Porthos: The Incident with the Flower: Part 2B
Chapters 7 - 12
Chapter Seven: A Brief History Lesson
At this time, it is necessary to present an abbreviated history into one of France’s most illustrious families, the House of Rohan, with perhaps, a few embellishments of which some may not have been previously aware regarding its more notable figures.
The start of the lineage began with Alain I de Rohan, the first to bear the name of Rohan and the title of Viscount. The title came courtesy of his father, while Rohan was in deference to the place of his birth. The beginnings were auspicious. From that initiating progenitor followed a period of fiscal prosperity and fecund abundance. Each successive generation added to the hereditary stock, and bore a minimum of two male heirs a season, thereby ensuring lineage. The line continued in this merry way for some time. That is, until the ripe and fruitful branches of this familial orchard converged to end abruptly with Jean II de Rohan, who neither the combined weight of heritage and ancestry nor the pressures of social mores could push into penetrating a woman. No, he much preferred horses. Breeding them, that is. With other horses.
The torch of the Rohan line rose again with Rene II, Viscount of Rohan. In the Rohan tradition, Rene sired two sons, the elder Rene III, who would live a life of grace and brevity, and the younger Henri II, who would survive. Surpassing his father, Henri II de Rohan-Gie became the first Duc de Rohan and, despite a strong preference for military command would, in the end, succumb to duty. He married to produce the sole Rohan heir, Marguerite de Rohan, a tall beauty from whose fierce, cerulean gaze shone the pure spring of the Rohan bloodline, and the twin traits of intelligence combined with ambition, but who, unfortunately, was a woman.
In the end, as the pull of duty continued to weigh, Henri would eventually produce a son. The young Rohan would also grow in beauty, except of a different nature. Unlike the tall militant bearing of his paternal predecessors, he would grow to fill a slender frame, and his blank, dark eyes would stare out from an olive complexion.
At the request of his son’s mother, Henri would request a minor alteration to the de Rohan family crest to include, in a protected corner, a simple nondescript blossom comprised of five symmetrical petals.
Chapter Eight: Sex
By morning, LeCliche would be dead. By the next night, they would be attacked. At present, however, Porthos found himself nursing some severe bruising, sustained from that unaccountable fall. What type of person would furnish a floor with a hole? D’Artagnan had eventually pulled him out, aching and bemused. He had dropped a good distance but no one had felt the need to explore this particular development until morning. From their combined provisions, the only salve to be found was fit only for a horse, but this would find no complaint with our Hero.
This stuff was surprisingly potent, he thought, rubbing the salve deep into the tissues of his legs, arms and back. Almost immediately, he could feel he sharp pain begin to dull to a minor pulse and he felt a surprising melting sensation that spread from his head, down his back, and then pleasantly through his legs. Yes, this was indeed the best remedy for the situation, he thought, and he floated pleasantly in and out of consciousness. He fell lightly into a dreamless slumber and then emerged to reside in that delightful place between deep sleep and full wakefulness.
At some point, his mind decided that he should move closer to the fire. They had built - no, he had built, he corrected - a strong fire to cook their last meal. His mind briefly wandered over to the minute intricacies of that fire. Was D’Artagnan tending to it? Had they properly secured their prisoners? Did he have the energy to stand? And he found that he did. He could see himself wobbling awkwardly in the dark, his mind floating slightly above himself. From there, he could see that he had on his perplexed face, and he thought this was a suitable occasion for it. Then he could see that his shirt was slightly more crumpled on one side - the shirt was ruined, there was no saving it - but the figure nonetheless smoothed out its left side until the ruin was symmetrical.
He saw his body wander off in the direction of firelight, and then casually slump towards the ground, where he used the momentum of his fall to roll for a few moments before relaxing into a light doze. A snore erupted vaguely from the direction of his right flank. After a few moments, he repositioned himself onto his stomach, crawling being infinitely preferable to walking, and found LeCliche asleep and bound on his side behind a rock. This being accomplished, our Hero reoriented himself towards his original goal of sleeping by firelight.
His mind still refused to reenter his body and remained hovering somewhere slightly above and to the left, which left him feeling slightly disoriented and uneven, so that when he moved, he seemed to favor his right when he knew he should be moving left. When he began to hear grunting, he could not be sure of its direction or if he had fallen back asleep. Then he saw a bowl of drained chicken fat and then the two of them, naked and fucking.
