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No 12. Broken Bones — Porthos

The musketeers spread out to surround the building where the band of rebels were hiding out within the city of Paris. It was a private house set back from the main street with its own drive. Which was good; less chance of civilians getting caught up in the fight these men were bound to put up.

Porthos hurried along the interior of the perimeter wall with Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. On the other side of the courtyard, another group of musketeers were doing the same. Treville was stationed back at the gate, waiting for everyone to get into position before giving the command to breach.

Yet before he could, the front door opened and one of the rebels stepped out onto the stoop. For a brief moment, the man looked like he was just casually out for some air, but then he noticed the place was surrounded and with a shout of alarm, he darted back into the house.

"Go!" Treville yelled.

The sound of breaking glass preceded pistol shots that zinged from the windows, sending the musketeers diving for cover.

"Around back!" Treville shouted at Porthos and the others. "Don't let any escape!"

Athos broke into a sprint first, the rest of them following. The plan had been to have both ends of the building covered before launching their attack, but that had been foiled.

The four musketeers rounded the corner just as several men went fleeing out a back door. Porthos charged after one while his friends each selected their own target. The rebels weren't unarmed, though, and the clash of steel rang throughout the yard. Porthos knocked his opponent down with two swings, then turned to see who was next.

A small stable's doors suddenly burst open as a horse bolted out with a rider on its back. Porthos spun and whipped out his pistol but couldn't take aim in time as the rider charged past and kicked him in the chest so hard that he went flying backward into some crates. They snapped beneath him—as did something else—and he hit the ground with a jarring impact. The wind punched from his lungs, and he lay there for a moment, breath and vision suspended in white-hot agony.

The distorted sounds of shouts and a horse's neigh filtered back into his senses, and Porthos gasped abruptly. The juddering inhalation burned and he had to blink past white spots to see what was happening.

The horse and rider had barreled through the others, disrupting their duels and leaving d'Artagnan's back exposed as he scrambled to his feet. Porthos gritted his teeth and raised his pistol to shoot. The kickback, normally inconsequential, sent lightning shooting down his shoulder into his chest, and he fell back choking on the shock without seeing whether his shot had even hit its mark. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

But the not moving gradually eased the fire and the white spots winked out of his vision. He tested lifting his head again but quickly aborted the attempt when the pain in his chest threatened to make him black out completely. His breath hitched, pressure building in his lungs.

"Porthos!" Aramis ran over and dropped down beside him.

"Think I've broken somethin'" he managed to grit out between pained, shallow breaths.

"I can see that," Aramis quipped, his smile light but eyes dark with worry. "Don't move." He yanked off his gloves and began prodding up and down Porthos's rib cage, which ignited the shooting pain anew.

Porthos threw his head back against the splintered wood beneath him with a garbled cry.

"Two broken ribs," Aramis relayed. "A third cracked. Anywhere else hurt?"

Porthos shot him a glower through watery eyes. "Seri'sly?"

"Anywhere else hurt as badly as those ribs?" Aramis amended with a pointed glare of his own.

"Don' know," he said breathlessly. "It all kinda does, to be honest." Something else felt off, he just didn't know how to describe it.

D'Artagnan came hurrying over then. "Is he okay?"

"No," Aramis replied succinctly. "Get the captain. And I'm going to need bandages to bind these broken ribs before we move him."

D'Artagnan shot Porthos a wide-eyed look before darting off to do as told.

Porthos shifted slightly, gasping from the movement.

"What did I say?" Aramis chided.

"How else am I supposed ta figure out what hurts?" he growled back.

Aramis huffed and laid a comforting hand on Porthos's shoulder, but that ripped another cry from his throat.

"What?" Aramis asked urgently but didn't wait for an answer before palpating the offended area, fingers probing painfully down his back.

"Gah, stop!" Porthos snarled.

Aramis pulled his hands back. "I think you may have fractured your shoulder blade."

Porthos's brows shot upward. "Is that bad? That sounds bad."

"No broken bone is good," Aramis replied. "But it can heal like any other." He rocked back on his haunches and ran a hand over his hair. "I know breathing hurts, but you're not struggling, are you? Tell me the truth."

Porthos focused for a moment on taking a very slow, very shallow breath. It did hurt, but didn't nearly send him into oblivion. "'S okay," he said. He didn't taste blood in his mouth, so he wasn't bleeding internally, right?

D'Artagnan returned with Athos and Treville and a saddlebag of supplies.

"This is going to be tricky," Aramis said as he accepted the bag. "I think it's best if I just bind everything over your clothes until we get back to the garrison where we can then deal with getting them off."

"I'll have someone bring a cart," Treville put in.

"No," Aramis immediately countered. "The back of a wagon will be too rough and I don't want to risk one of those broken ribs shifting into a lung." He cast Porthos an apologetic look. "Think you can make it back on foot?"

"Sounds like I'll have to," he grunted. Just having Aramis lightly poke at his wounds was awful; getting jostled in a wagon would be excruciating. Not to mention that puncturing a lung thing. He definitely didn't want that.

"We'll make it," Aramis promised. "Athos, d'Artagnan, help me sit him up. Very carefully."

"I'll leave you in capable hands," Treville said, casting Porthos one last grimacing look before turning and heading away.

D'Artagnan knelt on his other side while Athos crouched down at his head. He braced himself as on the count of three, they slipped their hands beneath his battered body and began to gradually shift him up. He clenched his jaw against crying out again as he felt bones grinding together.

"Alright, that's good," Aramis instructed. "D'Artagnan, can you lift his coat?"

The young Gascon undid his weapons belt and set it aside, then pushed the two folds of his leather coat up so that Aramis could wind the bandages around his torso over his shirt. Porthos bit down hard again at the pressure exerted against his rib cage.

Athos dug his fingers into the back of Porthos's neck and kneaded the coiled muscles there as he struggled to breathe through the process. And to think once they made it back to the garrison, they'd have to do it all over again.

"Alright, now that shoulder." Aramis undid his sash from his own waist and folded it width-wise to make a sling.

More shifting bones made Porthos want to scream, but he choked on stifled whimpers instead as Aramis manipulated his arm across his chest to immobilize it.

"That's the best I can do for now," the marksman said in an apologetic tone.

Porthos nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat.

No one said anything, and it took Porthos a few moments to realize they were giving him time to collect himself before the next part—getting to his feet. He bit back a groan and nodded he was ready. Best get it over with.

Three pairs of hands took hold of him firmly, careful to avoid his injuries, and then they were heaving him up. This time Porthos couldn't hold back the pained grunts as he stumbled to his feet on the uneven debris of the shattered crates, nearly doubling over from the pain, which of course grated on his broken ribs.

Aramis placed a bracing hand against his upper chest, above the broken bones in the front. Athos had a hand against his lower back. And d'Artagnan had his uninjured arm slung over his shoulder.

"We got you," Aramis said. "We'll take it as slow as you need."

Oh, wouldn't that be fun, slogging through the streets and being gawked at. But riding in the cart would be worse.

Porthos took a moment to breathe in, then out, then in again, each one as shaky as the next. But he could feel his brothers' bolstering presence all around him.

"Alright," he breathed out. "Let's go."

Together.