L'amante de Porthos

Chapter 33: Return of the Iron Mask

Porthos couldn't tell whether he was more astonished or more mortified. Marianne was right and he had discredited her in the vilest way. In every opportunity he had with this woman, he succeeded in proving himself to be the biggest arse in the realm. With flying colors, too. How could he ever come back from this?!

Marianne began to head towards the doors when he pulled her back.

"You cannot possibly be thinking of going in there."

"Not that you would care," she attempted to shake his hand off her, "Let me go, you moron! My friend is in there! Emilie is in there!"

"Oh God, Emilie!" Porthos realized. He had to think fast. "Head to the stables, bring Thunder around the servant's entrance and we will meet you there in ten minutes. If we're not there, mount him and run."

"No, I'm coming with you," she protested.

"No, you're not." He towered over her. Then, he coyly grinned and said, "Besides, you probably shouldn't go anywhere dressed like this," he gestured to her torn dress.

She slapped him again, with more violence this time, making him wince.

"Totally deserved it…" he remarked to himself as he opened the door and let her through. They went their separate paths: him to the ballroom and her to the stables.

…

"Espèce de crétin!" Marianne swore loudly as she stomped towards the stables. She wrapped her arms around her body so as to secure the fabric of the dress decently about her.

"Ventrebleu!" She looked around the stables with utter frustration. There was a rather large number of horses…

"Now, which one of you is Thunder?" she demanded, placing her hands on her hips, allowing the fabric of the dress to undo itself.

To her surprise, a horse in the corner whinnied upon hearing its name. She approached him carefully and after some scrutinization, she recognized him as the mighty beast that matched his rider's large figure and bulky presence. She began to fiddle with the rope to untie him. She will have to lead him out, there was no way she could possibly be able to mount him by herself. Meanwhile, her colorful curses echoed throughout the stables as she struggled with this menial task.

….

The young colossus was on his way to the ballroom, when he ran into his sister, who was attempting to fight off a masked man. He pushed him off of her and struck him into unconsciousness. He then embraced her with all his might, instructed her to run towards the servants' entrance and headed into the ballroom. Into the chaos.

There were many… Where had they all come from? The ladies were being ushered away and those who couldn't make it in time had jewels ripped away from their necks and arms. Some of the gentlemen and the servants were dueling with this agile army of masked men.

There, In the middle of the ballroom, he spotted him.

The Iron Mask, in flesh and blood.

He unsheathed his sword. But as soon as he touched it, his own weapon reminded him of an important fact he had neglected: in his rehearsed plan to win the young Comtesse back, he had brought her dagger with him and was going to offer it to her again with renewed promises. But in the heat of the moment, he had completely forgotten. The panic enveloped him when he realized that he had sent her away on her own, in a house that was infested with criminals, half nude and absolutely unarmed.

….

"Aaarrgghh! Sacrebleu! This is absolutely USELESS!" Marianne lashed out at the harness knot. It looked so simple and yet she lacked the strength to undo it. How the hell did he tie this thing?

The horse whinnied and gently nuzzled his head at her arm.

"Oh, come off it!" she snapped at him, "You're just as useless and dense as your owner. That bastard! I can't believe him. Rochefort this and Rochefort that. So obsessed with this Rochefort, mon Dieu!" she complained to the horse.

"And then he shows up unannounced, smelling all… fresh and… and… good. He's a cunning fox, that's what he is," she waved her finger at the horse, who was looking at her with his big eyes. "What made him think I wanted to see him again in the first place? Blast, this insipid knot!" she whined again.

"Do you need a hand, Mademoiselle?" a voice came behind her.

"Ah, Monsieur Marchand, thank goodness you're here! Yes, if you could just…" she stopped short as she turned around to address the stable master and instead found herself staring at a large imposing figure with a face that was unreadable save for two red slits for the eyes and one bigger slit for the mouth that was slightly curved upwards in a perpetually menacing smile.

….

Marianne dropped the harness and froze. Her heart beat so loud it was audible. She could barely breathe and the air suddenly felt cold and biting on her nude legs and arms. The horses whinnied uncomfortably.

She couldn't think of what to do. She was unarmed and cornered. The only thing she could do was run, so she bolted.

But it wasn't fast enough. He caught her by both her arms and rudely placated her to the floor of the stables, anchoring both her arms in his and placing the weight of his body on hers. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"I've only just found you, my dear. I can't let you go just yet, can I?" his voice was thick and muffled. She stared at his metallic face. The last time they had met, he had offered her his arm, like any gentleman would have done. She had been afraid, certainly, but she hadn't been terrorized. Something instinctively told her that he hadn't intended to physically harm her and in a messed-up way, she had trusted him in that regard.

But there was something very different about him this time around. She couldn't help but note that he looked different. Bigger, wider, more built and muscular. There was something rude in his manner, aggressive for the purpose of aggression. And yet something so… familiar?

"What do you want from me? What have you done with my uncle?" she shot at him.

He only laughed in response and slightly lifted himself up to admire her body underneath him. Marianne looked at him with disgust. She thought about spitting in his face but that would be useless.

"It looks like you have done the work for me already," he said, grazing his gloved hand on her nude thigh.

No! Suddenly, she felt like a small animal caught in a trap and she began to panic. He was larger than her, stronger than her and already, he had her pinned down. He could have his way with her and she could do nothing about it.

"Let me go!" she cried, "I'll build you anything, any machine you want but let me go!"

He only laughed more.

"Ah, you pretty little thing. We'll get to that later, don't worry," lowering himself on her more and parting her legs further, he continued, "You see, I have been thinking about you since the last time we saw each other. Thinking and…" He let out a carnal groan that disgusted her.

His hand grabbed her thigh painfully, making its way to her bottom. Marianne winced. "Stop," she whispered.

