Work Text:
Their day had gone from bad to worse. While the previous night had been enjoyable, the three of them quite deep in their cups as they celebrated Aramis’s birthday, the morning after had been much less so. Although their raging hangovers definitely did not improve matters, they were not the worst part of the Musketeers’ harsh awakening.
Porthos came to with a loud groan. His head pounded vigorously, and the cold draft of the room as well as his numb hands tied behind his back made themselves known shortly after. With this shocking realisation, Porthos was awake in less than a second, seeing both his friends in the same situation as himself, though still blissfully unconscious.
He felt cold iron around his ankles, and fear gripped his heart in its tight hold as he realised what that meant. They were imprisoned, helpless, at the mercy of a still unknown group of people. Porthos tried to wriggle his hands free, attempted to yank his binds out of the stone wall, but he had no such luck. He had been captured.
Aramis and Athos were in separate corners, their hands tied behind their backs and the shackles on their ankles connected to the stone wall behind them. Porthos looked around, taking in details he might be able to use in a future escape attempt, but didn’t find anything to his liking. The grey stone walls were bare, not even decorated with a single window; there was one door that he could not reach, and with his hands and feet bound, there was no way to overpower someone should they enter the room.
A broken moan brought him out of his thoughts, and this time it was Aramis who was slowly crawling back to consciousness. The man blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dark of the room, before they settled on Porthos.
“Wh- where are we?” He managed, voice hoarse.
“You know as much as I do.” Porthos replied, his tone of voice harsher than he meant it to be. Aramis did not seem bothered though, he knew that being shackled was painful for Porthos, his mother’s past always on the back of his mind.
“They must have overpowered us-” Aramis swallowed deeply, guilt slowly building up inside him, “as we made our way back home.”
Porthos stayed silent.
“God-” Aramis groaned, throwing a glance around the cold room, “This is my fault. I should not have encouraged us to drink that much.”
“It was your birthday, ‘Mis.” Porthos attempted to soothe him, “Besides, what we drank las’ night is nothin’ compared to what Athos manages to pour down ‘is throat every day,” he added with a grin.
Aramis’s worried glance was directed at Athos’s still form. “Do you think he’s injured?”
“Not sure,” Porthos replied, trying to inch closer to check, since he was the closest to Athos. “I don’t see any blood, nor bruises,” he said at last, frown deepening.
Aramis then voiced exactly what he was thinking: “I’m surprised he hasn’t woken up yet. He’s better at handling alcohol than we are.”
“Who d’you think took us? What’ll they do with us?” Porthos changed the subject; “We weren’t on a mission. We ‘ave no inf’rmation to give ‘em.”
“Don’t know, and don’t know.” Aramis sighed.
It was not long after that the door opened, and four strange men entered. Neither Porthos nor Aramis had seen them before. There seemed to be one clear leader, a tall yet broad, bald man with an impressive scar crossing over his face. His three sidekicks were small, skinny, and very identical looking, yet neither of the Musketeers dared to underestimate their strength. One of them carried a bucket, presumably filled to the brim, by the way he held it.
“Your friend is not yet awake,” the bald man began as he approached them. His voice did not bear an extraordinary accent, so they were probably not captured by the Spanish. “Let us change that, shall we.”
The man with the bucket stepped forward and without warning threw the ice-cold water all over Athos, who awoke with a sharp gasp.
“There you are.” The leader leaned in front of Athos who was now soaked to the bone, spluttering as he tried to grasp what had happened and where he was. He cast Athos a sly grin, caressed his cheek, and then stepped back to the middle of the room.
“What are you planning to do with us?” Aramis spoke up bravely, angered at the way the men had treated his friend.
“Ah.” The man’s gaze slithered over to Aramis, making him shudder at the intensity of it. “You see, we were getting a bit bored. I thought it was time we had a little fun with some helpless Musketeers.”
Porthos scowled, glaring at the three men with all his might. “Our Captain will be missing us, and ‘e will set up a search.”
The bald man tutted. “I would not be so sure of that. I know you were given a day off, after your-” he paused, let out a light, mocking giggle, “frivolous partying. It was not too difficult to get the three of you here.”
