"Wake up Musketeer."

Porthos jolted awake as a boot connected with the side of his leg. He blinked wildly, trying to focus on the room around him and get his bearings. The candles seemed too bright for a moment and he shook his head, hissing as a headache spiked behind his eyes. He took a moment to allow the pain to settle, before raising his gaze and glaring into Durant's smiling face. He grinned to himself grimly at the sight. Durant was a mess. A mask of bruises and cuts all inflicted by his own two hands. The man walked with a limp towards him, rage blazing off him in waves at Porthos' expression. It seemed Porthos had taken a chunk out of his pride as well as his body

"You finding something funny here scum?" he snarled, kicking out once again.

"I just reckon you should thank me, for improving your face," Porthos answered, not so much as wincing at the pain which sparked through his leg at the abuse. In truth he was a complete mess. He glanced around the room, a view he had come to expect as much as resent.

He had been dragged from Durant's broken form back in the clearing. His heart almost breaking as well as soaring with joy as his brothers had tore from the battle. They at least had managed to get away. He had thought to destroy Durant with his bare hands. Rip his life from him for what he had done to his friends. To Tristan. But many hands had pulled him back and a vicious punch had put an end to that intention, sending him deep down into unconsciousness.

The next time he had woken he had found himself chained to a tree in a rushed camp, his entire body aching as though he had been trampled by several horses. His heart had been as heavy as his head. Still was to be honest. He had fought against the chains like an animal. Visions of ships and people packed tightly together flashing through his mind. He hadn't fully gained his senses back just then. Confusion was his only friend until he had been sent back to the darkness once again by one of Durant's men.

Now every time he opened his eyes he was greeted by garishly ornate decoration and the almost continuous flickering of candlelight. d'Avery had had him installed as a grotesque ornament in the corner of the modest dining room they had talked with him in originally. A trophy to what he claimed was winning the war against the Musketeers who had dared dirty his courtyard. Porthos had been chained, none too gently, to one of the four large pillars which cornered the room. Across from which was the overtly ornamental chair the Baron favoured at the head of the lavish table. The man himself lounged, a seemingly endless glass of wine perched in a slack hand. He sipped at it continuously with a smug grin plastered across his face at the raucous celebration of his men sitting around the table itself and also in various pockets of the room.

Personally Porthos did not understand what they had to celebrate. The force of men under d'Avery's hand had lost almost fully one third of its number, and the Baron had to know that some sort of retribution was heading his way. Or maybe not. He was not a military man. Perhaps he genuinely thought that by seeing off a group of six men he had won his freedom. Fool.

Porthos knew in his heart that his friends would be coming for him. Of that he had no doubt. A pang of worry shot through him though at the thought of them. None of them had looked their best before the skirmish he had been captured in, and the whelp. Well the whelp had taken a bullet for sure. Lord knew how badly the boy had been injured. But he felt, that with the bond they had forged that somehow, if something truly awful had happened to any of the three of them he would know. Their welfare was a constant niggle in his mind. He fidgeted as it thrummed almost uncomfortably as he focused on it now.

If he was thankful of one thing during his incarceration, it was the opportunity of rest. Though d'Avery's men jeered and cursed and even physically abused him, even they had to sleep, and he had managed to all but catch up on the hours that had been deprived to him over their mad dash through the forest. If there was one thing Porthos could do it was sleep in any situation. Years at the Court had seen to that. Not many had the luxury of a soft place to lie their head of a night, and he had had his fair share of practise at sleeping upright. Something he was putting to good use. His muscles, though bruised and aching from his rough mistreatment, had finally shaken off the leaden, heavy feeling he had come to almost expect when he tried to move.

Porthos blinked, looking round the room again. The sight turned his stomach. What the wretched inhabitants of the court wouldn't give for the coin which would cover the cost of a gilded spoon from this moron's table. A luxury like that could easily provide the means to feed a small family for a week, and d'Avery had a banquet's worth of them; and knives, and forks. Plates, furniture, hangings. The entire room was dripping money although d'Avery had quite obviously depleted his coffers decking out the place. His modestly sized mansion could only be worth so much. He was overcompensating to the highest degree.

"You do know they're still going to come for you right?"

He couldn't help himself. He had tired of hearing of the way his friends and comrades had been murdered and hurt and hunted. Durant and his men telling the stories over and over again as they threw ale down their necks and over themselves. d'Avery encouraging the tales as if he were living vicariously through them. Porthos knew a man like him would never dare to dirty his silken gloves with such matters.

