#why would they go from considering d'artagnan a brother

[adhd-merlin]

watching the musketeers ep 1x10 and why did everyone turn against d'artagnan when it turned out he slept with milady. porthos and aramis go from "who is this woman" to "you slept with athos's wife??" in the space of two seconds, bro no one even knew athos had a wife?? what was that

[winterinhimring]

Three Musketeers fans, please consider:

Athos with a baby.

I don't recall the exact circumstances under which he obtained Raoul, and I don't want to read Twenty Years After right now to remember them, because it makes me sad, so let's go with the fairly standard baby-in-a-basket-on-doorstep route. Here's how I think it would go.

Part I:

You are a tenant of the Comte de la Fère, who recently returned from five years of Mysterious and Probably Violent Activities to take up his ancestral position again. Nobody really knows what he's like anymore, so all his tenants/vassals are treading fairly lightly around him. So far, nobody's sure if he's going to drink himself into an early grave, or pick a quarrel with the wrong eight guys and get himself killed, but those are pretty much the only two options anyone is considering.

It is the middle of the night. You are woken by hammering on the door.

You go downstairs and the person who is hammering on the door like a madman is the Comte. He is wearing a nightshirt and a sword.

He is holding a baby.

His eyes are approximately the size of saucers. "Someone left him on the doorstep," is all he says, and he appears to think that this is an adequate explanation for why your liege-lord is standing on your doorstep in the middle of the night with a baby and a sword.

You decide to get your wife, because you are in no way equipped to handle your (definitely not panicking) lord and a baby on your own at this hour of the night.

Your wife immediately corrects how the Comte is holding the baby (his baby??) and you want to sink into the floor because you have no idea how he's going to take that kind of unsolicited advice, but the Comte is watching her like she's a divine revelation, and as soon as he's holding the baby to her satisfaction, he starts staring down at the kid with a ridiculously smitten expression on his face.

You decide to ask no questions.

Part II:

Now that Athos knows how to hold the baby, he is never going to put the baby down. Ever. Doing paperwork? Holding the baby. Riding into town? Holding the baby. Meeting with his tenants? Holding the baby.

He also talks to him exactly like an adult, because Athos has no framework for how to talk to someone who is not an adult. Baby Raoul has a very precocious vocabulary (no, I don't mean swearing; Athos NEVER swears in front of the child: I mean that he's the kind of five-year-old who uses words with more syllables than he is old).

The wife of our frazzled tenant above decides, at some point, to give the Comte a baby sling, because look, you can't do everything one-handed even if you are ambidextrous.

Athos now wears the baby everywhere. Somehow, he manages to look dashing while doing so. Half the unmarried ladies in the locality and a few of the married ones lose their hearts to him irrevocably, because it's a rare man who can look dashing while wearing a baby in a sling. Athos is completely ignorant of this because he's busy looking at Raoul.

Part III:

Because we live in a world where the Inseparables did NOT go without seeing each other for twenty years, Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan find out about the baby. (Reader's choice: this can be because Athos wrote a panicking letter to them shortly after finding the kid to see if any of them knew what to do with a child, or because the four of them got together for a visit and Athos just. Was holding a baby.)

Of course, Raoul now has three devoted uncles, although everyone likes to tease D'Artagnan that the real reason Athos obtained a child was because he thought D'Artagnan needed a little brother. Uncle Porthos throws him in the air and Athos almost faints on the spot. Uncle Aramis teaches him to use his (unfairly cute) face to the BEST advantage possible.

Uncle D'Artagnan accidentally teaches him to swear. Athos does not find out about this until there is some accident and Raoul spits out a series of rather vehement oaths in front of him. D'Artagnan hears Athos yell and promptly flees. Aramis and Porthos watch with popcorn as Athos chases him over hill and dale until he catches him and threatens him with dismemberment if he EVER says ANYTHING like that around Raoul again.

D'Artagnan tries to blame Porthos.

It does not work.

Part IV (beware of spoilers for the end of the series):

In this AU, needless to say, Raoul does not go get himself killed in battle and Athos does not die of grief. The Inseparables plus Raoul all live to a very happy old age.

[flowers-creativity]

Bad Luck: Epilogue

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

Notes: That's all, folks! *Looney Tunes melody*

Thank you so much to all of you who have followed this story - thank you for your comments and for your patience and for sticking with me till the end! I hope you enjoyed it!

I want to acknowledge that this is a delicate topic, writing about a black character experiencing slavery, especially as a non-black author (possibly why they chose to use d'Artagnan instead of Porthos in "An Ordinary Man"), and I hope I have treated it with the sufficient sensitivity. If there are any parts where I did not succeed in this, please feel free to let me know! Even if the story is finished now, I would much rather edit or rewrite as needed than leave anything offensive in it.

