AN: As promised, a new chapter! I hope you've all recovered from that dreadful cliffhanger ;)
Aramis has inflicted bad luck and broken mirrors upon the ship, and feels rather like a shard of bloody glass when the crack of a whip almost sounds. D'Artagnan acts like the black cat to the crew but wants to give some of his nine lives to Aramis, who wanders under far too many ladders - be they net or wood.
"I'm telling you, I think you should publically announce to the crew that the ship isn't going to be cursed just because Aramis shot an albatross," Porthos growled, trying to hide his frustration. Gavillier was being oddly uncooperative.
"And I'm telling you it would do no good! I cannot allay the superstitions formed over a lifetime of sailing!" Gavillier shot back, his amiable demeanor cracking under the pressure. "You should not have let him shoot the bird in the first place! He is your responsibility!"
Porthos had no response to that, because Gavillier was right. It had been his idea for Aramis to show off, and it would be his fault if anything happened to his lover because of it. But that didn't give Gavillier the right to just leave his crew to form a mob based on a load of mumbo-jumbo.
Raised voices drifted in through Gavillier's open window and Porthos paused, trying to hear what was being said, but the breeze snatched the words away.
He opened his mouth to insist again that his old friend do something to protect Aramis's from the crew's fears when he heard voices again, louder and more insistent. There was anger carried in on the wind.
Porthos rose immediately, ignoring Gavillier's hasty reassurances that he was "sure it was nothing," and crossed to the door. Uneasiness settled over him like a blanket as he remembered the hostile stares of the crew earlier.
He couldn't take the chance that something terrible might happen to Aramis.
Throwing the door to the cabin open, he strode out onto the deck. A crowd was gathered near the foremast, loud jeers rising from it with increasing frequency.
Gavillier hurried out behind him, frowning at the sight. "Now what?" he muttered.
Porthos didn't bother to wait for him, jogging down to the edge of the crowd and beginning to push his way through. No one gave him any notice, and he was soon reduced to simply knocking men aside when they got in his way. It seemed the whole ship had congregated.
Athos appeared at his elbow halfway through the throng, his face grim. "What's happening?" Porthos asked him, almost shouting over the roar of the crowd.
A bleak stare met his enquiring gaze. "Just hurry, dammit."
Fear spiked in his stomach and he practically threw the last few men out of his way, breaking at last into the cleared area around the mast.
The first thing he saw was D'Artagnan struggling to break free from a pair of men almost twice his size, whose arms were already covered in scratches from the irate young Musketeer.
His heart plummeted in his chest as he followed the lad's gaze, praying he wouldn't see what his brain knew he would.
Aramis was being dragged towards the mast by three men. His face was deathly pale and he was fighting like a creature possessed against the men dragging him forward. Even as Porthos watched, frozen, the third mate stepped forward and cracked Aramis hard against the jaw with the back of his hand.
Aramis went limp for a moment, stunned by the force of the blow, and the men used the reprieve to drag him closer to the mast. The afternoon sun glinted dully against iron, and the sight jolted Porthos from his paralysis.
"Stop!" The word was more a bellow of rage than any language known to man, but it did the job. The entire crowd fell silent at once, a hundred pairs of eyes turning to look at him. The third mate actually jumped.
Between his captors, Aramis had regained his feet. His eyes flicked to Porthos for half a moment, just long enough for him to see the way they were glazed over, before darting back to the third mate.
No, Porthos corrected himself, feeling sick. Not the third mate. To the whip he held in his hands with a perverse glee.
It took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to throw himself upon the men before him at once and make them pay for stirring up memories better left forgotten, but he had enough sense left to know that to start a fight now would end with he and his brothers all dead on the deck.
No, he would have to cow these men into submission some other way.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous as he stalked forward. "Release him. Now."
The men holding Aramis hesitated a heartbeat too long, so Porthos whirled on them furiously. "Now!" he roared, and all three staggered back a few steps in fright.
Aramis straightened slowly, hunched ever so slightly in on himself. His eyes never left the whip in the third mate's hand. Porthos wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but he couldn't. Not yet.
Somewhere to his left, Porthos saw that D'Artagnan's captors had wisely decided to release him as well. A moment later he and Athos appeared on either side of Aramis, looking murderous.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword as he prowled towards the third mate, who bore the look of a man being stalked by a hungry tiger.
