AN: By holding your hand in the fire, you might take the burn for somebody else. By holding your hand in the salt water, you seal the scar forever more. By holding your hand out for somebody to take, they see the wound and think you weak. By holding your hand close to your chest, it stays empty, but at least it's safe.
Gavillier's smile did not reach his eyes, and Aramis wanted to grab Porthos's arm as he stepped forward and demand he refuse the duel, but he knew he couldn't. To do so would make Porthos appear weak before the watchful eyes of the crew, and he couldn't risk the danger it would put his lover in.
Porthos smiled easily, but Aramis could see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the coiled readiness in his step. He was taking this seriously, even if Gavillier treated it lightly.
"You're on," he called, and Gavillier's predatory grin widened.
A murmur of excitement ran through the crew as they stepped back, forming a broad circle around the pair as they neared one another. Gavillier nodded easily to Sauvagne as he stepped forward, drawing the handsome cutlass that hung from his waist. Gold trim gleamed on the hilt and the sharp edge of the curved blade glinted. He swung it dramatically through the air with a high whistling sound.
Porthos drew his own sword, plain in comparison to the ostentation of Gavillier's but arguably the deadlier of the pair. The blade was thicker than the average rapier, and the heavy hilt was a weapon in its own right. He had no need of decoration: his was a soldier's blade.
He reached Gavillier and raised his blade to indicate his readiness. The entire crew had gone silent: there were no jeers this time, no bets on the outcome. The air was thick with tension.
Gavillier lifted his blade and laid the curved edge against Porthos's, a feral smile visible beneath his beard. Porthos did not return it.
There was no call to begin, no bowing between combatants. One moment Gavillier's blade was poised crossing Porthos's, and the next he was lunging in viciously. His sword crashed down on Porthos's, who parried it neatly, stepping back and around to bring his own sword whistling down in a cleaving motion.
Gavillier blocked, twisting his wrist to break free and circling like a predator, eyes wary. Porthos tracked him, broad blade held at the ready.
This time he moved first, dancing in with a speed that would never cease to amaze Aramis, launching to one side and bringing his blade up with blinding speed, aiming for Gavillier's ribcage, but the privateer was just as fast and dodged aside, knocking Porthos's blade aside with the hilt of his cutlass.
Aramis frowned, watching the exchange. Something was different. As Porthos lunged in again, he realized what it was.
Porthos wasn't fighting like a Musketeer. There were none of the moves he'd learned at the garrison, elegant sweeps and perfectly timed thrusts. This was visceral, instinctive. It spoke of heaving decks and whistling shot sending splinters past your face during battle, where every step had to be perfect or you'd slip in the blood of your enemies.
Porthos was fighting like a pirate.
It was… well, it was unexpectedly attractive, really.
Aramis was snapped out of his moment of appreciation but a loud cheer from the crew. Porthos had leaned neatly out of the path of a whistling sweep, hacking ferociously at Gavillier's exposed arm, but the captain twisted out of reach, aiming a cut at Porthos's stomach that might have killed him if he hadn't parried it.
Aramis had never expected the match to seem quite this deadly, and a sliver of fear crept into his heart. Gavillier was supposed to be Porthos's friend.
Porthos darted out and away, using a nearby barrel to launch himself forward at an angle, knocking Gavillier's blade aside with ease, but Gavillier dropped to the deck with enviable grace, rolling neatly and coming back to his feet with his blade still angled towards Porthos.
Porthos grinned, a feral look in his eyes, and threw himself forward, a dizzying rain of blows falling from his rapier as he came on like a hurricane, but Gavillier parried each, refusing to be forced backwards.
Then Porthos landed a blow that shook Gavillier's arms and nearly knocked the blade from his hand. For a split second, Aramis saw an opening, a simple way for Porthos to snake his blade around to kiss Gavillier's throat and end the bout.
He didn't take it.
Instead, he swiped his blade to the side in a broad cut, giving Gavillier the time he needed to recover and go on the attack.
Aramis gaped at him, sensing Athos shifting restlessly at his side. Had Porthos not seen the opportunity?
Gavillier slammed a shoulder into Porthos as he ducked beneath the edge of his blade, sending Porthos staggering backwards. His foot caught a coil of rope left carelessly across the deck and he stumbled. Gavillier leapt forward and pressed the tip of the blade to Porthos's stomach, smiling.
"I win."
Porthos lowered his blade, chuckling as Gavillier clapped him on the shoulder and the crew erupted in cheers for their captain, but Aramis felt sick.
Porthos had lost.
He had lost.
Any thought that he ought to tell his lover about Gavillier's unwelcome attention evaporated. How could he risk it, when he knew Porthos would challenge the man on the spot, a man to whom he had lost once before?
Gavillier might well kill him.
Aramis would never take that chance. He would let Gavillier do whatever he pleased with him before he would risk Porthos's life needlessly. And if Porthos died, Athos and D'Artagnan would certainly follow.
He could not be responsible for that.
Men were streaming forward, congregating around the fighters, compliments flying thick in the air. Aramis stepped back from the press of bodies as Athos and D'Artagnan shoved their way towards Porthos.
