Resurrection
So... I've kind of surrendered to jackfan2 and finally watched BBC's The Musketeers. The results, as you can see, were disastrous!
This story is my first try in this fandom, but then again, everyone knows these characters. For those who have the slightest clue of what the hell I'm talking about, in terms of the show, this is the story of how Aramis, Porthos and Athos, three very different and yet incrediably similar men, came to develop a friendship so deep in can only be called brotherhood. It's set a few months after Savoy, before the events of Season 1.
The lovely laurie_bug was kind enough to answer my call for beta-ing this story, and I couldn't be more grateful to her skills! Any remaining mistakes are my own fault, because I can't stop myself ;)
Resurrection
part I
~§~
René closed his eyes, trying to capture the warm touch of the sun against his skin. Even though it was the middle of the summer and Paris was plagued by a bout of insufferable heat, he still could not feel it.
It had been months since he had felt anything other than the cold. It was as if his bones had turned to ice and it was, slowly but steadily, seeping into the rest of his body, consuming him and stealing all warmth from his grasp. One day, he was sure, he would wake up and be nothing more than a pile of melting red snow on the dirt.
Red snow, that once-pristine white purity stained by the sins of his failures. Blood…blood everywhere…
"Hey! Wake up!" a rough voice pulled him from his reverie. "You're needed. It's one of them new recruits."
René snapped back to reality, chiding himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander off again. "What happened?" he asked, his mind thankfully following his eyes as he watched two men carrying a third and depositing him in one of the empty beds. The left side of his face was covered in blood.
"Porthos. Again," one of the men supplied with a smirk. "Who else?"
René shook his head, setting to work cleaning the ugly wound on the man's forehead. He understood the need to test all the new men arriving daily at the garrison before they became recruits. He just wished that Porthos would refrain from beating half of them to death.
~§~
Olivier's hands shook as he raised his cup from the table. It was his fourth...sixth...not nearly enough for him to have completely lost count of how much he'd downed already. Not nearly enough to drown that persistent ache inside his chest.
It was still too soon for the warmth of the wine to quench the coldness inside his heart. He feared there wasn't enough wine in the world to make that happen.
The rough clay clattered against the wooden table as he set the empty cup down, his hand closing around the bottle. It felt too light in his hand. Empty. So soon. "Another," he whispered as the young servant girl passed by his table.
Startled eyes gazed upon him, green like hers, making him recoil from the sight. "Monsieur?"
"Never mind," he hissed, throwing a few coins on the table. Suddenly the tavern felt too stifling, filled with rancid smells and crowded with too many breathing people and more than a few ghosts.
Olivier stumbled outside, surprised to see the sun shining. He couldn't recall when he had entered the tavern, but had an inkling that it had not been that bright outside before. Had the night truly passed without him noticing?
The light assaulted his eyes, stabbing his brain like a horde of vicious crows. His stomach rebelled, a tidal wave of nausea that left him vaguely wondering what exactly would be coming up since he had forgotten to eat for so long.
Olivier found himself on his knees, puking something red that looked like blood but smelled like vinegar. 'Well, that was a waste of coin," the former Comte de la Fère thought to himself.
He was still in such an undignified position when a gloved hand appeared in his line of sight. The Comte's first instinct was to reach for his sword and defend himself against such an intrusion. Months spent on the road after fleeing his lands had taught him that violence was as sure and certain as winter rain.
The gloved hand, however, was not demanding his purse nor his life, only offering assistance. And a good thing that was, because Olivier was pretty certain that he had somehow misplaced his sword.
"You are too kind," he found himself saying, with no real emotion behind his words. It wasn't a comment on the man's gesture, it was merely an observation on what Olivier thought to be wrong with current events. No one was that kind towards a complete stranger. An inebriated one at that.
"You left this behind," the man offered, pulling Olivier up with one hand while the other presented his missing weapon. A few years older than the Comte himself, his benefactor had a deep scar marking his left cheek that gave his face no small amount of character. He was wearing a uniform of sorts, a leathery blue cape draped across his shoulder and back. "It is a finely-crafted blade," the man went on. "I would advise you to keep a closer eye on it from here on."
