan whispered in his ear. "Just walk away from this one. The man is a pirate."

The hooded man tipped his chin up slightly, a toothy grin directed at d'Artagnan.

"Don't think I've much of a choice, now do I?" Porthos commented, his smile still in place.

d'Artagnan dropped into the seat at his side, arms crossed, dark eyes pinned to the man across the table. Porthos nodded and the man dealt. It was a quick first game, and Porthos could see at once the pirate was allowing him to win. The true master was revealed the moment the first card was drawn. But they completed and played another. Porthos found himself forced to pull his card from his sleeve and saw with dismay that the pirate had a similar move—he simply did it better.

"It seems I have taken the last of your coin," the pirate stated, sitting back and exposing the weapons tucked into his wide leather belt. He rested a scarred hand on the butt of his pistol. "Unless you have other secret pockets you'd like to empty."

"I'm afraid I'll have to owe you for that last hand," Porthos said tersely.

"That won't work for me," the pirate replied. "You see, my crew and I are departing this night. By the time I return to Paris, you could be dead. Musketeer."

Porthos pressed his lips flat and settled a hand on d'Artagnan's arm as the lad tensed.

"I've nothing of value to offer," Porthos replied. "You've matched me hand for hand."

The pirate pushed his hood back and Porthos forced himself not to draw back at the sight of the man's scarred face—one traversing his left eye and turning it a milky white. He felt the room begin to grow smaller around their table; men who had until now been watching from the shadow surrounding them.

"I'll take him," the pirate stated, never looking in d'Artagnan's direction, though his meaning was clear.

Porthos shot to his feet only to be immediately restrained and shoved back down by three sets of hands on his shoulders and arms. He struggled, working to pull his arms free, to reach his weapons, but the men holding him were strong and vicious. The man at his back slid an arm around his neck, bracing his hold, and effectively minimizing Porthos' air.

"You're crazy 'f you think I'm giving you my friend in payment!" Porthos spat.

"I'm only asking out of courtesy," the man said, crossing one leg over the other and resting his boot on his knee.

He tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot, then pulled out a tobacco pouch and began to refill it, packing it loosely before lighting it and puffing smoke directly into Porthos' face. d'Artagnan hadn't moved, though his hand now rested on the hilt of his sword, his dark eyes taking everything in.

"Get outta 'ere, lad," Porthos growled, not taking his eyes from the pirate.

d'Artagnan stood, stepping back from the table. The minute he did, however, one of the men holding Porthos in place savagely twisted his right arm. White-hot pain shot through him from elbow to shoulder and reverberated up to his jaw. If the man applied any more pressure, Porthos knew he'd break the bone. He clenched his teeth and tried desperately to keep from crying out.

"Wait! Wait, stop! I'll go with you!" d'Artagnan held out an imploring hand.

Porthos felt sweat collect along his neck, a bead slipping down from beneath his head scarf. His fingers were numb and the pain in his shoulder was beating in time with his heart.

"Of course you're going with us," the pirate chuffed, as though d'Artagnan was a particularly amusing child.

A groan slipped out; Porthos couldn't help it. His shoulder was seconds from slipping its joint.

"Then let him go!" d'Artagnan demanded. "If anything you should be complimenting him, not breaking his arm."

The pirate looked up, surprised. Had Porthos been able to think beyond the pain, he'd have echoed the expression.

"How's that?"

"It's not as if he did anything differently than you," d'Artagnan all-but scoffed. "You just beat him at his own game. After he cleaned out your men."

The man slammed a hand down on the table, leaning forward. Porthos gave d'Artagnan points for not drawing back.

"Are you saying I cheated?"

"Are you saying you didn't?" d'Artagnan challenged. He crossed his arms, lifting his chin. "Two cards from the fold of your sleeve, drawn while you were lighting your pipe that second time, one tucked into your hood when you took a sip of wine, and another still at the tip of your boot that you didn't need."

The pirate blinked.

"Damn, boss," breathed the man currently holding Porthos by the neck.

"Release him," the pirate growled. "And chain this one up. Leave your sword with your friend, boy. You won't be needing it where you're going."

Porthos was dizzy with relief as the grip on his arm was released. His vision swam slightly, but sharpened the moment he felt d'Artagnan's sword drop in his lap.

"Wait! Y'can't just—"

"Porthos, it's fine," d'Artagnan tried to reassure him, frowning at the man who jerked his arms forward to clasp heavy shackles on his wrists. "Don't worry."

"Worry?" Porthos practically growled, barreling forward. "You got any idea what Athos'll do to me?"