He needed a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke to his lover.
An uneasy feeling rose along the back of his neck and he half turned to see Sauvagne lurking behind him. He understood what was about to happen a heartbeat before it did and managed to keep his face blank when a heavy blow crashed into the small of his back, just to the left of his spine.
"I saw you," Sauvagne hissed dangerously, leaning down to all but whisper the words into his ear. 'Lazin' about in the tops. That just won't do. You'll stand full watch tonight."
Aramis bit back his gasps as he tried to regain the air that had been forcibly expelled from his lungs and saw Porthos slowly approaching through the crowd. He fought through the ache to stand straight as Sauvagne pushed past him, heading towards Gavillier.
Porthos finally made it through the gathered privateers and reached Aramis's side, frowning. "What did he want?" he asked, jerking his head at Sauvagne's retreating figure.
Ignoring the pain in his back, Aramis replied quickly, "Oh, he was… telling me off for lazing about in the rigging earlier."
"He shouldn't be doin' that," Porthos said, his voice a low rumble.
For a second, Aramis wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth about all of it. Gavillier's unwanted advances, and Sauvagne's brutality…
But then the image of Gavillier's cutlass digging into Porthos's stomach flashed across his mind, sending jolts of acid through his veins. The thought of that wicked blade plunging into Porthos's stomach, leaving him to bleed out, was sickening.
His own voice came back to him, echoing from so long ago now. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first. He could never let that happen to Porthos.
Thinking quickly, he said with forced neutrality, "Oh, no, I don't think he really meant it like that. He was just warning me to be more careful."
Porthos's face cleared immediately, accepting the lie. "Oh, well that's alright then." He leaned in, a conspiratorial grin on his face. "You ought to show them what you can do."
Aramis frowned at him, puzzled. He didn't seem remotely disturbed by his loss. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said slowly. "I've yet to fight on a moving ship."
But Porthos shook his head. "Nah, not a duel," he explained with a wink. "You ought to shoot something." He pressed his pistol into Aramis's hands, and the familiar weight was a comforting presence.
"Where am I going to find something to shoot all the way out here?" Aramis asked, rolling his eyes.
Porthos rolled his eyes. "Just pick a target, any target. Just something to show 'em all that you're a force to be reckoned with."
The proud smile that flashed across Porthos's face was enough to convince Aramis. "Alright, then," he chuckled, casting his gaze over the endless waves in search of a target.
For a long minute he found absolutely nothing he could shoot. He could sense Porthos beside him searching in the opposite direction. Then at last he spotted a flicker of white against the clouds that resolved itself into a large bird.
Grinning, he lifted the gun, sighting along it. Porthos turned to look at his target, and just as Aramis squeezed the trigger, cried, "No!"
He was too late. The bird tumbled from the sky to break on the waves. It was one of the greatest shots he'd ever made.
He turned to look at Porthos, smiling, but Porthos was staring back at him in shock.
"Aramis, what have you done?"
"You shot what?" Belén's voice echoed wildly around the hold, and Aramis winced at the shock in his tone.
"An albatross," he sighed heavily, remembering the hatred in the eyes of the crew when they'd caught sight of the limp white body bobbing in the waves. Even from a distance, Aramis could see one massive white wing trailing brokenly in the blue water before the corpse had disappeared.
Even Porthos had looked at him with genuine fear before Sauvagne had come up bellowing for the crew to get back to work and sent Aramis down to the hold. He hadn't even given him a job, obviously desperate to get him out of sight before the crew began to riot.
Not that Aramis even understood why, of course. Amongst the angry yells he'd heard something about ill luck and curses and the name of the seabird, but that was all.
Belén was watching him in horror, but at least he didn't look angry. "That's not good."
"So I gathered," Aramis snapped, regretting it at once when Belén looked hurt. It was hardly the boy's fault, though to be fair, he himself shouldn't be blamed for whatever it was he'd done when no one bothered to tell him anything about this bloody ship and its ways. "I'm sorry, my friend. I do not mean to be harsh, but I've yet to be told what I did that was so terrible."
"Well… you shot an albatross," Belén said unhelpfully, reminding him forcibly of D'Artagnan.
Aramis prayed for patience. "Yes, I know that."
"Well, an albatross is supposed to be good luck. If you see one, it means the voyage will go well, but if you kill one… I've heard that some sailors ignore the legend and eat them, but no one knows what becomes of them. They're probably eaten by sharks or something dreadful like that."
"But why is it such terrible luck to kill one?"
Belén thought for a moment. "Old Dupard told me that albatrosses are the souls of lost sailors, those who died at sea, come back to feel like part of a crew once more. He also said that to kill one will bring a curse down upon the whole ship because it lets the spirit loose."
"What kind of a curse?" Aramis asked reluctantly. He didn't hold with all this superstitious nonsense, but if the privateers believed it, he might be in serious trouble.
Belén shrugged, looking nervous. "All sorts of things. Storms and leaks and sickness and days with no wind… It's serious business," he finished apologetically.
"So the bird I killed will cause a disaster. Lovely," Aramis groaned, dropping his head back against the wall. "Nice to know I've graduated from useless to bringer of doom."
