Authors note: Dear Guest reviewer. This is a series of 'Whump' prompts. You're not necessarily going to get a satisfactory conclusion to each story. The emphasise is on the 'whump'.

Thanks for all the comments everyone. This carries on from yesterday.

Sloppy Bandages

He blinked against the light as the door to the room was pushed open. Raising his hands to shield his eyes. The light in the doorway was partially blocked for a few seconds by Lacroix. The man, who Porthos was willing to label evil, looked down at him. Porthos could not see his expression. His face was cast in shadow by the bright light behind him.

'They want you back,' he said, a hint of incredulity to his voice.

Porthos found that he raised an eyebrow in surprise as well.

'I honestly thought I would get the chance to hand you over to my men and let them do what they wanted to you before they fed you to the pigs.'

Porthos thought that was his fate as well. He had been mentally preparing for his end for some hours.

'Anyway,' said Lacroix, 'we'll have to make sure you survive long enough to be restored to them. They are giving us a man in exchange, so you need to survive that long at least.'

He stepped back. The young lad with wide eyes stepped into the room. He kept away from Porthos. Porthos wondered why. He was in no state to try and grab the boy again. Perhaps the boy had learned not to get near desperate prisoners who will try anything to escape their captors.

The lad was carrying a tray which was left on the floor by the door. Porthos glanced at the tray for a few seconds before looking back at Lacroix.

'None of us know anything about field medicine. You're the soldier, you'll have to look after yourself. I'm sure you can clean those little cuts yourself. I've also generously given you food. We don't want you keeling over. They're expecting you to still be relatively fit when we give you back.'

Porthos wondered what Lacroix's idea of 'relatively fit' was. It certainly differed from Porthos' idea. He looked at the food and wondered if it would be safe to eat. But Lacroix had no reason to poison him now. He was no use to them except as chattel to be exchanged. He wondered who was being released in payment. He did not think the life of a Musketeer was worth that much.

Lacroix continued to look at him for several seconds. Porthos looked back. He wondered if the man was upset that he was not to be given the chance to hurt him further. Lacroix was convinced that Porthos had intelligence that could be sold on. But Lacroix was mistaken. Porthos had not been on a mission to deliver or retrieve intelligence. He had been on one of those pointless errands that they all occasionally ended up with. He had taken a token of friendship from the King to a noble. He had been returning after delivering a gift when he was attacked and taken prisoner. He had been beaten and hurt for nothing.

Porthos had come to terms with the fact that he would die for a box of trinkets.

Now he was getting a second chance for a glorious death in battle. Provided he did not die of an infected wound.

He glanced at the tray again, noting the steaming bowl of water and the clean cloths. It was not much but it would do for the worst of his injuries.

'I'll leave you to it,' said Lacroix. 'We leave in an hour.'

The door was pulled shut and Porthos was left alone.

But this time he was not deprived of light. The room was usually dimly lit, with only enough light to see his cuts and bruises. Enough light to see blood dripping from his injuries. Now he had enough light to tend to those injuries and the means to do so.

He shuffled across the floor. He knew he would not be able to easily stand. He probably could still stand and walk but he would not get far without help. The stout stick that had been smacked into his shins had left him in considerable pain. And the deep cuts to his hip were only going to add to his discomfort when it came to walking.

He shuddered at the memory of being stripped on the first day of his ordeal. Lacroix had used the knife himself that first time. Slowly cutting Porthos' clothes off him, leaving him feeling vulnerable amongst the group of thuggish men. Lacroix even apologised when the knife sliced into his hip, saying it was an accident. The accident happened three times as Porthos' breeches were cut.

When they had given him some tatty clothes to put on later that first day Porthos had found it difficult to bend enough to get the dirty replacement breeches on. The cuts to his hip had bled afresh.

He picked up one of the cloths and dipped it in the hot water. He used it to wipe at the grime on his hands and face. The feeling of cleanliness refreshed him a little. He pushed his breeches down enough to clean the cuts to his hip, wincing as the dried blood was washed away. Covering the cleaned cuts was difficult. He was forced to kneel up and wrap the bandage at the same time. He was weak. He was shaking with the effort. It was not his best work. Aramis would not approve. Porthos hoped he got through the rest of the day to enjoy Aramis' disapproval of his self-care.

With shaking hands, he pulled the filthy breeches back up and buttoned them. The bandage stayed where he had put it, which, for Porthos, was a minor victory at that moment.

He knew there were cuts and grazes on his body that he would not be able to reach to clean. There were no doubt many he was not aware of. His whole body hurt. He could only deal with the injuries he could see. Lacroix had not left him anything to deal with bruises, he would have to wait for Aramis to help him with those. Porthos decided not to make jokes about the herbs and salves that Aramis used when he was released. He would not accuse his friend of witchcraft when he offered a painkilling draught or an oddly smelling salve and just be grateful for the relief they brought.

The water was still warm as he resoaked the cloth and spent time cleaning the cuts and grazes on his wrists where he had spent a couple of days manacled. Manacled and chained to a wall. Forced to stand or dangle if he passed out. Porthos thought it was a couple of days. It might have been less, or it might have been more. His concept of time had gone. He had no idea how long he had been held captive for.

He picked up another bandage and wrapped it around his left wrist, resting his arm on his knee as he tucked the bandage into itself to secure it. The right wrist proved harder work. It was difficult to get the bandage tight enough. After three goes Porthos was pleased to see it stay where it was, although he doubted it would last for long.

Porthos decided he had done all he could. He looked at the food on the tray. A cup of some sort of broth and a hunk of bread. The smell of the broth had been tantalising from the moment it was brought into his stark room. He picked up the cup with shaking hands, being careful not to spill the liquid on his fresh bandages. He took a sip and managed a smile. The broth was pleasant, he would even describe it as tasty.

He moved to lean against the wall. He sipped at the broth, occasionally dunking the bread.

Porthos wondered if he could allow a little hope that he was about to be released. He knew it could all be an elaborate joke on Lacroix's part. But Porthos had nothing else to cling to at that moment.

He decided to hope.

To be continued…

Whumpee: Porthos