Olivier was about to open his mouth to politely tell the man to mind his own business when a woman's scream cut through the empty street.
The rush of blood to his head cleared Olivier's mind enough for him to grab his sword from the man's hand and rush towards the sound of the distressed calls. Turning a corner at full run, he easily stumbled across the source of screams. The scene that greeted him made his insides churn.
Two men were holding onto a struggling young woman, a sharp dagger pressed against her throat while a third went through her bag. Despite her fear, she was holding one shoe in her hand, wielding it like it was the deadliest of weapons. A fourth man, lying senseless on the ground, spoke of her prowess with that shoe.
"You would do well to start running now," Olivier called out, pulling his sword from its scabbard and effectively attracting the attention of her attackers. "Unless you wish to provide me with some much-needed entertainment," he added with a dry smile.
"Can't ya count? There's fou-" One of the men began, then stopped, upon spying his fallen mate still on the ground. "There's three 'f us, ya nimwitt!" he offered with a vicious glint in his eyes.
"Yes, I've noticed," the Comte said, advancing on the one closer to him, shattering his nose with the pommel of his sword. "I was hoping for more, but you will suffice."
The remaining two had blades of their own, but little to no skill to wield them. The fight was over before Olivier could even break a sweat. Pity. "Are you well, Mademoiselle?"
"Bonacieux, Madame Bonacieux," the young woman supplied with a nod, the tremor in her voice belying the fire in her blue eyes. She ran an unsteady hand through her disheveled auburn hair before restoring her shoe to its rightful place. "I am in your debt, Monsieurs."
The use of the plural when he thought himself alone made Olivier look around. Sure enough, the stranger who had returned his sword was standing a few feet away, an unfired pistol in his hand.
"Would you be requiring assistance returning to your home, Madame Bonacieux?" the stranger offered.
The young woman smiled, the terror of the situation quickly fading away, specially with all four of her attackers moaning and bleeding on the ground. "My husband would a have a proper fit if I were returned home by the Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers, now wouldn't he?" she said with a nervous chuckle. "I live nearby, it won't be a bother. Once more, I thank you for your help, Monsieur..?"
Olivier paused, realizing that she was inquiring his name. An easy enough question, up until a few months back, but one that left him currently speechless. The man he used to be was no more, killed by the noose around the neck of someone else. "Athos," he rushed to say, knowing it was impolite to keep a lady waiting for so long. "My name is Athos, at your service, Madame."
Wordlessly, the two men helped her collect her scattered belongings before watching her go on her way.
"My name is Treville. Captain of the Musketeers."
Olivier took a second to realize that the other man was addressing him. "So I heard," he acknowledged, making no effort at further introductions other than the name he had given before.
"You are good with a sword," the other man went on. "His Majesty's Musketeers could do with a man of your skill. We are currently taking new recruits. Why don't you come by the garrison tomorrow and give it a try?"
Olivier looked at the man at length, trying to read his true intentions. Nothing but honesty and honor shone back through the older man's blue gaze. It was a rare thing those days, one Athos couldn't seem to find even when facing his own reflection in a looking glass.
"Very well," Olivier simply said. Violence was violence. He might as well get paid for it.
Treville turned to leave, stopping in his tracks before turning the corner. "And Athos...do show up sober."
~§~
Porthos eyed the new recruits of the day with a glint in his eye. Someday soon, some of them would be his brothers-in-arms, but, currently, they were nothing but grub to his fists.
There had been too many conflicting thoughts inside his troubled mind of lately and, as he had found out very early in his life, violence was the perfect way for him to deal with those ideas and doubts.
Back at the Court of Miracles, his taste and ability for breaking people's faces had soon eclipsed the color of his skin and earned him no small amount of reputation. Joining France's Infantry had only added to that.
