A/N: And so we come to the end of this story! This idea came from a prompt from the kinkmeme. Hope you've liked the story, and enjoy this last chapter!

xxxx

They'd taken him outside his favorite tavern. Again. It was almost enough to make a man consider giving up the bottle altogether. They'd hit him over the head and bound his hands roughly behind his back, then yanked a burlap sack over his eyes. Some days, Porthos wondered why he even bothered getting out of bed.

He wasn't sure how long they traveled, as he felt like he was in a daze and he suspected he may have lost consciousness at least once, but by the time they stopped he had regained his faculties enough to prepare to fight back. A few moments after the wagon stopped moving he heard footsteps and low voices before someone shoved him from the back of the wagon to the ground. He grunted as his bound hands prevented him from stopping his fall and his face hit the dirt. He tasted blood as he was tugged to his feet and silently swore vengeance upon all of his captors. He wouldn't use a sword, either. Just a fork.

Someone yanked the bag from his head and he blinked, shifting his weight to attack whoever was closest.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Porthos," someone said from behind him, and then there was a cry of pain that stopped him cold. Slowly, Porthos turned around, stomach dropping at the sight of Aramis, bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow, and with a dagger pressed firmly against his throat. His hands were bound in front of him and as Porthos watched, a tiny trickle of blood traced over his Adam's apple. Aramis swallowed thickly. A thin, wiry man was standing in front of Aramis, apparently the one who'd spoken earlier.

"Let him go," Porthos said quietly. He didn't know who their captors were nor why they'd been taken, but it didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered was getting Aramis to safety. "Let him go and perhaps I will kill you slowly."

The thin man laughed, showing yellowed teeth. Porthos grimaced.

"Bold words for a traitor," he said.

"Do I know you?" Porthos asked, frowning.

"Ah, of course. My name is Alain," the man said. He stepped forward and extended his hand, then retracted it with exaggerated drama, pointing to Porthos' bound hands. He stepped forward again so that he was just in front of Porthos. This close, Porthos could see that Alain was young, perhaps of an age with d'Artagnan, and tall.

"You do not know me yet, Musketeer," Alain hissed, "but I know you."

"If it is ransom you want, my family has a great deal of money. You don't need Porthos," Aramis said suddenly. "If you know him as you claim than you know he hasn't a livre to his name."

Under normal circumstances Porthos would have taken great offense at that statement, but he recognized it as Aramis' way of trying to protect him and instead felt a combination of pride and guilt.

"You have no right to speak here," Alain said, turning to the musketeer and gesturing to the man behind Aramis. The man immediately landed a blow to Aramis' back, doubling him over, then shoved a gag into his mouth and tied it firmly behind his head.

"No!" Porthos shouted, watching in horror as Aramis remained bent, struggling to regain breath that was hampered by the gag. "Aramis!"

After a moment Aramis straightened and made eye contact with Porthos, raising his eyebrows slightly. Porthos was almost certain that the idiot would have grinned at him had he been able.

Alain turned back to Porthos and spread his arms. "Look around you," he said. "Do you think we do not know of Porthos' poverty?"

Porthos frowned and looked more closely at their surroundings for the first time since being dumped from the wagon. They were in a dimly lit room that smelled musty and old, and now that he'd actually looked, Porthos realized with a sinking feeling that they were in the Court of Miracles.

"Why have you brought me here?" He demanded.

"The last time you were here you betrayed us, your people," Alain spat, "when our only aim was to help you, to save you from the noose! Yet you rewarded us with murder and deceit."

"You are mistaken," Porthos began, but Alain cut him off, speaking with so much emotion that his voice trembled.

"No! I attended Charon's funeral, I saw his bloody body! He was murdered."

Porthos was quiet a moment before saying, "You have his murderer. Let Aramis go."

Alain laughed shortly and shook his head. "Ah, but Aramis is his murderer, is he not?"

Porthos fought to keep emotion from his face but his heart pounded heavily in his ears. How did they know?

"It was me," Porthos said in desperation. "I killed him!"

Alain shook his head. "Loyal to the end, eh Porthos?" He asked. "Too bad you weren't so loyal to Charon. Aramis may have pulled the trigger, but it was your betrayal that led to his death."

Porthos swallowed thickly, anger welling up at hearing the other man say Aramis' name. "If you know all this than you must know that he was planning to destroy the Court of Miracles!" He cried.

"He loved this place!" Alain roared. "He loved us! He would not have done that!"

Porthos' heart sank. It was clear that Alain was heartbroken over Charon's death and would not hear the truth. He looked to Aramis- bound, gagged, and bleeding- and saw the same recognition in his eyes.

"Alain-"

"By right we should kill you both right here," Alain said, "but whatever you are now, you were once an honored thief here. We will show you mercy. You will have your chance."

Porthos had a feeling that whatever the chance was, he wouldn't like it.

xxxx

"Please. Alain, let him go."

Alain didn't turn toward him, but continued with his task.

