New story! This one is not romantic in any way, just angsty. I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to read and review! I love all your feedback.


As Porthos woke, he felt all of his muscles aching. He slowly opened his tired eyes, looking around his surroundings. He was underground, in some kind of prison. There was a small barred window on the ceiling, letting in a small ray of light. On his right, the wall was barred, a metal door on the far left of the bars, locked from the outside. There was definitely no way out.

The Musketeer sighed quietly. He was just about to get up when he remembered something … or someone. Aramis.

Turning his head, he saw his friend, curled up against the wall He was dressed in only his pants, his shirt - which was now covered in dirt - and his boots, his doublet nowhere to be found. Porthos saw that he was dressed in the same way. There was dried blood covering Aramis' temple, making its way down to his ear and disappearing in his messy locks, which were slightly damp. He looked peaceful, but pained at the same time.

Knowing that Aramis needed to wake up, Porthos placed his hand on the other man's shoulder and shook him gently. "Aramis, my friend, wake up," he said softly. "It's Porthos. I'm here with you."

Aramis let out a groan, his eyes opening. "Porthos?" he mumbled, his speech slightly slurred.

"Do you have a concussion?" Porthos asked in reply.

His friend furrowed his eyebrows, as if deep in thought. After some thinking, he shook his head and said, "No." He sat up, throwing his head against the stone he was sitting against. "Where are we?" he said next, his eyes scanning their cell.

"I don't know," replied Porthos, his eyes never straying from Aramis.

The two Musketeers jerked when a sudden scream erupted from another part of cave they were in. It must be massive, the two of them realized.

"I'm guessing that this isn't revenge," Porthos said, sadness and relief in his voice.

"Hmm," hummed Aramis. "Is that for better or for worse?"

Porthos faced him. "I don't know," he said. "All we can do now is wait."

Aramis nodded slowly. "I pray that this is all just a misunderstanding."

It was then that Porthos snorted, a smile forming on his face. "Knowing our luck, this is most definitely not a misunderstanding."

The other man chuckled. "Now I pray that you're wrong," he said.

"Since when have I ever been wrong?" Porthos teased. But inside, he hoped that he really was wrong, and that this was all a mistake. But somehow, he began thinking that it wasn't. Every once in awhile, they would hear another scream, each one closer to them than the other. Each time there was a scream, Porthos saw that Aramis flinched, his eyes beginning to dart back and forth.

When Aramis winced for, what Porthos counted, the seventh time, the bigger Musketeer took his hand and squeezed gently. "It's going to be alright, Aramis, I'm sure of it." He paused. "You better not be getting soft on me."

Aramis let out a weak laugh. "Me?" he asked. "Why, I would never. How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" Once again, he threw his head back, taking a deep breath. "I am worried, Porthos," he said, more seriously this time. "I cannot even imagine what those screams were from."

"I know." Porthos gave Aramis' hand another squeeze. "Me too. But keep in mind, this is us we're talking about. We don't break that easily … Do we?"

Another soft laugh. "No, we most certainly do not."

"Well then let's keep it that way."


Night had fallen, leaving the two Musketeers surrounded by darkness, save for the small patch of moonlight coming through the barred window of their cell. That being said, the temperature had dropped immensely, leaving them cold, as well as hungry and thirsty, having not gotten any food or water in the last twelve hours or so.

The men had decided to take turns keeping watch. Porthos took the first shift, quick to realize that Aramis was much more tired than he really let on. Still, he was surprised when Aramis had obeyed immediately, ied down against the wall again, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Taking a closer look now, Porthos noticed the deep, dark circles under his closed eyes. Maybe he is concussed, he thought. Or maybe not…

He began to think of the last couple of days. He, Athos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis has been sent on a mission, one where they had to travel to faraway village whose people were brutally attacked by unknown men. He remembered how Aramis had spent days with little to no sleep, occupying himself in trying to treat every villager that had been injured during the attack.

That's why he's so exhausted, thought Porthos. I should have known.

He also recalled that some of those villagers had been kidnapped, or at least that was what the people left were claiming. He began to think that this is where the ones missing were being held.

But how did we get here?

As the memory came back to him, he cursed silently, blaming himself for not being careful enough. They had gone to the river to get some more water for them and the village when they were attacked. Aramis had been shoved into the water, and beaten until he was unconscious. Porthos couldn't even remember how he had been taken down, but now that he was here, he knew there was no point thinking about it anymore.

Porthos pulled himself out of his thoughts when he heard Aramis start shivering. He never did well with cold after Savoy, the big man told himself.

Careful not to wake him up, Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms, rubbing his arm to try and give him some warmth. He watched as Aramis let his head fall on his chest, and he smiled at how easily the sleeping man trusted him.

He was about to say something when the door to his cell opened. Too worried about Aramis, Porthos didn't take the chance to rush to their one and only exit.

Two men walked into the room. The one walking in front was tall, but that was all Porthos could tell. The one walking behind him was shorter, and was holding a torch. He had blond hair and icy blue eyes that carried nothing but coldness.

"Who are you?" asked Porthos, unknowingly pulling his friend closer to himself.

The two men walked forward, now standing over their prisoners. "What do you reckon, brother? How long will these two last?" the taller one asked. Now that he was closer and in the light, Porthos noticed that the man had slightly darker hair than his companion. His eyes, which were just as merciless as the other's, were green.

"Well, they look strong," his brother replied. "I would say a week or two."

"I agree."

Porthos watched the two of them with anger in his eyes. "What is this?!" he yelled. "Who are you?!"

"Well," the tall man said, a smile on his face. "We are the Bourdin Brothers. My name is Claude de Bourdin, and this is my younger brother, Philippe. And you are our captives. I can assure you, you will never step outside again. By the time we're done with you two, you will be too broken to even take a single step."

"Watch us," snarled Porthos.

Philippe crouched down. "It would be wise not to cross us," he said. "Or else you will pay the price. You know, you should have ran back to your country, saved us the trouble."


The sudden yell made Porthos jump. He did not know that Aramis had been awake this entire time. The next thing he knew, Aramis was above and in front of him.

"How dare you," he was saying. "You have no right to speak that way.."

Porthos gasped when Claude came up to Aramis and brought his fist into the other man's stomach. And then Philippe was holding him back, forcing to watch the beating Claude was giving poor Aramis.

In what seemed like an eternity, but was only a few minutes, Claude finally delivered the final kick. He nodded to Philippe, who then let go of Porthos and stepped back.

The bigger man dashed to his fallen friend., and sat him up against himself. He didn't even notice when their captives left. He was more concerned about Aramis.

"Why did you have to stand up for me, you idiot?" he whispered, brushing some of Aramis' stray hair out of his eyes.

Aramis leaned to the side and spit out blood. "I … couldn't let them … say those things about you." He closed his eyes, his ribs burning. "And what do … you mean, 'idiot'?"

Porthos broke into laughter. He then helped Aramis come to the wall again, using his legs as a pillow as he made him lay down. "Just rest, my friend," he said. "You need it, you look awful."

"Thanks … Porthos." Aramis' voice was laced with pain and exhaustion. His head dropped down, and then he was fast asleep again.