"No, wait! Don't—"

The last thing Porthos saw before a lightning bolt of pain sent him to his knees was d'Artagnan's wide eyes and his manacled hands waving him off. It took him several moments to register that someone had struck him. Several more to realize that not only was he bleeding, but he was lying on the dirt of the tavern floor as pirates dragged his friend away. With a groan, Porthos managed to push to his hands and knees, but his head hung low and the world tipped crazily around him.

Breathing through his nose, Porthos fought to balance himself. Blood ran from the back of his head, across his neck and down his cheek to soak through his beard and drip from his lips. The sight of it—the smell of it—turned the nauseating pain into a furious will. The pirate had rolled him and taken his friend and his pride.

At the moment, Porthos was seething over both in equal measure.

Reaching up to grab the back of a chair, he leveraged himself to his feet, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth to banish the taste of blood. Looking around at the few patrons who sat staring blearily at him, he growled low in his throat, then turned to collect d'Artagnan's sword. As he did so, he saw his one spare card stuck in a crack that bisected the table, left behind as a salute or an insult, he couldn't be sure.

Stumbling from the pub, he took a bracing breath from the cool night, his throbbing head clearing slightly, and headed toward the Seine. He couldn't go back for help; if he didn't reach d'Artagnan before the boat set sail—or worse, if the Gascon's smart mouth got him killed before Porthos could save him—he would never be able to face Athos again.

It didn't take Porthos long to find the harbor. Slipping through the shadows that lined the waterway, Porthos followed the shouts of the men who had bested him at the tavern as they loaded their boat with supplies. Theirs was a smaller, ore-driven vessel that the pirate and his crew had no doubt used to traverse the shallower waters of the Seine, their sea-worthy vessel anchored further out in deeper waters. Several feet down from his hiding spot, Porthos saw a wagon-mounted cage with four men slumped inside.

Even from this distance he was able to make out the dark head and distinctive profile of their Gascon.

Sliding along the building fronts, keeping to the shadows and trying not to stumble as a throb of pain in his head staggered him, Porthos made his way to the cage. He had to get there, get d'Artagnan free, and get away before the pirate or his crew discovered anything amiss. Slipping up to the edge of the cage, the bodies of the men inside masking him from the moonlight, Porthos hissed for d'Artagnan's attention.

"Oi!"

d'Artagnan brought his dark head up, a flash of white teeth exposing his grin. "Took you long enough."

"Bastards knocked me cold."

"Saw that," d'Artagnan grunted, his shoulders shifting.

"What you up to, there?"

"Picking their locks."

Porthos' eyebrows bounced skyward. "Who taught ya that one?"

d'Artagnan glanced at him. "I did know a few things before I met you three."

With a low gasp, d'Artagnan lifted his manacled hands, turning the prisoner in front of him loose. The freed man headed to the locked door, thrusting his hands through the bars and feeling for the lock in the dark.

"Wait, get yours first!" Porthos exclaimed when he saw d'Artagnan move on to the next man.

"Can't get the angle on my own," d'Artagnan told him. "Get the door, how about?"

Frowning, Porthos moved around to the door of the cage, fully aware that he was now standing exposed in the bright light of the high moon. Pulling his main gauche from its back scabbard, he pushed the freed man's hands out of the way and began working on the lock. He hadn't gotten far when the man d'Artagnan set free called out a warning.

"Behind you!"

Moving on pure instinct, Porthos turned and blocked the sword heading directly for his back with the tip of his main gauche, twisting around and avoiding a blow from the assailant's follow-through. Their grunts and growls of effort very quickly called the attention of others and Porthos found himself with his schinova in one hand, main gauche in the other, in a battle against three opponents.

Dimly, he was aware of a din behind him from the cage, the prisoner's rattling their chains, rocking the wagon, stirring up the horses and generally distracting the pirates whose job it was to transport them onto the waiting boat. He could hear d'Artagnan's voice calling out insults and obscenities toward his captors, trying to draw their attention.

A slice to his upper arm knocked Porthos' main gauche to the ground and he shoved an elbow against the throat of one attacker while another ran for help and the third reacted to the suddenly-opened cage door, throwing his weight against it to attempt to keep it shut. Seriously flagging in his assault, Porthos kept his blade against his attacker's, trying in vain to loosen the man's grip.

