Chapter Text
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Porthos
It was dark. He knew that much. He could feel it clinging to him like wet sheets, weighing him down in a suffocating embrace.
He crawled toward consciousness in stages, first aware of a low thrum of pain at the side of his face, then of something hard and cold beneath him, and finally the pungent smell of death that seemed to wrap around him. It was that unmistakable, sickeningly sweet stench – like rotten fruit soaking in sulfur – that snapped his eyes open.
Instinct bade him stifle the groan that he could feel building as he rolled carefully to his back, the pain along his jaw line slipping like knife blades up to his temple and settling at the back of his skull. Unable to help himself, he reached to press a hand against the pain – and realized he was chained.
The gasp escaped before he could catch it and he felt panic begin to take root inside a corner of his mind darker than this room, which he tried very hard to never examine. Lifting both hands, he quickly surmised that his wrists were shackled, a length of chain between them roughly as long as his chest, and another length anchoring him to the floor.
“Bleedin’ Christ.”
“Porthos?”
He brought his head up a little too quickly at the sound of his friend’s voice, his head spinning as he replied, “Aramis?”
“Oh, thank God,” Aramis exhaled and Porthos could practically feel his friend’s relief permeate the black.
“Athos?” he croaked, voice catching in his dry throat.
“I’m here.”
Grunting, Porthos pushed himself up to his side, bracing his elbow on the stone floor and took stock. Aside from a head that seemed to be made of cracked glass, he was intact. Drawing his legs up, he was relieved to find his ankles unfettered, but the chain that bound his wrists to the floor was too short for him to stand. He was able to find a wall, however, and gingerly leaned against it, the smell of decay much stronger now.
“How badly are you injured?” Aramis asked, his voice slipping across the shadows.
“Feel like someone used my head for target practice,” Porthos grumbled. “But other than that, ‘m fine.”
“I saw you go down,” Aramis informed him. “In truth, I thought you were—“
The choked sound that cut off his friend’s sentence gripped Porthos’ heart like a vice.
“I’m good, Aramis,” he reassured as best he could without reaching out.
Aramis was a very tactile man. Touch grounded him, reminded him, and comforted him. The Spaniard marksman would never admit to such, but Porthos had fought by his side long enough to know that Aramis wouldn’t be convinced until he could examine Porthos himself.
“Really,” he continued. “You lot trussed up as well?”
He heard two sets of chains rattle, one directly across from him, and one off to his right. Near as he could tell, they were in a cellar of some kind – based on the cold, damp stone beneath him, and the near-impermeable darkness. He had no idea how long he’d been out, nor what time of the day it was.
“You see anything?” he asked.
“There were torches in here earlier,” Athos murmured, his baritone heavy in the suffocating dark. “They removed them when they brought the water.”
“There’s water?” Porthos felt his body suddenly straining forward, as if by movement he could miraculously see.
“Just to your right, toward the center of the room.”
Scooting forward carefully so that he didn’t lose the direction of the wall, Porthos inched his hands out until he felt the rough edges of a bucket and a cool metal handle of a ladle. He drank greedily, trying to remember what events had transpired that landed them in such a state. Thirst momentarily quenched, he edged back to the wall.
“It’s just us, yeah?”
“And some poor bastard who apparently died of lead poisoning,” Aramis sighed.
“How in the bloody hell—“
“There’s a hole the size of a musket ball in his forehead,” Athos explained.
“What about Grantaire? Lesgle?” Porthos asked after the other Musketeers who’d accompanied them on this mission.
“Grantaire rode off when the second wave hit,” Aramis replied in a tone so bitter it didn’t fit his voice. “I didn’t see Lesgle.”
Porthos was quiet a moment. “The whelp didn’t make it, did he?”
“He fell from his horse. Started running,” Aramis began.
“They were on him in minutes,” Athos practically growled. “He never stood a chance.”
The quiet was broken only by their combined shallow breathing.
“We have never failed quite so spectacularly,” Aramis admitted.