"Yes, do tell us what this is all about." Gavillier's voice cut through the murmurs beginning to spread among the crowd, silencing them once more. He strode out to stand beside Porthos, casting a disdainful eye at his threatening stance.
"Take your hand off your sword," he ordered imperiously. "I won't have my crew threatened."
"Nor will I," Porthos spat, gripping the hilt more tightly. "I want to know what the fuck he thought he was doing."
"As do I," Gavillier said smoothly. "But there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation."
Porthos wanted to hit him, rage until the man understood that even if Aramis had killed every member of the crew in cold blood Porthos would never have allowed this, but he held his tongue, realizing there were better ways to get what he wanted.
"He 'it me!" the third mate cried, emboldened by Gavillier's presence. Sauvagne stalked up behind him, and he turned to the mate for support. "He struck a commandin' officer! That's a whippin' offense, that is!"
"He was provoked!" D'Artagnan interrupted hotly, stepping forward. "You hit me first, just because I called you out on being a terrible overseer!"
Gavillier eyed him thoughtfully. "I cannot punish him for that, for I did not see it. But from the sound of it, there are many here willing to vouch that your friend struck an officer."
He turned to Porthos, a look of aggrieved reluctance on his face. "I am sorry, my friend, but the rules are quite clear. Whipping is the only-"
"No." The word was a snarl.
Gavillier frowned. "Really, my friend, be reasonable. It's only a few lash-"
"No."
All around them, men shifted uneasily. Porthos knew he was skirting dangerously close to crossing the line from insubordinate to full on mutinous, but there was no way in hell he was ever going to allow this to happen.
He'd take down the whole ship first, and Gavillier with it, before a whip would ever touch Aramis again.
Murmurs spread through the crowd as Gavillier stared him down. He couldn't quite hear them, but he could sense the uncertainty and knew that if it came to a fight, at least part of the crowd would side with him over their captain's brutality.
Porthos knew Gavillier was trying to decide whether to give in or not. If he acquiesced and let Porthos win, he risked appearing weak before his crew. But to have his way, he knew he'd have to find some way to restrain Porthos before he could have Aramis whipped, and there was a good chance Porthos could kill him before he finished giving the order.
Cold eyes filled with hatred met his own for a long minute, then dropped away, a false smile taking the place of a grim frown.
"Perhaps this has all just been a misunderstanding," he said his voice oily as he stepped back, out of reach. "After all, your men are nothing more than landlubbers. They can't be expected to know the ways of the sea. We can forgive them this once, yes?"
"That's very generous of you," Porthos said, giving the expected reply.
Gavillier beamed, the light not quite reaching his eyes. "Excellent! Then we may put this whole sorry affair behind us. We shall end our day early, I think, and retire to the mess hall."
Porthos nodded, already stepping towards Aramis when Gavillier added, far more coldly, "Next time I shall not be so lenient."
Keeping his face blank, Porthos stepped neatly around him. He had expected the warning, but both he and Gavillier now understood that he would never allow Aramis, or any of brothers, to be whipped. If Gavillier gave that order, he would face a mutiny.
And he might not survive it.
Aramis was still staring at the third mate when Porthos reached him, the crowd already beginning to disperse at the promise of an early supper. Porthos laid a gentle hand on his arm and found himself facing glazed brown eyes.
He could see D'Artagnan stepping forward, no doubt about to ask whether Aramis was alright, but to his relief Athos grabbed the boy and dragged him off to the mess hall before he could say anything.
"Aramis?" he murmured, mindful of the handful of stragglers still on deck. Their presence was the only reason he hadn't already fallen to the rough planks on his knees to beg forgiveness for what had just happened.
With obvious difficulty, Aramis focused on him, a strained smile playing about his mouth. "I'm fine. Shall we go to dinner?"
"Athos and D'Artagnan can bring something to my cabin," he said with finality. Aramis didn't argue, allowing himself to be led below decks to Porthos's room.
Porthos pushed him gently onto the bed, but Aramis shook him off, a look of vague annoyance flashing across his face. "I'm fine. I'm not made of glass."
He accepted the reprimand without response, knowing Aramis was tense from all that had occurred. Instead of speaking the words he so wanted to, he sat beside him on the bed until D'Artagnan showed up with food, staying only long enough to apologize guiltily for getting Aramis into that mess.