AO3 link

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

The horses' hooves clopped loudly on the city's cobblestones. Porthos relished the sound and did nothing to hide his grin as he gazed up at the buildings around them as if he hadn't seen them in ages, far longer than what had been, after all, barely more than a month. They had been on missions taking them away from Paris much longer than that in their service to the King. But it was different, returning home when, at some point, you had doubted if you ever would. And this, Paris with its narrow streets, the stench of too many people and animals living too closely together, the constant din of traders hawking their wares and housewives gossiping, was home to him most of all of them, even if for a long time, his home had been a part of Paris no one liked to think about.

Now his home was the Garrison, and his grin impossibly widened when they passed below the arch into the courtyard. It made his cheeks hurt but it was a happy ache.

A few Musketeers milling about in the courtyard looked up at the sound of their approach, gaping at the arriving group. Porthos might have felt embarrassed at the attention, but he could always pretend they were going slack-jawed at the sight of the three fine horses Athos had purchased in Le Havre. The one Porthos was riding, bought in the small village where they had found shelter, was a good beast and had borne him home faithfully, but those three were something else.

Still, the notion was dispelled when he had dismounted and handed the horse's reins to Jacques who had dutifully appeared to take care of their horses and was definitely smitten with the new horses at first glance.

The first to greet him was Defoe, a fellow recruit from the general army who liked to play cards with Porthos, grumbling good-naturedly about cheating when he unavoidably lost. “Porthos! You're back!”

The joy on his face made warmth rise in Porthos' cheeks. He tried to suppress it as he grinned, spreading his arms and bouncing on his toes. “In the flesh!” he replied, and if it didn't sound quite as nonchalant as he wanted it to because his voice was a bit too gruff with emotion, no one mentioned it. He accepted an embrace from Defoe, followed up by back pats and claps to his shoulders from the others as they gathered around him, and basked in the warmth spreading through him. As much as Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were the brothers of his heart, these men were his family, too.

Above them, a door opened, and Porthos sensed rather than heard the heavy boots stomping up to the railing, and he felt rather than saw the icy blue eyes of their Captain settle on the group in the courtyard. There was a beat, and then the familiar gruff voice called down to them: “You four, my office! The rest of you, I'm sure you have some work to do. Hop to it.”

No one needed to ask who the four were he had addressed. Porthos exchanged a look with his brothers, and as one, they headed for the stairs, ascending them and presenting themselves before their commanding officer in his office.

Treville observed them, the shrewd blue gaze impassive as it raked over them. Finally, he gave a clipped nod and said: “Report.”

As usual, Athos took the lead, summarising in a few short sentences what he had already sent ahead in his messages and ending with their trip back, which had been wholly without incident – unless you counted some heated discussions between Aramis and Porthos himself because he was sick of being coddled and eager to head home. Their medic hadn't been too happy about his insistence to ride further and faster than Aramis considered advisable …

Once Athos had ended, Treville's gaze came to rest on Porthos, and he unconsciously straightened slightly. “Welcome back, Porthos,” the Captain said. “You are well?”

“Fine and fit, sir,” Porthos replied. And he added: “Thank you for sending the others after me.” Because as much as an attack on a King's Musketeer was deemed an attack on the King himself, and his retrieval the recovery of an asset of the Crown, he knew the Captain wouldn't have had to do it. And that was why, while they were the King's men, they were Treville's men twice as much.

The Captain waved his words away impatiently and addressed the next man: “Aramis?”

Porthos bit his lip in irritation as his friend took off his hat, raking his fingers through his curls, and gave him a short, slightly smug smile. “Maybe let him take it slow another few days until he's settled back in,” Aramis suggested. “But yes, he's healed well,” he allowed.

“Fine,” the Captain grouched. “Take the rest of the day, all of you. I'll see you at muster tomorrow.”

They nodded at him with various levels of respectfulness and turned when his voice made them halt once more. “Good to have you back, Porthos,” he said. “And if you ever … feel the need to talk about any of it: My door is always open.”

Porthos felt a sudden pressure in his throat at the offer, and he cleared it roughly. “Thank you, sir,” he replied.

Treville nodded and waved a hand at them. “Get going, then.”

Porthos was the last to file out, and as the others descended into the courtyard, he stopped at the top of the stairs, taking a deep breath. Below him, his brothers turned to look up at him, and d'Artagnan called: “What are you waiting for, Porthos? Let's find out how much dust your quarters have gathered.”

The dark-skinned Musketeer looked down at them and then around the courtyard in which a certain temperamental Gascon had challenged Athos, in which they had trained, fought, drunk, eaten, and bantered together, as three before that and as four since then. He blew out a breath and called out: “Comin'!”

He was home.

FIN

[iliveinmyblanket]

Chapter one: I introduce you to my hoes

"fuck" I screamed, as I faked an orgasm for an Orangists in Holland. 

My name is Valentine Du Lac and I have the attention span of a goldfish. I’m Queen Anne of Austria, the spanish queen of france’s personal but probably not favourite spy (everybody knows that it was Madame D’Artagnan), quite frankly because I am a right pain in her arse. But I’m still often the one she sends out on a missions - no one’s going to care if a prostitute from the Court of Miracles has gone missing. She’s never said that, but it’s implied with the job.