Suddenly, two slim arms—still bound by heavy chains—were thrust between the bars of the cage and quick fingers grasped the collar of the man Porthos fought. The pirate stumbled backwards, slamming against the bars of the cage, and right into d'Artagnan's deadly grip. The chains acted as an anchor and while the lad held the man still, Porthos finally knocked his sword loose, clocking the struggling pirate across his temple.

d'Artagnan pulled his arms back and let the man fall to the ground; his dark eyes bounced up to meet Porthos' grin.

"Thanks," Porthos gasped. "I owe you."

"Get me out of here and we'll call it even."

Unfortunately, the man who'd run from the scene chose that moment to return with several additional men—including the pirate who had bested Porthos at cards. There was a pause in action, as if everyone present recognized the futility and inevitability of the moment, before one of the pirates charged forward with a shout, moonlight glinting from his sword.

Porthos ducked, rolled beneath the attacking blade, and picked up his dropped main gauche as he gained his feet. Surging forward, he thrust the tip of his sword into the side of the man who held the cage door closed and listened with satisfaction as the prisoners leapt to freedom, their chains rattling and wielded as weapons. He didn't have time to register who charged him, who was felled, who turned and ran. His only focus was that no prisoner end up on the end of his blade and that he and d'Artagnan escape.

He never saw the mace.

The skirmish raged in a cloistered space, the moon their only light, clanking of chains and metal their only warnings. Porthos stood facing a man he'd never remember one moment and the next found himself on the ground, head throbbing relentlessly, the taste of blood in his mouth.

It was so quiet he feared for a moment he'd gone deaf. His hands were strangely empty, his body stiff as if he'd been lying prone for longer than the moment he'd lost. Prying his eyes open he saw a set of booted feet before him, facing away, the swing of a chain like a pendulum catching the moonlight.

"Leave now, and we'll allow you to live."

He knew that voice. Low, with a back growl that was at once aged and achingly young. Dragging forward the hand not currently pinned beneath his impossibly heavy body, Porthos tried to push himself upright, succeeding only shifting his head a fraction of an inch. But it was enough that he saw the spiked metal ball with attached chain curled like a viper next to him.

"Big talk for a man what's got 'is 'ands chained," snarled a response.

"We've taken four of your men," d'Artagnan replied. "Two more are at the mercy of men you were about to sell as slaves."

Porthos shuddered with pain, realizing that d'Artagnan stood between him and their enemy. He needed to help the lad, but was afraid he'd only make the situation direr by drawing attention away from where it was now placed. He heard chains rattle and traced sluggish eyes along d'Artagnan's legs to see that the young Gascon had raised his arms and was pointing at something.

"That still leaves three of us, lad," the scarred pirate replied coolly.

Porthos heard the click of a pistol.

"That won't matter to you," d'Artagnan replied, an eerie calm infusing his words, "because you'll be the first one to die."

Porthos held his breath, not daring to move. Time seemed to grow legs, stepping away from them in impossible strides. The damp of the night hung thick with that just-before-dawn weight as the world prepared for the assault of another day.

"Come on, boys," the pirate finally replied, something like wry amusement coloring his tone. "We've enough without this lot."

Feet shuffled, swords scraped against stone, and in moments Porthos felt the shift as there were suddenly fewer people surrounding them. He carefully rolled to his back, a helpless groan slipping through blood-crusted lips. d'Artagnan was on his knees in a second, his cool, slim hands ghosting over Porthos' face, the chain still binding his wrists dragging across Porthos' chest.

"Porthos," the Gascon breathed. "Thank God, I was…I was afraid that…."

"Chains," Porthos managed, closing his eyes as the stab of pain behind his eyes became sharper.

"You there," d'Artagnan's voice lifted above them. "Keys!"

"Lemme 'elp ya, lad."

Porthos heard the scratch and rasp of a well-used voice and smelled the wine and fish scents that soaked the clothes of someone moving closer, evidently removing the manacles from d'Artagnan's wrists. The young man's hands were soon on Porthos' face once more, moving more freely to the side and back of his head, checking as he'd seen Aramis do so many times for a break in the skull.

"You've a right nasty cut on the back of your head from that mace," d'Artagnan informed him, "but I can't feel a break in the skull."

"Stop touchin' me, then," Porthos growled, beginning to feel more embarrassment than pain, though he was extremely disinclined to move just yet. "They get you?"

"'im?" Crowed he of the keys. "'at one moved so bloody fast they barely saw 'im, let alone touched 'im."

Porthos squinted an eye open, peering at d'Artagnan in the thin light of early dawn. "Wassat, then?"

"Couldn't hold a sword, my hands chain like they were," d'Artagnan shrugged, "so I figured I'd make them use theirs."

At that, Porthos opened both eyes. "Make them use theirs…?"

