Summary: "You weren't there! It's not a good story. It's long and it's awful and you didn't have to see him...see him like that. You've no right to it unless Porthos decides you do."

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.


ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

**Three Years Later**

Porthos stopped.

The oppressive heat and the choking dust and the endless noise slipped away.

It was him.

Porthos couldn't remember much from the time he spent as a prisoner of the Spanish. Even years later, it remained a hazy jumble. It was probably for the best.

But across the field and through dozens of men, he was brutally clear.

Porthos knew that face.

"...Porthos."

He had seen it smiling at him in his nightmares.

"...what...don't…"

Here. Now.

After all of this.

"...is it…"

Firm pressure around his wrist had become painful.

"...Porthos!"

He pulled away, stumbling.

Athos stared at him with wide eyes. His empty hands held out low, like he was trying to gentle a spooked horse.

"Porthos? What is it?"

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He whipped around and looked again. The man was still there, hands bound, waiting in a line of captured Spanish.

"Who is that?" asked Athos quietly.

"He-" Porthos dragged in ragged breath. "It's him." Athos frowned.

"Who is he to-" Athos stopped. Utterly still.

And then his eyes went cold.

Porthos had seen Athos angry.

He'd seen him casually dispassionate.

But this was something else.

Ice and death.

Suddenly, Athos was moving, walking across the field at an even pace. It was terrifying how relaxed he looked.

Porthos had to stop him.

He ran to catch up and pulled Athos around.

"No."

"What?" Athos voice was smooth and calm and all the more unsettling for it.

"Captain-"

"I'll kill him."

"You can't."

"You'll find I can."

"You'll lose your command, your commission."

"I do not care."

"I do!"

"Damn command. And damn politics and diplomacy. I'm sick to death of them."

"You'll be imprisoned or hanged. For murder. You can't kill an unarmed prisoner without provocation."

"Happily."

"Yeah, 'cause being judge and executioner has sat so well with you in the past." Athos' face tightened.

"This is different."

"The war is good as done! You risk restarting somethin' we are blessed close to puttin' behind us, Athos."

"How do I walk away?" raged Athos, shaking, the cool shell cracking. "How do I let him live, Porthos, after what he did to you? I couldn't...I couldn't do anything then. Now I can."

Porthos understood. He did. God knows what he'd be doing right now, rolls reversed. Hell itself wouldn't stop him. But he couldn't let Athos throw away everything he'd earned, his life and freedom.

The war had taken enough. He couldn't lose another brother.

"Am I alright?" Athos frowned at the redirection. Porthos stepped closer, lowering his head to Athos. "You kept sayin' I was fine. That I was alright. Am I or not?"

Athos voice was quiet, but fierce.

"You are better than fine. You are even stronger and faster and braver than you were before."

"He's on the losin' side of the war. He didn't get any information from me. He didn't break me. He failed at everythin' he tried." Porthos looked up to watch as the Spanish officer was led away. "Let him live with it."

A surprising grip pulled him down and Athos planted a rough kiss on his cheek.

When he straightened up, Athos was staring at him, eyes damp.

"I cannot understand you, Porthos du Vallon. I flounder in the face of a heart like yours."

He felt his cheeks heat, but he didn't look away from Athos.

"I want to go home, Athos. All of us." Athos let out a long breath.

"And so we shall."


ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He'd been careful.

The guards were Musketeers.

Seasoned men with undoubted loyalty.

Men who knew.

Knew who the man in the cell was.

What he'd done.

They silently opened the door as he approached.

Athos studied the man who stood in the center of the small, windowless room.

"Nearly three years ago, you captured one of my men. Tortured him." The Spaniard didn't look surprised.

"We were at war."

"And you think that absolves you?"

"I don't seek your absolution."

"You beat him. Whipped him. But he gave you nothing. You learned nothing from him. You did not kill him. You did not kill any of things that make him one of the finest men I know. Not his bravery. Not his kindness." Athos circled the prisoner. "He wants you to live. To remember and endure with your failure. Your failure with him. Your failure with the war."

"Temporary, I'm sure." Athos arched an eyebrow. "Come, señor. We both know there will always be another war."

Athos studied him a long moment and then nodded.

"You're probably right." Athos drew his sword.

The man finally looked nervous.

"You said he wished me to live."

"He does. But he is a far better man than I."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos shut the door behind him.

Alain and Thierry nodded.

The Spanish officer would disappear.

No one would ever be certain what happened to him.

Perhaps a clerical error.

If Athos had a moment's guilt, it was for being less than honest with Porthos.

But only that.


A/N: *screams and runs away*