At this, Aramis finally seemed to snap out of his dazed state, glaring at the young man. "It was not your fault," he said firmly, but D'Artagnan ran off before he could say more.
"Great, now he blames himself," Aramis said bitterly, pushing away the plate Porthos offered him. He hadn't really expected Aramis to eat after all that anyway. "It really wasn't his fault."
Porthos sighed, setting both plates aside. "I know. It was mine."
Aramis rolled his eyes heavenward, a flash of humor crossing his face. "Not you too."
He held up a hand when Porthos opened his mouth to apologize further. "Really, mon cher, I don't want to hear it. The only one to blame for what happened is that miserable excuse for a third mate." He shuddered melodramatically. "Ugly blighter."
"Aramis," Porthos began, torn between amusement and guilt, understanding Aramis did not want to talk about what had happened just yet. Aramis glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and leaned back slightly. A second later he dove theatrically across Porthos's lap, grinning up at him.
Porthos chuckled, accepting the easy forgiveness for what it was, even if it would be some time before he forgave himself. The tension was still too evident in his lover's body, and his smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes.
"Will you stay here tonight?" he asked hopefully, carding his fingers through Aramis's hair.
"Only if you ask nicely," Aramis teased, but Porthos could sense his relief.
Playing along, Porthos raised one hand to his heart gallantly. "Mon amour, it is my soul's one true desire that you- hey, no, stop laughin'," he said crossly, for Aramis had begun chuckling the moment he spoke. "Heartless bastard, that's what you are."
He shifted his hips so that Aramis slid with an alarmed squawk towards the floor, grabbing him at the last moment and hauling them both onto the bed.
Aramis swiped at him in mock anger, but Porthos caught his hand and yanked him in, kissing him gently until Aramis was relaxed against his chest. It was evident his lover was exhausted, and for once Porthos decided that sleep might be more important than sex.
"Go to sleep," he murmured, pulling Aramis further into his arms. Aramis sighed and settled against him, warm and pliant, wild curls tickling Porthos's nose. He was asleep in moments.
Porthos lay awake a while longer, content to just lay there feeling Aramis's warm breath against his neck. It had been too long since they'd had this.
He didn't know how long he had been lying there when he felt Aramis begin to stiffen in his arms, heartbeat thumping faster against Porthos's chest.
He grimaced. He'd been praying Aramis's sleep would be dreamless, but only a fool would have expected all that had happened would not stir up old nightmares.
Knowing it was coming didn't prevent the guilt from slamming into him afresh.
Aramis's breath hissed out in a strangled sound and Porthos carefully lifted a hand to stroke gently at dark curls, wrapping his other more securely around Aramis's waist. Gradually Aramis relaxed once more, but Porthos knew the memories would come again to torment him.
Pressing a kiss to Aramis's forehead, he settled back, pleased to find he wasn't especially tired.
He'd stay up all night if that's what it took to keep Aramis's dreams at bay.
D'Artagnan skulked in the rigging, watching the deck with a brooding glare that would have made Athos proud. From his perch, he could see Aramis oiling one of the cannons. The foul stuff seeped into everything and left slippery streaks across the deck, but at least no one was bothering him.
He hadn't missed the crews' dark looks that morning at call. Aramis was not forgiven for the albatross. The faint mark on his jaw had darkened overnight into a livid bruise, but the older Musketeer had seemed unconcerned with it, asking D'Artagnan if he'd been injured in the struggle.
Really, the man was self-sacrificing to a fault.
But Aramis wasn't the only one allowed to be protective, and so D'Artagnan had vowed to keep a weather eye on his friend. He'd be damned if he'd let that slimy third mate get his revenge.
Thankfully, that man was busy at the other end of the ship, but he wasn't the only threat. Even as D'Artagnan watched, one of the older privateers bumped heavily against Aramis, sending his hip crashing painfully against the side of the cannon.
D'Artagnan scowled, ready to leap down to the deck, but Aramis was carrying on as if nothing had happened. He settled back, curious now. A few minutes later, it happened again.
Still no reaction.
It was the work of a moment to fly through the rigging and land neatly on the railing beside Aramis, who, much to his disappointment, did not even seem startled.
"Don't stand there," he said with a small smile, gesturing at a section of the railing coated in shiny oil. "I keep forgetting not to touch things." The darkened spots on his shirt and breeches where oil had sunk in were testament to his words. D'Artagnan avoided the slick spot carefully; he had no wish to go for a swim.