The Job:  I was here to be the orangist’s lover and listen in on his conversations or force myself to listen in. Believe it or not Traditionalists are the most boring people I've ever met, which is funny because I've had to spend hours listening to Lucy Walters who invented the word ditzy. 

I'm gonna just give you a summary of me and Orange dutchman conversation. I forgot his name so I've just been replying to him as "sir" because quite frankly I don't have the attention span to care about man who assassinated some himbo named Johan DeWitt and his brother something deWitt -forgot his name to. I remember Johan because I like the name Johan, oh it's cornelis - see that's why I didn't remember it -what kind of pretentious name is cornelis? 

Anyway my job here was to get information, there was none, mainly because he already assassinated someone so he could stage a coup.

not really anything important. which really pissed me off, Anne really got freaked out by orange dutchman who were assassinating people and also got tipped off that traditionalists were heading to france.

which is bull. 

which is good because I don't ever have to see Orange Dutchman again.

Orange Dutchman gripped my hair, sniffing my neck and whispered, "will I see you again?"

A gave him a soft but fake smile, "of course sir"

No you won't, if you do, I will give you the deWitt treatment.

I smiled, kissed his cheek, and fucked off.

As you can tell I'm not one for too much detail in regards to things I don't care about.

All I am going to say is this is the story of how I and  two other bosses - Dominique Treville and Marie-Cessette Du Vallon; basically saved europe with our strength, swords, witty banter and aided by two himbos named Xandre and Raoul. 

get ready for adventure because we make it look bitchin'.

While I was heading back home, Dominique Treville - the daughter of the captain of the musketeer was also heading over there very quickly after reading a rather scary letter. whilst Marie-Cessette du Vallon already there she too lived at my home but had returned from a meeting with one member of the royal family. she  was now at the tavern with her fellow musketeers - Raoul de la Fare and Alexandre-Olivier D'artagnan. Marie-Cessette was the first female musketeer and one of the best of them.

now technically the home I am talking about is Paris, but you have to look inside further. not at the shiny places, not at the places that appear lively. I mean the place that looks dark, that looks broken. Look into the place that appears to be to be lifeless, but when you turn off the lights at the places that are seen to outshine everything. The place that is broken lights up like the sun.

The Court of Miracles.

The Court of Miracles is said to be the slums, the dirtiest part of Paris. that's according to the richest of Parisians. the court of miracles is the most interesting place in france, full of people of different races, of different accents, different appearances.  the most welcoming place in europe. though the structures were unstable, the society is most happy, most beautiful. see you were never judged for your job, or who you are, or what you did outside - as long as you didn't bring too much of that inside.

My mother moved from england after the english civil war, I was 16 years old, she was a whore just as I am now - puritan england was no place for a prostitute and her  out-of-wedlock daughter. She died a year later of syphilis, leaving a poor daughter penniless. 

So what does a daughter of a prostitute do, when their mother dies.

Becomes a fucking prostitute.

As opposed to non-fucking prostitutes. Years later a dark haired woman, with a blue dress and a black hooded, guided me to the palace and introduced me to the benevolent queen of france. it was suggested that I become her spy as I had caught the eye of many religious and royal officials. a women can never escape the male gaze, so why not use that to your advantage.

Marie-Cessette, whom was was an adventurous, resourceful girl, with a temper, and the first female musketeer. she was opinionated and did speak up when she didn't  agree with the men in her life. it's surprising neither of us became executed for being witches, men do not like being told what to do even if they are being outrageously pathetic. This night, this less than fine night because the sky was fucking pissing itself, Marie-Cessette was leaving a tavern in the court, she wore a white linen shirt, a blue leather doublet with the musketeers symbol (a crown) and black linen breeches with blue boots, and probably something gay like "I am gay" or "if found please return to Anne-Marie D'Orleans" I wasn't there, I'm under the assumption she was wearing that, that night considering that is the musketeers uniform not the “I am gay” part although they should have that as the uniform. Marie-Cessette had brown curly hair (proper curly, not some movie bullshit curly) that was short and tied in a bun.

Her eyes are dark and watchful. she was leaving to go to her uncle Aramis (not by blood but by heart).

Her father is the Musketeer Porthos du Vallon, who grew up in the court. he joined the musketeers when he 16. that was his only good choice out of the thousand terrible options for those born into destitution. That's where he met Aramis and Athos, the three of them becoming inseparable. that's where he met D'Artagnan -Xan's father, actually no he met D'Artagnan when D'Artagnan decided to stir shit up and duel three musketeers in one day. but that's another story, literally another story, literally in another book.

her mother Puce is known as the queen of the court, that means basically giving those in the court food and shelter, kicking people out that are stirring up trouble.