Porthos shut his mouth with an audible snap. Last night he’d already had a bad feeling of being watched during their celebration, but he hadn’t mentioned it then. Back then, he’d thought the other people at the pub were just amused to see three musketeers drink that much, be that loud. Looking back on it now, he knew he should have trusted his gut and voiced his suspicions to his friends.
“Since you are all finally awake, let us have our fun, shall we?” He continued. With a snap of his fingers, his three men each unshackled one Musketeer, though their hands were kept bound. The Musketeers tried their best to shake their captors off, but they were still weakened, and no match for the surprisingly strong aides.
They were each hauled upright by one of the men and escorted one by one out of the cold room. Athos’s wet hair dripped cold droplets on the floor as they were hauled through several corridors. Once outside, Porthos was already thinking of several plans to escape, memorising the way to the field they were brought to. While initially Porthos was happy to be out in the warm midday sun, the slight smile quickly fell off his face.
Aramis and Athos were brought to their knees, though with no small amount of protest, and Porthos was positioned in front of them, facing them. The aides kept a tight hold on them, but the bald man took his place behind his two friends. To Porthos’s surprise, and even more so, fear, the man fished two muskets out of their holsters, and aimed them to Aramis’s and Athos’s heads.
“So, Porthos,” the man started, his disdain clear as he pronounced his name, “Here’s how the game works.”
He paused for dramatic effect, and Porthos stayed completely still, afraid for his friends’ lives. One wrong move might set the man off, leaving both his friends dead.
“Pick who dies.”
“W- what?” Porthos choked out, unsure if what he heard was correct. Surely this man could not be that cruel to make him choose between his dearest friends.
“Pick who dies,” the man repeated.
“No!” Porthos struggled in the arms of his captor, but it was no use. The aide holding him gave a sharp tug on his still bound wrists.
“Pick who dies, and I let you and the other one go. Pick neither, and both die.”
“No! Please, I-” Porthos was not above begging for his friends’ lives. He threw a glance at Aramis, whose eyes were wide with fear, his face pale. Athos on the other hand seemed disoriented, still not quite sure where he was, despite the musket pointed at him. Their captors must have hit him hard in the head for Athos to be so out of it. Porthos feared a possible concussion.
“Choose, Porthos.” The man barked out a laugh at his helplessness, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Aramis, or Athos?” He gave each man a slight tap with the muzzle of the musket as he said their name. “Or perhaps, Aramis and Athos?”
“No!” Porthos glared at the man holding the guns. “Me,” he said, then, resolutely. “Shoot me, let them go.”
“No!” Aramis yelled in a panic, unable to face a reality without Porthos by his side.
Athos was still eerily silent. He was swaying slightly where he kneeled, his gaze was distant and his breathing irregular. Porthos was unsure if the man was panicking and trying to hide it, or genuinely, completely out of it.
“C’mon,” The man urged him, “As fun as this game is, we don’t have all day. Besides, I prefer the aftermath of it, where each person blames the other for the lost life of a friend.” He said with an ugly laugh.
“I told you, I pick m’self,” Porthos repeated, struggling to ignore the anguished cry from Aramis.
“How very gallant. Unfortunately, that is not within the rules.”
Porthos chewed his bottom lip, unsure how he was going to get everyone safely out of this situation. There was no one coming for them, no one knew where they were or what was happening to them.
“Aramis or Athos, Porthos.” The man said, clicking his tongue impatiently. “Or both.”
Porthos took another look at both his friends. Aramis was full on crying by now, sobbing hysterically at this turn of events, at his helplessness. He’d seen fellow Musketeers die in front of him once, during the cursed event of his life that was Savoy. Porthos knew Aramis would never forgive him if he chose Athos to die. On the other hand, he knew of Athos’s slight death wish, of his erratic drinking in an attempt to save himself from hurt. He knew that Athos too would never forgive him if he chose Aramis to be shot. In fact, it would only send him deeper into the bottle.
He was at an impasse. No way out, no way to save all of them. Someone has to die here.
“You promise me you’ll release me an’ one of ‘em if I choose?” Porthos asked, acting braver than he felt. His heart was hammering in his chest, his hands shook behind his back and blood rushed to his head, pounding to the beat of his rushing heart.
“No-” Aramis choked on his tears. Porthos was unsure if the man was in fear for his own life or that of Athos.