But when he had joined the Musketeers, Porthos had striven to leave that belligerent behavior behind. The King's men were gentlemen, most of them highborn and he figured that he would have to leave the brute behind if he was to become one of them. He was wrong, of course. His fists and street smarts had been more than welcomed by the leader of the Musketeers.
To be given free rein to do his worst as a way to test the new men was like, he imagined, for a woman to put off her corset after a long day confined by its constraints. In a way, he almost pitied the men about to face him. Almost.
The reason behind such an influx of recruits was very much present in the minds of all that had gathered to watch the tryouts of the day. The loss that the Musketeers had suffered was still too fresh, and the fact that there was nothing to be done to hold accountable those responsible, was weighing heavily on the whole regiment. The Spanish were the most probable suspect, but even that was but a mere supposition. Dead men, after all, told no tales.
Porthos himself had only joined the Musketeers a scant few months before the tragedy happened. There hadn't been sufficient time for him to form any type of deeper bonds with the men serving with him, not like the bond he had left behind at the Court, with Charon and Flea. Still, it was hard to not feel the loss when all those around him fell into such deep grief and melancholy.
The Captain himself had disappeared for close to a week when it happened, grieving in private for the men he had sent on a mission and who had never returned. A full company of twenty-two men, dead, murdered, in the border with Savoy. Twenty-two men, and not one survivor.
The remembrance alone left him in a foul mood, a coldness in his soul that he could not shake. "Alrigh' then," he growled menacingly at the waiting line of men. "Who's first?"
~§~
René scrubbed furiously at his hands, willing the red away. Water was scarce, with the Seine running almost dry under the heat wave, and the small basin he had been granted was already filthy with old blood.
"You will end up rubbing all of your skin away if you continue so."
The Captain's deep tones snapped him to attention, a habit he still could not rid himself of, even after months spent away from the regiment. "Captain. What brings you here?" he asked, carefully eyeing the older man. "Are you injured?"
Treville gave a sharp shake of his head. "I am perfectly well, Aramis. How are you?"
René recoiled from the name, tasting phantom blood in his mouth. "Aramis is no more, Sir," he reminded the other man, brown eyes cast down, gazing upon his stained hands. "He died in Savoy, along with all the others, remember?"
The Captain sighed deeply, the same as he always did whenever this conversation arose between them. "I've kept your name safe from all records. No one knows you were there," Treville reminded him in turn. "It's time for you to resume your duties, Aramis."
"I can fulfill my duties from here," he hissed, his tone bordering on insubordination. He was content working in the sick quarters, helping those wounded in battles he could no longer face; that he should not face. It was the least he could do. "Please, allow me to serve my King and country from here."
"Your place is not here," Treville said firmly. "You are neither a surgeon nor a trained physician!"
"I'm not a soldier either," René whispered, his voice shattering at the painful admission. "Not anymore."
"You are hiding," Treville accused, making René flush red under his pallor. "Like a coward."
He stood frozen, watching the Captain turn and leave. The man's words should've hurt more, should've made him angry and eager to defend his honor. He could feel nothing.
Treville was losing what little patience he had left to deal with his broken soldier; René was all too aware of that. His time at the garrison was coming to an end.
~§~
Years of soldiering served Treville well as he exited the sick quarters. From looking at him, no one would've guessed the anger and frustration bubbling under his composed surface. His guilt, that he had endeavored to tame months ago, though he feared it would never fade.
Not that it should.
Watching Aramis, who held such promise and had been such a skilled soldier before, turn into a pale shade of the man he was before, of the man he was supposed to be, turned Treville's insides. It was his fault that so many had died in the woods outside Savoy. It was his fault that Aramis chose to spend his days hiding in the sick quarters, surrounded by the wounded and dying.
It was also his fault he had been forced to deceive the young man to ensure his safety, even after surviving the massacre. Making him believe that his Spanish blood - and the fact that no one else survived - would lead others to think him a spy.
It hurt his heart to cast those vile doubts over such a dedicated servant of France, but if the Cardinal or the Duke of Savoy were ever to learn that one Musketeer had survived... Aramis' life would be forfeit. The young man alone could prove that the group of Musketeers had been sent on a training assignment, not on a war mission; he alone had the ability to figure out that, whatever language the attackers had used -if they had spoken at all- it hadn't been one that he was as familiar with as French.