Puce and Porthos never had a son so even though Marie was to inherit the court of miracles crown, she was trained as a musketeer because Porthos wanted to raise one. did Marie get a choice? no? is she happy beating up misogynists? hella.

This girl that fought better than the manliest of men (although I wouldn't actual call them manly) was heading to her uncle Aramis, why? so he could deliver a love letter to Marie-Cessette's lover - Anne-Marie D'Orleans, the king's cousin.

so yeah isn't that like superillegal? yeah, not the homo part, I mean it is a bit. but like not as vibe checking as bedding the king's cousin when she is female.

guys be fucking whoever they want, but girls ArE ToO FrAgIlE aNd HaVE a ROle.

Meanwhile we go back to Dominique.  now Dominique she has had some pretty fucking horrible news.

Dominique Treville was the brunette usually snarky daughter of Treville, the captain of the musketeers. now nothing is snarky, everything for her is humourless. this morning Dominique had received news that  Treville had been murdered by the musketeer Aramis.

which as you can see is definitely not the case, why the fuck would Aramis the himbo who invented the word "straight ally" kill someone who he sees as a father?

he wouldn't.

But a girl who lived in the country with no knowledge of Aramis doesn't know. you probably shouldn't tell her that when she's a holding a fucking knife.

"put down the knife or you lose your neck"

Dominique turned slightly, noticing the blade that sat on her shoulder and centimetres away from her neck, while Dominique was standing over the Aramis who was sleeping

"he killed my father, so I wouldn't be protecting the murderer" Dominique replied agitated, she was in layman's term is done. with. everyone's. shit.

Marie-cessette - who was the owner of the blade had no Idea Dominique had another knife

Dominique batted the rapier away with said knife and pointed it at Marie.

If you want to understand how much of a boss Marie is, well just understand if she were to ever do a DNA test, it would show she's a hundred percent that bitch.  She grabbed Dominique's knife and punched her in the gut, then kicked her in the shins, Marie-Cessette proceeded to pick up her Rapier, as she did so, Dominique ran at her with her knife.

Aramis shot up from his bed and grabbed his rapier, held it against Dominique's neck and then held her in a choke hold.

"cessy, what in the lord's name is going on?" He grumbled sleepily.

Marie-Cessette shrugged and rolled her eyes as if to say that she did not have time for this shit.

"she says ya killed her pa?" she replied, swinging her sword aimlessly around.

"oh he a criminal? let me guess? " Aramis started and turned Dominique around so he could analyse her. "gang?  organised crime. has to be, you are clearly not parisian. too muscly, not pale enough. if I killed your father, then it was for a good reason"

Dominique scowled, bawling her hands into a fist as her nails dug into her palms. her breath increased in a mix of anger and fear.

"what good reason do you have for killing the captain of the musketeers!" Dominique roared.

The outburst caused a wave of deep silence. Marie's eyes dropped, she dropped her rapier. Aramis let go of Dominique and fell onto his bed.

Marie ran to him, to hold him.

"Treville, he...can't" Aramis cried hyperventilating, "no..he..."

Marie grabbed his face, which was flooding with tears, "don't speak"

Dominique was now fighting a war, either this was rather well planned or Dominique had been tricked. But Dominique was smart, there was no fakery in those tears (it wasn’t a youtube apology video afterall). 

Dominique dropped down, kneeling at the bed looking up at the sobbing man.

"you didn't kill him?"

Aramis shook his head, "he was a father to me, a father to paris."

Dominique banged her fists against the floor, and started to scream.

"who the fuck killed him then!" she yelled and ran out of the housing unit.

Marie started to follow her.

"cessy?" Aramis piped up as she started to exit.

"yeah mon oncle?" She replied solemnly.

"keep her safe, it's the least we can do to honour his memory." He asked her, before lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

"I think she can handle safety on her own." she whispered.

"she can fight I'll admit." Aramis touched an etching on the wall, "but her recklessness will be a burden on her life."

Marie nodded and left the unit. She watched the girl with dusty hair. The daughter of treville was wearing a red corset, a dark, blue dress that fell to her knees, and black knee high boots, she wore a red tricorn hat. Dominique cut angrily up an apple with one of her knives.

"I want to help you!" Marie called.

Dominique rolled her eyes and launched a knife into a pole that was rather close to Marie's head. 

"thank you. " Marie sighed, grumpily. "I said I want to help you, not burden you. so stop being a bitch."

Dominique twiddled the other knife in her hand, "excuse me?"

Marie pulled the knife out of the pole, "you are the one throwing the knife at me. besides my mother, my father, your father helped build this citadel, are you sure you want to honour his memory by throwing blades into its foundations, and insult my family legacy." Marie shouted, despite not caring for family legacy.

"so what do you suppose I do then?" Dominique threw the apple off the balcony. "I'm back to square one."

"not if you let me help you" Marie replied, she flipped the knife and handed it to Dominique, "I'll take you to lieutenant D'artagnan, he can help us."

Dominique let out a deep exhale, and took the knife.

