Porthos
Pain. His head was pounding.
Again.
Something hard has met my skull again.
But the pain was not the worst of it. The musketeer soon realized that his hands were bound. His body ached as well, the cold penetrating through his wet leather.
Why was his leather so wet? Was it blood?
He could smell blood.
Another very disturbing fact- he realized that he was leaning forward. The ropes that bound him were keeping him upright. That was not a good sign.
The other awful thing was the gag in his mouth. It tasted like an old dusty rag.
Porthos tried to remember what had led him into such a frustrating situation.
We were retreating, and the Queen was with us. Athos had her on his horse… that's the last thing I remember. I must have been hit… probably while I was on my horse…
Approaching footsteps-the measured footsteps of a soldier-put a halt to his musings.
An instant later, a bucket of cold water was thrown in his face. He started to cough.
"That's better, dog!" a man jeered. "Open your eyes, and take a look at the show that our leader has prepared for you!"
Porthos shivered. Something in the voice was familiar. He slowly opened his eyes.
A Red Guard. What was his name...Jacques?
Although Porthos was not sure what the man's name was, he recognized his voice immediately. This was one of the men who were quick to mock Porthos, but always avoided fighting him. Any run-in with one of these Red Guards usually ended with Aramis, rather than his dark-skinned comrade, beating the offender.
As his vision cleared, Porthos saw that the Red Guard was smirking.
Dirty traitor.
Porthos slowly took in his surroundings. He was bound to a tree in the bandits' camp. The ruined building where the Queen had been kept was on his left. He noticed that the air seemed foggy. He blinked several times, then realized that it was not fog, but smoke. His eyes were drawn to a small open window. It was exactly like the one he and Athos had peered into in order to spy on the enemy.
If he had known what scene would greet him, he would have never glanced inside. Seeing the Queen, clad only in a thin nightshirt and lying on a pile of Red Guards' cloaks, was too awful.
He hoped for Aramis' sake that she had been drugged.
He wanted to believe that she had not betrayed them all by orchestrating her own kidnapping.
His thoughts returned to harsh reality when he sighted a familiar head through the curtain of smoke.
ARAMIS!
Porthos desperately tried to break free. He struggled against the thick ropes, his muscles straining with effort.
Then his brother lifted his head, and their eyes met.
If he had not been gagged, Porthos would have howled. He saw fear in his friend's beloved brown orbs.
He tried to convey with his gaze all of his brotherhood, friendship, love, and support. His heart shattered when he saw the sad acceptance and look of regret in Aramis' eyes.
I need to be at his side. I need to get him out!
The smoke soon became too thick for him to see his beloved brother. Porthos' heart sank when he saw a few yellowish tongues of fire.
He screamed through the gag. It transformed his shout into a growl of desperation. He could not watch his brother being executed in a such a cruel way.
Aramis went limp, his silhouette now barely visible. In that instant, Porthos saw red.
Suddenly, he was free. The rope must have finally given way. He tore out the gag and shouted his friend's name. It was then that he saw his brother's limp form being dragged from the building.
Athos.
Porthos caught a movement on his right. He cut the distance in an instant, and hurled the attacker over his head. He became aware of another enemy. He saw the blade approaching, but the rapier never reached him. A second later, Porthos felt the vulnerable body under his hands. and he ended the traitor's life.
His brother was safe. Dead or alive, he was safe..
There was no reason to fight his fierce desire for revenge. There was a flame burning his heart and injuring his soul. The pain it caused could only be soothed by blood...the blood of those who had dared to harm Aramis. They had tried to take his beloved friend away from him.
That was unforgivable.
Suddenly, there was no opponent for him to fight. As Porthos stood still, trying to catch his breath, he saw a movement. He charged, easily knocking his enemy to the ground.
His large hands easily wrapped around his victim's neck. He slowly started to strangle him. The man gave an awful choking sound, exactly as was expected. However, something was wrong. The body under him had stilled.
Porthos heard his name being shouted from a distance. He glanced up, and saw a silhouette in a blue cloak. He slowly exhaled, and started to get up.
Morineau was calling for d'Artagnan.
Porthos quickly scanned the battlefield. He felt a pang of fear when he did not see the boy amongst the other men who were milling about. He spared one last glance at his victim, and froze.
D'Artagnan! No!
The boy lay still.
Porthos' throat tightened, and he felt as if he could not breathe.
He had hurt his brother!
He stared at d'Artagnan's lifeless form, too afraid to touch him.
He was supposed to protect his brother, not kill him!
He took a few steps back.
"Porthos?!" Morineau was suddenly at his side. The big man did not respond, his mind still trying to understand how he could mistake a friend for a foe… and fail his brother so utterly.
