Porthos woke coughing, his throat burning and raw. It was as if he was breathing dirt or dust or . . .ash. It was ash. The fire, the frantic search, the horrendous sound of splintering wood and shattered glass, and the building was coming down — it came back to him in a flash.

Every breath hurt and he panted as he tried to fill his lungs. The air itself was searing and full of debris that choked him even as he tried to breath. He was on his back, chest constricted and something heavy pressing across his thighs, his right arm was twisted and pinned painfully beneath his own body. He heard the creaking timbers and crackle and rush of hot air. He was in the rubble, the building still on fire around him. He had to free himself, he had to breathe.

He opened his eyes to blackness. Had he fallen through the floor to the cellar? He blinked, the smoke and grit so irritating he could only force himself to lift his lids the tiniest of degrees. It didn't help, he could see nothing. His eyes felt full of sand and no matter how he tried, he could not clear his vision. Fear rose. He had no idea where in the building he was, how close the flames were, how he could get free.

He began to twist and push, trying to free his right arm while pushing at the thing on his thighs with his left. The exertion to move caused him to pant more and great hacking coughs tore through his lungs. Where were the others? He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see.

"Hey!" his call was rasping and breathless. He panted as the panic rose. "Hey," he tried again, the sound little more than a wheeze. No one would hear him over the din of a burning building. His skin felt too hot, stretched over a body too big. He thought it was getting hotter, the flames moving closer. No, he was not going to burn. He'd seen that once, a man set on fire, and no, he was not dying that way.

With a great heave he rolled himself to his left side. The debris remained on top of him, but he was able to shift beneath it. His right arm ached but he managed to wriggle it over his hip so the could get both of his arms in front of him. He pushed himself up, arms aching, back straining, shoulders feeling as if the fire was in his very bones. With a crash and a creak something shifted and his upper body was mostly free. He twisted to his belly and pulled himself forward with a strength born of terror and slipped his legs from beneath whatever had been pinning him.

He scrambled forward blindly until he banged into something rough. A wooden beam? A door? He squinted his eyes open and still nothing but darkness and pain met him. He wondered then if he had eyes left at all? His face stung with a thousand small cuts from the glass of the shattered window that had rained down around him. He let out a desperate cry at the thought of his eyes as mass of shredded flesh and blood. Truly this was hell. He sobbed without tears as he leveraged himself against the obstacle he had encountered, pulling himself up to his feet.

He got his back against the structure and tried to breathe again. The hot air felt like shrapnel in his chest. He was panting, his breaths shallow. He had to get out. He staggered forward, arms extended in front of him and encountered another obstacle. He spun, running hands along the wood, feeling it tear at his already abraded fingers. He moved frantically, groping along blindly, looking for any open space he could find. He pressed forward, cheek scraping against more wood, lungs burning, his right arm throbbing now in time with his heart beating in his chest. The noise was rising, the rush of flames roaring in his ears. He tried to call out again but only rasping, wheezing sounds made it from his lips.

He was dying.

He clawed along the wood now, trying to follow what he thought was a wall. A wall that had to have a door. He blindly pushed something out of his way, and heard it crash behind him only to have more debris rain down from above him. It was too hot, he was moving toward the fire. But the wall had to lead out. Somehow there had to be a way out.

His feet got caught up in something and he fell hard, instinct telling him to roll toward his shoulder even though he had no idea what he was falling on. Pain shot through his right arm. If it hadn't already been broken, it was now. He howled but only a soundless, choked wheeze came out.

Porthos found the wall again and again pulled himself up. But his strength was fading, the pain overwhelming. He had tried, tried everything he could think of to live, and this damn building was going to kill him. Blind, alone and in tremendous pain he felt a terror rise him so strongly that his hands began to shake. Something shifted in his mind and he wasn't a brave, strong musketeer but a little boy trapped in the dark of the Paris catacombs. Terrified, he did now what he had done then, he moved forward, because staying meant dying. Instinct would not let him give up.

Porthos reached out his hand to find it grasped firmly in the grip of another. A wave of relief broke over him followed by another bout of panic. Like a drowning man clutching at the flotsam in a swollen river he clung with all of his strength to the hand and the arm of the person who had found him.

