Raindrops

A/N: I was getting so bored of waiting for the Beeb to air season three that it kind of got me back to writing some fics that have been half-finished for a long time. This is one of them and I would love to know your thoughts on it (but just a plea – I haven't seen the new season so for those lucky people who have, please don't spoil me if you're lovely enough to leave a review!).

Chapter 1

Blinking back the raindrops, Porthos shoulders his cloak closer about him and listens to the rattle of the wagon as it carries them through the night. Beside him, d'Artagnan is no more than a miserable huddle of limbs, head down, shoulders hunched and his hands chained tight to the wooden railings, just like Porthos' own. He has not said a word in hours.

Now though, the wagon is slowing, the lights of a farmhouse are visible through the trees, and he's thinking he needs d'Artagnan talking, to help him figure a way out of this. So, leaning over, he nudges d'Artagnan's shoulder with his own, feeling the sodden leather of his pauldron catch roughly on the threadbare fabric of d'Artagnan's shirt.

'Hey. You with me?'

There is no answer and Porthos frowns, then edges forward to make out what he can of his friend's face beneath the grime and shadow of a hard week's growth. 'Hey,' he tries again, rattling his chains so they clank against each other, but it serves only to draw the attention of one of their captors, who rides up beside the wagon and aims a kick at its wooden boards, sending his mount careening sideways until he yanks it back on course with a fierce oath and the snap of his whip.

D'Artagnan starts at the noise but the man pays him little attention, just raises his lantern so the dim light seeps over the open wagon bed - matted straw, filth and all. 'Keep it down!' he bellows, the persistent rain slicking down his dark cloak and plastering his pale hair to his head. 'Or is it another lesson you're wanting?'

Wincing against the brightness, Porthos raises his arm as much as he can against the chains to protect his eyes from the sudden flare. Next to him, d'Artagnan stays motionless but his shoulders are stiff and Porthos knows he is listening. 'No need,' he forces himself to say. 'We're good.'

The man sneers, his sharp features caught in a flash of lightning that illuminates the scattered trees and the rough trail running through them. 'Glad to hear it. God knows your friend's useless enough without me doing any more damage!'

He drops back into the darkness again, his laughter feral, and Porthos feels a bank of rage, already at a simmer, curl deep and dark inside of him. But he forces it down and he turns his attention instead towards d'Artagnan, who has finally stirred, the pale cloth bound tight about his eyes standing out stark and frayed against his bedraggled hair.

With a glance at their guards, Porthos edges closer until their shoulders bump, though he is careful to keep his voice low. 'Don't listen to him,' he mutters. 'We'll fix your eyes up, good as new. Aramis-'

'Aramis is dead.' D'Artagnan's voice is low and bitter and Porthos' heart sinks at the sound even as he shakes his head, determined not to give up hope.

'We don't know that. Him and Athos, they could have got away. We didn't see what happened to them-'

D'Artagnan scoffs. 'I didn't see anything, remember?'

Porthos does. He remembers the howl of pain that had slit open the night, of being dragged from his bedroll by rough hands to find Athos and Aramis gone and d'Artagnan folded in on himself next to their scattered campfire, clawing wretchedly at his eyes while glowing coals burnt like stars on the black earth about him. The sharp-faced man had loomed out of the dark, his men gathered close, and he had kicked out at d'Artagnan, sending him rolling over onto his back as he lowered a thick, burning branch right over d'Artagnan's convulsing throat.

'Your friend shouldn't have slept so close to your little campfire,' he had said, and at his feet d'Artagnan had stilled, his entire body going taut and desperate as he sensed the fire he could not see.

That had been it. They had been forced to their feet, shoved into the wagon like the cattle Porthos often saw being moved through the streets of Paris, and the days had dissolved into a blur of hunger and thirst and having d'Artagnan try vainly to burrow into his side as the pain of his eyes grew beyond what he could bear.

The wagon jerks as it hits a tree root and Porthos is jolted back to the present, to the misting rain and splashing wheels and the flicker of ghostly lights through the trees. D'Artagnan is still speaking, and Porthos is glad of it, at least until he hears his words.

'He's right,' he is saying bitterly. 'They should have killed me where I lay.' His shoulders sag and when he speaks next, his voice cracks, helpless. 'What use am I to anyone like this?'

Before Porthos can respond, there's a bellow from the side of the cart and d'Artagnan subsides, sinking back into his misery and leaving Porthos to his own thoughts, of Athos and Aramis and most of all about d'Artagnan. For though he would not admit it, least of all to himself, there's a pit inside him that hollows as he thinks of whatever is to come.

For what use has anyone for a blind Musketeer?

They soon find out.

The wagon slows before a farmhouse, its windows lit warm against the lashing rain that continues to soak the earth. It forms shining puddles that reflect back the blackness of the night and Porthos watches the raindrops within them, an endless entertainment after too many days on the road, before realising that the wagon has drawn to a halt and there are men climbing in with them.