“Yes, I promise you. I’m a man of my word. Now choose, I’ll give you five more seconds to decide.” The man rolled his eyes, gesturing again with his muskets. Porthos had an eery feeling that, even if he chose, he and his remaining friend would not be allowed to leave that easily.
Porthos licked his lips as the countdown started. His gaze flickering over both his friends.
“Five, four-”
There was a tight feeling in Porthos’s gut. Now was the time to make a decision. Which one of his friends would he condemn to die?
“Three-“
Aramis looked at him then, misery and even fear clear in his eyes. “Porthos,” he whispered, “Please.”
“Two, one-“
Porthos could see the man’s fingers twitching over the triggers, and knew his time was up.
“Athos!” he exclaimed, “I choose Athos.”
He closed his eyes in agony, unable to face what he had done. He waited for the gunshot, but none came. Porthos opened his eyes again, saw the bald man with a wide grin on his face. Aramis was lost to his tears, near hyperventilating by now, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.
Athos lifted his head then, his eyes strangely empty as they met Porthos’s agonized gaze.
“Very well,” the leader said. Aramis was lifted up by one of the man’s sidekicks, screaming and crying, kicking out, and was put down again next to Porthos. He immediately collapsed to his knees.
“What did you do?” Aramis sobbed, hiding his face in Porthos’s pant leg. His hands twitched in their binds, eager to hold on to something. “Oh God, what did you do?”
However, the gun aimed at Athos’s head still had not fired though, and the bald man’s grin widened as he bent closer to Athos. “Now you see how much your friends care for you.,” he whispered in Athos’s ear, “They will save each other, but you will always be left behind.”
A single tear ran down Athos’s cheek as he diverted his gaze from Porthos’s, instead staring at the long grass he kneeled in. There were a few forget-me-nots growing where he knelt, and his heart ached at the memory of them. He knew that within a few minutes at most, his blood will be soaking in the soil, colouring the beautiful blue of the flowers with his flowing red ichor.
“Let that sink in for a moment.” The man’s voice was bittersweet with joy. The Inseparables were no more. The infallible bond between them proved to be not so sound after all, for it was finally broken. Aramis was furious at Porthos for the choice he’d made, Porthos was already wallowing in self-blame. Athos, though glad that at least his friends somewhat had a chance to live, was still pained that Porthos chose Aramis above him so easily.
“Any last words, Athos?”
The bald man’s foul breath was even more noticeable now that he hung close to Athos’s face, greatly enjoying the pain he’d already caused.
Athos swallowed deeply but kept his gaze steady. He would not show weakness. He knew no reason to beg for his life. He could only ask his friends to honour him, as the good friend and great swordsman he was. He could only wish for his friends not to be held back by his memory, not to pain themselves unnecessarily over his death. He wanted them to live on, if not for themselves, then for him. For Aramis to embrace the second chance he’d been given at life, and for Porthos to love the friend he did manage to save whole-heartedly. He would gladly sacrifice his life if it meant his friends got to live.
“I don’t blame you,” he finally settled for casting his friends one last glance, taking in Aramis’s frantic crying and Porthos’s eyes full of sorrow, before he closed his eyes as he accepted what would happen.
His words broke Porthos, who finally succumbed to his tears. The large man sunk down to his knees, leaning against Aramis for support, unable to face the consequences of his words. Aramis in turn rested his body against Porthos’s. His sobbing had ceased, though his tears had not. His eyes were reddened and swollen; the salty taste of his tears uncomfortable in his mouth.
The leader of their captors took up his place again behind Athos. The musket was pointed steadily against the back of his head, the muzzle of it ruffling through his long and messy hair.
His finger pulled back on the trigger, and everyone braced themselves for the bang and explosion of blood that would follow, the drop of the body on the ground, but all that sounded was a meagre click.
He tried again, but once more the gun disobeyed and no musket ball shot out.
Athos took advantage of the momentary confusion and pushed himself upright in one fluent motion, before drawing all his weight forward and back again, headbutting the man with all his might. The man went down, clutching his nose as he groaned, but Athos was not finished yet. Though his hands were tied, the swordsmen still had his legs as a weapon and put all his force behind his kicks as he drove his booted foot against the man’s midriff again and again.