If any of those facts were brought to light, death would seek out the broken musketeer like an eager mistress. And from what Treville could see in Aramis' eyes, he was sure the young man would welcome her.
Treville had failed to protect twenty of his men. One had deserted and was, therefore, out of his grasp to offer protection. The one that remain, however... he would do his best to save, even when the man didn't seemed to want to save himself.
~§~
Athos watched the big, dark-skinned man laugh as he easily fought a man half his size. His opponent, try as he might, seemed unable to land a single blow and was currently being used to mop the floor of the garrison stables.
It seemed that, as part of being accepted into the regiment, it was necessary to beat this man in free combat. So far, none of the men Athos had watched had even come close to succeeding.
From a balcony above, Treville, the man he had met the day before, watched with a close eye the events unfolding in the yard. He looked...disappointed.
The big Musketeer was skilled, that much was easy for all to see, even if his fighting style was a bit...unconventional. Even as he watched, the Musketeer picked the other man up, like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes, before twirling around and sending him flying against a pile of hay.
Porthos was the name the gathered crowd was shouting. Goliath would have been a more appropriate name, for all that the others had tried to beat him and failed. Athos, however, wasn't one to believe in impossible foes.
"Next!"
Raising from his seat at the wooden table, Athos stretched and bent sideways. His head was still throbbing from all the drinking of the past day, but he had fought worse under poorer conditions. Well, he thought as the Musketeer loomed over him, perhaps not worse.
"Gentlemen's terms?" Porthos asked with a toothy smirk, his tone warning his adversary that it would be no such thing.
"Of course," Athos agreed, mockingly bowing to his opponent. Had he blinked while doing so, he would've failed to see Porthos' booted foot rising up to meet his face.
The former Comte smiled. He was going to enjoy this.
Raising both hands, Athos grabbed Porthos' leg and, instead of pushing it down, pulled it further up, hoping to unbalance the larger man. Porthos stumbled back, but not before sending a closed fist flying out towards Athos' head.
The blow was merely glancing, but still Athos' ears were left ringing. He took a step back, regaining his balance, happy to realize that the other man was not holding back. Had he been struck by the full force of that blow, Athos was sure he would have been knocked out.
The other man was smirking, waiting for him to attack. Athos wasted no time in indulging him. Figuring that a man that size would have a higher center of gravity, Athos raced towards him, lowering his body to hit Porthos against his waist, rather than his chest.
They both fell against one of the barn's columns with twin grunts of pain, almost splintering the wood in half. Neither gave the other quarter, as they rolled on the ground, each man trying to get the upper hand, each landing the occasional hit.
Athos lost track of time, only to find himself with lungs burning at the exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes and Porthos, sitting astride his waist, fist pulled back to land the final blow. There was a feral look in his eyes, a complete abandonment to violence that made Athos sigh in relief. Finally, he had met someone who would put him out of his misery.
"Enough!" a commanding voice called out. Treville.
The change that overcame the larger man's eyes was immediate. Gone was the murderous look, replaced by pure gentleness. A bear, turned into a cub on command. It was uncanny. "You're good!" Porthos offered, quickly moving to his feet. He offered Athos a hand up, along with an honest smile.
Athos looked up, confused. He had lost, hadn't he? Still, he took the other man's hand, feeling himself being pulled up with such strength that it almost tore his arm from the socket.
He looked around, expecting to see mockery and laughter in the faces of the men watching, but there was neither to be found. Yes, there was amusement, but also respect for what had just happened.
"I don't understand," he confessed.
"The idea was not to beat our Porthos here," Treville explained, leaving it implied that there weren't that many who could. "Only to last long enough to convince me that, with proper training, one day you will. Welcome to the His Majesty's Musketeers, Athos."
Athos took the hand that the man was extending to him, giving it a firm shake, not really sure if he should be happy or disappointed about such a turn of events.