"'e took out two o' their men just by makin' 'em chase 'im!" The man next to d'Artagnan—who Porthos now saw was the first prisoner the Gascon had freed—cackled. "'at was smart o'ya, lad."

"Right, well," d'Artagnan looked down and shoved the bloody mace away with the toe of his boot, "we have to be getting back to the garrison."

"'at'll take ya a fair bit," the man told him. "It's clear on the other side o' the Court."

Porthos reached for d'Artagnan's hand and used the lad's muscle to carefully haul himself to a seated position, bracing the flat of his hand on the stone of the street while the world spun crazily about him.

"Can't go back like this," he muttered groggily. "Aramis'll skin me 'live."

"Can't not go back," d'Artagnan argued. "Athos'll skin me alive."

"Find Flea," Porthos exhaled, not realizing at first that he'd tipped forward in his attempt to balance himself and was now resting his forehead on d'Artagnan's clavicle, the lad's fingers gently gripping the back of his neck. "In the Court. She won't like it, but…she can help."

"I know Flea," replied d'Artagnan's apparent new best friend. "I'll find 'er."

Before either of them could say a word, the man was gone. Porthos stayed as he was, leaning forward against d'Artagnan, breathing in the scent of sweat, leather, blood, and morning. He felt d'Artagnan's hand shift from his neck to his back, fingers spreading as if reassuring himself that Porthos still breathed. He could feel the rise and fall of the lad's chest, the steady thud-thud of his heartbeat against the flat of his forehead.

It was an oddly intimate embrace, the way d'Artagnan held him upright, solid and sure. But either the lad didn't recognize it or didn't care. Porthos had been in enough battle situations, had seen enough of his friends fall, and had feared enough of them dead to understand why d'Artagnan chose not to move. He wasn't sure how the lad had managed to rally the prisoners to his cause, but it seemed that had turned the tide of this struggle while Porthos had been unconscious.

Pain like a hot blade shimmied behind his eyes and he was unable to bite back a low moan. He hated head pain over all else that damaged his body. It rendered him helpless and distracted. He'd rather they cut his sword arm off than cracked him across the head. d'Artagnan pressed his hand a bit flatter against Porthos' back, stopping just short, it seemed, of rocking him.

"So," Porthos muttered, licking dried blood from his lips, desperate for a distraction. "You wanted t'learn more 'bout me."

"I did."

"Sorry yet?"

"Not in the slightest," d'Artagnan replied.

"Almost got you killed and sold into…," Porthos winced, nausea surging up and demanding to be quelled before he was able to spit out the last word, "slavery."

"True," d'Artagnan replied, his slim body remaining a solid support. "But on the bright side, now I can beat everyone except you at cards."

Porthos huffed a weak laugh, his head baying a sharp protest at the sound. They stayed still for several more minutes until Flea arrived, cursing and barking orders. It took the three of them to get Porthos on his feet and he nearly collapsed twice before they settled him on a pallet tucked into the corner of Flea's apartment at the edge of the Court de Miracles.

They agreed that Porthos would stay here until he could return to the garrison under his own steam, d'Artagnan making his excuses and requesting temporary leave. Porthos drafted a missive for Treville, his scrawling script even more illegible than normal as he couldn't focus properly on the paper before him. He knew he was at risk of disciplinary action, but he was willing to take that over the scathing disappointment he knew would be in Athos' eyes if he were to come clean.

Before d'Artagnan left to make their excuses at the garrison, Porthos grabbed his arm, careful of the manacle-bruised wrist.

"Thank you."

d'Artagnan looked down and away. "I should never have doubted you," he confessed softly. "No matter how briefly I knew you, I knew you were a man of honor." He looked back at Porthos, meeting his eyes squarely. "I'll never doubt again."

"Never's a long time," Porthos allowed.

"Not among friends," d'Artagnan offered a small smile, then ducked out of the room and into the brassy morning light.

Porthos closed his eyes, lying still under Flea's quiet ministrations. She said not one word to him, simply stitched him and bandaged him and offered him water with a pain draught, then was absorbed into the chaos of the Court as though she'd never been by his side. He was left alone throughout the day to sleep, to heal, and to listen to the noise of the Paris night time at the door.

Two days later, Porthos returned to the garrison, tender and weak, but with a sly smile that hid the latent pain and an indulgent nod toward d'Artagnan when the young man greeted him with relief. Their stride was different after that; Porthos still saw the young Gascon as green, raw, in need of guidance and training as the others did, but he also knew that d'Artagnan would go to the mat for them, defending them with his life, his loyalty—and ingenuity—unwavering.


