Dispatched to Hell

by SpaceCowboy

Forward.

Porthos ran through the underground tunnels, pushing aside any unfortunate soul who got in his way. When the wall suddenly disappeared on his left, he came to an abrupt halt in an entryway leading into a large, windowless cell. Looking into the room, it took him a moment to realize that he had found his salvation. He paused in the mantle but a meres breath in length before charging into the room, his heart pounding and sweat beading on every surface of his body.

"Stop."

Porthos paused mid-step, chest heaving, and turned back in anger. "Why?" he demanded.

Athos was standing in the doorway behind him, his arms steady by his sides with his palms raised in cautionary warning. He spoke slowly and quietly, his only word soft yet determined. "Look."

Confused, Porthos turned back around with a questioning frown. Before him, there was a man on his knees; arms limp beside him, eyes dead and unblinking as they stared into nothingness. The man's shirt was torn and shredded in several places and stained with blood. There were bruises visible under his right eye and evident through the holes in his shirt. There was also dried blood on his neck and fresh blood dripping down his right hand from under his cuff, along his fingers and onto the dirt floor.

Now that he had a chance to appreciate the man and all his gruesome details, Porthos swallowed thickly, trying to force the bile rising in his throat. Slowly, and near panic-stricken, he turned back to Athos. "But he needs our help," he pleaded, still willing to risk moving forward.

"I know," Athos replied carefully. "But first, don't just look at him. Look around him."

Porthos slowly turned his head and took in the room for the first time since their hasty arrival. There were bodies everywhere, at least a dozen; shirtless, covered in bruises, caked in dried dirt and blood, motionless and obviously dead for quite some time. Amidst the decay and despair was this one man, alive, but beaten and bloody and devoid of any outward emotion. The man was a mere shell as he rested on his knees, alone and still in a room full of corpses.

Realization dawned on Porthos, and he drew in a sharp breath before slowly lowering himself to the ground. On his knees, he raised his hands in supplication and moved cautiously forward.

"Careful," warned Athos in a steady voice. "We have no idea how he will react."

Porthos took the words to heart, but inched forward despite them, his head dipping down trying to lock eyes with the man.

But the man would not oblige him. Every time Porthos met his gaze, he would flick his eyes away.

"It's all right," soothed Porthos, daring another inch forward, his knees barely lifting off the ground as he closed in. "Look at me."

The man would not.

When Porthos was finally close enough to reach out with both his arms and brace the man's shoulders, he did so, slowly and with soothing words that he hoped would break through the man's apparent stupor. "It's all right," he said again. "This is not Savoy."

Aramis slowly raised his head to finally meet his friend's gaze, but his eyes were vacant and cold. "I know," he said lifelessly.

Porthos turned back to Athos, scared and confused by Aramis' lack of emotion. When he looked back at his best friend, he tried to keep his expression neutral, but found it difficult to fight his quivering jaw and twitching eyes.

"I did this," mumbled Aramis, his voice cold and languid. "I killed them all."

Fear and anxiety flared within both Porthos and Athos as they watched their friend study his bloodied and torn hands, turning them over and examining both wretched sides with unabashed disinterest.

"I beat them all to death," Aramis further explained. Then he closed his eyes, and without warning, collapsed forward.

If not for Porthos' quick reflexes and protective arms, Aramis would have hit the ground in an unceremonious heap.

A crowd had formed in the corridor that led to the room where the musketeers had found Aramis. Soldiers; Red Guards and Musketeers alike, silent and sorrowful, lined the walls as Porthos carried his friend passed them- Athos leading the way on legs that threatened to betray him at the slightest hint of uneven ground.

When they stepped out from the obscurity of the underground prison into the brilliant light of day, Athos had to shield his eyes from the glare after spending so much time in the darkness that had been his friend's home for many a week. He turned back and noticed Porthos hunched over the charge in his arms, shielding an unmoving Aramis protectively from the sun glaring down upon them.

When Athos returned his attention in front of him, he noticed that once again, the path leading his friend to safety was lined with men. It wasn't just soldiers standing guard out here though, there were also farmers from nearby homesteads, and friends and families of the victims that had not survived, lining the path; a path leading directly to a carriage waiting to take their friend home. King Louis himself had supplied it, grand and spacious, and meant only for his musketeer.

As they walked the gauntlet of sympathetic onlookers, Athos accepted their sympathies with a gracious nod, but his strength for propriety had hit its limit a long time ago and he found that he barely had the strength for pleasantries, let alone to look any of them in the eyes.

Treville and d'Artagnan were waiting for them at the carriage, each unsure and fearful for what they were about to witness. The first, his hat in hand and unsteady on his feet as he finally lay witness to what Jacques Pelissier- the sadist behind all this, had done to one of his musketeers, rested a hand on Aramis' forehead as Porthos gently lowered his charge to the ground.

The other, the young Gascon sitting quietly at the reigns, forlorn yet determined to take his friend home, shifted nervously and then moved over to allow his mentor to share his seat when ready.

The King had also provided riders for the carriage, and even an escort of honor guards baring the French national flag, but none of the musketeers trusted anyone enough to take their injured friend home, nor did any of them wish to part with Aramis. So the King's entourage, sent as a message to all those who would dare treat one of his personal guard as a mere commoner, were left standing at the side of the road with nothing more to do other than share in everyone's grief.

As Porthos climbed inside, eager volunteers from the musketeer regiment held the door of the carriage open for him. When inside, Treville and Athos lifted Aramis' limp body from the ground and carefully transferred him to the waiting arms of his best friend kneeling in the plush carriage.

Porthos moved his friend onto one of the benches, propped him up against a side wall and wrapped him in blankets. He sat himself down on the floor between the benches so he could watch his friend without disturbing him- yet be as close to him as he could, and held one of his bloodied hands within his own- his face buried in their cupped fist as he tried to remember one of the prayers Aramis had tried to instill in him.

"Has he said anything?" asked Treville, leaning into the carriage with one hand resting on the door. His voice was quiet and subdued, and he felt anxious asking the question in lieu of the situation, but as Captain of the regiment, he still had a job to do.

Porthos turned his head toward him, not letting his forehead leave his or his friend's hands, and stared at him briefly before answering. "No," he said, boldly. "He hasn't said a word."

Treville closed the door, latched it shut and stepped back. He watched as Athos took his seat next to d'Artagnan and then gave a curt salute and promised to meet them back at the garrison. He still had business to attend at the scene of the massacre, but he took some reprieve in the fact that he had already sent a rider ahead to make preparations for Aramis' arrival.

A few moments later, the carriage, with an escort of six musketeers and an honor guard, moved forward to begin its long journey back to Paris- it's precious cargo now safe amongst his friends.

To be continued…

Author's Note- This is the forward of my new story. I will begin posting the chapters soon, but at a much slower pace since it will be longer and more intense than anything I've written to date. I've also decided to branch out a little, so this story will be darker and more violent than most of my writings. But not too much more, I like to keep my stories away from the Mature radar. If there is anything within a specific chapter that I feel violates the General rating, I will post a warning at the beginning of said chapter. And if it becomes too frequent, I will change the status of the whole story. Thank you. Hope you enjoy it.

Also, it is being beta read by the extraordinary, LJGroundwater, whose teachings have not only made me become a better writer, but want to become a better writer. So it is with her I share all complimentary reviews.