He plopped down on the railing, glancing around to make sure none of the mates were in sight to tell him off. One of the older men was walking over with a shifty expression, but D'Artagnan gave him his best glare and he scuttled off.
Imitating Athos was working wonders.
Aramis sat back, swiping a hand across his brow. "Was there something you wanted?"
D'Artagnan shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as he tried to think how best to phrase his concerns. He found his eyes drawn to the black bruise and had to force himself to look away.
"It's just…" he began tentatively. "The crew. They aren't really treating you fairly."
Aramis raised an eyebrow at him. "No? Apparently that bird I shot will bring doom upon us all. I can hardly blame them for their resentment."
D'Artagnan frowned. Aramis was too ready to accept the ill treatment, but D'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper edge to it all. "Maybe you ought to talk to Porthos about it?" he ventured hesitantly.
He knew he'd said the wrong thing when Aramis's smile fell. "I don't think that would be wise," he said slowly, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "I doubt he would take it well."
"Well, no, he'd hate it," D'Artagnan pointed out. "Isn't that the point?"
Aramis sighed. "Mon ami, haven't you noticed that when Porthos gets particularly… irritated… heads tend to roll?"
"Maybe some heads should roll," D'Artagnan murmured mutinously, winning a chuckle from the older Musketeer.
"Be that as it may, a real fight would be disastrous for all of us. Porthos doesn't need to know."
D'Artagnan stared. Aramis really wasn't going to tell him. "But he would want to know!"
Aramis's gaze hardened. "What he would want doesn't enter into it. It's best he doesn't know." He stared hard at D'Artagnan, usual good humor drained away. "You must swear to me you'll say nothing of this to Porthos."
"But Aramis…"
"Please, D'Artagnan."
He sighed. "Fine, I promise I won't tell Porthos."
Aramis nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Now, off with you before someone comes round to tell us off for lazing about."
He turned back to the cannon as D'Artagnan scrambled into the rigging. A moment later he landed behind him just out of sight and headed below decks.
Aramis had made him promise not to talk to Porthos, but he'd said nothing about Athos.
In his more introspective moments, D'Artagnan worried his time as a Musketeer was making him too devious for his own good, but what else could he expect with this lot?
Athos was exactly where he expected to find him: in his room, surrounded by empty wine bottles, and staggering drunk.
"Mon dieu, Athos, how much wine did you even bring?" he asked, amazed at the sheer number of bottles littering the floor. He was sure there'd been fewer when he'd woken on the floor this morning. In fact, his blanket was buried under several.
Athos leveled him with a deadly stare. "I told you never to question the amount I drink." His words were surprisingly even for someone who appeared to have consumed more than his own body weight in wine.
"Right, right, sorry!" he said quickly, not wanting to get kicked back to the crew quarters. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Athos glared suspiciously, so he clarified, "Something unrelated to wine."
"Is something wrong?" Athos asked, growing slightly more alert.
"I'm not sure." D'Artagnan stepped over the wine bottles to reach the empty chair. Athos stayed slumped on the bed, but watched him intently. "The crew is, well, bullying Aramis."
Athos said nothing, but his eyes dropped away from D'Artagnan's. "It's nothing big, not that I've seen, but it's all the time. Small acts of malice."
Athos eyed him wearily. "Talk to Porthos."
"That's just it," D'Artagnan muttered, discouraged. "He doesn't want to tell Porthos, and he made me swear not to!"
"What do you expect me to do about it?" Athos asked, his voice heavy.
D'Artagnan stared at him. "Something. Anything. Can't you make them stop? It's not right!"
Something inside him felt almost betrayed at Athos's inaction. He was their leader; he was supposed to fix things like this.
As if Athos knew what he was thinking, he suddenly rose, frustration sweeping across his face. "I can't do anything!" he yelled, and there was something raw in his voice that froze D'Artagnan where he sat. "Don't you understand? I can't do anything!"
He fell silent, blue eyes burning into D'Artagnan's as if there was something so terribly obvious that he was missing. Whatever it was, he could tell something was very wrong. But before he could ask what Athos meant, there was a clatter in the hallway outside and a young crewman burst in, limping slightly but looking excited.
"You'd best come to the deck!" he cried eagerly. "A ship has been sighted!"
Dun dun dun... Oh look, another cliffhanger, ehehehe. Please review!