Porthos

Everything happened so fast. Just when he was sure that Rochefort was immune to their accusations and that their plan was doomed to fail, the Queen made her own accusation, and all hell broke loose.

It was clear that Rochefort had been prepared for any sort of confrontation. His men immediately threatened the monarchs. He knew all too well that the musketeers would place the safety of the King and Queen above capturing a traitor.

Porthos left d'Artagnan near the Queen and Constance. He hoped that the redhead was still alive, but he could not be sure. As he saw Rochefort exit the room, Porthos glanced towards Treville. The Captain seemed to have the King's defense well in hand, so Porthos ran after the comte.

He ducked the first blade, then slammed his fist into the man's face. He managed to catch the other sword with his main gauche, but it required a very challenging maneuver. His opponent was well skilled, and represented a true danger. Porthos awkwardly deflected his rapier and kicked another attacker, aiming at his knee. It was less efficient than he hoped, but it still seemed to have neutralized the man. Then the musketeer made a wild pirouette and managed to shove the other man forward, impaling him on the point of his attacker's blade. Both men lost their balance and landed hard on the floor.

He then attacked his remaining opponent. The man feinted, and before Porthos could change the direction in which his sword moved, his opponent had managed to cut him. Porthos roared in fury, well aware of the head start that Rochefort now had. He put all his strength into his attack. Shocked by the musketeer's merciless rage, the other man withdrew a few steps. Porthos backed him into a corner of the room, then rendered him unconscious by smashing his face with the pommel of his main gauche. Before the man had dropped to the floor, Porthos was running through the elegant palace corridors in search of Rochefort.

He soon saw an open window, and realized that the traitor must have used the rose trellis outside the window to climb down. The exposed thorns of the leafless plants tore at him, but the musketeer hoped that his gloves would protect him. They did, but his descent was not a pleasant one, and judging from the sounds of ripping material that came to his ears, his cloak had suffered some damage.

Finally, he was on the ground. He looked around, hoping to see some hint as to which route Rochefort had taken. It was clear that the man had not headed towards the stables. He had probably guessed that the musketeers would immediately cut off access to that area. Anticipating this move, he must have hidden a horse somewhere else on the grounds. Since Rochefort could not have possibly known at what time he would need to make his escape, he must have chosen a place where it would be easy to keep an animal for a prolonged period of time. Porthos was trying to recall the surroundings of the palace when a shot rang out. Despite knowing that it could be a trap, he headed in that direction. However, luck seemed to be at his side. He came across an injured guard lying on the ground. The man gestured at him with a spent pistol, indicating the way that Rochefort had gone.

Porthos nodded, and continued on. It seemed that the guard that managed to wound to hurt the traitor. A trail of blood now made it easy to follow Rochefort.

Porthos left the Palace grounds. The drops of blood led him to one of the buildings. He cautiously entered. Seeing no one, he mounted the stairs that led to the roof. He paused for a moment, but quickly grasped Rochefort's plan. If the comte crossed from roof to roof, he would reach a small convent which had a stable within its walls. Porthos knew he should pay more attention to his surroundings, but that meant moving more slowly, and he could not afford to lose any more time.

Finally, he managed to jump onto the wall that enclosed the old church and a small, almost forgotten convent. There was only one reason that the nuns were allowed to remain on prime real estate close to the city centre-and it had nothing to do with spirituality. The King happened to be very fond of the exquisite liquors that the women made with herbs sent to them from the royal gardens.

Porthos easily regained his balance on the narrow wall, which had a slight slope. He made his way towards the main gate, where he hoped he would find a way to climb down. He was preparing to climb down near the gate when he saw bloody handprints on the wall of the church. He recalled that the church roof seemed to always be undergoing repairs. It was quite likely that there was a ladder on the other side of the roof. It was clear that Rochefort was also aware if this, especially since he had risked climbing a height of almost two to three stories. Porthos sighed and focused on his first step up.

The shot caught him by surprise. Pain erupted in his leg. In the next instant, his foot slipped from the small ledge that he had used to support his weight when searching for another hand grip. He lost his balance, his fingers clawing at the stones as he fell.

Aramis!

This was his last conscious thought.

Pain. It seemed to surround him, not for the first time. He was preparing to take shelter within the dark oblivion when the image of his brother came into his mind. He could not die-or lie unconscious-when his brother needed him. He forced himself to surface to consciousness, although it meant digging through the intensifying pain. He was could not localize its source, but he sensed that his pounding head and aching ribs were competing to produce the most pain. He moaned, and felt a touch on his cheek.

"Porthos?" The voice was distant, and there seemed to something terribly wrong with it. The wounded musketeer forced himself to open his eyes, and immediately was grateful for the dim light in the room.

