Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 20 of ?
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
Porthos doesn't know when the sun began to rise above the horizon but it must have been some time ago. He's beyond tired but his need to find his companions has overridden his fatigue and the knowledge that somewhere behind him, Fabron is probably slowly coming to his senses has Porthos pushing on where he would normally allow himself some respite.
He's found the decaying gateway to the manor house and with it, a suitable hiding place from where he can watch the movement of those within. He's patched up his arm as best he can but the wound is scabbing over and he knows any sudden movements will reopen the cut. He can already feel the skin beneath tightening, pulling on his nerves and reminding him constantly that he may have just made a huge mistake by leaving Fabron alive. He thinks, hopes, he's done the right thing but only time will tell now. He'd hate to have to finish the man off now but knows he will, without hesitation, if need be.
The courtyard is slowly waking up. Men are moving around without any sense of purpose and Porthos is about to find a better vantage point when he spots the door of one of the old barns swing slowly open. He can't see what's inside he recognises the man who stalks out. It's the man he last saw standing behind Aramis, a hand in his friend's hair, hatred in his eyes and an unknown venom being directed at Athos.
His stomach lurches as he studies the man's face. He looks contented, satisfied, and Porthos worries about who he has just left behind in the barn. He squints through the early morning light and relaxes only slightly when he can't spot any signs of a fight on the man. On the other hand, he muses, that could simply mean his friends weren't in a position to retaliate.
He sits back and watches as the man gathers his soldiers to him. Porthos thinks it interesting that only a couple come running, the rest sauntering over to him in their own time. He wonders whether his comrades are all in the same barn, which would make his task a lot easier, but then catches himself in a chuckle. Since when did Musketeers get it easy? They're probably spread out through the courtyard in separate buildings just to spite him.
A movement suddenly catches his eye and he furrows his brow. He's not sure but he thinks he just worked out where at least one of his brothers is, and hope rises in his heart. He squints and could it possibly be Athos' silhouette he can see? It's a mere blink in time but he's known these men so long, been with them through so much, that that's all it takes. And if he's found one, he knows he'll find the others.
The men gathered in the central courtyard seem to have been given their orders as they are now milling around with no apparent sense of urgency. One or two are meandering over to the gateway where Porthos is concealed. He's not worried about discovery, in fact he'd probably welcome it now.
Gathering his wits about him, the soldier in him stirs, poking his reflexes into action and sharpening his reactions. He can see now that the men approaching his position are little more than boys, no more than d'Artagnan's age. He wonders briefly how they ended up in this situation and resolves there and then to inflict as little pain on them as necessary. Although, he concedes, they may prove to deserve pain. They may be children in his eyes still but he knows only too well how dedicated d'Artagnan is to his cause and has no reason to believe these boys are any less determined and committed to whatever cause they are fighting for.
He shifts slightly, and lays his hand over the hilt of his sword. The boys, men, take up their guard duty either side of the gate but they are gossiping and laughing with each other, clearly not expecting trouble or company. Porthos tries to listen but their conversation is littered with inanities and tales of people he neither knows nor cares about. He hears nothing of his friends and after a while he decides his course of action must take him nearer to the barn where he saw movement.
Porthos knows the best thing to do would be to bide his time but he doesn't think time is on their side. He saw how crushed Aramis was, he saw how d'Artagnan was taken down and he saw how deflated Athos was. None of them was at their best last he saw them and that was quite some time ago now.
In one swift move, he's out from his hiding place, sword drawn. He brings the hilt down on the head of the guard nearest him, cutting off his story mid sentence. He could have laughed at the look on the face of the remaining boy and his mind stores it away for regaling his companions with at a later date. The point of his sword is pressed against his adversary's chest and Porthos simply smiles at his as he presses his finger against his lips.
"Not a word, okay?" he murmurs, content when the boy nods, looking more like a frightened rabbit than a hardened warrior.
"Who is that man?" Porthos continues, nodding sideways to the courtyard, trusting he's made himself clear.
"His name is Descarte," the boy replies softly, voice trembling in unison with his limbs. "He's in charge but I don't know why he's doing this, I really don't." Panic is creeping into his words and Porthos almost feels sorry for him.
"Why are you here?" the musketeer queries, surprising himself with the question. There's something about the boy that reminds him of too many children he's encountered in his life – at the Court, in the alleys and back streets of Paris – and he wonders if he's getting soft.
But the boy seems too terrified to get an answer out, just keeps shaking his head back and forth.
"Where are the other musketeers?" Porthos asks when it becomes clear he's not getting an answer.
"Descarte took one into the old barn," the guard admits, "and the other two are in the stables."
Porthos hates that he needs to ask the next question but he has to know what he's dealing with as much as he needs to hear the answer.
"Are they alive?"
The boy nods. "Last I heard they were," he tells the soldier holding him at sword point.
Porthos doesn't want to consider the implications of 'last I heard'. He leans forward so his mouth is almost grazing the boy's ear, pushing a little harder on his sword to make a point.
"I'm going to give you some advice now," he hisses, a grim satisfaction coursing through him as he feels the fear radiating from the body before him. "You're going to run now. Run far and run fast. Don't stop till you're out of Paris. Don't talk to anyone, don't listen to anyone and don't stop. If I ever see you in Paris again I won't be so forgiving. Understand?"
He steps back, raising his sword, and watches as the boy nods and turns on his heels, moving faster than Porthos would have given him credit for. Porthos is, albeit grudgingly, quite impressed as he turns his attention to the unconscious guard lying at his feet. Part of him thinks he should give this one the same chance but time is moving on and his brothers may not have the time for his compassion. He wonders what to do with the man in the absence of any rope or material to silence him and in a brief flash of inspiration he removes the man's breeches, tearing them into strips to create makeshift bindings.
Smiling down at the trussed up man, Porthos congratulates himself on his somewhat ridiculous improvisation. Aramis, he thinks, would appreciate it and he determines to show his friend his handiwork on their return as he slips round the corner of the gateway into the courtyard.