Porthos

As they passed through the city gates, a boy dressed in ragged clothing emerged from behind a wall. The child appeared to be about seven years old. He darted over to Porthos, who had slowed his horse as they entered the narrow streets of Paris.

The dark skinned musketeer instinctively knew that the boy was not a random beggar, but a messenger.

"The Queen sent me. I'm to tell you to go straight to the garrison," the boy said breathlessly, reciting the words that he had probably learnt by heart.

Porthos knew that the Queen the boy was referring to was Flea. He still trusted his former love enough to listen to her words. Especially when her wishes sounded so… reasonable. It was clear that she wanted to prevent him from acting recklessly. And it was also clear to him that he was completely on edge. In fact, he thought he might be capable of tearing someone apart with his bare hands if in doing so he learn where Aramis was being held. His worry for his brothers consumed him, but instead of making him weak, it seemed to supply him with boundless energy and fortitude. However, he knew that once his brothers were found, his body was going to make him pay for what he had put it through.

They had lost a good deal of time. Even though they were traveling faster than a cart, they were too far behind to catch the bandits before they entered the city. Slowing them down further was the fact that they had to make sure as they traveled that they did not miss any wagon marks that suggested that the cart had left the main road.

Porthos nodded and gave the boy two sous. Then he took the quickest route to the garrison. He desperately wanted to get there as soon as possible, but when he caught sight of a Red Guard, he could not help but stop to talk to him.

His horse nearly trampled the man.

I suppose you could say that our conversation has started off on the wrong foot.

His victim ducked, then turned to shout at the reckless rider-and froze. He quickly took several steps back.

So you're guilty!

Porthos jumped from the horse, feeling a fury that gave strength to his tired, aching body.

"Where are Aramis and Athos?!" he growled, his hand squeezing the man's neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw d'Artagnan aiming his pistol at the man. The powder was probably not completely dry, but their prisoner had no way of knowing that.

"I don't know…" the man mumbled.

"So why did you nearly jump out of your skin when you saw me?!"

"Because you almost killed me!"

"I don't think so," d'Artagnan said slowly. "In fact, I think you were sure he was dead. I also think that if we search your belongings, we'll find a mask." He sighed, and turned to his brother. "But honestly, Porthos, you can't just strangle him. We need to take him a deserted place so we can take our time making him suffer. After all, he took our brothers, I think we should start off with his fingers… perhaps one broken finger for each unanswered question?" He smirked, and turned his gaze to their captive. "Just as a warmup before the real fun starts, of course."

He sounded so like Aramis that Porthos' heart ached.

Christ, I need to tell Mis how the pup has taken a page from his book… Please let me find Aramis alive and well…

He knew that such a thing was improbable, but he could still pray for it.

"I… I was ordered to arrest you!" the Red Guard stammered.

Porthos shook his head. "I'm not buying it. D'Artagnan, do you recall any request for us to put our weapons down? We were attacked by masked men. That sounds to me like the action of common bandits, not of upstanding members of the Red Guard acting on the King's orders. His Majesty won't be pleased..."

The man bristled at that statement. "Rochefort told us to bring you dead-or severely injured-to Paris! You're traitors!"

"Well, it seems that you've failed your master," Porthos growled.

"Not entirely!" There was a glint of satisfaction in the man's eyes.

Oh, he'll regret that...very soon.

"Where are they?!"

"They are secure in our quarters!"

Porthos took a firmer hold on the man.

"Just like you'll be in ours!"

He thought about Treville and the others, and felt a sting of worry.

Have they been arrested?

However, when he led the Red Guard towards the musketeer garrison, his hands were steady.

Only when he saw the musketeer on guard did he remember the order he had received when he had entered the city gates.

He nodded in response to the man's greeting. "Hello, Bernard. Is the Captain here?"

"No, he's at the Palace. But Etienne has received news about where Athos and Aramis are being held. He is mounting a rescue mission."

Porthos nodded his thanks, and entered the garrison. He tossed the reins of his horse to a stableboy. A moment later, he had the Red Guard shoved against the wall.

"Where?" he growled.

"The Ile de la Cite."

Porthos nodded. He knew where the palace that had belonged to Richelieu was located on the island. He had been certain that it had ceased to be used by the Red Guard once the Cardinal had died. But it seemed that he had been mistaken.

He summoned one of the new recruits, and ordered him to keep the Red Guard under lock and key.

Then he found Etienne. He saw d'Artagnan holding the reins of two fresh horses that had already been saddled for them.

