The bridge which spanned the river was wide and long. It had to be, the fast-flowing river that coursed under its arches was unforgiving. Large rocks on the riverbed caused the water to froth and bubble, sweeping into fast currents and foam-lipped eddies. It was also loud. Any conversation even halfway across the bridge would not be heard by those on the banks.

Athos squinted his eyes in an attempt to make out what was happening on the other side. They were the second party to arrive. The men that had taken Porthos hostage were already waiting for them. Porthos was there. It had been at the back of Athos' mind that Porthos would not be with the men that had taken him. They might have tried to change the deal and used Porthos as more of a pawn. But the men were not without honour. They were holding up their side of the bargain. And somewhat surprisingly, so were the Musketeers.

Athos had accompanied Captain Treville to the Palace to inform the King of the demand of the men who had taken Porthos hostage. Treville showed the ransom to the King who read it with a smirk and a shake of his head. Athos' heart had sunk. The King would refuse to go along with the demand. He could not respond to every such demand and why would he for a soldier? Even if that soldier was one of his elite loyal Musketeers. But the King waved a Royal finger, summoning one of his secretaries forward. He said something quietly to the man who bowed deeply and scurried off. The man that was wanted by the gang in exchange for Porthos was released from the Chatelet within the hour.

The man, a Spaniard named Lorenzo, was being held accused of spying. The charges were unfounded, but there had not been a suitable opportunity to release the man without losing face. Porthos' imprisonment provided that opportunity. Lorenzo was the same age as Athos and an affable man. He spoke good French and did not attempt to disrupt the group as they hurried to the rendezvous point. Although there was something about him, some faraway look that intrigued Athos. He wondered if he would ever know what it was that was causing the man to gaze into the distance, or turn his face to the sun and smile, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he did so.

Aramis took a few steps forward, almost onto the bridge.

'You know the terms of the agreement,' said Treville firmly, reaching out to catch Aramis' arm and pulling him back into line.

'He's injured. Look at him, he can barely stand,' replied Aramis whose keen eyes sought Porthos out and assessed his health.

'Let's get him back, then you can look after him,' Treville said, his tone fatherlier and calmer.

Aramis nodded and stepped back a little, although the tenseness of his shoulders remained. His gaze never wavered from the other end of the bridge.

Porthos was sitting on the low wall of the bridge, his head bowed. He was not wearing his uniform or any of his own clothes. The clothes he was wearing were tatty. He had bandages around his wrists and possibly his waist, although Athos could not fully make out all his friend's injuries.

One of the men on the other side of the bridge pulled Porthos up to stand. The injured man wavered; he took a stumbled step to the side before steadying.

Aramis walked forward again, but Athos stopped him.

'I know, sorry,' muttered Aramis, who was struggling to contain himself, the anger obvious in his tone.

Lorenzo stepped forward; he rested his hand on Aramis' arm.

'I can see this man means a lot to you all,' he said. 'I hope you can restore him to health.'

He moved to stand at the edge of the road where it met the bridge. He looked forward, at the men who were to receive him, his shoulder slumped a little. Athos was a little surprised to see him cross himself and mutter something in Spanish that might have been a prayer. Aramis stepped forward for the third time but stopped by Lorenzo and was about to speak when Lorenzo shook his head.

'It is better this way,' the Spaniard said.

Aramis looked shocked; Athos wondered what the man had said when he was speaking in Spanish. Aramis understood and was obviously surprised by the words. He reached out and shook Lorenzo's hand. Lorenzo smiled in return before confidently walking forward.

At the other end of the bridge, Porthos was shoved in the back. He took a couple of stumbled steps before stopping himself from falling and walked forward slowly. He was limping, favouring his right leg, and his left hand was pressed against his hip. Athos thought he could see blood between Porthos' fingers.

Both prisoners continued to walk forward. Lorenzo was careful to match Porthos' pace, even stopping at one point when Porthos paused and adjusted his left hand.

The two men met in the middle of the bridge. They regarded each other. Lorenzo said something to Porthos and glanced back at them. Porthos nodded and said something in reply. Lorenzo steadied Porthos for a few seconds as the Musketeer started to walk again. Lorenzo let him go and continued his slow-paced walk towards the other side of the river.

Athos could not take his eyes off Lorenzo. He knew he should have been more concerned with Porthos, but he was drawn to the Spaniard. He wondered why the King had not been bothered about letting the political prisoner go. He wondered what the man had said in Spanish that Aramis was so shocked about. He wondered what he had said to Porthos at the midway point of the bridge.

Aramis answered the question when Lorenzo was a few yards from the other side.

'He was saying a prayer. A prayer for the dying. He was praying for the repose of his soul.'

Athos glanced at Aramis and noticed that his gaze was also not solely on Porthos, he was glancing at Lorenzo as well.

When Porthos was a few yards from the edge of the bridge Athos walked forward with Aramis, ready to help their friend. Porthos looked exhausted. He was bruised and battered. He was covered in cuts and grazes; it was obvious he had been beaten several times during his captivity.

A gunshot at the other end of the bridge made Porthos stop walking. He looked down for a few seconds and sighed.

'He knew,' said Aramis. 'Lorenzo knew that was what was in store for him.'

The Spaniard had reached a point a couple of paces from the end of the bridge. One of the men was standing with his arm outstretched, a smoking gun in his hand. Lorenzo stood frozen for a second before he sank to his knees, his body limp as though he were a marionette whose strings had been cut. He slumped to the ground.

Porthos looked back up, and as he took another step his knees buckled. But unlike Lorenzo, Porthos was not dead and he was not allowed to collapse to the ground. Athos and Aramis slipped their arms around him and held him up.

'I think we owe it to Lorenzo to help Porthos,' said Athos remembering the dead man's words a few minutes earlier.

With a last look at the body of the Spaniard that was being dragged away by the group of men at the other end of the bridge, they turned to go.

To be continued…

Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring: Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan and Treville.