"I didn't get your name" Dominique said.

"Marie-Cessette Du Vallon" Marie held out her hand.

"Dominique Treville." Dominique took it and they shook.

"now let's get you to D'artagnan" Marie said, "oh and pick up that apple, rotten food is how sickness spreads, you heathen."

Dominique was rather sure that was not going to be the last time she was called a heathen.

Now it's for Xan and I's story. We a lot funkier.

[flowers-creativity]

Bad Luck (Chapter 18)

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

Notes: May I offer you some comfort in these trying times?

AO3 link

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17

Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue

He had been floating for a while. Even the whip seemed to have fallen silent, even though he still expected to suddenly feel its bite. He did not feel the weight of the shackles any more, either.

Instead, a heaviness seemed to envelop his whole body as if he was smothered under a thick blanket. Porthos thought he should throw off that blanket, he should move, maybe sit up, but before the thought could travel from his brain to his limbs, it floated away again, out of his grasp. A frown creased his brow.

A hand touched his face, and he heard a voice say his name. It was familiar, that voice, and still completely unexpected for a reason that was as distant and unreachable as everything in his muddled head.

The hand touching him moved, lightly patting his cheek, and the voice came again, low and gentle: “Come on, Porthos, you can do it. Open your eyes for me. Please.”

Porthos' frown deepened, and he tried to do as the voice said but his lids felt as if they weighed tonnes. After a moment or two of trying, he sighed out a small gust of air. Maybe if he rested another bit ...

“No, don't,” the voice scolded, accompanied by another pat. “You have slept long enough.”

He had? Well, maybe that was why he was feeling so heavy, an overindulgence in sleep always left him a bit muddled. Porthos made a more concerted effort to open his eyes, and finally he could convince his lids to raise, the light flooding his eyes making them sting.

But immediately, his field of vision was filled with Aramis' beaming face. “There you are,” the medic whispered, his voice wobbling slightly. “There you are. It's so good to see your eyes, my friend.”

Porthos swallowed, opened his mouth, but nothing came out of it apart from a dry croak.

“Shhh, it's alright,” Aramis soothed. He looked away to the side, and someone passed him a cup. Another hand appeared beneath Porthos' head, and when he turned it slightly, his gaze fell on d'Artagnan's face, the young man supporting him gently as Aramis set the cup against Porthos' lips. “Come on, drink a bit,” the medic cajoled. “I'm sure you're thirsty, are you not?”

Porthos didn't bother answering – it wouldn't have been much more successful than before anyway – but willingly opened his mouth. He hadn't been sure about being thirsty but the moment the cool liquid filled his throat, his thirst roared to life with a vengeance, and he began swallowing down however much he could get with abandon. However, it was way too soon that the cup was removed from his mouth, and he gave a small frustrated moan.

“Don't fret, you can have more in a bit,” Aramis assured him. “I just don't want to risk you getting sick. You haven't had much to drink in a long time.”

Porthos hummed as his head was lowered back onto the cushion. He breathed a few times and finally tried to speak again: “Ath-s?” His voice was still rough and unsteady but at least it was audible now, the water having soothed his rough throat. And with two of his friends with him, he needed to know if they all were. Some part of him was struggling to understand why or how because he was sure there was a reason they should not be, even if that reason was hard to remember right now.

“I'm here,” came Athos' soft voice from his right side, and his friend nudged Aramis out of the way to come closer and clasp Porthos' hand in his. “I'm glad you are finally awake.”

Porthos tried to smile though he was not quite sure he managed. “Where--?” he breathed.

Athos answered: “We're in a village called Saint Sebastian sur la Seine, in an inn, Le Chat Noir.” Then he squeezed Porthos' hand lightly and said: “But the details don't really matter. What you need to know is that you are safe.”

Porthos nodded slightly, leaning back and just breathing. His brothers were with him, and he was safe … He closed his eyes, tendrils of sleep tugging at him, but the next moment, they flew open again as memory hit him like a hammer. Struggling to sit up, he called hoarsely: “Fadil? Robert? Marcel?”

“Woah!” d'Artagnan caught his shoulder and pressed him back into the cushion with shameful ease. “Calm, Porthos!” On the other side, Athos pulled him back as well, squeezing his hand. “They're safe,” he assured him. With a glance to his side, he motioned and then stepped back when two more figures joined them and Porthos found himself looking up at two of his most recent companions. Marcel was beaming, his wide grin shining white in his dark face, while Fadil's expression was more placid but just as clearly spoke of his joy at seeing him. “Porthos,” the Moor greeted him with a nod. “I'm glad that you're doing better.”

Porthos sighed – he knew that it was the truth, that being awake was a feat in itself. He did not know what had happened after he had succumbed to the infection but he could infer enough from the hallmarks of a long and difficult time caring for an injured brother on his friends' faces. Still, he didn't feel like anything that could be described as “better”, his body heavy and numb, its stores of energy already depleted after a mere couple of minutes being awake. “You alright?” he asked the two other escaped would-be slaves. Frowning, he added: “Where's Robert?”