~§~
Treville scrubbed at his beard, knowing that he needed to stop finding excuses to return to the papers on his desk, wishing with all his heart that maybe they had sorted themselves out in his absence. He had twenty two dead soldiers to replace and the King's carte blanche to choose who he pleased as a recruit, but that was as far as his good luck went.
Back when the Musketeers' regiment had been formed, three years before, Treville had been able to handpick the best of the best from the rest of France's regiments, but, being a group of limited numbers, there had been a few fine soldiers left behind.
They weren't however, enough. Hence the decision to open the doors to any Frenchman able to hold his own in a fight. But, as Treville had quickly realized, thinking themselves able and being able, were two very different things when it came to battle.
So far, he had about fifteen new recruits. Sixteen, with the recent addition of Athos. He needed six more. And then there was all the paperwork from the other sixteen to attend to.
Athos had been a happy coincidence. Treville had not recognized him at first, thinking him just another drunkard wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris, but the sword he had carelessly left behind carried the mark of the Comte de la Fère, an old aristocratic family from Pinon. Treville had certainly recognized that.
Either the man carrying that sword was a thief, or one of the Comte's two sons. The bearing of the man Treville had followed from that tavern, even emptying his stomach on his knees, had made it fairly obvious that he was no thief.
The old Comte, Athos' father, had been an accomplished swordsman and Treville had hoped that he had instilled in his sons the same love for the art of war. He had not been wrong.
Pushing the door to his office open, the Captain was surprised to find papers on the floor. He was sure he had left all the windows closed when he left, so there was no wind to be blamed for such a mess.
He drew his pistol from the belt as he took a good look inside. There were papers scattered everywhere, his desk in disarray. Even the locked cabinet where he kept his files was gaping opened, all of the contents spilling out.
It looked like a storm had passed through, leaving nothing behind but that unholy mess. Someone had been there.
A clatter of noise coming from the armory called the Captain's attention. With so many new men coming and going, there were plenty of unfamiliar faces around, but he was certain that the three men currently sneaking around the garrison's armory had no business being there. "Are you gentlemen lost?" he asked, the gentle click of his pistol disrupting the silence that had fallen across the room.
Startled, the men turned, obviously not having realized his return. The fact that they hadn't left someone to stand watch spoke highly of their stupidity.
Treville opened his mouth to raise the alarm when he realized what the men had been so focused on that they had not heard him coming. The shout died on his lips as a fear as cold as the icy winter took hold of his heart.
It was not the pistols in their hands, for that was hardly a sight to instill fear in the experienced Captain.
No, it was the lit fuse, leading straight to the pile of gunpowder barrels at the corner of the armory storage, that made his blood freeze in his veins.
The men followed his gaze and, rather than fight, turned to run, knowing that they had only a few seconds to escape the blast. Treville fired his weapon, feeling the satisfaction of seeing blood explode from one of the men's legs before he, too, started running for his life.
Part II
This story is my first try in this fandom, but then again, everyone knows these characters. For those who have the slightest clue of what the hell I'm talking about, in terms of the show, this is the story of how Aramis, Porthos and Athos, three very different and yet incrediably similar men, came to develop a friendship so deep in can only be called brotherhood. It's set a few months after Savoy, before the events of Season 1.
The lovely laurie_bug was kind enough to answer my call for beta-ing this story, and I couldn't be more grateful to her skills! Any remaining mistakes are my own fault, because I can't stop myself ;)
Resurrection
part I
~§~
René closed his eyes, trying to capture the warm touch of the sun against his skin. Even though it was the middle of the summer and Paris was plagued by a bout of insufferable heat, he still could not feel it.
It had been months since he had felt anything other than the cold. It was as if his bones had turned to ice and it was, slowly but steadily, seeping into the rest of his body, consuming him and stealing all warmth from his grasp. One day, he was sure, he would wake up and be nothing more than a pile of melting red snow on the dirt.
