I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's The Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
Ages in this chapter:
Porthos: 17
d'Artagnan: Almost 6
Porthos was seventeen when he learned of true depravity. He, Flea, and Charon had been running the streets of Paris, collecting food, supplies, and money as they wandered. They spied on the younger members of the Court of Miracles to ensure safety, laughed over how uncomfortable expensive clothes seemed, and wistfully thought of the possibility of a life on those streets that didn't involve theft or trickery to survive.
About midday though, their collective musings were ended when one of the children came running up to them with a message from an elder of the Court. They were to find clean cloth and after they had nicked sheets from clotheslines, they rushed into the Court with confused expressions. The elder who had called upon them was a man who had almost become a priest until he'd found God's work in patching the members of the Court of Miracles back together was more satisfying. Everyone had nicknamed him 'Father' in jest of his tendencies to quote scripture when he thought no one was listening. He was the closest thing to a priest one would find in the Court and he wasn't the only one aware of that fact.
"Father," Charon called as he tripped into the old chamber with sheets bundled about his arms like he was trying to keep his hands warm in the late winter wind. The old man whirled, staring at them with wild, bleary eyes as he leaned over a small body on his cot.
"Wonderful," the Father cried. "Flea, hot water! Charon, rip those into strips! Porthos, I need your hands!"
As Flea disappeared and Charon collected the cloth they had collected, stripping it apart with a knife, Porthos rushed over to the priest. His hands were quickly wrapped about a small neck, streams of crimson bubbling past his fingers as he struggled to get a firm enough grip against pallid olive skin, belonging to a boy he had no recollection of within the Court.
"Keep it from bleeding," the elder commanded, an unforgiving and nearly accusing finger jabbing the air near Porthos' face. The young man nodded, ignoring the blood the finger left dotting his dark face. He focused on his hands, pressing against the wound whilst keeping them light enough to not do any further harm.
The rest of the afternoon was spent with the Father stitching the long, smooth cut that stretched from just below the boy's left ear to the center of his neck, arching downwards towards his chest, together before wrapping the child's neck with the cloth. It was tediously slow to Porthos who remained at the boy's head, hand wrapped over the wound as his mind whispered at him; it had nothing good to dwell on.
He's so tiny, Porthos had thought as he'd inched his fingers out of the Father's way, staring at the knobbed knuckles as they wove thread and needle through skin.
He's as old as Charlotte, he had noted as the Father and Flea wiped up the dried blood with soaked rags before more stitches were sewn through the mangled skin.
What's he got in his hand? Porthos wondered while he held the boy up, a hand at the back of the child's head as Charon helped wrap the cloth about the wound.
Darkness was falling over the city when they had finally finished, candles lit about the chamber to make watching the injured boy easier. Flea went off to get them all food while the Father disappeared mumbling about blankets. Charon was slumped on an old chair that had erupted with dust as he'd settled while Porthos had arranged himself so the boy's head was on his lap. He'd tossed his long coat over the child's fevered body, shifting the boy's fisted right hand so it lay on his chest.
"Wonder what he's clutching so desperately," Charon murmured.
Porthos nodded in silent agreement. He'd kept his eyes fixed on the child's right hand that was clenched in a fist throughout the procedure, wondering at the drying mud coating small fingers while the left hand that was covered in blood had lain limp. Porthos folded his own hand over the tiny fist, his thumb brushing over the boy's almost bronze skin without his conscious command.
"Maybe something from his attacker?" Porthos reasoned in an unusually soft tone. He swept raven colored bangs from a sweaty brow with the tips of his fingers. "Something from his family possibly," he added with a shrug.
"If he's got any you mean."
"Charon," Flea scolded from the doorway, a tray with three steaming bowls on it in her hands. Her face was storming as she glared at Charon.
"I meant nothing by it," Charon mumbled, his body slouching further into the chair. She gave a huff as she passed him, lowering the tray so Porthos could take a bowl and spoon. The young man smiled at her, a soft tinge of pink spreading over his cheeks as their eyes connected.
"If you meant nothing by it, you shouldn't sound so skeptical," Porthos said as Flea glided to Charon with the tray. Charon scowled at him as he took his share of dinner from the girl.
"Does it not strike you two as odd that a child no older that two of our youngest nearly had his head separated from his shoulders?" Charon growled. Flea frowned over her shoulder as her hands turned white in their grip of the tray, her back to Charon as she spoke.
"That only makes the situation all the more saddening," she muttered.
The tray hit the table with a rattling clang then, Flea shaking out her tattered and mismatched clothes with pursed lips.
"No more of this talk," she declared as she tossed her braided hair over her shoulders, tying it back with a slip of ribbon Porthos had given her a year ago. "It'll ruin our dinners which Ferrah worked so hard to put together."
Porthos spooned the stew into his mouth greedily as Flea sank almost regally into a chair near the cot, his body warming as his stomach filled. He focused on the meat and vegetables first, knowing Ferrah's stew always left the best flavoring in the broth. He didn't really listen to Charon and Flea's continued bickering but he did note how Flea's eyes misted over when she looked too long at the child he sat with.
"He's so small," she whispered, hands tightening over her bowl. She had been gazing at the boy for a while, the conversation forgotten for a moment until she broke the silence by speaking.
"The Father doesn't think he'll wake anytime soon," Charon groused between bites. His dark eyes burned in the candlelight as they stared over his bowl at the child they'd spent half the day patching back together. "Whoever did this best not ever meet me."