He nudges d'Artagnan, warning him, then the men are upon them, unfastening their chains, roping their hands behind their backs and dragging them out and to the ground, where mud sucks squelching at their boots. After a muttered conversation between their captors, they are forced to start walking, and it becomes clear at once that d'Artagnan, pushed along in front of him, is having the worst of it. Unused to the darkness that is now his world, he is slow, awkward, with every step – his usual litheness gone along with his sight - and it is painful to watch him stumble forwards over the furrowed fields, harried by the shouts and shoves of a half-dozen men.

It is not long before a rough blow to the shoulders sends d'Artagnan stumbling to his knees and Porthos is forced to watch as he kneels there in the mud and darkness, his shoulders heaving with unsteady breaths and his hair clinging wetly to his bowed head. Yet he makes no move to get up and it is that which sends Porthos barrelling forwards, for one of the truths he knows right deep down to his gut is that d'Artagnan is no quitter, never has been since he first stormed into the Musketeer garrison, and if he's not fighting to get up then it means that he needs help. And Porthos is going to give it to him, ropes or no.

Elbowing away the dozen hands that try to pull him back, he charges forward through the mud and drops to his knees next to d'Artagnan, shadowing him with the larger bulk of his own body.

'Come on,' he mutters, making sure his words are for d'Artagnan and d'Artagnan alone. 'No use us staying here. Better get inside.'

It takes a moment, but d'Artagnan's head drops in a nod and he allows Porthos to help him up with a shoulder under his arm until he's on his feet again. Hands reach in at once and try to pull them apart, but Porthos is having none of it and stays rock-solid at d'Artagnan's side, guiding him along until they reach an ancient barn set on the far side of the field they had crossed.

The sagging roof and sunken stone walls look ready to fall at the next howl of wind, but Porthos spares the building no more than a cursory glance, all his attention on d'Artagnan as they are jerked to a halt and double-height doors before them heaved open. They are pushed inside and a familiar smell at once swamps the air, of faded dust and mildewed straw and the lingering smell of animals long-vanished.

Beside him, d'Artagnan stiffens and Porthos sees his head come up, his nostrils flaring beneath the blindfold.

'We're on a farm?' he says, his voice hoarse with disuse, but there is no time to answer, for they are hustled forwards as the wooden doors are slammed shut, before being forced along to where a make-shift ring is staked out by wooden pegs and rope. It is rough and ready but its purpose is clear enough, especially with the straw-hewn floor being tramped down all around it as though by the boots of many men. The derelict wagon stationed alongside it just gives another clue.

'Do I need to tell you why you're here?'

Porthos squares his shoulders, straightening up to his full height as Sharp-face appears out of the shadows, a couple of his men taking up positions at their backs and the others coming round to encircle them, two of them bearing burning lanterns that throw a scattered, swaying light over the entire scene, the storm outside now dimmed to an ominous rumble.

He takes his time answering. 'If I didn't know it was illegal,' he says finally, 'I'd say this was a fighting ring.'

Sharp-face nods, bringing up a finger to touch to the side of his pointed nose. 'I see we have a smart one, men.' Laughter ripples around the circle as he steps forwards, one hand now playing with the sturdy hilt of his knife. 'You know, a couple of my men saw you fighting in a tavern back in Paris. A wager, I think was the reason - all in good fun, of course.'

Porthos doesn't let his surprise show on his face, hopes d'Artagnan is doing the same where he is stood next to him, their shoulders just touching. 'That so?'

'From what they told me, you took down two men like it was nothing – quick, like that.' He snaps his fingers, the sound echoing through the vast barn and causing d'Artagnan to flinch, caught off guard by the noise.

Sharp-face flicks him a glance, his mouth curving up, and then continues. 'So when my men told me that, I went and watched you for myself. And when I did, I saw your young friend here cheering you on. Had a drink with you after, played a game of cards – though I'll tell you, I think you had a couple of tricks up your sleeve.' He pauses, allows another chuckle to pass around his men, and when he speaks again, his voice is gone sharper, harder and Porthos knows he has gotten to the point. 'You know, a fighter as good as you are can make a man rich.'

Porthos takes this in, then lets all the bluster that had served him so well growing up on the streets of Paris come to the fore as he leans forward and lifts his chin. 'You think I'm gonna fight for you?'

Sharp-face smirks, and next to Porthos d'Artagnan is shoved abruptly to his knees, his legs kicked out by the guard lurking close behind his back. He grunts in pain as his shins hit the ground and Porthos bellows a protest, but it is no use, there are hands closing about his shoulders and the man standing behind d'Artagnan is pulling out a knife as Sharp-face holds up a hand, stilling the scene.

'No,' he says, and it takes Porthos, breathing hard, a moment to register the weapon as it comes to rest softly against d'Artagnan's neck, the thin blade gleaming in the lantern-light. 'No, I think you're going to fight for him.'

And Porthos realises what use they have found for a blind Musketeer.