"I have an uneasy feeling about this mission. It could be a trap," the lieutenant muttered.

"Do not suggest that we abandon the mission!" Porthos growled.

"Wait!" D'Artagnan's eyes shone with excitement. "I have an idea. All we need is a cart and a few barrels of wine."

Porthos gave him a sceptical look."I'm not sure where we're going to procure the wine. I haven't seen any barrels in Athos' room recently."

The Gascon was undaunted. "Well, then we can just borrow some from a nearby tavern."

"Borrow?" The dark skinned musketeer raised an eyebrow. He doubted that the barrels would ever be returned to their owner, but the lad's plan did seem to offer an element of surprise.

Soon the cart was ready. D'Artagnan, dressed in an old grey cloak with a hat pulled low over his eyes, was ready to play the role of carter. The journey was not long, but was still quite uncomfortable for the musketeers, who were hidden between the barrels and under the cart. Finally they reached the gate of Richelieu's former palace. D'Artagnan rapped on the gate.

"What the hell is this?!" muttered the guard, opening a little spy window.

"Ah, it appears that you and your boys have pleased your commander!" d'Artagnan replied smoothly. "He's sent you a reward!"

A bit of muffled conversation followed. From his place under the cart, Porthos could not follow it, but it seemed that their ruse had worked. Finally the gate was opened, and the instruction was given to the Gascon as to where to park the cart.

Porthos suddenly heard a desperate war cry - a unmistakable signal to attack. He rolled from under the cart. One glance assured him that the gate was now in the musketeers' hands. He looked around, and understood why d'Artagnan had sounded the alarm. He saw a pole standing in a puddle of dry blood. Behind the barred window of one of the buildings, he recognized Athos. His brother was curled up in a bloody heap. Porthos howled, feeling fury supply him with the energy that he so needed. His opponent never stood a chance. The second man he merely tossed him to the ground, counting on the impact of the fall-or the actions of his fellow musketeers-to neutralize his enemy.

He ducked, then attacked another man. After disabling him, he finally reached the door. A bullet whizzed near his ear. He looked up, and was gratified to see that the man who had likely just fired at him had lost his hold on his musket. As the musketeer shooter was not Aramis, his enemy was still alive, but Porthos could easily remedy that with a mighty slash of his sword.

The door was unlocked. He wasted no time rushing into the room. After a quick scan of the perimeter, he nearly froze when he saw three cages against the wall. Two were empty. One contained his leader. A central column in the middle of the cage was adorned with chains, rings, and hooks. A large blood stain was on the ground surrounding it. He forced himself not to think about the things which might have been done to his friends. Despite this, he realized his hands were shaking a bit when he succeeded in picking the lock and opening the cage. He entered, and knelt near the shivering form.

"Athos?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. There was no response.

"Calbert!" he shouted. A medic was clearly needed.

D'Artagnan ran in, and came to an abrupt halt near the cage.

"Porthos, we must get him to the garrison! We need to get out of here. Where's Aramis?!"

Athos moved a bit, enough to grasp Porthos' forearm.

"There's no Aramis…" he whispered. "Porthos… they shot him. I'm sorry…Porthos… I'm so sorry..." His fingers slowly slipped away.

"Athos! Focus!" The dark skinned musketeer hauled him up to a semi-sitting position, ignoring the fact that Athos was unsteady. "What happened?!"

"A man came. He shot him and took his body away."

"No… NO!" Porthos screamed. He let go of Athos, allowing his brother to curl up into a ball once again.

The pain of Aramis' loss was blinding. But slowly, it began to transform into fury. This, he could allow. He would lose himself in his vengeance. He had nothing to lose…

Because there is no Mis… I will never see disapproval or sadness in his eyes at the brutal deaths which I will inflict on the men who did this to him.

There's no Aramis…

This phrase sounded like a death sentence to the big man.

"PORTHOS!" The sudden slap stung his skin. "Porthos, listen to me!" d'Artagnan begged.

He could not just lose himself in his vengeance. His brothers who were still alive needed him. Athos needed him. Someone would have to take care of him. Aramis would have wanted it that way.

"Are you with me?" the Gascon asked. His hands had Porthos' collar in a death grip.

"Yes. What do you want?" he growled at his brother. However, d'Artagnan seemed unaffected, and actually appeared rather relieved.

Probably relieved that I'm talking instead of killing everyone around me.

"First of all, Aramis may still be alive. If he is really dead, why didn't they leave his body to torment Athos?"

"It doesn't matter," whispered Athos.