“We're alright, Porthos,” Marcel assured him before the brightness of his grin dimmed, became overshadowed by something darker. “Robert--”

“We don't know what has become of him,” Fadil interrupted him. “He left when your fever rose and we couldn't go on.” He shrugged. “I'm hoping he made it to safety but he chose his path, and it was not ours.”

Porthos was silent, digesting this piece of news. Robert had been the most taciturn of his companions and the one he felt he had known the least, as a result. He'd been cautious, advocating for evasion and minimising risks instead of fighting and taking chances. Still, Porthos would not have expected him to abandon them.

A hand on his arm pulled him back to reality, and it was Aramis again, bending over him with the water cup in his hand. “I'd like you to drink some more,” he said, “and then you should go back to sleep.”

Porthos snorted at that – hadn't Aramis done his very best to get him to wake up just a few minutes ago?

Aramis smiled indulgently, easily reading his thoughts. “I know, you've hardly done anything else for the last few days. But you need it.” He helped him drink while Marcel supported his head, and then he was carefully lowered back onto the cushion, and Aramis' hand gently cupped his cheek. “Sleep, mon frère. We'll be here when you wake up.”

For a moment he considered fighting, staying awake, he still needed to learn how his brothers had found them, what had become of the slavers, how much time had passed … But in the end, his body made the decision for him.

Porthos slept.

[flowers-creativity]

Bad Luck (chapter 20)

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

Notes: Talking about trauma is hard ...

I'm not sure how many chapters will follow but we're nearing the end, I think. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far!

AO3 link

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

Things continued to get better, and Porthos was silently amused that one thing that kept him in bed was actually a lack of clothing that fit – the breeches and braies he had worn were a total loss, and none of his brothers' spare clothing fit him in both length and girth, not even with a fortnight between his last real meal and the first time he could eat more than broth and bread. None of the others had thought of that until the need came up, which he couldn't fault them for.

For now, he made do with a pair of Athos' braies that were much too short since he wasn't in a condition to leave the room anyway. Just being able to get up and sit down at the table was a relief, though – he wasn't one to take convalescence well, the time when the worst of pain and fever was behind him but his body still needed to recover its strength taxing his patience which, admittedly, wasn't his strongest suit anyway. And yes, you could get tired of sleeping. Nothing to be done about it, though, so he tried to get through it with as much grace and as little grumbling as possible.

So he put up no more than a token protest when Aramis herded him into bed this evening. As much as he would have liked to pretend otherwise, he was tired, even if he had done nothing more than do some stretching exercises and forms under Aramis and Athos' careful supervision to keep his healing back flexible and then had sat up at the table for a while, playing cards with d'Artagnan. But he was heartened when his brothers took the chairs and brought them over to the bed, settling down with their glasses and a bottle of wine. Conversation flowed lazily between them, with small, comfortable silences between rounds of banter, and he allowed himself to soak it in, the normalcy of it as if they had been on a simple mission, as if nothing earth-shattering had been the reason for them being stuck here, in a small room inside a small inn in a small village.

Things had been tense and awkward between Aramis and him for a few days after what he refused to think of as a fight, so that he had actually preferred Athos and d'Artagnan's company over his closest friend's. He knew while Athos would listen if he were to speak of his experience – their quiet leader was still not the most comfortable with emotions but he had improved in leaps and bounds in the time d'Artagnan had been with them –, he would never be the one to open the conversation about it. Neither would d'Artagnan, being more of the kind to show his support through actions, whether it was small, gentle touches or being willing to run all kinds of errands to make sure he had everything he needed while he healed. But it had gotten better between Aramis and him, and it felt almost normal again now – he knew Aramis still wanted to speak of it and was chafing against the imposed silence on the subject, but he did so while being his usual affectionate, charming self, and Porthos was glad that he had accepted it, at least for the time being.

His hand drifted to the St Jude medallion around his neck that his brothers had returned to him on a new string, playing with it absently. The conversation has ebbed for the moment, and he felt their gazes upon him until he finally looked up and met them with his own. Three sombre faces looked back at him. The silence stretched until Aramis broke it, lifting his glass as he said: “You know, I've made sure to say a special prayer to St Jude during mass on Sunday. He really proved himself your protector.”

Porthos swallowed something threatening to rise in his throat as he remembered a small, desperate prayer offered to his patron before he had turned and run, taking with him no more than those he could possibly protect. He shook it off and instead said: “Thanks for getting it back to me. I mean, coulda replaced it, probably, but I'm glad to 'ave this one still.”

The others nodded, and he could see that all of them wanted to speak; however, he knew the direction it would take was not where he wanted to go. So he hastily continued: “Rest of the stuff, well, I liked that doublet but it's just clothes. Just wished I could get my sword back. And my pauldron, y'know?”

