Part Two

I don't own the Musketeers.

Porthos lay motionless before Aramis. D'Artagnan had heard that a punch was the only way to submit the larger man, but it seemed so brutal. Bonnaire was whimpering behind him. Aramis carefully removed the injured man's shirt, making a face at the amount of blood covering his shoulder.

Scars were littered across his back. They were all sewn with the same small, tidy stitches. Aramis started talking about he had sustained that injury and this one, clearly trying to fill the oppressive silence that filled the air. He refused to look at Athos, and with good reason. D'Artagnan still couldn't believe that Athos had not mentioned this house. What reason was there that was worth letting a brother die needlessly?

It was clear that Aramis hadn't just let it go, and behind his jokes there was a anger in his eyes. Porthos clearly meant everything to him. D'Artagnan stepped forward, glancing at the scars. He pointed at one on the unconscious man's left arm, and Aramis told him of a stray musket ball a few years back. The scar on his side marked where someone had smashed a bottle in a bar fight, another caused by bandits. Then d'Artagnan pointed at the multiple long, straight scars running from the top of his neck to the small of his back. They were old, but were deep enough to leave a permanent scar.

When d'Artagnan asked what had happened, Aramis face grew ashen, and he physically flinched away from him. His hands started shaking, and he started gnawing on his bottom lip. D'Artagnan felt a hand on his soldier, gently pressing him away from the trembling man. He looked across at Athos, curiosity shining clear on his face. "He needs to know." Aramis's words were raspy, with gaps in between them as if he were mustering up the courage to carry on speaking. "Why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he know about my utter stupidity? Why shouldn't he know about what happened, about what I did?" His voice grew stronger with each word, till he was shouting. He buried his head in his hands, his blood soaked palms leaving a crimson trail across his cheek. Aramis looked at Athos, as if challenging him to disagree. Athos looked at his feet.

"You don't need to tell me, if you don't want to…" d'Artagnan words sounded hesitant even to him. He knew whatever it was that had happened must be hard to remember. But a part of his brain ached to know what was going on, and he was ashamed of it.

"You need to know." Aramis's words were low, and he refused to make eye contact. "There was a Duchess, and I charmed her. Then a Count's wife, then a Lady." He went to rub his hands over his face again, but froze when he saw the blood. His face went even paler than it had before, and he pulled the bandage off Porthos's shoulder. He fumbled for his needle and thread, his eyes transfixed on his work. "The first time the court fined me, the next time it fined me more. I knew it would be harsher next time, I knew, I knew." He pushed the needle through the flesh of Porthos's back, muttering his words so quietly d'Artagnan had to strain to hear. "And then I got caught again, and they were going to hang me. It was my third time. I deserved it." He looked up on the last sentence, watching the younger man's face for a reaction. "And then he came striding in. Just walked in with four Red Guards behind him. And he confessed. And they dragged him to the front. The Judge said he was to be whipped. 50 lashes. At dawn. With the entire Musketeer regiment as witnesses." Aramis continued to move the needle, in, out, in, out.

"He just accepted it. Said of course it was unfair, but it was life. That he would do anything to save me from the noose." In, out, in, out. "Then it was dawn. And everyone was gathered. The whip just came down and he was yelling. And the blood dripped onto the floor." Aramis traced his finger gently down the scars, "So much blood."

D'Artagnan's feet started moving. His hands found the door and slammed it behind him. And he walked across the corridor and up some stairs, and more, and more. He started to sprint, up, along, up, along again. Then he was in the derelict attic, and he couldn't run up anymore. He rested his head against the sloping roof, squeezing his eyes tight shut. It was no use. He could still see a younger Porthos tethered up. He could still hear the sound of a whip meeting flesh, the sound of men laughing. Images flashed in his mind. He could smell the blood in the air.

Porthos. Aramis. Now he understood. They went out each day and risked their lives, knowing full well that one could die. Living to protect the other. Aramis wouldn't forgive Athos for a long time. He'd bury it deep inside and laugh and drink with him with a smile on his lips and mirth on his tone. It would resurface when they'd all had too much to drink, D'Artagnan was sure. But that would come later.

For now he would go and apologise to Aramis for leaving. Convince him that he doesn't blame the other man. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Go and prove to himself that Porthos is there, and that the past is in the past. All is left is a scar. A scar on his neck.