Concussions…. I hate them.

Aramis was kneeling next to the bed. The marksman was watching him intently. He looked exhausted, the bruises on his pale face appearing almost black. Aramis should be in bed. However, it was reassuring to see him keeping vigil, even if it meant that his condition might worsen. It was impossible to keep a conscious Aramis out of a room that contained his wounded brothers. If the medic was not here Porthos would fear the worst.

The dark skinned musketeer felt a hand slip under his head. He moaned at the pain, and immediately felt the urge to be sick. Aramis must have guessed what was going on, because Porthos found himself facing a bucket. He hated dry heaves. It seemed wrong to feel so awful when there was no food to expel from his stomach.

Aramis gently helped him to turn on his side. Porthos curled up into a ball, as that position seemed to alleviate his pain.

He started to drift away, soothed by Aramis' touch and presence. He knew he should say something, but he was too tired to resist the pull of sleep.

Slowly he began to resurface, and found that his head was still pounding. He was hungry, but still tormented by nausea.

Unfortunately typical for me.

He did not know how long he had slept. Something heavy lay on his palm. Porthos was not surprised to look down and see Aramis' head.

The marksman opened his eyes, and Porthos remembered the questions that he should already have asked.

"Rochefort?" he asked.

"Escaped," came the reply. Porthos was stunned to realize that Calbert was sitting in the corner of the room.

He must be here because Aramis is too weak to take care of anyone.

"Constance?"

"There's no news so far. When Lemay finishes working on her, he'll stop by and let us know how she is doing."

"The others?"

"No casualties so far, but I don't know too much about their status. Do you need anything? If not, I'll leave you with Aramis and go check on Athos."

"Why am I not in his room?"

Calbert was acting a bit odd, but perhaps the presence of a unusually silent Aramis explained that. The musketeer cast a pleading look at the marksman, but the Spaniard ignored him. It was possible that he was unaware of the whole situation.

Overwhelmed by fatigue, Porthos closed his eyes.

"Would you like some water?" Calbert asked.

"No-but I'd like some answers," Porthos growled.

"We decided that it was better for you to be separated from Athos-that way, you wouldn't disturb each other..."

"No. It's far better for us all to be in one room," muttered the dark skinned musketeer.

Porthos sensed that Calbert was lying, but he was tired. What little energy he had left was best used in order to deal with Aramis.

Calbert left.

"Mis?" Porthos tried to move his hand. His beaten muscles protested, but his arm obeyed the command of his brain.

How badly am I injured?

He touched his friend's cheek lightly. Aramis looked up at him.

The despair in his eyes shattered Porthos' heart.

"Lie on the bed," the big man muttered. His brother remained motionless, his pained dark eyes staring at Porthos.

"Mis, you need rest. Sitting on the floor doesn't count."

Even if he had wanted to do so, Aramis looked too weak to lift himself onto the bed. But he made no effort to move.

"I'll hurt you." The coldness in his voice made the words sound implausible.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked, trying to hazard a guess by looking at the medic's face.

"Bad," Aramis replied.

"I won't leave you," the dark skinned musketeer vowed.

The marksman hid his face in the bedclothes.

"Was it your idea to put me in a different room?" Porthos asked.

"No."

You think I'm dying. Is that the only reason you're here?

Suddenly another possibility hit him-one far worse than death. He tried to move, but his ribs, head, and leg all protested. He stilled.

Why my leg? Wait-I was shot. That's how I fell.

Falls can cause major injuries...

"Am I crippled?" he asked, his voice close to panic. This time his question provoked a reaction from Aramis. The marksman slowly lifted himself onto the bed, and Porthos felt the medic's fingers touch his left foot.

He was quite sure that any attempt to elude the tickling sensation-or to laugh-would only result in tremendous pain.

"No, please!" he moaned, only to feel the touch on his other feet. Aramis nodded slightly, as if thinking to himself.

"Don't move," he muttered, and pulled the blanket away.

Porthos felt Aramis fingers ghosting over his body. He expertly identified all of his patient's sore spots and prodded them mercilessly. The dark skinned musketeer became uneasy when he was unable to discern anything from Aramis' expression. In addition, the usually talkative medic remained completely silent during his examination. It was so unlike Aramis' usual bedside manner…

He hissed when marksman found another very tender spot. His ribs protested against his quick intake of breath. Aramis' hand halted at Porthos abdomen. A moment later, it it hurt like hell when the medic's fingers palpated another injury.

"Do you enjoy torturing me?" he growled, unable to keep his pain and frustration in check.

"No. You asked me a question. I need to examine you in order to give you an adequate answer."