“You'll get a new one,” Athos assured him, and d'Artagnan suddenly broke out into a blinding grin and added: “And we'll get to break it in, so it won't be too shiny, right? We wouldn't want you to look like your mum dressed you!”

Porthos laughed, a big bellow of a laugh that was probably half thankfulness and relief at the lad's way to dispel any tension by recalling his indignation at Athos and him doing the same to d'Artagnan's new uniform piece. “I'll hold you to that.”

His friends joined in readily. Aramis took his hand and gave it a fond squeeze as he sighed: “It's so good to hear you laugh like that again, mon ami.”

“Oi, don't go maudlin on me again,” Porthos rebuked him but there was no bite to it. They had been in similar situations often enough that he did not begrudge his friends their sentimentality that came with the terror of almost losing one of them and the relief of having them restored to their side.

Aramis gave his arm another pat before drawing back his hand. “Ah, you know me, I'm just a sentimental fool,” he said with a shrug, smiling.

“It's a wise man who knows himself,” Athos remarked dryly, “not that I usually count Aramis among those ...” Aramis' mock-outraged splutter was drowned in Porthos and d'Artagnan's laughter.

When they quieted down again, Porthos' hand returned to his medallion, and he looked at his friends, considering. He knew he had to talk about it – still, his mind shied away from even naming what “it” was. The thought sat in his chest, heavy like a stone. But who would he talk to, if not these men, his brothers in all but blood who had saved his life, once again? After Bonnaire and the Court of Miracles, they knew about his demons anyway, must have known why this whole thing cut deeper than the whip had into his back. He tried not to think of how, thanks to that, he would bear a reminder of it his whole life. At least he did not have to see the scars unless he was in the mood to torture himself with the help of a mirror …

A touch to his shoulder startled him, and d'Artagnan hesitantly asked: “Are you alright, Porthos?” He hadn't even realised that he had shut his eyes but when he opened them, his friends were looking at him with concern. “I'm--” He wanted to say that he was alright, that everything was fine. Instead, it came out much smaller than intended when he tried again: “I'm-- I--.” He took a deep breath and finally admitted: “No, not really.”

“Are you in pain? You haven't had any pain draught today, I--” Aramis was halfway out of his chair when Porthos' hand closed around his arm and pulled him down again.

“It's not that, 'Mis, there's no pain,” he assured him. The wounds actually were not painful most of the time unless he made a careless move or forgot about them and rolled too far onto his back; otherwise, they were only itching and feeling tense. “It's just-- It just hit me, and--” He had released Aramis' arm and was now looking down on his hands in his lap, helplessly opening and closing his fists. “It just-- I want to talk to you, talk about it but--” he looked up at them again, trying to find strength in the unwavering eyes on him. “It's so much, I don't even know where to start.”

A warm hand settled over his where they were gripping onto the blanket, white-knuckled. Aramis, he knew without having to look. “You don't have to know what to say,” the medic said gently, “or say it well, or talk about everything at once. Just tell us what's going through that head of yours right now.”

Porthos looked from him to the other two. Athos' eyes were calm, placid, as he gave him a slow nod while d'Artagnan gave him a small encouraging smile, placing a hand on his back and rubbing it in small circles. “Just try – we're here, and we're listening,” he assured him.

Porthos took a deep breath and nodded. “Alrigh',” he said, weighing his words, discarding half a dozen possible things to say before he started haltingly: “Y'know, knowin' that I'm a Musketeer, it 'elped – I was repeatin' it in my 'ead while I was whipped, because I knew it meant you'd be out there, lookin' for me, and I wasn't a slave. The slavers didn't believe me, though, mocked me for it, said I didn't 'ave a place in the King's guard.” There was a short, abrupt sound of outrage from d'Artagnan, but Athos immediately shushed him. Porthos ignored it, focusing on the warm point of contact of Aramis' hand on his. “They must've seen my pauldron but it was just … it was as if that was somethin' that didn't fit in their world, so it couldn't be true. They looked at me and only saw my skin, an' that told them that I was someone they could do with whatever they wanted. That I wasn't better than an animal, to take and sell. That I was someone who wouldn't be missed.”

“An' I've known that, that there's people out there who think that. Can't grow up in the Court without knowin' that. But I guess … I guess even after Bonnaire, I'd somehow thought I'd be safe from that – what 'e did was awful but 'e wouldn't 'ave been able to do it to me. I thought that bein' a Musketeer was more important than my colour. Now I know it isn't.” He pulled up one leg and put his chin on his knee, staring ahead desolately. “An'  right now, I don't know what to do with that.” His voice dropped low at the end with the words burning in his chest.

A sombre silence settled over the room when he had ended. He cautiously raised his head to look around. d'Artagnan's eyes were suspiciously bright, and he was biting down on his lip, hard, while Athos' face had taken on that studied blankness that he knew, after all those years, only tried to mask the emotions churning underneath. Aramis' head was lowered, his free hand carding through his curls, but he hadn't taken his other hand off Porthos', and he felt ridiculously thankful for it.