He tried to speak, to cry, to breathe and all he could do was rasp and pant as he felt someone grip him below the arm before his body was pulled forward through a close and rough space and suddenly he was past the wall, past the debris, and cool air rushed against his hot skin. There were voices but he didn't know, didn't care what they were saying. He knew who was looking for him, knew the hands that had saved him. His arms were lifted as they tried to get a grip on him and he moaned as the broken one was moved. They changed their hold and dragged him forward.

The terrain changed beneath his stumbling feet and he recognized the soft tread of earth and grass. The roaring sound receding as he continued to gulp in breaths of cool air.

"D'Artagnan!" that was Aramis on his left then, "Get the water skins, all of them!" The marksman shouted.

"Stop, we're far enough," Athos on his right, who was holding him up by the back of his belt and the strength of his shoulder. They stopped moving and Porthos all but fell to his knees, eased from a rough landing by the men on either side of him.

"Here," D'Artagnan sounded out of breath, "I've brought some cloths too." Cool water ran over Porthos's head, onto his face and down the neck of his shirt. Someone was undoing his doublet, someone else held a damp cool cloth to the back of his neck. Porthos hung his head, panting for breath and letting his friends help him. They managed to pull his doublet off although the pain of his broken arm caused him to wince. He cradled the limb into his body trying to keep breathing despite the ache shooting through his arm.

"Where else are you hurt?" Aramis asked from in front of him. Porthos couldn't bear to answer. He would have cried had there been anything left of his eyes. He pressed his lips together, hoping to keep his despair in check. Aramis must not have liked his lack of answer as he felt sure but gentle hands sliding over his ribs and chest, looking for wounds or breaks in the bone. Porthos tried to stay still but he was bruised and tender and he couldn't help the small sounds of pain that occasionally broke from his lips.

A comforting hand came to rest at the back of his neck, Athos he assumed by the surety of the touch.

"What other injuries, Porthos?" Athos's tone was firm, like he knew he was hiding something. Porthos couldn't bear to tell them about his eyes. He couldn't bear to think of it at all. He bit his lip and started to slump toward the ground.

"Hey, whoa," D'Artagnan caught him by the shoulder, not letting him fall. He didn't want the pup to see this. He didn't want anyone to look at him but he was too weak to fight them. They would know and it would be real.

Strong, warm hands moved to his face and gently but insistently raised his head. He would know Aramis's touch anywhere.

"Porthos, are you with us?" the marksman's voice was quiet but laced with concern. He hated worrying them but what was he supposed to say. He gave a small nod. "That's good, it's alright," Aramis sounded so damn kind.

"I'm just going to look at these cuts, hold still," he said and then Aramis shifted his hold to one hand and his fingers started to trace over Porthos's face. It was oddly reassuring to be so completely in Aramis's hands. He had worked miracles before. Perhaps there was one for him.

"Can you open your eyes?" Aramis asked. And there it was. The one thing in the world Porthos would not do. He said nothing, felt his jaw clench and heard the small, sharp intake of breath that signaled Aramis knew.

"What happened to your eyes?" Aramis asked. Porthos for the life of him could not get his mouth to answer. Aramis changed position, hands on either side of his face again, his body close enough he could feel the warmth between them. "Porthos, what happened? I need to know if I'm going to help you."

"Porthos," Athos said, the hand at the back of his neck squeezing slightly. To his left he felt another smaller pair of hands on his shoulder. D'Artagnan too worried for him. Porthos swallowed. He could say this, he could do it.

"Glass," he grunted out before clamping his jaw shut again.

"You have glass in your eyes?" Aramis sounded incredulous. He felt the hands on his face tense and noticed the marksman's breathing had quickened. It was as bad as he feared. No one spoke for a moment, the only sound around them the wheezing panting of Porthos's labored breathing.

"I need to see," Aramis said softly, "Porthos open your eyes."

Porthos shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. "Can't" he said, his voice breaking. Aramis let out a long breath then seemed to relax his grip slightly.