"Alain! Let. Him. Go!"

"Peace, Porthos. You have the chance now to free both of you."

"Alain!" Porthos yelled again, but the other man paid no heed. Another man thrust a pistol into Porthos' hands before standing beside him.

"Well," Alain said. "Get on with it, then."

Porthos gripped the pistol and looked down the street, to Aramis. His friend was standing in front of a post, still bound and gagged, but he looked at Porthos with an expression of absolute trust. There was a melon perched on top of his head and three men with guns trained at him. Porthos wouldn't be able to kill all three before one of them shot Aramis. No, he would have to make the shot.

Taking a deep breath, he gauged the distance they'd set between him and Aramis; a good fifteen or twenty yards. He knew that Aramis would have been able to do it, but he wasn't as adept with a pistol as his friend, and his hands wouldn't stop trembling. Porthos swallowed thickly.

"Porthos," Alain said. "We are waiting." One of the men shoved the butt of his pistol into Aramis' ribs to make the point even clearer.

"Alright," Porthos whispered. He could do this. He raised the pistol and took a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, fire.

The discharge was loud, echoing through the street as Aramis' head snapped to the left in a spray of blood.

Porthos screamed.

xxxx

It wasn't anything unusual for Porthos and Aramis to both be gone for a night. Aramis was probably off with a beautiful woman and Porthos had probably gotten drunk and perhaps stayed the night with a friend in the city. They could have even been drinking together and simply lost track of time. It really wasn't anything to worry about. Really.

Athos sighed and rubbed at one eye, picking idly at his food. D'Artagnan looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, but Athos noted that his food, too, remained largely untouched.

"Do you think…," d'Artagnan started, but trailed off at a look from Athos.

"They are fine," Athos said.

They were silent for a few minutes before d'Artagnan sighed loudly and looked up at Athos.

"Athos," he said, but was cut off when a woman cried Athos' name. D'Artagnan frowned and looked up in confusion, mouth still open. Athos turned around and was surprised to see Flea coming toward him.

"Athos!" She cried. Her expression left little doubt that she was not there with good news, and Athos was certain that it would be in relation to at least one of his missing comrades. "They've taken Porthos and Aramis to the Court of Miracles!"

Athos stared for a second before pushing away from the table and standing. "You can explain on the way. We'll get you a horse."

Only a few minutes later they were tearing out of the garrison as Flea explained about Alain, a man who had been fiercely loyal to Charon and who had vowed to seek vengeance upon his murderer, and how she had feared for Porthos' life and so told him that it was Aramis who had pulled the trigger.

"I didn't think he would be so bold as to take Aramis," Flea said in a whisper. "I-I underestimated his loyalty to Charon and his anger."

"But they are alive?" d'Artagnan demanded, his jaw set. Flea nodded.

"Yes, but we must hurry," Flea said. She didn't say more and Athos didn't press. He didn't need to know so long as they got there on time.

That was all that mattered now.

They didn't bother slowing down as they entered the Court of Miracles, and no one seemed to pay them any mind. In fact, there were far fewer people than there'd been the last time they'd entered the Court; Athos had a sinking feeling that might be related to whatever was happening to Porthos and Aramis.

The air was tense as Flea led them further through the twisting streets, a sense of expectation. A tiny part of Athos' heart whispered that it could be a hanging, but he shoved the thought from his head with fierce anger. Not that. Never that.

And then, a gunshot split the silence.

And then, Porthos screamed.

A chill ran down Athos' spine and d'Artagnan swore loudly. Athos tried to quell his panic and calm his racing heart and then, almost as if by accident, they were there.

Porthos was on his knees, screams reduced to a stunned silence, eyes wide and hands clutching at his short hair. At the other end of the street lay Aramis' crumpled form.

"No!" Athos roared, and chaos erupted. He and d'Artagnan fired at the men nearest Porthos and he thought maybe he heard Flea shoot as well. He drew his sword and lurched forward with a yell, stabbing and slashing with a sense of detachment he didn't often feel in battle, one borne of desperation and fury.

It was over quickly- or, maybe, it had taken a long time. He wasn't sure, seemed to have lost all sense of time. He couldn't focus, couldn't think anything except Aramis Aramis, please no Aramis.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled, and Athos blinked and shook his head. They were surrounded by dying men and dead men and the street had been deserted by nearly everyone else.

Porthos was sitting on top of someone, shouting incoherently and pummeling his fist into the other man's face. Athos ran toward him as d'Artagnan slid to a stop next to Aramis.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted, grabbing one of Porthos' broad shoulders. Porthos shrugged him off with a growl, but Athos grabbed him again. "Porthos! You must stop! What about Aramis?"

"Aramis is dead!" Porthos cried, and the despair in his voice shook Athos to his core. He swallowed thickly.

"We don't know that," he whispered.

"I-I killed him," Porthos said, turning to him. His knuckles were bloody, his eyes haunted. "I killed him, Athos." He leaned forward and all but fell into Athos' arms, sobbing quietly. Athos wrapped his arms around his friend and blinked rapidly.