"Pray tell dog, who is it who is it who is going to be, as you so eloquently put it, 'coming for me'?"

Porthos wanted nothing more than to head butt the smile from d'Avery's face. He felt as though he was channelling Aramis himself as his mouth opened seemingly of its own accord.

"The Musketeers. The Red Guard. 'ell at this point I reckon the Cardinal 'imself wouldn't be past mounting 'is 'orse," Porthos said, a mirthless grin of his own gracing his face.

"The Red Guard? The Musketeers? You can only deliver threats using the names of those we have already defeated? My dear, you shall have to work harder than that to attempt to scare me." At d'Avery's words, jeers broke out aimed at Porthos. In response to the clamour and the various tankards and objects thrown his way, Porthos did not even flinch. His grin becoming unnerving now.

"Oh you may 'ave managed to best six of us. But we managed to take down a lot of your men first. Imagine when ten. Twenty. Even thirty of the boys in blue turn up. You'd best find yourself a sword Baron, just so your lifeless corpse manages to look a little less cowardly than your face does now."

d'Avery's cheeks coloured at the words. His grin turning to a grimace of rage, and not a little fear if Porthos was reading the man's face right. Good. To hell with him.

"Durant. I believe it's time you trained this dog to stop snarling at his master," he bit out without breaking eye contact with the stricken Musketeer.

"You ain't my master," Porthos raged, pulling at the chains as pure anger flooded his body. He belonged to no man.

"But of course I am. That is exactly how property works," d'Avery said smirking, clearly loving the effect he was having on Porthos. "I took you from your previous owners so now by all the laws of the land you belong to me."

"They are my brothers," Porthos yelled, kicking out at Durant who was approaching him slowly, still hesitant to come within arm's reach of the giant even though he was quite obviously incapacitated.

"Oh I'm sure that's exactly what they wanted you to think as they let you potter about your little bolt hole no doubt clearing up after the horses and the actual Musketeers," d'Avery continued, eyes glittering with his amusement, "why they even gave you your very own uniform bless your little heart. You can dress yourself in all the finery of the world my dear. It will never cover the stink of what someone like you is born for. You will of course let such ideas leave your head now you are mine however. I think we'll start you off slowly. You're one of the strong ones. You'll do well working in my kitchens to start with. The women down there struggle to lift those heavy potato sacks themselves. Then once you've proved yourself I might let you wait on my very table; an honour I'm sure you'll agree although that scar is an ugly thing. We'll not be able to have you show yourself during formal occasions. Then, once you're all used up this side of France, I'll sell you to someone who has use for such muscles and off you'll trot to a life of sunshine and hard labour."

Porthos tried to ignore the words, to let them wash over him. He grinned at d'Avery, the grin becoming taut as his monologue continued, turning to a grimace and finally screwing up into a mask of rage as he snarled, impotently, pulling at the chains until the abrasions where they looped around his biceps tore and blood trickled freely down his arms. d'Avery just laughed at the anger aimed his way, before suddenly seeming to find the sounds tearing from Porthos distasteful.

Porthos for his part, managed to bring his screaming anger under control. He gazed at the ground, chest heaving, before slowly looking back up at the Baron.

"This dog is going to rip your throat out."

The words were so cold, so menacing, that they wiped the smirk from d'Avery's face as they washed over him before he finally gathered himself up and plastered on the bravado once again.

"Durant."

At his word, the man closed into Porthos, unable to continue his hesitation for fear of losing face in front of his troops. He slapped the club in his hand once before stepping forward and raining blows down onto the crumpled Musketeer at his feet.

A groan ripped from his mouth as he dragged himself back to consciousness who knew how many hours later. If he thought he hurt before he was mistaken. Every muscle screamed bloody murder at him as he tried to pull himself back into a sitting position. He turned and spat a globule of blood, trying to get the copper tang from out of his mouth. There was enough about him to make sure he aimed for it to land on one of d'Avery's fine silken rugs as opposed to one of the wooden floor boards. He attempted a grin to himself as it splattered true to his aim, but all he could manage was a grimace.

It took a moment for him to register, now the room was beginning to darken as the night lay upon them, that his vision was not as good as it could have been. It took another moment for him to realise it was because his left eye had swollen completely shut after this latest abuse from Durant. What little fight was left in him called for his blood as well as the Baron's.

