'Let him go.'
The old man did not listen. Or chose not to do as he was asked. Instead, he tightened his grip and maintained the pressure with the knife against the captive's neck.
Porthos had one hand reaching out showing he was not a threat whilst the other was resting on the butt of his gun, proving that he was.
The old man was strong. Stronger than the injured man he was holding as a hostage. D'Artagnan was pale due to the blood loss and looked incapable of fighting back. He was barely conscious.
And that was an issue for Porthos.
It was not the first time he had been in this situation. He could think of countless times when one of them was grabbed and used as a hostage or human shield by some desperate man. Sometimes the hostage taker was a man with nefarious intentions. Sometimes he was just scared.
Porthos had not decided what the old man's motive was yet.
If d'Artagnan was uninjured, or at least, not as badly injured, they would cook up a plan between them to resolve the situation. Eye contact, raised eyebrows and subtle nods would be all that was needed.
But d'Artagnan's eyes were half closed, his head lolled slightly. He was struggling to remain awake let alone thrash out a plan of escape.
The dagger was still in d'Artagnan's leg. The Musketeer tried to reach it but his captor knocked his arm away. As he lost his strength, d'Artagnan lost his will to fight. The old man, who was stronger than he looked, was winning.
And Porthos could not allow that.
'Let him go,' said Porthos again.
The old man shook his head and took a step back, pulling d'Artagnan with him. At the same time, he pulled his arm tighter around d'Artagnan's neck and pressed the knife harder against his skin. Porthos could see what was going to happen and he had to use that to his advantage. He could only hope the old man had not realised what he was doing.
Slowly suffocating d'Artagnan.
Like a noose tightening around a criminal's neck, the old man's arm was cutting off the life-giving air to d'Artagnan.
Porthos weighed up his options. He could wait for d'Artagnan to pass out and collapse which would distract the old man giving Porthos a chance to act. Or, he could try to shoot the old man and get to d'Artagnan before he was suffocated.
The first option would be easier but could prove deadly to d'Artagnan.
The second option was harder but could prove deadly to d'Artagnan.
If Pothos waited, the old man might suffocate d'Artagnan. If Porthos missed when he tried to shoot the old man, he might end up shooting d'Artagnan or the old man would plunge the knife into his neck.
As he considered his options Porthos could see d'Artgnan's life ebbing away. Porthos decided to act. He did not want to kill the man, but he knew he had no choice. D'Artagnan's life depended on Porthos.
'Let him go,' Porthos said a third time as he pulled his gun slowly.
The old man's eyes flicked to Porthos' hand for a second. But he remained where he was, making no attempt to either release his captive or move further away.
Porthos levelled the gun. He aimed at the man's head. He had no choice. The shot had to be clean. He took a steadying breath, slowly releasing the air.
He fired the gun.
Both captive and captor collapsed to the ground. Porthos rushed forward. He pushed the old man's body out of the way, he did not care for the old man. The old man had been a threat. He was no longer.
D'Artagnan was Porthos' only concern.
He pulled d'Artagnan straight, easing him onto his back. After hastily pulling open d'Artagnan's doublet, Porthos rested his hand on his friend's chest and held his breath.
It was not the first time he had checked for signs of life in a friend. He doubted it would be the last. But each time was torture. The worst thing he ever did. An injured man who was screaming in pain was better than an unconscious man. The stillness, the silence. It was unnerving.
Porthos waited.
The breaths came. They were steady.
D'Artagnan was still alive. The old man had not succeeded in suffocating the young man.
But d'Artagnan was injured.
Porthos made a quick assessment of his friend's injuries. The dagger in his leg and the cut to his neck were both bleeding, bruises were coming up on his neck. The old man had been holding d'Artagnan tightly, it was no wonder he was unconscious.
Porthos had to improvise. He did not have Aramis' well-stocked medical bag to extract dressings and potions from. He could not jokingly refer to his friend as a witch when he insisted one of them drink a pain-killing draught.
No.
Porthos had none of that.
He pulled his bandana from his head and grabbed his water bottle. After soaking the fabric he laid it over d'Artagnan's neck in the vain hope of offering some relief from the bruising. The knife cut was little more than a scratch and as long as it was kept clean would not cause d'Artagnan any problems.
The dagger in his leg on the other hand.
That would require a bit of thought.
Porthos remembered an incident a few months before when a couple of Musketeers had been in a fight and one of them had been stabbed with a knife. LeMay, the Court physician and generally a forward-thinking man, had been called. He stopped them from removing the weapon until he was ready to deal with the injury. He told them the blade might have been all that was stopping the unfortunate soldier from bleeding to death.
Porthos heeded the advice. He knew he would need to dress the wound until it could be properly tended to. With nothing else to use, he pulled his shirt loose and began tearing strips of fabric.
D'Artagnan moaned, then coughed a couple of times before trying to sit up.
'Hey,' said Porthos, as he pushed the confused man back down. 'Don't try to talk. You're injured, but I'm dealing with it.'
D'Artagnan looked at him with unfocused eyes. He tried to swallow before coughing again.
'He was throttling you. Your throat will hurt, but it's just bruises. Keep still and let me deal with the other injury.'
D'Artagnan furrowed his brow. Porthos chuckled.
'You've been stabbed as well. You were nearly killed by an old man.'
D'Artagnan tried to look around.
'He's dead. I shot him.'
D'Artagnan looked back at him. Porthos smiled and nodded.
'I know, we don't always need Aramis to make difficult shots. Although we will need him to deal with your injuries.'
D'Artagnan managed a small nod and made no further attempt to move. Porthos was pleased his friend was awake enough to understand what was going on. That was a good sign. He still needed to be helped, but d'Artagnan was a fighter.
And Porthos was sure d'Artagnan would win.
The End.
Whumpee: d'Artagnan. Featuring: Porthos.