Red snow, that once-pristine white purity stained by the sins of his failures. Blood…blood everywhere…
"Hey! Wake up!" a rough voice pulled him from his reverie. "You're needed. It's one of them new recruits."
René snapped back to reality, chiding himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander off again. "What happened?" he asked, his mind thankfully following his eyes as he watched two men carrying a third and depositing him in one of the empty beds. The left side of his face was covered in blood.
"Porthos. Again," one of the men supplied with a smirk. "Who else?"
René shook his head, setting to work cleaning the ugly wound on the man's forehead. He understood the need to test all the new men arriving daily at the garrison before they became recruits. He just wished that Porthos would refrain from beating half of them to death.
~§~
Olivier's hands shook as he raised his cup from the table. It was his fourth...sixth...not nearly enough for him to have completely lost count of how much he'd downed already. Not nearly enough to drown that persistent ache inside his chest.
It was still too soon for the warmth of the wine to quench the coldness inside his heart. He feared there wasn't enough wine in the world to make that happen.
The rough clay clattered against the wooden table as he set the empty cup down, his hand closing around the bottle. It felt too light in his hand. Empty. So soon. "Another," he whispered as the young servant girl passed by his table.
Startled eyes gazed upon him, green like hers, making him recoil from the sight. "Monsieur?"
"Never mind," he hissed, throwing a few coins on the table. Suddenly the tavern felt too stifling, filled with rancid smells and crowded with too many breathing people and more than a few ghosts.
Olivier stumbled outside, surprised to see the sun shining. He couldn't recall when he had entered the tavern, but had an inkling that it had not been that bright outside before. Had the night truly passed without him noticing?
The light assaulted his eyes, stabbing his brain like a horde of vicious crows. His stomach rebelled, a tidal wave of nausea that left him vaguely wondering what exactly would be coming up since he had forgotten to eat for so long.
Olivier found himself on his knees, puking something red that looked like blood but smelled like vinegar. 'Well, that was a waste of coin," the former Comte de la Fère thought to himself.
He was still in such an undignified position when a gloved hand appeared in his line of sight. The Comte's first instinct was to reach for his sword and defend himself against such an intrusion. Months spent on the road after fleeing his lands had taught him that violence was as sure and certain as winter rain.
The gloved hand, however, was not demanding his purse nor his life, only offering assistance. And a good thing that was, because Olivier was pretty certain that he had somehow misplaced his sword.
"You are too kind," he found himself saying, with no real emotion behind his words. It wasn't a comment on the man's gesture, it was merely an observation on what Olivier thought to be wrong with current events. No one was that kind towards a complete stranger. An inebriated one at that.
"You left this behind," the man offered, pulling Olivier up with one hand while the other presented his missing weapon. A few years older than the Comte himself, his benefactor had a deep scar marking his left cheek that gave his face no small amount of character. He was wearing a uniform of sorts, a leathery blue cape draped across his shoulder and back. "It is a finely-crafted blade," the man went on. "I would advise you to keep a closer eye on it from here on."
Olivier was about to open his mouth to politely tell the man to mind his own business when a woman's scream cut through the empty street.
The rush of blood to his head cleared Olivier's mind enough for him to grab his sword from the man's hand and rush towards the sound of the distressed calls. Turning a corner at full run, he easily stumbled across the source of screams. The scene that greeted him made his insides churn.
Two men were holding onto a struggling young woman, a sharp dagger pressed against her throat while a third went through her bag. Despite her fear, she was holding one shoe in her hand, wielding it like it was the deadliest of weapons. A fourth man, lying senseless on the ground, spoke of her prowess with that shoe.
"You would do well to start running now," Olivier called out, pulling his sword from its scabbard and effectively attracting the attention of her attackers. "Unless you wish to provide me with some much-needed entertainment," he added with a dry smile.
"Can't ya count? There's fou-" One of the men began, then stopped, upon spying his fallen mate still on the ground. "There's three 'f us, ya nimwitt!" he offered with a vicious glint in his eyes.
"Yes, I've noticed," the Comte said, advancing on the one closer to him, shattering his nose with the pommel of his sword. "I was hoping for more, but you will suffice."