D’Artagnan had bent Oliver over a rock and mounted him, holding the man’s hips in place while he slowly pushed himself inside. As our Hero had predicted, they aligned perfectly. They both had very little excess flesh under their skin. Porthos could easily trace the individual lines of muscle flexing across D’Artagnan’s corded shoulders and arms where he gripped Oliver’s hips, and the dips along the sides of Oliver’s ass as he pushed back and tightened in an intimate rhythm. D’Artagnan was drawing out the moment, pushing in and out, varying his rhythm. His face was open and contorted as he bit into the sweet flesh at the back of Oliver’s neck. And Oliver, well Oliver was smiling, his prick fully engorged. D’Artagnan’s strokes began to get rough and uneven. He held Oliver’s hips with both hands, pumping blindly. Oliver’s back bowed as he spent himself, and then his body relaxed. D’Artagnan’s hands trembled, then slipped away. Soon after, Oliver settled into sleep. But D’Artagnan was a good soldier, and he stayed awake to keep watch.
Watching them, Porthos felt himself relaxing into a pleasant unconsciousness when a thought occurred to him; from where he lay, he could see that Oliver’s mark, which had flowered and blossomed so pleasantly under his own thumb while they had fucked…appeared to have moved. Then he slept.
Chapter Nine: Bickering
LeCliche was dead. They had woken to a faultless sky and gentle breezes. Porthos felt refreshed; he flexed his legs and arms, and was rewarded by only a small scream of pain, which was entirely normal. Oliver was still bound and unspeaking, which was also as it should be. D’Artagnan, however, appeared anguished. He was staring down at a space behind one of the houses when Porthos joined him. There lay LeCliche, his hands bound, and his neck twisted. Porthos looked at his friend, who he trusted with his own life, and who returned his gaze directly. Without speaking, they agreed that they would not, either of them, turn to look at Oliver. Each man drew his own conclusions. But in the end, there was nothing to be done; LeCliche was dead. They buried him.
“What will we do about that hole you fell through?” D’Artagnan asked. They had returned to the house, and were contemplating the large hole in the base of the floor. They took turns peering inside. The drop was steep. If they feel through, they should be able to stand upright without difficulty, but if they dared to breathe, the air reeked with the force of a thousand anonymous armpits.
Porthos did not answer. Instead, he smiled broadly. He favored the direct approach, as D’Artagnan well knew.
“Where do you think it leads?” D’Artagnan continued, ignoring that smile.
“Why don’t we find out?”
“Do you think it would be the wisest option for all of us to go into an unknown…hole. Maybe we should…take turns?” This was a perfectly reasonable idea. If this idea had come from… perhaps…Athos, this would have been taken into consideration. However, in a few moments, Porthos knew, D’Artagnan would begin to whine. And this suggestion was merely a precursor to indecision, which would lead to inaction, and in the end they would have nothing but hours of whingeing for all their efforts.
“We will not go in at once.” D’Artagnan appeared relieved. “We will go in one at a time.” D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, and Porthos let go the final blow. “You will go in first, and Oliver and I will follow.”
“Do we have to go?”
“Yes, but it will have to be you. First.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Right -”
“Yes.”
“But -”
“Do you require my assistance?” D’Artagnan shut up and disappeared into the hole.
Seconds later, D’Artagnan voice emerged sounding clear and strong. “This place reeks of cat shit!” His remarks were received with satisfaction; D’Artagnan had survived.
“Now,” Porthos looked genially at Oliver, “will you be requiring my assistance?” In response, Oliver dropped himself down the hole and landed soundlessly.
Porthos mentally congratulated himself, gathered their few provisions, and let himself drop into darkness.
Chapter Ten: The Anus of Hades
He was known to his face as the Fist of Zeus, and to his retreating back as the Anus of Hades. However, the more accurate description was that he was simply a Bastard of the literal sense. None of this was to any effect, and that was due only in part to his status as the Rohan heir. It had not hindered him from mastering both literature and swordsmanship. It had not kept him from learning a stringed instrument. No one in his household could manipulate the harp as well as he, as his fingers possessed exceptional beauty as well as superior dexterity. Nor could anyone handle a sword with his particular aptitude. No, these gifts were his alone. Pondering these thoughts as well as his many other natural gifts, Henri de Rohan II, the sole male heir to the Rohan lineage, reclined deeper into the cushions of his bed. These precious afternoon hours upon waking were his sole sanctuary before he was forced to don the mantle of greatness and take on the responsibilities of managing his largesse. With his father, the elder Henri, constantly away on military affairs -
“Ah, you’re awake.” The curtains drew back to reveal the sharp eyes and drawn face of his elder sister, Marguerite. She was angry, likely at him. He awoke daily to the swell of her anger, usually over some minor mishap, and swam in its currents through his daily lessons until he could settle back against the shores of sleep. That was enough for him.