"He's alive, Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled suddenly. Porthos stiffened in his arms. The man Porthos had been beating remained motionless. Athos didn't know nor care if he was alive.

"Come on then," Athos said hauling Porthos to his feet. They hurried to Aramis' side, where Flea and d'Artagnan were crouched. D'Artagnan was holding a piece of cloth to Aramis' head; it was already soaked through with blood.

"The ball didn't enter, just winged him," d'Artagnan said quietly, loosening the pressure just enough for Athos to see where blood was welling from the left side of Aramis' head, matting his curly hair. "But it was a close thing and it's bleeding pretty badly. We've got to get him back to the garrison." Athos looked to Porthos, but the other man refused to make eye contact. He had laid one trembling hand on Aramis' shoulder and was staring at the ground. Athos sighed.

"I am not certain he would survive the trip," Athos said in a low voice.

D'Artagnan nodded and paled. "Flea," he said, "can you find a needle and thread?"

"Of course," Flea said. "You can take him in that building just there," she said, jerking her chin toward a rundown house. "It'll be safer than the street."

"Thank you," Athos said as she turned and ran. Gently, they lifted Aramis' limp form from the ground and carried him into the house. As they did so Athos noticed for the first time a melon, perfect and whole, lying in the dust near where Aramis had been laying and a cruel picture started to form in his mind of what had happened.

"Here," Flea said, thrusting a needle and thread at Athos and gesturing to a table. "Lay him down here."

They laid Aramis down and Athos got a good look at his face, at how pale he was and at just how much blood there was. It completely coated the left side of his face and was dripping onto the table. Athos swallowed thickly again. This wasn't the first time he'd seen an injury of course, but it was Aramis, it was his head, and Porthos had somehow been the one to pull the trigger.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan said. Athos looked down at the needle and thread he held and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to.

"Just- just a moment," he said. Porthos was still silent, still looked haunted. Aramis looked dead already and Athos pressed his fingers into his neck just to reassure himself that there was still a pulse. He closed his eyes at the steady, if fast heartbeat he felt.

"I'll do it," d'Artagnan said suddenly and Athos felt the needle taken from his fingers. "I can do it. Flea, perhaps Porthos could use a drink."

Flea did as directed, gently steering Porthos away from the table and shooting a confused glance toward Athos and d'Artagnan.

"Right," d'Artagnan said. "Can you help me?"

Athos stared at him numbly, simultaneously wondering where the hell this had come from and incredibly proud.

"Yes," he said. "I can."

xxxx

Porthos hadn't moved from Aramis' side since they'd gotten back to the garrison. D'Artagnan had done an admirable job with the stitches and, anyway, Aramis' unruly hair would almost certainly cover the scar anyway.

That was, of course, assuming he would wake up.

It'd been two days and they all knew that head injuries were bad, that even though the ball hadn't penetrated his skull, there was still a chance that he wouldn't wake up. Porthos had been spooning broth into his mouth and mostly succeeding at getting him to swallow, but still Aramis looked thin and sallow.

"Porthos. Eat," Treville said, coming into the room. Porthos didn't bother looking up. "That was an order."

Porthos accepted the bowl of soup with a grunt of thanks, but he didn't move to eat it.

"Porthos," Treville said again. "You'll do him no good if you don't take care of yourself."

"I'm doing him no good now," Porthos grumbled. "He doesn't know I'm here."

Treville sighed. "Maybe," he allowed, "but maybe he does."

Porthos took a bite of the soup. It tasted bitter and he had no appetite anyway, but he forced himself to eat.

"Athos and d'Artagnan are concerned about you."

"They shouldn't be," Porthos spat.

Treville rested a hand on his shoulder. "What happened wasn't your fault," he said, then left the room.

Porthos turned back to continue his vigil and was startled to see Aramis' brown eyes squinting at him.

"Aramis?" He whispered.

"Mmf," Aramis murmured. "M' head." He reached a hand to his head, but Porthos caught it and held it.

"Leave it alone, 'Mis," he said. "d'Artagnan did your stitches and he'd be right upset if you mucked them up now."

Aramis closed his eyes. "d'Artagnan?"

"Yes," Porthos said. "He did well."

"Mm," Aramis said, his disbelief clear in that one syllable. "Porthos?"

"Hmm?"

"I wouldn't have been able to make that shot."

Porthos blinked back tears and squeezed Aramis' hand.

"Porthos?"

"Yes?"

"If no woman will have me now, I blame d'Artagnan."

This time Porthos laughed and shook his head. "We'll see about that when you're up and about, huh? Just rest now. Rest and get well."

"Mm," Aramis hummed, already drifting off.

"Sleep, 'Mis," Porthos said "And when you wake, I'll let you teach me how to stitch."

"'Bout time," Aramis whispered, then slept. And for the first time since the whole ordeal had started, Porthos allowed himself to sleep too.