“We’re not dead,” Athos said softly, as if trying to convince himself.
Aramis scoffed. “If you’re suggesting that gives us an advantage, I’m not sure I like our odds.”
Porthos swallowed. Aramis was edging too close to despondent for his liking. He was accustomed to Athos’ penchant for melancholy, but Aramis was their light; perhaps he didn’t always burn brightly, but he was a steady light in a world of sparks. Darkness of the spirit was not something Porthos could abide; he depended on his friends – his brothers – to keep him balanced. If they, the strongest and bravest men he knew, were cracking, things were dire indeed.
“So,” he barked out, adjusting his legs to find a semi-comfortable position against the stone beneath him, “how long do we wait around?”
His friends were silent a moment and then he heard Aramis chuckle. He grinned in the dark, picturing the man’s wide smile as he ruefully conceded that no matter how bleak the situation, they had always found a way out. Now should be no different.
“Ah, too bad d’Artagnan isn’t here,” Aramis sighed wistfully. “That boy’s become a wonder at slipping bonds. We could’ve been free by now.”
“I don’t want him anywhere near this,” Athos practically growled, the tone feral enough to raise the hairs on the back of Porthos’ neck. “Our fate is our own; we escape and live or we submit and die, and he will be free of it.”
Aramis quieted at that, which made Porthos frown. Athos was protective of the youngest of their regiment, that was no secret, but it was important to give Aramis hope if they were going to get out of this. If thinking of the Gascon gave Aramis some peace, Porthos would be damned if he’d take that from him.
“He’d only be underfoot, as always,” Porthos grumbled good-naturedly. “Probably knock over our only water bucket, twitching in his sleep.”
Athos huffed, but it was soft and full of concession; Porthos could tell the older Musketeer knew what he was attempting to do.
“He is a restless sleeper,” Aramis agreed. “Going to have to break himself of that habit if he’s to go out on many more patrols.”
“Nightmares,” Athos murmured.
“Wassat?” Porthos inquired.
Athos took a breath and Porthos heard him shifting in the dark. “He has nightmares. It is apparently a prerequisite to being a Musketeer,” he continued, his tone subdued and introspective.
They grew quiet once more and Porthos leaned forward to reach his aching head with his shackled hand. He could feel drying blood matting the hair on one side of his head.
“How long ‘ve we been down here, then?”
“Just under a day,” Aramis answered. Porthos blinked in silent surprise. He’d been out cold for more than a day? “Now you see why I thought you were dead, my friend?”
“Them blokes, the ones what ambushed us,” Porthos asked, “you think they were after the boy?”
“Unless there is suddenly a high demand for a ransom on Musketeers, yes,” Athos replied.
“They weren’t Red Guards,” Porthos remembered, images from their skirmish returning to him in bits of memory. “Wore…black.”
“They were soldiers from Le Mans,” Aramis revealed.
“You recognized them?” Athos inquired.
“Their pauldron,” Aramis replied. “I fought alongside one as a new recruit…years ago.”
“But…Le Mans is of Maine…and under the King’s rule,” Porthos protested.
Aramis’ chains rattled in what Porthos could only assume was a shrug. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
The silence was like another presence in the dark, slinking cloying arms around Porthos and drawing him back into a suffocating grip.
“You sure this other’s dead, then?” he asked, desperate for noise. Sound, of any kind.
“Your nose can surely prove our words,” Athos grumbled.
“Then I say we start planning our escape.”
Aramis described their prison from what he was able to remember during the time the torches were burning. Three walls they each were chained near, and a large opened space that led to some sort of corridor. There seemed to be only one way in and out, but without weapons or means of breaking their chains – and with the knowledge that Porthos was certainly not ambulatory while unconscious – they hadn’t bothered to make the attempt.
“And then there is Athos’ hand,” Aramis concluded.
“What happened to your hand?”
“One of our captors felt it necessary to teach me a lesson,” Athos replied.
“He stomped on it after disarming Athos,” Aramis replied. “It’s broken.”