The remaining two had blades of their own, but little to no skill to wield them. The fight was over before Olivier could even break a sweat. Pity. "Are you well, Mademoiselle?"
"Bonacieux, Madame Bonacieux," the young woman supplied with a nod, the tremor in her voice belying the fire in her blue eyes. She ran an unsteady hand through her disheveled auburn hair before restoring her shoe to its rightful place. "I am in your debt, Monsieurs."
The use of the plural when he thought himself alone made Olivier look around. Sure enough, the stranger who had returned his sword was standing a few feet away, an unfired pistol in his hand.
"Would you be requiring assistance returning to your home, Madame Bonacieux?" the stranger offered.
The young woman smiled, the terror of the situation quickly fading away, specially with all four of her attackers moaning and bleeding on the ground. "My husband would a have a proper fit if I were returned home by the Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers, now wouldn't he?" she said with a nervous chuckle. "I live nearby, it won't be a bother. Once more, I thank you for your help, Monsieur..?"
Olivier paused, realizing that she was inquiring his name. An easy enough question, up until a few months back, but one that left him currently speechless. The man he used to be was no more, killed by the noose around the neck of someone else. "Athos," he rushed to say, knowing it was impolite to keep a lady waiting for so long. "My name is Athos, at your service, Madame."
Wordlessly, the two men helped her collect her scattered belongings before watching her go on her way.
"My name is Treville. Captain of the Musketeers."
Olivier took a second to realize that the other man was addressing him. "So I heard," he acknowledged, making no effort at further introductions other than the name he had given before.
"You are good with a sword," the other man went on. "His Majesty's Musketeers could do with a man of your skill. We are currently taking new recruits. Why don't you come by the garrison tomorrow and give it a try?"
Olivier looked at the man at length, trying to read his true intentions. Nothing but honesty and honor shone back through the older man's blue gaze. It was a rare thing those days, one Athos couldn't seem to find even when facing his own reflection in a looking glass.
"Very well," Olivier simply said. Violence was violence. He might as well get paid for it.
Treville turned to leave, stopping in his tracks before turning the corner. "And Athos...do show up sober."
~§~
Porthos eyed the new recruits of the day with a glint in his eye. Someday soon, some of them would be his brothers-in-arms, but, currently, they were nothing but grub to his fists.
There had been too many conflicting thoughts inside his troubled mind of lately and, as he had found out very early in his life, violence was the perfect way for him to deal with those ideas and doubts.
Back at the Court of Miracles, his taste and ability for breaking people's faces had soon eclipsed the color of his skin and earned him no small amount of reputation. Joining France's Infantry had only added to that.
But when he had joined the Musketeers, Porthos had striven to leave that belligerent behavior behind. The King's men were gentlemen, most of them highborn and he figured that he would have to leave the brute behind if he was to become one of them. He was wrong, of course. His fists and street smarts had been more than welcomed by the leader of the Musketeers.
To be given free rein to do his worst as a way to test the new men was like, he imagined, for a woman to put off her corset after a long day confined by its constraints. In a way, he almost pitied the men about to face him. Almost.
The reason behind such an influx of recruits was very much present in the minds of all that had gathered to watch the tryouts of the day. The loss that the Musketeers had suffered was still too fresh, and the fact that there was nothing to be done to hold accountable those responsible, was weighing heavily on the whole regiment. The Spanish were the most probable suspect, but even that was but a mere supposition. Dead men, after all, told no tales.
Porthos himself had only joined the Musketeers a scant few months before the tragedy happened. There hadn't been sufficient time for him to form any type of deeper bonds with the men serving with him, not like the bond he had left behind at the Court, with Charon and Flea. Still, it was hard to not feel the loss when all those around him fell into such deep grief and melancholy.
The Captain himself had disappeared for close to a week when it happened, grieving in private for the men he had sent on a mission and who had never returned. A full company of twenty-two men, dead, murdered, in the border with Savoy. Twenty-two men, and not one survivor.