Suddenly, d'Artagnan gasped for air, his hands shooting to his throat.
"Easy, lad," Morineau murmured.
The Gascon blinked, and frantically tried to swallow. The musketeer gently lifted him up, supporting the injured man against his knees. He gave him a sip of water, and the boy swallowed it, wincing in pain.
I did it to him…. It's my fault!
D'Artagnan struggled to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows.
"I am so sorry!" Porthos burst out.
D'Artagnan, his fingers exploring his throat for injuries, looked up at the big man. He gave his brother a tentative smile. showing that he bore no ill will. But Porthos' anger at himself was not so easily soothed.
"Everyone here is dead," said Morineau flatly."I searched the bodies, and kept all the papers I found. They might give us some useful information. As soon as you're ready, we can go."
"Where's Athos…?" d'Artagnan croaked.
Porthos felt another pang of guilt. He was reminded of the time they had wanted to finish off Allancourt in a suicidal mission.
"He wanted to follow the others. I suppose his degree of success must have depended on Aramis' condition."
"How was he?" The Gascon was stubbornly asking questions, despite the pain it obviously caused him.
"Unconscious," Morineau replied curtly. "We did not have exactly have the time to thoroughly examine him."
But alive?! Was he alive?!
"I was able to retrieve his weapon." Morineau said. He went to hand it to Porthos.
He's acting like Aramis is already dead!
"Keep it. You can give it to Aramis yourself." Porthos kept his voice low, not wanting to betray his anguish.
They set out from the camp. Portho' body protested as he mounted his horse.. He managed to get into the saddle, but his side and arm hurt like hell. He could not recall exactly when and how he had been hit. But the details did not matter right now. He had to find Aramis...and make sure that his brother was safe and well.
They rode for a long time...too long. Normally, Porthos would have asked d'Artagnan if they had gone too far. However, each time he glanced at the boy, guilt darkened his thoughts. His eyes were inevitably drawn to the red fingerprints on the boy's neck, which were now turning a deep purple.
Suddenly, Morineau stopped his horse.
"We've gone too far. We must have missed them," Porthos growled.
D'Artagnan nodded. "Athos must have looked for some shelter in order to check on Aramis."
And what he found made him stay at this shelter. What did they do to you, Aramis?
They rode back. This time, d'Artagnan spent more time paying attention to tracks on the road. However, dusk made his task more and more difficult. They finally returned to the site of the camp.
"Where are they?!" Porthos could feel his nervous energy finally succumbing to his fatigue.
"There was a stream close by," d'Artagnan muttered. "Athos could have used it to cover his tracks."
Porthos nodded, and urged his horse into a gallop. The tired beast reluctantly obeyed. They reached the stream quickly.
"Now where?" asked Porthos.
D'Artagnan looked around, then pointed.
"The terrain in that direction seems more forgiving. I suspect we may find a clearing there."
"I'll check the other side," Morineau offered.
They split up.
Never a good idea.
A few minutes later, d'Artagnan halted abruptly. He left the stream, and dismounted. He disappeared into the dark forest. Porthos readied his gun, only to hear the lad's hoarse voice call out, "Athos, don't shoot!"
Porthos directed Vent towards the boy to the loud accompaniment of snapping twigs and rustling leaves.
Porthos froze at the sight which greeted him, but Vent continued to move forward towards Athos. The lieutenant was holding Aramis in his arms. With a quick nod, Athos signaled to them that the place was safe, and that they were free to join him. Primed pistols lay within reach of his hand.
Porthos could not averted his eyes from marksman's still body. He did not like seeing the white bandage that was wrapped around his brother's head. However, he was much more alarmed by Aramis' pale skin, which was clearly visible even in the dim light of the hidden fire.
In lieu of a greeting, Porthos immediately asked, "How is he?"
"Bad." Athos' voice was grave.
Porthos slid from his horse in one smooth motion, and landed on his knees next to his brother. He did not want to have to test his ability to stay upright. Porthos extended his hand, and gently touched Aramis' cheek. He immediately recoiled, shaken by the heat that he felt.
"What's wrong with him? He's burning up!" He hoped that his anxious words would provoke a response from the wounded man.
"Quiet!" Athos ordered. "He needs to sleep. He has been in a lot of pain."
The lieutenant's words only increased Porthos' fear. There seemed to be a sad finality in his voice.
"What is wrong with him?!" This time, his voice was a hoarse whisper. Each word seemed to be tearing a hole in his heart.
Athos sighed. "He has been beaten badly. I suspect that he has a severe concussion."