“Damn,” Porthos growled.
“No matter,” Athos said almost casually, though the underlying worry and pain painted his words in vibrant colors. “I can use a sword just as well with my other hand. Unfortunately, that does us no good while we’re chained to this floor.”
“I’m workin’ on that,” Porthos replied.
“They’ll return with the torches,” Aramis predicted. “They’re trying to addle our sense of time. If we were to attempt an escape, it would be best if we could see.”
Porthos began to feel around the base of where his chain was fixed to the floor. There was a square metal plate with two large bolts at opposite corners. He began to work at them, trying to loosen their grip into the stone. He told the other what he was doing and soon heard the clink of metal and shifting of bodies telling him they were giving it a go.
“You alright, Aramis?” Porthos asked quietly after a few moments of working.
“Other than the obvious, I assume you mean.”
“You’re not hiding a hurt, are you?” He knew of Athos’ broken hand, but Aramis had said nothing of his own injuries.
“My dear Porthos, even if I were, what difference would it make to our situation?”
Porthos sighed. “It would make a difference to me.”
Aramis was quiet a moment. “A few bruises and a damaged ego. Nothing that won’t heal with time, wine, and the arms of a willing woman.”
Porthos heard Athos cough briefly and didn’t know if it was due to the damp or covering up something Aramis was glossing over.
“Good. ‘Cause when we get out of here? If you can’t keep up?” Porthos turned his face in the direction he knew Aramis to be sitting. “I’ll leave you behind. Don’t think I won’t.”
“I would expect nothing less. Musketeer motto and all,” Aramis quipped.
“Will you two stop flirting and get on with this escape idea?” Athos grumbled, the sound of his boot thudding against the base of the chain punctuating his words.
Aramis sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a hammer and a chisel.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a pistol,” Porthos muttered, feeling the lack of weight at his waist where his weapons usually rested comfortably.
“While we’re wishing, what of you, Athos?” Aramis asked.
At first Porthos didn’t think Athos would reply. Oft times, he and Aramis engaged in inane banter to keep their minds from their misery; Athos typically sat brooding, just enough apart from them they couldn’t organically draw him into the conversation, but the darkness seemed to erase all pretense and destroy all walls. Athos was powerless to hide within it.
“What I wouldn’t give not to be found,” Athos replied sullenly.
“Well, that’s cheery,” Aramis returned. “Remind me not to ask your opinion the next time I see a falling star.”
“What worries you, Athos?” Porthos inquired, pausing in his attempts to loosen the bolts.
“d’Artagnan,” Athos replied.
“The boy’s far from here,” Aramis reminded him. “Treville sent him east, with that dispatch—“
“I know where he is,” Athos broke in. “What worries me is what he’ll do.”
“When he finds out about us, you mean,” Porthos replied.
“He’s a Musketeer, Athos.” Aramis’ voice was hard. “He’s a soldier, trained in battle strategy and combat tactics.”
“He’s a boy.” Athos spat the word like it burned his mouth. “Untested, untried. He’s no older than—“ He broke off, something stealing his breath.
“He’s not much younger than me when I was commissioned,” Porthos reminded him. Though it was nearly a decade ago, he remembered clearly feeling the rush of finally belonging somewhere, feeling the connection of brotherhood.
“Yes, but you had Aramis and myself,” Athos argued. “Who does d’Artagnan have?”
“Us,” replied Porthos, as if the answer should be obvious.
“Come to think of it,” Aramis said, shifting his chains in the dark. “We’re pretty much all that boy has.”
“Exactly,” Athos replied, clinking his chains against the stones forcibly. “That is exactly what worries me.”
Porthos didn’t reply, but had he been pressed he would have confessed to hoping the lad got wind of their predicament and headed west toward Mortagne. The bolts weren’t getting any looser, his head was aching exponentially, and he had just spied the dim light of a torch headed their way. d’Artagnan may be bullheaded and impetuous, but he was a good man to have in a fight.
And a fight was what they were facing if they had any hope of escape.