Finally, Athos cleared his throat. “I wish I could tell you that these men were the only ones who thought like that, and they're gone now. None of us will ever lie to you for your peace of mind, though. So yes, there are men like that out there,” he said, speaking slowly, choosing his words with a care Porthos felt honoured by. “Being a Musketeer can shield you from those dangers to some extent, but it won't protect you at all times. The only thing I can tell you, Porthos, is this: they are wrong.” He did not reach out, sitting placidly, his hands idly playing with his glass, but all of his attention was on Porthos.

“They are wrong because you were missed, and we did come for you. Marcel and Fadil might not have anyone who was able to search for them but they were still missed, too. But most of all, you proved them wrong. You were the one who showed them that you are no slave, that you are a Musketeer. That you are not someone they could take and sell. That they could not do with you whatever they wanted – because you refused to lay down and take it. You fought, and you saved four other men at the same time and gave them back their freedom. Always remember that, my friend: it would be a cold day in Hell on which someone managed to make you a slave, because you are more than your skin. You, Porthos du Vallon, are one of the strongest men I know, and that will always be true, no matter that there are men who don't know it.”

Porthos felt his heart swell with pride and affection at this unusually long speech of his taciturn brother, and he ducked his head to hide how his cheeks were heating up. “Thank you,” he said.

Athos shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No thanks needed.”

“You'll get them anyway,” Porthos snorted. Then he deflated and said dully: “But I'm nowhere as great as you were makin' me sound there.” There were sounds of protests immediately but he didn't pay them any mind. “Sounds nice, that I gave four men their freedom. The only thing I gave Jean was a quick path to 'is death.” He laughed bitterly. “An' all the others on the ship, all I had to offer them was a prayer before I ran. We don't even know what's become of Robert, too, maybe 'e-”

He was interrupted when Aramis' hand moved to his wrist and gripped it so tightly that it was painful. “Stop that,” the marksman snapped. “You stop that immediately, you big oaf!”

Porthos blinked at him, taken aback and slightly hurt at the anger blazing from Aramis' dark eyes. “Bu--”

“No.” Aramis shook his head emphatically. “I don't want to hear any more of that horseshit. You didn't manage to save everyone – Porthos, you're human! You know that you couldn't have gotten out more than those four. And you gave Jean all you could give him – a chance. It's tragic that he died, yes, but it's not and will never be your fault. So stop that line of thinking right now!”

d'Artagnan patted Aramis on the shoulder, a grin lighting up his face for a moment. “Look what you've done, you made him all upset,” he teased before he sobered again. “But he's right, you did everything possible to help the others escape with you. It isn't your fault.”

Athos nodded, too. “And as for Robert, that's really out of your hands,” he said firmly. “We can try finding out what has become of him once we're back in Paris but in any case, whether he really went for help like he told the others or whether he'd decided his chances were better on his own when it became clear you were too sick to go on and the others didn't want to leave you – he made his decision to leave, and everything after that was on his own head.”

Porthos leaned back into the cushions in his back, feeling drained. "Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “It's such a mess in my 'ead right now, all I can think about is Jean just bein' … gone, and that I don't even know 'ow many others were there ...”

“It's not a burden for you to carry. Not when you've done all you could and more than many others could have done,” Aramis insisted, less incensed than before but still unrelenting. “Let it go, please.”

“I'll try,” Porthos agreed on a sigh. He wasn't the type to wallow, usually, but this felt different, this felt big and not like something he could simply put behind him if he was being honest.

“That's enough,” Athos said with a nod. “You don't have to work through all of it at once and for all.”

Porthos laughed tiredly. “That's good 'cause it's 'ard work, just talkin' about it – just got started, an' I'm already feelin' beat.”

“As I said, in your own time, mon cher,” Aramis told him. “Rest if you need to.” He cleared his throat and added, fidgeting slightly but making a valiant effort to maintain eye contact: “I'm sorry about that other time, by the way. I was worried and wanted to help but I shouldn't have pushed you so hard.”

Porthos rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Appreciate the apology but you gotta know you've been forgiven for that long ago,” he said but smiled, nevertheless. It was good to hear.

“I needed to say it and hear it,” Aramis said with a shrug, returning the smile. Then he added, all business again: “But I can see you're tired, so as your medic, I'd say it's time for these two to take their leave, so you can go to sleep.” He pretended to send a glare at d'Artagnan and Athos, who smiled and got to their feet, emptying their glasses and saying goodnight with a pat to his shoulder.

Porthos shifted until he had found a comfortable position, then closed his eyes to the sounds of his friends leaving to the other room they had taken over after Fadil and Marcel had left and Aramis getting ready for the night. His head was still full with too much at once but his heart was lighter for having shared some of the burden with his brothers. However much time it would need to get over this experience, he knew that they would always be there to listen, helping to heal his soul like they had healed the wounds of his body.