Her voice was barely audible; it was lost within the loud commotion from outside. Alas, he didn't stop. He kept going. She closed her eyes, unable to find her voice, she could feel warm liquid flowing down the sides of her face from her eyes. She couldn't breathe.

"Stop," she whispered again. But she was barely even audible to herself. She felt so paralyzed. Her body reacted and she began to spasm underneath him. He placed his hand on her corset and was about to tear it when a strong hand attached itself to the nape of his neck and yanked him off of her.

…

It was never his habit to formulate a plan, nor to think things through. Tonight was no exception. He had entered the ballroom and spied Rochefort duelling with the Iron Mask himself. He ran to his aid, which Rochefort passionately rejected, seeing as how a victory against the Iron Mask had been an honor he had missed out on in the past. They exchanged a few words, after which Porthos sheathed his sword and headed towards the stables.

He had opened the door to the stables and saw the woman he loved pinned to the floor, an unknown man plastered to her, pinning her forcefully to the ground.

In that split second, everything shut down: his mind, his senses, his reason. He didn't need to think.

He yanked the man by the back of the neck and, aggregating all his life force and energy into his giant fist, he launched it like a canon at the face of the intruder.

"Nyaaaaah!" he growled.

No, he did not think it through…

…and he only realized it at the very last second when he saw that the face of this man was encased in a metallic armour.

His fist collided with the iron and the pain shot through him like a hideous lightning bolt. He couldn't tell what happened but he was sure he heard two noises: Marianne's screams and the sound of his bones cracking one by one.

He fell on his back with the force of the pain, his growl resembling a wounded wild boar.

The latter stood up and unsheathed his sword, laughing menacingly at the idiocy of his opponent. All it would take was a swift prick to the heart and that would be it. This giant colossus of a musketeer was writhing in pain, unable to use his fists, and better yet, unable to handle any weapon. He had the advantage.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged at Porthos, who, in turn, rolled over a few paces to avoid the sword. They engaged in this dance for a minute; the Iron Mask lunging and Porthos rolling to avoid it. Eventually, the Iron Mask caught on, and he forced his opponent to roll right onto his injured arm.

"SACREBLEUE!" Porthos cried. While he was writhing in his new-found pain, the undefeatable musketeer suddenly felt the tip of his opponent's blade pierce through his doublet. He closed his eyes instinctively.

He will die.

He will die for her and there could be no better death.

At the very last second, he heard a commotion as Marianne had risen and, as if possessed by some mythical force, she jumped and threw all her weight onto her assailant, causing his balance to falter and his sword to wobble.

They wrestled for some time until he finally swung her to his side and, without any afterthought, he hurled her to the nearest wall, where she hit her head on a harness hook and fell unconscious, the blood gushing out of her skull.

…..

Porthos was an imposing man and a musketeer no less. Yet in that moment, despite his natural virility, hot tears cascaded down his mucky face as he witnessed the violent demise and potentially last moments of the woman he had come to love dearly.

"Marianne… no…"

Taking advantage of this distraction, and of Porthos' half-surrendered spirit, the Iron Mask lunged at him one last time with his sword, when…

*BANG*

He abruptly dropped his sword as a sharp pain radiated through his arm. He brought his hand to the spot and rapidly assessed the situation: blood. He had been shot. He barely looked up to see who shot him before he surprised his assailant by rising so suddenly and running towards him like a madman. Before the stranger could produce another bullet, the Iron Mask somersaulted into the air, grazing the shoulder of the newcomer before running away and disappearing into the night.

Still placated to the floor, Porthos craned his neck to see no one other than the Comte de Rochefort standing at the entrance to the stables.

….

A few hours later, in an unknown hideout…

"AAAHHHH! Take it out already!" a man shouted in pain. He bit on a stick as he felt a pair of fingers move through the hole in his arm and close in on the bullet. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets from the sheer pain.

After the wound was dressed, he lay calmly on the table, still panting and attempting to regulate his breath when he heard a pair of familiar footsteps approach the door.

"Leave." He ordered the other man in the room, who was cleaning up the blood and bandages.

The wounded man barely opened his eyes.

"Come to check on me, monsieur le Comte de Rameau?" he ventured sarcastically.

*SLAP*

The palm of the newcomer struck the wounded man in the face.

"You moronic devil! I did not raise imbeciles and incompetent arses."

The young man lying down sighed. He opened his eyes and stared at the mask of iron that lay open on a chair in the corner of the room. How powerful he felt when he wore it, how invincible! But to his father, he will always be weak and a failure.

"You had one task and one task only: to get the girl."

"I had her right where I wanted her," he said, licking his lips and insinuating an inappropriate gesture.

His father raised his arm to slap him again but this time, the son was too quick for him. He grabbed his arm and twisted it around his back, causing his father to wince.

"I am getting very very tired of the way you have been treating me. And frankly, I will do as I please with her. She's mine."

"We need her for the machine," replied Rameau through clenched teeth. With one last pull on his arm, the young man released his father.

Panting, his father spoke, "Listen to me, Maxim and listen clearly: I forbid you to harm her. You will not defile her while I live, do you understand?"

"Why, if you wanted her to yourself, you should have said, then," jested Maxim.

"This is not how we work. Your brother would never have…"

Maxim cut him off and shouted, "My brother! My brother! Always my brother. In case you had forgotten, he FAILED you on Belle-Isle."

They stared at each other with such hatred until Maxim finally said, "My brother. Your worthless illegitimate bastard whom you loved more than your wife and child."

"Nothing much has changed, has it, Maxim? Still ever so affectionate towards me, brother."

The two men were startled to see the newcomer, standing at the door, his cape flung around him and the light of the candle flickering on his metallic face.