Porthos nodded as he shoveled a rather large chunk of meat into his mouth. There were few things that weren't tolerated by anyone in the Court; abusing a child was one of them. Having to do with being such a large community with very little room to stretch in the mornings, everyone knew everyone and everyone understood and felt the same pains as their neighbors. Children were lost thanks to illnesses each year and so the ones that lived were treated with only love and protective fancies. There was no such thing as senselessly harming a child in the Court.
As the night drew on, Charon and Flea drifted off to sleep in their chairs, the Father covering them and the child with blankets. He wrapped a blanket over Porthos' shoulders, telling him to not stay up too late. Porthos only nodded at him as he devoured the last of the solids in the stew. Porthos set the spoon aside and pressed the bowl to his lips when the head on his lap shifted, catching his attention.
Fluttering lids opened with guarded curiosity, brown orbs rolling to take in all they could in the dim light as the small brow scrunched in confusion. A small gasp passed through flaring nostrils when those wide eyes connected with Porthos' own. They stared at each other for a moment, the chamber filled with the sound of soft breathing and mumbled dreams. Porthos blinked first which was a strange feeling to say the least.
"Hello," he whispered. "I'm Porthos."
The boy's mouth cracked open in a hollow, gaping motion that lasted only a second before Porthos pressed a finger to his face, eyes panicked and sympathetic as the boy grimaced.
"Sorry," Porthos whispered, his hand falling to the boy's shoulder. "I don't know how, but I forgot about what the lot of us spent half a day fixing."
The boy's fisted hand twitched under the blanket and to his neck. He brushed his knuckles over the makeshift bandages, eyes growing scared as something haunted him. Porthos squeezed the boy's shoulder reassuringly.
"You're safe now," he said. "I promise that."
The child watched him for a moment with a scrutinizing expression, eyes narrowed in the candlelight as he studied Porthos. After a moment, he gave a slow blink, his chin falling towards his neck in a shallow nod. Porthos couldn't stop himself from smiling. The smile fell when the boy's eyes darted for the bowl in Porthos' hand, a pink tongue grazing over peeling lips.
"You must be hungry," Porthos murmured. "Just a moment," he whispered as he placed the bowl on the table. "Can't have you choking on broth. Flea'd kill me."
As he rambled, he wrapped an arm around the boy's body, his other paw-like hand cupping the base of the boy's head. With a bit of jostling and a few wincing apologies, he managed to sit the boy up. He rearranged the blankets and his coat so the boy's tattered clothes were covered before he reached for the broth and the spoon.
"Good thing I already ate everything solid it here, huh?" he asked with a wry grin.
The boy frowned and stuck out his tongue. He seemed unappreciative of the irony that Porthos didn't want him choking on broth by trying to drink it while lying down or on anything too difficult for his injured state to manage. Porthos snorted, head bowed towards his chest, shoulders quaking.
"Alright," he chuckled. "Sorry but you won't be missing anything. Ferrah's stews hold better broth than anyone I've ever known. You'll taste all the ingredients he used."
He scooped out some and held the bowl under the spoon as he guided it to the boy's mouth. He almost sighed with relief when the child only opened his mouth far enough to allow the spoon in rather than trying to open wide. He smiled as the boy's eyes rolled in appreciation as he savored the broth, slow spoonful by slow spoonful.
"Now," Porthos murmured as he scraped at the last of the broth, "I understand you shouldn't be speaking until you're healed up but I'll be expecting your name when you're completely healed. Only then though and don't you rush this. That's what I do and it's not fun."
The boy gave him a toothy smile that almost blinded him in the dim light. He smiled back, quickly noting that this child was one of those infectiously happy children when they really tried. He pressed the last spoonful to the boy's mouth and grinned when it disappeared down the boy's throat with a slight bob of his Adam's apple.
Porthos leaned over to the table to place the bowl and spoon aside when he was sure it was completely cleared of food. He wasn't pleased that he hadn't gotten to taste the broth but he wasn't about to leave an injured child hungry either. Besides, it was a relief that the boy even woke in the first place let alone allowed Porthos to feed him.
The chamber remained filled with the sound of soft breathing as the stars began to fade outside the large windows. Porthos scooted back to the boy's side, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. The two of them would be told to sleep when the Father woke and found them to be awake but he didn't find himself minding. It would mean he'd have to catch up on the night of sleep he'd missed - not that he hated missing it either - and he stayed near the boy, should anything be required of him.
The boy nudged his arm as the first hints of dawn light began to peek over the rooftops. He glanced down to find himself staring at the boy's right hand as it cradled a small trinket in his palm. There was powdered dirt all over the boy's lap and under his nails which made Porthos think he'd clutched the trinket after it'd fallen in the mud.
He slowly picked the trinket out of the boy's hand, peering at its dirty frame for a moment before he gave up trying to decipher it past the dirt. He ran his tongue over the small oval, ignoring the soft slap to his shoulder, and rubbed it against his sleeve. He held it up to the light again, staring in awe at the silver casing embossed with a family crest that was rounded by slivers of blue sapphire.
"This your family's crest?" he asked. The boy blushed before his eyes fell to his lap.
Porthos frowned.
"A friend give this to you?" The boy smiled. Porthos hummed in approval as he stared at the trinket once more. He pressed it back into the boy's palm, folding his tiny fingers around it again.
"That'll need a chain then," he chuckled. The boy stared at him as Porthos smirked. "I'll take care of it."