He flinched, fighting the urge to cry out. Aramis' cold voice had caused pain much worse than his touch ever could.

He felt Aramis' hand tremble against his skin, and immediately felt guilty that he was preventing his brother from resting.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled.

"Don't be," Aramis said, his voice matter of fact. "I should bind your ribs."

"Call Calbert. He can help you." Porthos knew that he did not have the strength to hold himself upright for such a painful procedure. And even had Aramis been healthy, supporting the big man while binding his ribs would have been a real challenge.

The marksman nodded, but remained silent.

"What's wrong?", Porthos asked. He tried to mask the fear in his voice. Usually his tricks did not work on Aramis. However, this time the medic seemed to be barely conscious.

"I am not sure. I was told… I was told that your prognosis was very bad, but… I just don't see the reason…" Aramis replied slowly.

You mean, you've been told that I am dying?! I'll kill the idiot who put you through hell by telling you that!

"Don't ask me,' Porthos muttered. "I didn't get a chance to talk to the doctor." He was growing very tired, and keeping his eyes open had become a real challenge.

Aramis touched the bandage on the big man's leg. "Can you tell me what I'll find under this?" It did not exactly hurt, but Porthos' muscles stiffened in the expectation of pain-and with that movement, it came.

"A gunshot wound," he hissed.

"Don't move!" Aramis ordered. He slowly got to his feet, using the wall for support. Porthos observed his unsteady gait with a broken heart. Aramis took something from table. Going to the door, he tossed the object at Athos' door. An instant later, Porthos heard Calbert's voice. Aramis returned to him, and sat heavily on the bed. Just then, Calbert entered the room.

"Who tended to him?" the marksman asked icily.

"George Cavin. He found Porthos lying on the street, so I could not deny him the right to tend to Porthos' injuries… and to be paid for it. I sent for Lemay, but was told he was busy. They said he would come as soon as he was free."

The name Cavin meant nothing to Porthos, but Aramis seemed disgusted.

"Incompetent fool!" Aramis commented. His voice was not heated, but there was something deadly in his tone.

"Did he remove the bullet?"

"He didn't need to. It's a deep graze, but still just a graze."

"Did he use any herbs? Or did he decide that would be a waste of time?" The words were laced with a cold, dark fury.

An injured, hurting Aramis protecting his brother. Protecting me. This is the most dangerous Aramis I know.

Immense fondness-and worry-surged in Porthos' heart.

"I was a bit too worried to pay very close attention to what Cavin was doing. For this, Aramis, I offer my sincere apologies," Calbert replied formally. "I have some herbs that have been prepared for use in infections. You may use them on Porthos."

The marksman nodded, and extended a shaking hand towards Calbert. The musketeer quickly gave him a small pot of salve.

Porthos closed his eyes when he felt the men starting to work on his leg, bracing himself for the pain. It did not hurt much when it was left alone, but now, when it was being poked and prodded...

Porthos tried hard not to withdraw from their touch. His mind told him that it was better to have a salve put on now than to have a wound drained later. Still, it was a highly unpleasant experience, and the pain left Porthos gasping for air. His rapid breathing aggravated the pain that radiated from his bruised or broken ribs. In that moment, the difference was too subtle to matter, as his whole ribcage seemed to be on fire.

Finally his ribs were bound, and he was allowed to recline on the pillows. A few moments later, darkness claimed him.

When he opened his eyes, Aramis was again in his place on the floor, his head leaning against Porthos' bed. The dark skinned musketeer gently stroked Aramis' hair. It disturbed him to see medic's face. The dark eyes were open-and so empty.

"Mis-I need you." Porthos hoped that Aramis' protective instinct was still strong.

It worked. The marksman immediately lifted himself up, and reached for a cup.

"Drink," he murmured.

Porthos obeyed, ignoring the foul, bitter taste.

"You really should learn to make them more palatable..." he muttered. Aramis showed no reaction.

"Come lie on the bed," Porthos offered, showing him that there was room. It was then that he realized that Athos had been brought to the room. Even from a distance, he could see that fever still tormented the swordsman.

"Come, Mis. I need you."

Aramis looked at him and obeyed, curling up on the bed near Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer gently touched his hair, moving a bit closer to the medic. The movement was incredibly painful, as his ribs protested. Aramis immediately sat on the bed, his eyes wild with worry.

"Come closer. I need to feel you breathing," Porthos whispered. He was a bit ashamed to say it, but was too hurt and tired to really care. Aramis looked at him. His gaze was cold, distant, and so incredibly sad...but then he leaned into the big man's arms, his fingers finding Porthos' wrist.

So you too have the need to know that I am alive…