Belén didn't crack a smile at his week attempt at a joke. "This could be really bad," he said uneasily. "I mean, most of the crew already doesn't like you…"
Aramis shrugged, already resigning himself. "How much worse can it get?"
He headed back up to the deck a few minutes later, figuring he'd be better off if he was seen being productive, and found out the answer to his own question.
Things could get a lot worse.
Porthos was nowhere to be found, and Sauvagne set him to swabbing the deck for the afternoon, shoving one of the handheld brushes into his hands rather than a broom. Aramis could sense the hostile glares being thrown his way, but it wasn't until he'd finished a great section of the upper deck that things came to a head.
Men began tramping heavily over the pristine surface, trailing grimy footprints over the clean planks. Aramis washed the sections again without a word, hoping that by accepting the retaliation he would rob it of its pleasure.
This was not to be the case.
When they realized he wasn't going to react to their antagonism, they grew more creative. One of the men fishing over the side dumped a full net onto the deck, sending water and fish carcasses sliding everywhere just as Sauvagne was walking by. A barked order to be more careful forced Aramis's tormentors to get more creative.
They began to pass by him, knocking heavily into his shoulders until he was being buffeted to one side or another every few minutes. The third mate, an ugly, thickset man, was leaning against a railing nearby, watching him for any response, so Aramis had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.
One time someone laid a gentle hand on his arm, helping him up when he took more than a moment to right himself, and Aramis looked up, hoping it might be Porthos, but it wasn't.
It was D'Artagnan, and the look of anger on his face sent a wave of affection through Aramis, hardening him to the mistreatment.
"Just ignore them," he murmured, sensing how close the boy was to retaliating on his behalf.
"They have no right to treat you like that," D'Artagnan hissed furiously.
Aramis shrugged, ignoring the ache forming in his shoulders. "They'll get over it. Best to let them get it out of their systems now than allow it to build into graver resentment."
The boy's frown only deepened and Aramis realized he had no intention of leaving. Sighing, he added truthfully, "You'll only make it worse and make yourself a target too. I'll be fine. We've all taken worse than this." He layered disdain thickly over the final words, and D'Artagnan cracked a reluctant half smile.
"Please, just go."
D'Artagnan still looked murderous, but at last he nodded reluctantly and scrambled back into the rigging, sending a glare so full of rage at a man who had been approaching that he turned tail and vanished back into the safety of the hold.
D'Artagnan's intervention bought him a temporary respite, but before long he was suffering the same treatment once again. He could see the boy watching from the rigging, grateful for the supportive presence.
At last one of the men landed an unusually hard blow, his hand actually catching Aramis upside the head as he passed, and Aramis knocked over his bucket of soapy water as he fell, sloshing suds across the clean deck.
The third mate straightened at once, a cruel gleam in his eye. "Clumsy,' he sneered, crossing through the mess and casually kicking it further about. "You ought ter have finished ages ago."
Aramis rose to his feet, sensing what was about to come before it did. The blow landed heavily against his stomach, almost hard enough to make him retch. Reflexively, tears blurred his vision as he coughed.
A second later there was a thump on the deck beside him, and he straightened with difficulty to see D'Artagnan had bravely come to his defense.
Brave, but idiotic.
"Leave him alone," he said hotly, anger flashing in his eyes. "Can't you see it's your men who're messing everything up?"
"What's it to you?" the mate asked, squaring his shoulders threateningly. D'Artagnan did not back down.
"He's my friend," he said firmly. There were several snickers from the rigging at D'Artagnan's declaration, but Aramis only shook his head at the boy's temper even as he felt gratitude warm him.
The mate's face twisted into something bitter as he realized D'Artagnan fully intended to challenge his authority.
"Puppies only yelp when they're smacked," he growled, his hand cracking out to catch D'Artagnan on the jaw. The lad reeled back, unprepared for the attack. All around them, Aramis could sense eyes watching, waiting to see what would happen.
Guilt burned through Aramis like fire and he leapt forward, pushing the man back when he attempted to move in for a second blow.
Obviously enraged past the point of reason, the mate shouted, "Strike a superior officer, will you, scum?"
Aramis did not even try to stop what happened next, knowing he'd only make it worse. He was just glad to keep the man's attention off D'Artagnan. The mate's hand smashed against Aramis's cheek, setting his head ringing and blurring his vision as he stumbled back.
"Lads!" the man called, sick pleasure in his voice. "This man struck me. We all know what that means, right?"
Suddenly hands were grabbing his arms with bruising force, dragging him across the deck. He heard D'Artagnan's furious cry behind him and guessed others were restraining the boy.
At last his vision cleared enough for him to see what was happening, and bile rose in his throat.
They were taking him to the mast.
He heard D'Artagnan shouting behind him, nearly incoherent with rage, but he couldn't focus on the words.
Not again, not again, his mind was chanting desperately as he frantically struggled to stem the flow of memories he'd tried to bury.
And then he saw the whip.
That's an awfully evil cliffhanger isn't it? I'll try to get the next one up on Wednesday of this week so you won't have to suffer for too long! Drop me a review so I know you're still enjoying it ;)