The leader’s sidekicks were on him in a second, pulling him down to the ground as they attempted to restrain him, but by doing so, they left Aramis and Porthos unattended. The two brothers hurriedly helped each other out of their binds, albeit a little clumsily, but soon they were freed and ready to take on the men who’d dared to hurt them so.
The fight that followed was short yet vicious, Aramis and Porthos quickly knocked two men unconscious with just their fists, before making their way over to the young man who was still holding their third brother down. Feeling the presence behind him, the aide looked up to see these two angered men, aching for revenge, and promptly let go of Athos.
“Please,” he pleaded, scrambling away from the Musketeers as he raised his hands in the air in surrender, “Don’t hurt me-“
Aramis kneeled by Athos’s side, frantically hugging his brother close as he thanked his God for letting his dear friend live. Porthos however advanced towards the scared young man.
“You should’ve thought of tha’ before you ‘urt my friend,” the tall Musketeer hissed, grabbing him in a headlock and holding him there in his tight grip as the man slowly sank into unconsciousness.
With Porthos incapacitating the aide, and Aramis busy fussing over Athos, neither of them had noticed how the leader of the quartet had stumbled back onto his feet, one hand holding his bleeding and broken nose, while the other had grabbed the gun originally meant for Aramis. He kicked the useless, jammed gun to the side angrily, furious for having his plan ruined.
It was Athos who noticed the approaching danger first, letting out a hoarse yell right as the leader rested the muzzle of the musket to Porthos’s temple. Porthos froze and let go of the aide he was still holding, his unconscious body sliding to the floor.
“You did say I could shoot you first,” The man hissed and went to pull the trigger, to get his victim at last, but Porthos was quicker. Reflexes still lightning-quick from his time in the Court, and only sharpened from his time with the Musketeers, Porthos ducked low and sharply pulled the man’s leg from under him, making him fall onto his back, hard.
Porthos was on him in a second, disarming him, and with one swift punch, the leader was unconscious.
Surrounded by their four now unconscious captors, Porthos finally allowed himself to breathe. Aramis stood and wordlessly started to tie up the men, granting Porthos some time with Athos.
“I’m sorry,” Porthos whispered as he sat down next to Athos, “I understand if you don’ want t’ talk to me again, after-”
“Shut up,” Athos hissed and pulled Porthos in for a hug. They held each other for a long time, both overjoyed the other was still alive. Porthos could feel his friend shiver in his arms, but was unsure if it was the adrenaline rush, his near-death or the cold water that had run down his back and soaked through his clothes by now.
Athos was the first to pull away with a shuddering breath. His eyes were red-rimmed and teary, and though his cheeks were reddened, they were still miraculously dry. “I do not blame you for choosing Aramis.” He began.
Porthos looked his friend in the eye, noticing that Athos’s right pupil was much larger than the left one. A concussion he had indeed, then. “Athos, please don’t think you’re less important t’ me than-”
Athos silenced him, tenderly placing his still slightly shaking hand upon Porthos’s own. “I was not finished yet. I do not blame you for choosing Aramis,” He repeated, “It was an impossible choice. I do not know what I would have done if I were in your place.”
Porthos pulled his friend back into a hug, needing to feel Athos’s beating heart and warm breath against his skin. “I’m so happy you’re still with us.” His voice broke off near the end of his sentence. “If that gun hadn’t jammed-”
“Let us not think about that.” Athos said, stroking Porthos’s back as he relaxed in his friend’s hold, the large Musketeer combing through his long hair with one hand.
Aramis joined them then, having finished tying up their attackers. He sat down in front of Porthos and Athos, stared at them for a moment, then without a sound, pulled both of them close.
“I do not blame you either, Aramis,” Athos said, as eloquent as ever despite being nearly killed a few minutes before; “They attempted to break us apart, and they failed. Let us not tear ourselves apart with guilt and blame.”
The other two nodded silently in agreement.
“What do we do now?” Porthos whispered, relishing in the warmth of both his friends’ holds.
“We go home,” Aramis replied, voice hoarse with emotion, “Appreciate that we all still live, and accept that our bond grows stronger than ever. All for one.”
“And one for all,” they whispered in chorus; their motto so familiar but never before so important to them.