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Porthos opens his eyes to darkness. It’s not something entirely unfamiliar—growing up in the Court, they didn’t always have enough candles for everyone, and on the new moon their room would turn pitch black. But this, with something heavy atop his chest, with dust in his lungs and dirt tickling his nose… this is different.
He coughs, then tries to stretch, but he doesn’t get very far before he bumps into something hard all around him. It’s rough, almost like rock. Or concrete. Porthos closes his eyes tight as the memory of the building exploding washes over him.
“D’Artagnan?” he rasps, then coughs again. He hadn’t been alone, he knows that—his brother had been with him. Where—? “D’Artagnan?”
No one answers him, though, not even after he repeats himself again. Terror seizes through his whole body; he doesn’t want to imagine a world without one of his brothers. Porthos reaches out wildly, desperately, grasping for anything but concrete in the direction he’d last seen d’Artagnan.
Someone else’s hand brushes up against his, and he grabs it. It doesn’t move, but he clings to it with everything he has—it’s a sign he’s not alone, that d’Artagnan is still with him, and he rubs his thumb over d’Artagnan’s knuckles, trying to wake him.
“Please, please,” he says, voice breaking. “Please… d’Artagnan…”
The concrete shifts above him, and there’s the faint sound of someone talking, but Porthos doesn’t care. Either it’s Grimaud here to kill them for good, or the other musketeers here to rescue them, and Porthos can’t do anything about it either way.
“Please,” Porthos says again, and there’s something wet in his eyes, something that sounds a lot like begging in his voice. “D’Artagnan, please, you said ‘not my day.’ Not this day. Not now.”
His hand shakes, fear choking him. But he doesn’t let go—D’Artagnan is not dead. He can’t be. He was just talking about Constance, and children, and a future.
“We refuse to die!” Porthos gasps, clinging to d’Artagnan’s hand even harder. “So refuse! Wake up!”
He roars the last words, and there’s a muted commotion above him, the weight on his chest getting lighter as more debris is moved faster than before. Finally, there’s sunlight. Porthos reaches for someone’s hand, but there’s no relief when he sees that it belongs to Athos.
Porthos barely has time to choke out d’Artagnan’s name before he’s turning back to the wreckage, pulling at concrete with his bare hands. Other musketeers are there, too, and within seconds they have d’Artagnan’s limp body lifted up and out.
“Aramis?” Athos says. He sounds frantic, but Porthos doesn’t have time to reassure him when d’Artagnan still hasn’t woken.
D’Artagnan’s whole left side of his face is bloody, streaming from a head wound right at his hairline, and the musketeers lay him next to the fallen building. Porthos falls to his knees at his side, grabs his hand, and squeezes it hard.
“Aramis?” Athos says again.
Porthos looks up at him, frustrated. “He’s not here! He had to go with the king, he’s fine!”
Finally, finally, Athos turns and seems to see d’Artagnan for the first time. “His head…”
“He needs a doctor,” Porthos says. “I don’t know—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, the words stuck in his mouth. He doesn’t know if d’Artagnan will be okay. He doesn’t know if d’Artagnan will wake up. He doesn’t even know if d’Artagnan will survive this. All he has is the slow movement of his brother’s chest as confirmation that he’s still holding on, still keeping their promise.
We refuse to die.