“You have slept through your morning lessons again, and I had to act in your place to resolve some land disputes that required your express approval. I had to assure them that my word could stand in place of yours, and then used your seal in secret to continue this deception. Also, I will be removing the lock on your door immediately, which concludes this morning’s business. Now,” and here her expression shifted to one of resignation, “to that other matter.”
He had realized some time ago, that she expected more from him. Her accusations were never subtle, and they wounded him deeply. When Marguerite was calm, she would say, “if you are allowed to act as the head of this House as you are, you will be the end of it.”
When she became more agitated, she made him recite the Novena to St. Peregrine. Very rarely, her anger would fall away, as if a mask, and then she became very sad, her eyes became liquid looking at him, and then she would say, almost to herself, “If only I were male.”
This might have continued indefinitely, this parade of lessons and deception. His swordsmanship improved, he took up hunting and composition, all the while continuing to leave the daily running of the household to his more than capable sibling. This all came to an unhappy end one day when he rolled up the silk cuffs of his shirt on a particularly hot day, and a filthy man by the side of the road pointed at the unfortunate scar on the inside his forearm and then grabbed hold of his leg, refusing to let go. He had honestly considered dragging the man until the bastard fell off of his own accord, but Marguerite had interceded. She listened to the man speak with a dirty village accent. She had listened with great interest to what appeared to be one of the most unattractive, foul-smelling, and unkempt man his eyes had ever had the displeasure of beholding.
Marguerite talked to this reeking mess for what felt like hours. Finally, she had had enough, and when she finished, he fully expected them to be on their way and put this entire episode behind them. Instead, she had turned to him, and said in a tone that brokered no objection, “This is an opportunity, Henri, for you to show that you can lead.”
Chapter Eleven: Clues That Are Ignored
They found themselves in a narrow passageway, where Porthos had had to bend down to nearly half his size simply to move forward. And that was the goal, to continue moving with D’Artagnan in front and Porthos behind, pushing Oliver back and forth between them, until they reached the end of this…tunnel. He could feel the air becoming thin, which he could not help but appreciate now that he was half his size. However, there was nothing for it, and he contented himself with what little scenery availed itself.
In front, he could stare longingly at Oliver’s straight back and lush hair. This, while appealing, could hold his attention for only a short while before his eyes wandered over to the side wall. Ah…there, on the right, was…a fascinating series of parallel lines and mathematical calculations, seemingly drawn by hand. The walls themselves should hold, of this there was no doubt, because they appeared to be made from a type of stone. However, none of this added detail particularly interested our Hero. Then his eyes caught sight of what appeared to be…drawings - wait no - rather they were…symbols, or to be more precise, they were…words. Yes, words, which, if our Hero had not been so altogether bored, he would not have normally bothered reading, because if he had spent more time reading as a child, he would have made a poor swordsman.
By the dim light of his lantern, he could see that the words put together assembled to create a kind of timeline, almost akin to a family tree, which traced the members of - and this name might even have been familiar to him - an ancestral line by the name of Rohan. Yes, there was the first Rohan in the line, Porthos counted along, followed by his many progeny, followed by the progeny of progeny. Then there appeared the official crest of the Rohan house, which bored him, followed by the tracings of a simple flower, which caused his eyes to glaze further, and then a very rough drawing of the young Rohan heir. Now this image arrested our Hero somewhat, because the heir had a girl’s beauty, of the kind that arrested a man’s eyes and held him under its sway, however briefly. He had seen this face, with its plump lips, flush red hair and dark eyes, and made the usual mistake.
What was his name? Porthos pondered this for a second; he had the time. Henri? Henri the Second…the name came to him eventually. Henri the second, the Rohan bastard. Yes, that was the full title. Recalling what images he could from public sightings, he pieced them together into an awkward collage. The young Rohan was a pretty boy with the body of a man, a tall one, strong and good with his sword. He had a natural talent and the strength in his arms of his military father. None of this mattered; the boy was weak. Anyone with any sense of his opponent, as our Hero did, could tell that the boy lacked the mental forbearance to take and inflict pain. No, this boy was made for softer things, for cosseting and…flower arranging. The name of Rohan would fall to ruin under this boy’s soft hands. Now, how far along were they?
The passage had begun to narrow, and in a short time he could predict that he would have to shift sideways, which would be embarrassing at best. The air was thinning now, or was he just tired from contorting himself? He found it hard to get enough air while gazing deeply into his own navel. Ahead, he could see no light, only the play of his own lantern moving softly against Oliver’s retreating back. He supposed that with no end in sight and his supply of air diminishing, he should feel a sense of panic, but he trusted his comrade. D’Artagnan was neither stupid nor untested; if there was danger, they would have stopped. They stopped.
