Chapter Text
"United we stand, divided we fall! We will not fall!" Athos' voice cracked at the last word and Porthos wasn't sure how often their captain had yelled those words in the last three days. He assumed that the "All for one and one for all" had been lost to him between the ringing of steel and the general cacophony of noises on the battlefield.
His arms felt heavy and every blow rattled through his tired bones. He wasn't sure for how long they would be able to hold the border. Which seemed to be so important to the king, that the General had sent the Musketeers out to defend it as soon as the messenger had left him with the news of an attack.
They were the fastest part of the company available, able to break camp and move without much effort; contrary to the rest of the large army, who should be here any time. Hopefully.
But hope wasn't something Porthos relied on any longer after years of war. They had been sent out as a vanguard to stop the Spanish as soon as possible and hold out as long as the others needed to arrive.
Porthos wished they might come.
An unexpected heavy blow sent him backwards and he stumbled over an unmoving body lying on the ground. If friend or foe he couldn't tell, but the body sent him falling. His eyes widened in shock, he wouldn't be able to get up fast enough to defend himself.
He wished he wouldn't die here in the mud on a patch of land he didn't even know the name of.
His back hit the earth first and the air was driven from his lungs. He saw the rapier coming in his direction, the sharp blade glistening in the sunlight and he wouldn't be able to dodge it.
It was at this exact moment that he heard a choking sound and made the mistake of taking a fleeting look in its direction. His eyes met that of a terrified Spanish soldier, who would not survive his injuries; but it would probably take hours for him to die in agony. He looked away again and hoped that his own death would be swift and immediate.
When Porthos opened his eyes again it was not to the sight of the rapier piercing through his leather armor, but another soldier blocking the blow in such a sloppy manner that it took him a moment to recognize his savior. The former pristine leather of the Pauldron and armor bore the signs of many battles fought and were coated in sweat, blood, and mud. Not just from the battle today, but those of the last ones, too. His hair had escaped the half bun it was tied into usually those days, so it wouldn't hinder his sight and every movement seemed to take so much effort that it hit Porthos like he had run at full speed into a brick wall.
They would find their end here.
When there was no help coming, none of them would survive this day. If Athos fell, they would follow him shortly after. He kept them alive and guided them with all his strength through battle after battle, never losing faith in front of them. He alone was able to change their tactic to save as many of them as possible, to direct the battle in a direction they could maintain the high ground. But they had lost so many over the past years and every single lost soul seemed to be carried onto their captain's shoulders, so it wouldn't get lost and made it safely back to Paris, where it belonged. They weighed a lot. Not one alone, but them all together.
Porthos stared at his Captain, comrade, friend, and brother.
A single tear slid down his cheek unnoticed.
"All for one, and one for all!" his Captain's raspy and exhausted voice rang out over the battlefield and carried strength and confidence over them.
With those words, repeated more often than still countable in places none of them had ever seen, shoulders straightened, weapons were held higher and Musketeers pushed down to their knees got up again.
Porthos was one of them because he realized that Athos didn't just carry the dead, but those living, too. He wasn't just reciting a phrase for them. He made sure they didn't forget what they were. These words weren't phrases. It was them.
He regained his footing and found himself back to back with D'Artagnan. Their eyes met fleetingly and Porthos could still see the sparks of mirth beneath the exhaustion and worry in his dark eyes. They would protect each other as long as possible. His eyes searched for Athos, who had moved further down their line, saving another life. And after that he vanished again, even if the slight breeze carried his voice over, reciting the same words over and over again with as much strength as he could muster.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but the three of them were together again, fighting side by side and Porthos got the impression that they were the last ones left. Too many red coats surrounding them, with too less blue ones in between. Athos' voice had given out a short moment ago and the look of utter panic in his eyes had shattered Porthos's heart.
They won't see another sunset.
The glistening of an already blood-stained rapier caught his eye and he followed its movement with the fascination of someone not connected to the situation anymore. He saw as the metal pierced through leather and flesh, but couldn't bring himself to look away. His body was too exhausted to react properly. He watched in disconnected wonder as the injured man got up again and killed his opponent through sheer fury and without any grace before he lounged in one stumbled step in his direction. Porthos's mouth opened for a scream, but no sound left his dry lips as the rapier barely passed his face and sank deep into the breast of a red-clothed man.
The Spaniard fell to his knees instantly and was now at eye level with Porthos. Which made him wonder when exactly he had gone down. But then said the man was shoved out of the way unceremoniously by someone else, green eyes replaced the brown ones of the Spaniard and Porthos was glad he hadn't witnessed the other man's death.
A hand cupped his face and he was sure that he should give the man in front of him some kind of thankful and reassuring reaction, but he couldn't. He was spent. And so he just stared into those familiar eyes and got so sad, that he couldn't tell him how brilliant he had led them. And that they had survived this long just because of him. That he was a brother, he never had in blood, for him, and that he would have fought hundreds of battles for him if necessary. He would have followed him through hell and back without a second thought.
A thumb stroked his cheek softly and he looked up, focussed on the man in front of him again, and saw his sadness reflected in these broken eyes. But he saw forgiveness and understanding, too.
Athos would let him go now. If there was no spark of hope left in him, no last reserve of will and strength, he would let him go.
Again tears rolled down his face and collided with Athos' leather-clad hand. Time seemed frozen for a moment. It was just the two of them. The battlefield around them forgotten. Athos smiled sadly at him, one of those rare and honest smiles he reserved just for those closest to him before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his forehead. Porthos closed his eyes and continued to cry as Athos broke the contact, leaving him kneeling on the floor alone as he stood, to make sure that he was able to bring another soul back to Paris, even if its body couldn't.