Present

"You realize Treville never believed d'Artagnan's story about why you were missing," Athos informed Porthos when he'd finished speaking.

"You realize we never believed his story," Aramis interjected.

Porthos frowned. "What story?"

"That you'd returned to the Court for some unfinished business with Flea," Aramis replied, reaching up to rub gingerly at the stitches marching up the back of his neck along his hairline.

Shrugging, Porthos replied, "Weren't exactly a lie."

"If I remember correctly," Athos continued, shifting on his horse to look back at Porthos, "Treville had the boy mucking stalls for three days when he returned without you."

Porthos brought his chin up. "'e never told you about the pirates?"

"Not a word."

"Ain't that a wonder," Porthos murmured.

They rode in silence as the day weakened, twilight wrapping around them like a cloak. When they reached a clearing, Porthos felt dread sitting heavy and dark in his gut. There was no way to see which direction their men had taken on the other side of the opened field. The hoof marks were plentiful and smudged.

"I fear we could lose the trail if we ride too long into the night," Athos cautioned, reading Porthos' mind. His eyes strayed to where Aramis sat slumped in his saddle, all pretense of being fit for travel after his fall having evaporated during the long day. "I'm already worried we've strayed too far west."

Porthos moved his horse closer to Aramis, reaching out to offer his friend a steadying hand. Just as he touched Aramis' shoulder, however, his friend straightened, peering into the steadily increasing darkness. Porthos couldn't see it yet, but he was willing to bet a storm was on the approach.

"I wouldn't worry," Aramis replied, kicking his horse forward, surprising both of his comrades as he crossed the clearing.

"Aramis?" Porthos called, following him. "What is it?"

They closed in on him quickly, watching as Aramis leaned over and grasped a piece of cloth only his sharp eyesight could have caught from that distance. He turned and held it out to Athos.

"I believe this is yours."

Athos took the cloth from Aramis' hand, twisting it around his grip very similarly in manner to how Porthos had seen their young Gascon friend do with the same cloth not long ago.

"It's my neck scarf," Athos replied. "d'Artagnan…borrowed it when he went after LeMaitre. I didn't realize he'd kept it after that day in the woods."

"Yes, I've been meaning to ask you—why did he choose that garment to protect his hand when killing their persecutor?" Aramis asked.

Athos looked up at them, a strange sort of sorrow in his eyes. "Because he found it for me," he replied. "The day he saved my sanity."

"Hmm," Porthos murmured, drawing the eyes of his two friends. "Makes sense, don't it? That 'e used it to help kill the man who tried to take 'is?"

"He's clearly leaving us clues," Aramis stated, a scowl finding its home on his face. "We need to keep moving, catch up."

Porthos shot a look at Athos in protest, but saw his friend was already ahead of him.

"No," Athos shook his head, swinging down from his horse. "We rest here and get an early start."

"Athos—" Aramis protested.

"It will do d'Artagnan and Treville no good if we ride ourselves into the ground."

Aramis slumped once more. "If you're doing this for me…."

Athos brought his chin up. "What I do for one of us, I do for all. You are weary and wounded, Aramis. Let's rest, gather our strength so that we can be of use to our men when we find them. Besides," he continued, looking toward the horizon, "it's going to rain."

Porthos dismounted quickly before Aramis could use him as an excuse to move on. Without a word, he let his reins trail in the brush and moved around to stand next to Aramis' horse, waiting. A slightly defeated sigh slipped from Aramis' lips as he allowed Porthos to balance him when he swung down to the ground. His wounded leg had clearly stiffened up while riding and Porthos took over his horse while Aramis gathered firewood.

"It's clear d'Artagnan has his wits about him," Aramis remarked as they prepared their meal. "But I am worried about Treville."

"Man's not acted like 'imself since the King demoted him," Porthos commented in agreement.

"Would you?" Athos inquired. "Stripped of your identity, your responsibility? If we were taken from you, would you be able to carry on?"

"We haven't been taken from him," Aramis argued. "We still see him as our Captain."

"It doesn't matter how we see him," Athos replied quietly, his eyes reflecting the snap of the flames. "It matters how he sees himself. He needs a reason to remember who he is."

Porthos watched his friend, wondering not for the first time how Athos had reinvented himself after the supposed death of his wife.

"Athos," he spoke up. "What did you mean, d'Artagnan saved your sanity?"

Athos was quiet for so long, Porthos wasn't sure he'd reply. Then, softly, addressing the fire, he said, "That is a story I should have told you long before now."