“What is it?” Porthos moved closer to his friend.
“I felt a breeze,” D’Artagnan whispered.
Taking a cue from his friend, Porthos whispered back, “Then that is a positive sign,”
“And there, ahead of us, is a ladder that leads to an opening.”
“Again, this is positive news. Why have we stopped?”
“There is something not right about this.” The younger man’s brow furrowed. He looked off to his left uncomfortably, focusing his thoughts. “Why would the air move down here, unless there is something shifting the air close to that opening?”
He inclined his head toward Porthos. “There is someone else moving outside there, waiting for us.” D’Artagnan’s body had grown increasingly tense. “This entire time, I have felt a third person, following us.” He paused. “He was there last night. Have you felt him?”
“No.” Porthos attempted to move forward, but it appeared that his friend had not finished.
“D’Artagnan, you are my good friend. I need air.”
“We need a plan.”
“I have one.”
“Then share it with me!”
“We use…” and our Hero’s eyes traced over the supple man squeezed between them. For emphasis, he made a vulgar thrusting movement which almost knocked over M. D’Artagnan.
“I see.” D’Artagnan, recovering himself, responded. “Yes, that is a good plan. Now we need to…move…so that…” Between the three of them, they managed to contract D’Artaganan while simultaneously lifting Oliver so that now D’Artaganan stood in the center, gripping Oliver by the man’s bound wrists.
“Now,” D’Artagnan started, but Porthos stopped him. Instead, he reached over and closed the entire of his hand around the length of Oliver’s throat, applying a continuous even pressure until he could feel the other man’s body constrict.
“Good, you’re listening,” he breathed across D’Artagnan’s cheek into the other man’s ear. “We have done this before, many times, so I know what you will do. You will go ahead of us in case there is a trap, and we will follow behind more slowly. You will run. Then, after you have run, we will find you. Then, and this makes me sad to even contemplate, I am making you a promise, that I will kill you. This is what always happens,” Porthos continued in that same congenial tone. They were slowly approaching the opening. “So you may want to change your mind, while you still can.”
With that, Porthos released his hold, and Oliver, showing surprising agility for someone who was moving with his hands bound in front of him, braced himself against the walls, leapt cleanly through the above opening and disappeared. D’Artagnan followed, yelling. Porthos took his time. The opening was a small one and he was a large man.
Chapter Twelve: The Making of an Enemy
“There always should be someone worth hating.” - Anonymous
“I want you to catch every gain of sand that falls from my hand.” Left to his own devices, feats such as these would have been how the young Rohan spent the whole of his authority over his newly acquired kingdom. Coincidentally, his sister Marguerite saw matters in an entirely different light.
After the old man left, women and men both began to come, day and night, to see the young Rohan, to see the beautiful and rich young man that bore their mark and wore their eyes and yet held a position of great authority in one of the most established families in Paris. Marguerite, holding court, welcomed every new person into their great house and questioned each of them at length, gleaning information that they in their specific…social standing…had all reason to know. Through her diligence and skillful probing, she uncovered that they maneuvered throughout Paris, often sight unseen, by means of the Paris tunnels, long underground stone mines that snaked beneath the city streets, unknown and heretofore overlooked by all but the miners that toiled within, and the men that oversaw them, until they served a third purpose by allowing a transient group of people to move undetected in and around Paris.
When they replied, they spoke to Marguerite, but before answering, their eyes sought out the approval of the young Rohan, and in this way they directed their undivided loyalty towards Henri, which was a balm to his pride. For Marguerite, with her cerulean eyes and her tall beauty, stemming as it did from an untainted bloodline, was as one outside their own. Even in his own household, where he remained the sole male heir, an important distinction, Marguerite’s orders triumphed over his. Every one of his orders was always subject to a second test against Marguerite’s better judgment, and every servant hurried directly to her chambers following his. Now, for the first time in Henri’s life, there were servants at his sole disposal that held his wants and desires as their primary aim. Finally, his word would be first and last, both the opening and closing argument, and his arrogance bathed in newfound lasciviousness.
“They have great deal of knowledge of this city,” she informed him at length. “The way that they move without detection could potentially prove useful. No one notices them, even when they are seen, they are merely…disregarded.” Here her eyes turned inward. “I am thinking in the way of…” And here she took a moment to gather her thoughts, “information gathering.”