He panted as he pushed himself backwards, trying to ease at least some of the aches his abused body was protesting. Sitting chained to the column was in and of itself putting a strain one several of his muscles. Still it beat being strung up by his arms or forced into a cramped space he supposed.

Once the roar of pain had calmed down to a dull yell, he attempted a look at his surroundings, what little he could discern with his one good eye. It seemed the party had finally died down. The men either in a drink induced stupor or getting that way. All except the Baron. Porthos jolted a little as his eye finally rested on him.

d'Avery sat still in his ridiculous chair. So still he could almost be sleeping himself. But his eyes bored into Porthos'. A look the Musketeer could not place upon his face. Part fear for certain. Part question.

"What?"

d'Avery said nothing for a long moment, then he shuffled minutely in his seat. Still staring at Porthos. Still contemplating.

"So much contempt from one such as yourself."

"What exactly do you mean by that then?" Porthos grunted, knowing exactly what d'Avery was getting at. He was no stranger to the looks and the attitude that stuck to him like the colour of his skin. Once upon a time it would have bothered him but these days, he was proud of the man he was and what was more, he was not scared of allowing that pride to show. Too long he had spent in the shadows, shame thickening the air around him for something that was beyond his very control. No one could pick how they would look when they came into the world. A man could only choose how he would live his life and dragging himself from the dirt of the Court into Musketeer blue proved how determined he was to live the very best life he could.

"You should learn your place," d'Avery sneered though he still sat stock still. Still staring at Porthos as though his very eyes would give him whatever answers he seemed to seek.

"Oh I have," Porthos began, smirking at the trumped up Baron, "my place is with my brothers. By their side making sure the King is safe from people like you." At this he paused, narrowing his eyes a little as if looking for his own answers. "Not that you're that much of a threat as it 'appens."

"Must I remind you that twice now the King's dogs have barked at my door and twice I have sent them home with their tails between their legs," the Baron began, fury flashing in his eyes as Porthos laughed out loud to this.

"Aye you might 'ave sent a few of us 'ome but wait till the rest of the 'pack' arrives," Porthos answered, his smirk morphing into an unsettling grin. The Baron shuffled in his seat. His eyes flashing with a glint of fear he barely got under control.

"You think they will bother coming for you?" he sneered, attempting and failing to keep the note of contempt in his voice.

"Well if I wasn't so sure they'd be coming for me I'd be damn certain they're coming for you," Porthos said, his grin growing wider.

"If they so much as dare set a boot upon my courtyard..." the Baron began.

"Yeah yeah, you'll send them 'ome blah blah blah. Listen. They're going to come here, muskets blazing, and that pretty, fancy head of yours is going to look lovely with a noose for a necklace," Porthos barked, all hint of a smile gone now and blood tinged spittle flying from his mouth at the force of his shouting. One or two of the drunken men stirred from their various positions around the room but did not wake. Not that Porthos cared. He would happily throttle the lot of them so furious was his spike of rage.

"Insolent slave!"

"Poncey arse'ole!"

Both men stopped dead quiet for a moment, the Baron's chest heaving, hairs escaping his ridiculously coiffed wig and flying wild. He'd thrown himself to his feet at his words, now he seemed to crumble back into himself as he attempted to keep some dignity whilst dropping back into his seat. Porthos had tensed at the man's movement. Not knowing for certain just what he was capable of. He'd yet to show any kind of inclination to violence brought about by his own hand. To Porthos he was little more than a decorated, pompous arse, to whom the very idea of dirtying his hands with something as beneath him as fighting would be abhorrent. It seemed his conclusion was the right one though there was always that twinge of uncertainty that the man might be more of a sleeping lion. Something which wouldn't react well to being poked with a stick. Porthos was beyond caring though at this point. He was ready to smack him with a tree.

He had just opened his mouth to tell d'Avery exactly what it was he thought of him, when all of a sudden there was a tremendous cacophony of noise coming from the hallway. After the initial shock of the commotion wore off, however, the battle roars and clinking metal were like music to Porthos' ears and a huge, this time genuine, grin broke out across his face. Turning to the Baron, who had frozen in his chair with terror in his eyes, he caught his attention.

"They're here."

So finally, the return of Porthos. I haven't ever really spent any time just writing from Porthos' point of view and I actually found I really enjoyed it. He's a much more complex character than I really gave him credit for. That and he's a bamf.

Anyways, I'm furiously writing the next chapter currently. So hopefully it'll be up soon!

As always, all comments and critiques are welcomed.