There are things Porthos needs to remember, if the world would slow down enough to let him.
Porthos
Porthos had been small once.
Small, skinny—graceless.
When he remembers it, he remembers that—how it was, how it felt. What it was like to hide in corners, to scuttle himself below the taller and bigger.
Even so, it is a rare thing when those memories find the front of his thoughts.
They're with him now, strangely thick, and he feels the sensation of being shrunken and uncoordinated. Folded in by halves and stuffed into a body he's not grown enough to manage. So slight and skinny, he cannot even reach the skin.
The narrow bones in his feet and fists are lost to his command. And he needs them. Needs them to flex and move.
Because there is something…
Something in his head that he is missing.
Something in his eyes and teeth, and ribs.
It isn't too late yet, to get it back. He doesn't think. Not yet.
Except, he remembers. He remembers, already, how he let it slip away.
Charon refused to believe him because he could not tell him what it was, but Porthos remembers it. On dark nights, in the pit of his stomach, he remembers. He left it in his mother's pocket. That's where he lost it. And it must be that which he's missing now, because he thinks about it all the time, and the sinking hollow through his body is the same.
Even though his skin has gone to sleep, and his head is aching loosely, as though it wants to float away.
She'd given it to him. His last keeping, she'd said. Then she'd slept, and he'd put it in her pocket, because he thought it should be close to her—just for a while more—and he'd curled his head down on her hip to close his eyes and feel it pressed between them, like so many times before.
So it's there. It must be there. He knows just where he left it, if not what it was. He can still go back for it.
He hasn't woken up yet and found her body already gone.
But the ground and sky and trees are all running past him. Too fast. Rushing by below the gray breath of darkness. Not pausing for even the softest greeting when all Porthos needs is for them to slow. Slow down. Slow down.
Because it isn't too late.
He hasn't lost it yet.
Not yet.
Except, he knows he did. He let himself fall asleep, and it was gone.
And now…
The trees whisper as they rush. The ground flies beneath the horse's hooves, and won't pause to listen, even when he swears under his breath through lips he can't feel.
And swears…
He'll not be careless this time. Not be the fool—to put it in her pocket like that. He'll not close his eyes.
If he could go back, he would keep it in his hand where she'd put it, and not let it go. He wouldn't fall asleep. Not for a moment.
But he is skinny and small and cannot make his voice be heard when he knows it should roar.
"Porthos! Porthos!"
The vibrant voice is pressed to his ear, warm, but with an undercurrent of fear, and Porthos thinks, maybe he's been roaring after all.
Heaving a strange breath, he feels his lungs shake—an odd sensation—and pins the voice to a name. Athos.
It's significant somehow. Needed.
Athos.
Something stirs. An order of execution. A firing squad. But that's not...
Porthos shudders and blinks, but his vision sharpens only just. In front of him, there is wind, the kind he thinks he should be able to feel but can't. There are trees. Shaded obscurities and blowing leaves. And... a slaughter. He can't see it, but somewhere there is a slaughter. Sure and sharp, with swords, and blood, and Musketeers.
"Ath-s," he tries to say.
"It isn't far," Athos says, and his voice sounds hollow, like he's shouting through a gale across three leagues. His arms around Porthos create a distant pressure, and when Porthos breathes to reach for the sensation, his ribs ache and tighten, threatening not to let the air in.
"We... we can't," he mumbles, fighting his lungs. "Ath-s, w'can't."
Athos interrupts the low stuttering, if he even heard it in the first place, and says something else—something Porthos cannot make out, and when he wrenches his numb head up to hear it better, he sees a cabin in the distance, standing like a small fortress between the heavy shadows in the cold.
The horse they're on slows to a frantic cantor as they near, blustering into a side step that lets Porthos swing his dull gaze back towards the direction they came. Lets his eyes fix on a dark, cold landscape with nothing living but the wind. Porthos shakes his head and twists—feels the skin on his neck catch against Athos's beard like a distant thing.
They can still go back. They haven't lost it yet. Not yet. Have they?
Something like a stone sinks down into his body, widening the nagging hollow of regret into a cavern, just as he hears d'Artagnan's voice—
"Where's Aramis?"
tbc