“I have noticed that a few of them have distinct talents,” she continued, and so she had. Adding to the daily running of their household, she had gone around with each new arrival, tracking names, ferreting out talents, and otherwise separating wheat from chaff, so that Henri now had at his disposal an extensive detailing of the innate faculties of each member of his new contingent. There were, for instance, a group of four men that fought as if they came from one soul, the twins, a few lovely but deadly women, a few with some agility, and most importantly, according to Marguerite at least, the fact that most if not all could find their way underneath the Paris streets practically without sight.
“They trust you implicitly, more than they would ever trust me.”
So, she had noticed this, eh? Henri smiled to himself and lounged deeper into the rich velvet of his seat cushions. Perhaps, then, his sister had some meager talent. As his height he could afford to be generous. She was pacing back and forth, as was her custom, moving while she thought. It had been made so obvious to him over the course of weeks, that the loyalty the gypsies showed each other, they believed was the same loyalty that he, in turn, must feel towards them.
His mind turned towards more interesting ventures. His father was a military man, a conqueror and leader among men, and he himself deserved much the same. In his mind, he heard Marguerites words weighted in duty and responsibility, and untapped potential, all such boring terms really, and translated them to suit his own purposes.
“With our unseen network, we would be able to serve the king in a new capacity. We could guard against attempts at the throne at points throughout the city or…anywhere, really,” she persisted, pacing. Now, what use had he for the king and his threats while he was insulated by his money and position? What use had he for a network of information that did not advance his own interests? What were, in fact, his interests? For the first time, he consulted within himself and found a deep and endless void, a lack of emotion or of care that stretched without limit, and so endlessly that it would have scared him had he been capable of it.
“That is enough,” he cut through her musings. She looked at him, surprised, but not offended. “I want to think on this. Please leave…No,” she paused. He directed his finger toward two young men - what were their names - he didn’t care, they looked fit and healthy, like fresh dogs. “You two, you stay.” They stayed, chattering and smiling, while everyone else left the room. He sat back, and saw them as they were, two attractive, good-natured young men, prone to idle speaking, with plush lips and trusting dark eyes. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he suddenly saw them as they could be.
“Stop talking.” They went still. “Can either of you handle a sword?” Both nodded. He retrieved a pair of swords from his wall. One weapon was badly damaged, but not obviously so. He knew this, and in so knowing, he angled his wrist subtly while throwing, the movement disguised by the length of his sleeve, so that the undamaged sword landed closer to the feet of his favored opponent.
“Each of you, pick a sword.” After the swords landed, there was an odd pause, and this was, in retrospect, a deciding moment. Henri was not entirely sure of his authority, and they were not yet used to the harness of unwavering obedience. If they had disobeyed Henri, he would have run them through himself, without question. They were boys, he was a trained swordsman, and he could never tolerate disobedience. But, after a moment’s hesitation, the twins complied. Henri smiled. “Now, you will fight each other until one of you wins.” They started. “Wait - here is the first rule. You will not stop fighting until I decide who has won. I repeat, you will not stop for any reason until I tell you. There are no excuses for stopping. In fact, if you stop, the other one must” he thought for a moment, “cut you. That is the second rule.” Henri considered this a particular stroke of genius. He had never seen blood drawn. He wondered how he would react.
“But,” one of them had an idea, “we could break all these nice things.” This was true. They were surrounded by priceless artifacts collected by the elder Rohan and the preceding Rohan going back generations. But they meant nothing to the present Rohan.
“Then break them,” and I will hold you to account later, he thought. “But do not stop.”
“But,” it was the same twin speaking again, and Henri noticed with some satisfaction, that this was the one holding the broken sword. He had a beautiful voice, too, which was completely wasted on someone of so low a stature. Henri would have to do something about that tongue. “What do we fight for?”
The young Rohan gave this some little thought. “A name. There are two of you, with the same face. It is excessive for you both to have names. Only the stronger one deserves a name. The other, well, the other will be punished.” Henri had already decided what that would be. That part seemed to come rather easily to him.
They fought. For three full days without stopping, or more to the matter, without Henri stopping them. For someone who regularly required ten hours of sleep a night, he found reserves of energy he had never known existed. He followed the two of them, out of his rooms, through the dinner hall, across the threshold of the servants’ quarters, and finally out into the gardens. The twins began with enthusiasm and ended without mercy, dredging up supplies of energy reserved solely for survival. Henri followed and watched with detached interest. His indifference and intensity, without him knowing, gave the appearance of great perception. And this impression, misleading though it was, embedded itself into the subconscious minds of all who saw him on those three days, with the exception of his sister, who knew him better.
When they were beaten, half mad, and half cut open, Henri interceded, almost as an act of mercy, and declared a victor. Then he began their lessons.
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