"What about his fever? A concussion doesn't explain that!"
Athos averted his eyes. "I don't know. I didn't find any evidence of infection when I examined him, but I might have missed something."
"What do you mean missed?!" Porthos growled.
"He was tormented by his cough..." Athos' voice trailed off. He dipped his head, guilt radiating from his posture.
"My guess is he was trapped in the smoke for a significant period of time," d'Artagnan said hesitantly. "I saw it happen once with a young girl in Gascony. She was trapped in a burning house for quite some time before a neighbor was able to brave the flames and rescue her. When he carried her out, she was unconscious. There was no burn on her body, but she had a high fever…"
"And?" Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan. The boy suddenly avoided his gaze.
"She died," Athos murmured.
The Gascon did not reply. Instead, he began to search through Aramis' saddle bags. Pulling out some herbs, he said, "I can prepare a draught for him. It will soothe his throat." When no one made any comment, he went to work.
Athos' eyes traveled over his friend. "Are you wounded, Porthos?"
The big man felt awkward under his leader's scrutinous gaze, "No." Then he thought about his stiff arm, hurting side, and mercilessly pounding head. "Well, maybe a bit."
"I'll take care of him," d'Artagnan muttered, mixing something in a cup. "Don't move."
"It's my fault, Porthos," Athos whispered, his fingers absently stroking Aramis' hair.
His brother was taken aback. "What?!"
Are you telling me you have something to do with Aramis' condition?! Or is this your typical self-loathing speaking?
"I left you."
"Athos, I don't know what happened. I recall riding close to you. Then it's all a blank. The next thing I knew, I had regained consciousness, only to find the damn church on fire. I just want to know what happened in between." Despite the emotions that were roiling within him, Porthos was careful to keep his voice low and controlled.
"You fell. Aramis cut through the bandits to get to you. He stayed by your side while we rode off."
"Stupid idiot!" Porthos murmured. Despite his words, his affection for his brother was clear in his voice.
"I left you." Athos repeated.
The big man shook his head. "Nah, you had the Queen to save. When we joined the regiment, we swore to give our lives for the Crown if necessary. A fallen soldier-even if he is a fallen brother-is still just another fallen soldier."
"Aramis thought otherwise."
"Aramis did not have his arms full with a semiconscious Queen! So enough of this, Athos! It's not your fault." Porthos just did not feel up to dealing with his brother's guilt.
"Athos?" The Gascon approached them, and Porthos was grateful to him for interrupting their conversation. "Did Aramis say anything about his eyes hurting?"
Athos blanched. "No. But to be honest, he was not lucid enough to complain of anything. I..I saw that his eyes were bloodshot. They appeared uninjured-"
He hesitated for a moment, then said," But I am not sure he could see."
"What?!" Porthos choked.
Athos closed his eyes in defeat.
D'Artagnan focused on dealing with Porthos' leather. The musketeer tried to help him, but his eyes were fixed on Aramis, and his body was not eager to cooperate. Finally, d'Artagnan managed to divest him of his doublet.
The boy sucked in a breath, then swore. "Athos, I need your help."
Porthos glanced down at his side, grimacing when he saw the bloody mess.
Athos sighed, and slowly began to lower the marksman to the ground. Aramis whimpered, and tried to lean into the swordsman. Then he started to cough. As the sound morphed into a terrible wheezing, Porthos' fear intensified. He shook off d'Artagnan, and leapt towards his ailing brother.
"Aramis! Mis!" Porthos cried. He cupped the medic's face in his trembling hands.
The marksman blinked sluggishly. For a long moment, his pained eyes seemed to stare blankly into space.
D'Artagnan came to his side, and offered him a steaming cup of herbal tea.
"Drink, Aramis. It will soothe your throat."
The marksman cautiously took a sip, wincing as he swallowed. However, he took another without coaxing.
He drank half the cup, then closed his eyes and leaned into Porthos' supporting hands.
Athos began to lower the marksman once again. "Aramis, I need to lay you down. I have to help d'Artagnan sew up Porthos."
The marksman shook his head violently. Another horrible fit of coughing took hold of him. He moaned in pain, then tried to curl up into a ball. His fingers dug into Athos' hand.
Finally, the coughing passed, leaving the medic frantically gasping for air. After a moment, the injured man mumbled something, his voice too low for Porthos to hear. But he saw Aramis squeeze Athos' hand briefly, then push him away. He clearly wanted Athos to help d'Artagnan take care of Porthos.
"I'm fine, Mis," the dark skinned musketeer said soothingly, trying to calm the medic. "I don't have any injuries that require patching up."
He never expected the reaction he got...but he should have been ready for it.