"Alright, I understand," he said kindly, "D'Artagnan can you wet that cloth? Yes, that one. Athos can you put your hands here?" Porthos felt the grip on his face shift as Athos, standing behind him, caught up his head between his strong hands. They were going to force him. Porthos tried to struggle but Athos had him firmly and he had no fight really left after what he had been through.

"I'm just going to look," Aramis said reassuringly, "Try not to fight me. I won't hurt you." Porthos knew that Aramis would never willingly cause him pain. But the thought of the bloody ruin that his eyes would be kept the lids tightly closed. He tried to relax, tried not to squeeze his eyes shut but as soon as he felt Aramis's fingers on his brow he couldn't help himself. "Sssssh, it's alright," Aramis said, smoothing his fingers gently over Porthos eyebrows. Aramis moved his hands down Porthos's face, pressing gently against the ridge of bone around his eye sockets. It was oddly soothing and as Porthos adjusted to the touch he felt himself relaxing.

"D'Artagnan, can you raise that lantern?" Aramis was whispering. Porthos felt himself tensing again, but Aramis hushed him again, "I have a damp cloth, I want to get some of the grime off of your face," Aramis said and then something cool and soft started to feather over his brow, eyes and cheeks. The myriad of tiny cuts stung but the cool water felt good on his face. Once that was done Aramis laid his fingers again on Porthos's check and brow.

"I won't hurt you, I promise," He said again and then Porthos felt the lid of of right eye tugging slightly forward and lifting. He tried to pull back but Athos held him firmly. Aramis forced him to tilt his face up further and Porthos felt his eyelid pulled higher. He could see nothing but blackness and felt the grit of the glass where it was embedded in his eyes. He couldn't help it, he cried out in pain and despair.

"Stay still, you are alright," Aramis reassured him, "I'm going to flush your eye. It's just water, but it might sting. Try to blink," Aramis said and then something cold was dripping onto his face and running into his eye. Porthos bucked at that. It stung like needles into his ruined eye and he struggled to get away from the hands, the water, the pain. But Athos was strong and D'Artagnan leaned heavily on his shoulder and Aramis's hands were steady and unflinching. His eye burned and then reflexes took over and he was blinking rapidly, water and tears falling from beneath his lashes. Porthos couldn't help it, he sobbed, the same dry hacking sobs of earlier and his breath caught in his raw throat and he felt again like he might be dying.

And then it was over and Aramis let him go. Porthos slumped down on his haunches, leaning heavily against Athos. Athos changed his grip, letting Porthos head rest against his shoulder as he held him with arm around his chest, hand pressed into his sternum as he encouraged him to calm down and catch his breath. Porthos was exhausted.

"You did very well," Aramis was back, a reassuring hand on his cheek, "Let's look at it again, alright?" Aramis said, but Porthos knew he was not asking for permission, he was giving him warning. Porthos had no fight left in him. The worst was over, all that was left were the words from Aramis to confirm that his eye had been shredded. It didn't matter now, nothing mattered, not even the pain. He let Aramis raise the lid.

The world wasn't black but a swirl of blurry colors that refused to solidify. Porthos stiffened in Athos's hold and tried to raise a hand to his face to wipe his eye.

"No, no, don't do that," Aramis said, catching up his hand, "What can you see?"

"Colors," Porthos said, "Light?" He wasn't sure but something had changed.

"That's good, that's very good," Aramis sounded relieved, "There is no glass in your eye, but there is grit and ash and it is dry from the smoke. We'll flush it one more time and then let your own tears do the rest of the work. Then we'll do the other one." Porthos could tell Aramis was smiling. They all were, he could practically hear it.

"I'm not blind?" Porthos had to ask, had to be sure he understood.

"No, my friend, you are not," Aramis stroked his cheek, "you will be ogling pretty women and cheating at cards in the span of a week."

"I'm not blind," Porthos said, a huff of laughter escaping from his throat. He heard a rumble in Athos's chest and realized the stoic Lieutenant was laughing too. All of them were. He didn't need to see to recognize they shared his relief. The terrors of the fire and the darkness receded. Porthos took his first deep breath since being pulled from the building. He was going to be alright.