I don't own these people!

A roar fills the room. It takes Porthos a few seconds to realise it's coming from him. The whip bites into the flesh of his back, causing another roar to leave his chest. Aramis. Athos. Treville. Flea. Charon. Aramis. Athos. He filled his mind with their faces. It wasn't a whip, it was Aramis stitching him up. Soon Aramis would punch him in the arm and tell him to be more careful next time. And Athos would appear with wine. Soon. Another lash causes a groan. He'd long since given up suffering in silence, noise meant you were alive. It showed the prisoners in the cell next door he was still fighting. Not broken yet. He could stop the lashes by telling the man with the whip what he knew. That was the worst part. Aramis. Athos. Treville. Flea. Charon. France. Aramis. Flea. France. Aramis. France. He was doing it for them. He wasn't going to break down for them. For Aramis. He was going to stay strong.

When the lashes finally pause, Porthos had counted about fifty. It was the first time he'd had the whip, and it would scar. His captor was growing frustrated, his prisoners hadn't broken yet. He knew he got the worst, and that was good. He wouldn't want anyone else to get that treatment. He cared about them all now, but that's happens when you see someone at their worst. It makes you want to see them at their best. The man scowled at him before his men came in and escorted him out of the room, away from the table of torture. He was too injured to fight, and there were too many of them. They threw him in the cell, but two men caught him and carried him over to the wall. There was a pile of hay to sleep on there. The woman with red hair gently lay him on his back, wrapping a strip of fabric tightly around his chest. She buttoned his shirt over the makeshift bandage and went to leave, but turned back and whispered in his ear, "Stay strong." Sleep made his eyelids heavy, and his last thought before closing his eyes was a silent prayer he was too tired for the nightmares tonight. Sadly it was not to be.

He dreamt of Aramis, crying in front of an open grave. The grave was of crumbling stone, and the words read: 'Here lies Porthos, Musketeer and brother.' He opened his mouth but no sound came out, he tried desperately to walk forward, to comfort his brother. But Aramis turned his head, his hat tipping to reveal a laughing skull. Fire was burning in his hollow eyes, his mouth stretched in a deathly grin. A hole appeared in front of Porthos, and though he clawed at the soil surrounding it he fell in. An open coffin laid open, waiting for him. It slammed shut over him. The world went black. He lashed out with his hands, his feet, but nothing moved. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe it was better that way.

He woke up in a cold sweat, the skeleton face blurry, a dim reminder of the terrors of the night. He always felt guilty for breaking down, in his nightmares he could never do it. He always ended up giving up. When he saw Athos die in a thousand different, gruesome ways, when he saw the Court burn, when he saw anything happen to Aramis. Anything bad at all. He needed to get out of here so he could protect his brother again. He needed to keep him safe.

A hand was tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up at the man, tall with a nose that had been broken at one point in his youth. Porthos could hear men outside. Sick, drunken laughter. He looked around to see who the source of their mirth was, and dread clutched at his throat. The woman with red hair was gone. The door opened, light escaping past the broad soldiers of two men. She was pushed onto the floor, and with one last guffaw, the door shut, the lock clicking into place. There was a flurry of movement as those who could walk went to help her, carrying her to the pile of straw and laying her on it. Red hot fury flooded his veins as the source of the sick laughter was revealed. The side of the woman's face was black and blue, her left eye swollen shut. Bruises in various shades almost covered her arms and her lip was bleeding. His vision was tinted red. He felt her hand on his arm, her nails digging in. "Stay strong." Her lips barely moved, and her words were hoarse, but you could tell everyone was clinging to those words.

In the cells life was hard. And sometimes you felt like giving up. But you have to stay strong.


The cards were curved at the edges. They had spent most of their life up a sleeve. Porthos had purchased them from the market when they had first met. His card tricks had impressed countless women since Porthos had sat down and taught Aramis. How to slip a card into the hand, to hold two cards together so they look like one. The two of them sat at a table with a bottle of wine as Porthos beat him every time. Porthos would sigh at his attempted poker face and tilt his friend's hand back so the cards couldn't be seen. Then he'd laugh and take a swig of wine and start again. Even ale reminded Aramis of him. He'd tried to drown his guilt in drink but the bar owner recognised him and asked after his large friend. He left without saying a word. Now he sat on the windowsill, his face pressed up against the glass. He held a bottle in his hand. He took a swig, but the ale was bitter in his mouth. He once heard of a soldier who had failed to rescue a drowning man. The sea gods had punished him by turning food and drink into ashes the second they touched his mouth. He had laughed before, but now, in the dim moonlight, that tale seemed true. He couldn't eat without throwing it back up again. Every drink turned stale when it touched his lips. Alcohol had always welcomed him, but now there seemed to be no escape. He put the bottle on the table. He half expected Porthos to come barreling in and help himself to the still full bottle. But the house was silent. He settled on his bed, then lay, for the first time in a long while. He could almost feel the night terrors hovering at the back of his mind, ready to take centre stage. He closed his eyes, and sleep welcomed him as an old friend.

He was tired. The world seemed to be blurring and spinning. He looked forward to the inn. It had been too long since he had last encountered a bed. But it was already evening, and they were no where near their cosy inn and warm meal. He could just make out the distorted image of Porthos, only hearing a few words. "Sorry…map…lost…horses…tired…make camp." Make camp. Again. His head was throbbing and he felt sick. Porthos had been standing there. Just standing. And Aramis didn't know why the words came flooding out of his mouth but they did. And he regretted it as soon as the look of hurt crossed his brother's face. As Athos shook his head, not quite believing what he had just heard. They had heard hoofbeats striking the floor, twigs cracking under them. Suddenly armed me were upon them with fists and swords. He and Athos had kept their side up well, slicing and stabbing. Then the enemies were gone, their corpses surrounding the two of them. They looked towards the noise and saw a ring of men surrounding their friend. And even as they joined the fight they knew it was already too late to save him.

Aramis woke. He knew the next time he lay down his head he would relive that battle again. He lit a candle and stared into the flickering light for a moment. Then he raised his hands to the light and saw a speck of blood. The blood wouldn't come off. He rubbed and scraped and scrubbed to no use. The speck of blood multiplied until it covered his hands. He knew it wasn't his own. He knew that he had Porthos' blood on his hands. Just like he knew it would never go away.