"Why doesn't it matter?" Porthos was not sure if his injured friend was actually following the thread of the conversation.

"They broke him… he sacrificed himself for me…" Athos stared vacantly at them, his voice empty. He was still curled up on his side.

Porthos felt sick.

No… not again. Please!

"Did he beg for them to spare him?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice tense.

"No… he…" Athos choked. "He did everything they wanted in order to save me. Idiot!"

D'Artagnan relaxed. "That means they didn't break him. He did just what he wanted to do. He was in control. He'll heal," d'Artagnan declared.

Porthos stared at the Gascon in shock.

He's right. If only Aramis had survived…

If only…

Athos told us that he witnessed his death, so it is obvious that we are all in denial.

Still, why did they take the body away instead of tormenting Athos with it?

"Athos?" Etienne came to them, a letter in his hand.

Calbert had come with him. He quickly examined the injured man. "He doesn't look good. We'll need to summon a physician as soon as we reach the garrison."

When did Etienne arrive?

It is so silent. Is the fight over?

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked, focusing on the paper that the lieutenant held.

"It's a letter that gives permission for its bearer to kill Aramis and dispose of his body. It's signed by Rochefort."

"Is it enough to bring an accusation against him?"

"No… It may help but it's not enough," Etienne replied. "However, it seems to have upset the King, as he withdrew the order to arrest you. It's impossible to find out more at the moment. I haven't had a chance to speak with the Captain. He has basically been at the Palace ever since we got back."

"Is Constance also at the Palace?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes. Her husband had asked for her to be returned to him, but Treville somehow persuaded the King to allow her to stay. It is my understanding that he emphasized that her skill with a blade was essential to the Queen's security."

"Her husband tried to take her from the Palace?!"

"My guess is that he was paid to petition the King to have his wife returned." Etienne sighed, "We need to get back to the garrison as soon as possible." He averted his gaze from Porthos. "It's a black day for all of us," he said quietly.

Stop it! Please.

If you want to keep me from turning into a furious beast, you will stop.

Now.

"I won't believe he's dead until I see his body!" d'Artagnan declared fiercely. Porthos felt incredibly grateful for the naive youth's ability to deny the obvious truth.

Yet it was undeniable that to shoot someone while surrounded by hostile witnesses, then whisk the victim's corpse away before anyone checked on it sounded like one of their own reckless plans. Would Aramis really leave Athos of his own free will? Had there been any time to ask?

Porthos shook his head, wincing as pain made its triumphant comeback.

"Has anyone found Aramis' weapons?" the big man asked. He needed to be able to return them to their owner.

"No. We only found only Athos' pistol and blade," came the answer.

They rode back to the garrison. The physician was already waiting for them. Porthos did not know the man, and watched him suspiciously as he tended to Athos. The swordsman was feverish, but conscious. He did not resist the medical care, but it was clear that he did not really want it. Porthos knew that his friend would have preferred to be left alone with a large barrel of wine. Eventually, the doctor left, muttering something about infection-and that he would return for bloodletting if Athos did not improve.

Porthos made a mental note to find another physician for his brother.

The big man sat down near the bed. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and he realized that his body finally had started to rebel against the lack of sleep.

Aramis was hanging by his hands. His torso was covered in blood, but to Porthos' eyes, his hips were the worst. On the skin in that area were matching sets of bruises in the shapes of fingertips. Then there were the rivulets of blood that were trickling down his legs…

Porthos' hands were shaking as he started to saw at the rope that bound his friend's hands. At his touch, Aramis flinched, and moved as far away as the rope allowed. He slowly lifted his swollen eyelids.

"You found me…" he whispered. The gratitude in his voice was painful to hear.

"Mis!" he choked.

The thought of the weeks they had spent in a futile, hopeless search hit him hard. Everyone, himself included, had believed that Aramis was dead.

"Promise me you won't let Athos drown himself in wine," Aramis whispered.

"NO! You're not going to die on me now!"

"It's fine… it's the best way… there's no pain… no fear… I'm sorry, Porthos."

"No! Mis! Please!" He took Aramis in his arms, intending to carry his friend out of this damned place as soon as possible.

The marksman cried out in pain when Porthos moved him, then went limp.

A scream. Someone was screaming.

Porthos jumped to his feet, dagger in hand. He saw d'Artagnan reaching for his weapon, but the screaming had stopped.

"A nightmare?" the Gascon asked softly.

"Yes. It was just a bad dream," Porthos replied, fervently wishing that his words were true.