Porthos
All he could think was about how this couldn't be happening. Not to them. Not to the Inseparables. They were survivors.
They had narrow escapes, but never misses. Not until now, anyways.
Porthos put up a cold exterior, because someone had to take care of them. He felt numb. He wished this was a dream.
Porthos looked down at Aramis, curled into a ball close to d'Artagnan's head, whispering to himself in Spanish and curling his fingers through his hair, tears running down his cheeks.
He looked beside him to Athos, whose face wasn't supposed to be that shade of gray. Whose face wasn't supposed to show grief like that. Whose body wasn't supposed to be heaving with silent sobs.
He looked to Milady, and all the other Musketeers that had come with them to bring d'Artagnan home alive. He didn't want to see the other Musketeers take their hats off to honor their fallen comrade. Their brother. He didn't want to see Milady stand that still with such a blank expression on her face, eyes flickering slowly between her estranged husband and d'Artagnan's dead body.
Porthos interpreted all of this numbly, because he couldn't be weak. Someone had to take care of them.
He blinked the tears out of his eyes, letting them fall to the ground before roughly pushing his way out of the room. He chose to block out Athos calling his name, begging him to come back.
Porthos ran. If he ran far enough, d'Artagnan wouldn't be dead. If he ran far enough, he never would have opened the door.
He found stairs. Stairs were good.
He ran up. They hadn't looked up here yet. Maybe d'Artagnan was up here, badly hurt and in need of medical assistance. Maybe he was up here, and would be so grateful that Porthos has finally found him. 'There you are,' he'd say. 'What took you so long? I've been waiting.' And Porthos would pull him into the tightest hug he'd ever given anyone before. And then, d'Artagnan would ask 'How's Constance? Is she okay?' And Porthos would reply, 'No, she's hurt, but she'll be so much better when she finds out you're alive.' And then-
And then Porthos heard footsteps behind him. So he growled out, "Leave me alone, Athos."
"No." That word sounded broken. Athos did not sound broken. Not ever. Porthos stopped running.
"Please," he begged.
The word came again, "No." He pulled Porthos into a hug, and the dam broke.
d'Artagnan
D'Artagnan woke up peacefully. He wasn't slapped awake. Wasn't whipped or kicked awake. It was nice, until he realized why he woke up. He was sweating and shivering.
His wounds were infected.
His back was searing against the splintery wood. His broken foot was throbbing trying to support his weight. Each breath he took felt like glass shards were embedding themselves deeper and deeper in his lungs- probrably due to the broken ribs. His most recent gunshot wound was pulsing with heat. And his head felt like a horse had used it for his last meal, spitting it out when he discovered d'Artagnan didn't taste good.
After a few seconds of staying awake, panting and straining, he realized Diego was standing directly in front of him, about five feet away, and his mouth was moving.
D'Artagnan couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear anything, not even the sound of his own breath. He opened his mouth and said "I can't hear you. I can't hear anything."
Diego's eyes narrowed at him, and he stepped closer, hesitating in case this was a trap.
D'Artagnan strained against his bonds and tried to blink sweat out of his eyes. Being deaf wasn't entirely new. He's been temporarily deaf before, maybe this was also for a short period of time.
When he was close, Diego carefully took a knife out of his pocket and cut his prisoner down, turning to the men flanking him and giving them directions, presumably to keep d'Artagnan alive since he was needed so badly.
D'Artagnan was picked up off the ground by the Spanish men and taken from the empty room.
Diego was following closely behind- he wouldn't let his only bargaining chip die if he could help it. He needed DeWinter too badly.
Aramis
He wanted revenge. Aramis was ashamed that that was the first thing that he thought.
Porthos ran off, Athos followed him, and no one else dared to come close to d'Artagnan's body when Aramis was this close. He had stopped crying a few minutes ago, and Porthos and Athos still weren't back.
Where were they?
Aramis looked down at d'Artagnan's fleur-de-lis, the one that he had so proudly earned. Even charred, Aramis recognized the familiar pattern. He let his eyes wander on his friend, trying to find something, anything, that could prove that this wasn't d'Artagnan. The height matched, the hair was present, and his uniform...
He wanted for this to be a dream.
After a few minutes of searching, nothing he could think of could disprove his theory- d'Artagnan really was dead.
Porthos and Aramis came back shortly after, both sets of eyes puffy and red. "What do we do now?"
"Constance asked for the body back," Athos whispered. "Should we…?"
Milady hesitantly walked in, "I think you should. He served honorably, and never wavered from his duty. He deserves a proper burial, instead of being left here to rot."
The three of them nodded, "It's decided."
Aramis cleared his throat, "Not to ask the awkward question, but how do we transport a mostly charred body six hours away without further damaging him? We can't just carry him in a sac."
"We'll make a makeshift casket, or look for one lying around and take shifts between two men carrying it. It'll take awhile but it'll get done. We'll bring him home," Athos said.
Treville, the Palace
"Excuse me, sire, I have a note from Captain Athos of the Musketeers."
Both the King and the Queen were present. "Say it," the King commanded.
The messenger took a deep breath before looking at Treville nervously, and Treville felt his knees weaken.
"Say it! I won't ask again," Louis snapped.
"Peace, sire," Anne whispered, blood draining from her face. She nodded encouragingly at the boy.
"They found d'Artagnan, your Majesties."
"Oh that is wonderful news! I can't wait to hear from him aga-" Louis started.
"He's dead."
Treville's world went black.