The remembrance alone left him in a foul mood, a coldness in his soul that he could not shake. "Alrigh' then," he growled menacingly at the waiting line of men. "Who's first?"
~§~
René scrubbed furiously at his hands, willing the red away. Water was scarce, with the Seine running almost dry under the heat wave, and the small basin he had been granted was already filthy with old blood.
"You will end up rubbing all of your skin away if you continue so."
The Captain's deep tones snapped him to attention, a habit he still could not rid himself of, even after months spent away from the regiment. "Captain. What brings you here?" he asked, carefully eyeing the older man. "Are you injured?"
Treville gave a sharp shake of his head. "I am perfectly well, Aramis. How are you?"
René recoiled from the name, tasting phantom blood in his mouth. "Aramis is no more, Sir," he reminded the other man, brown eyes cast down, gazing upon his stained hands. "He died in Savoy, along with all the others, remember?"
The Captain sighed deeply, the same as he always did whenever this conversation arose between them. "I've kept your name safe from all records. No one knows you were there," Treville reminded him in turn. "It's time for you to resume your duties, Aramis."
"I can fulfill my duties from here," he hissed, his tone bordering on insubordination. He was content working in the sick quarters, helping those wounded in battles he could no longer face; that he should not face. It was the least he could do. "Please, allow me to serve my King and country from here."
"Your place is not here," Treville said firmly. "You are neither a surgeon nor a trained physician!"
"I'm not a soldier either," René whispered, his voice shattering at the painful admission. "Not anymore."
"You are hiding," Treville accused, making René flush red under his pallor. "Like a coward."
He stood frozen, watching the Captain turn and leave. The man's words should've hurt more, should've made him angry and eager to defend his honor. He could feel nothing.
Treville was losing what little patience he had left to deal with his broken soldier; René was all too aware of that. His time at the garrison was coming to an end.
~§~
Years of soldiering served Treville well as he exited the sick quarters. From looking at him, no one would've guessed the anger and frustration bubbling under his composed surface. His guilt, that he had endeavored to tame months ago, though he feared it would never fade.
Not that it should.
Watching Aramis, who held such promise and had been such a skilled soldier before, turn into a pale shade of the man he was before, of the man he was supposed to be, turned Treville's insides. It was his fault that so many had died in the woods outside Savoy. It was his fault that Aramis chose to spend his days hiding in the sick quarters, surrounded by the wounded and dying.
It was also his fault he had been forced to deceive the young man to ensure his safety, even after surviving the massacre. Making him believe that his Spanish blood - and the fact that no one else survived - would lead others to think him a spy.
It hurt his heart to cast those vile doubts over such a dedicated servant of France, but if the Cardinal or the Duke of Savoy were ever to learn that one Musketeer had survived... Aramis' life would be forfeit. The young man alone could prove that the group of Musketeers had been sent on a training assignment, not on a war mission; he alone had the ability to figure out that, whatever language the attackers had used -if they had spoken at all- it hadn't been one that he was as familiar with as French.
If any of those facts were brought to light, death would seek out the broken musketeer like an eager mistress. And from what Treville could see in Aramis' eyes, he was sure the young man would welcome her.
Treville had failed to protect twenty of his men. One had deserted and was, therefore, out of his grasp to offer protection. The one that remain, however... he would do his best to save, even when the man didn't seemed to want to save himself.
~§~
Athos watched the big, dark-skinned man laugh as he easily fought a man half his size. His opponent, try as he might, seemed unable to land a single blow and was currently being used to mop the floor of the garrison stables.
It seemed that, as part of being accepted into the regiment, it was necessary to beat this man in free combat. So far, none of the men Athos had watched had even come close to succeeding.
From a balcony above, Treville, the man he had met the day before, watched with a close eye the events unfolding in the yard. He looked...disappointed.
The big Musketeer was skilled, that much was easy for all to see, even if his fighting style was a bit...unconventional. Even as he watched, the Musketeer picked the other man up, like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes, before twirling around and sending him flying against a pile of hay.
Porthos was the name the gathered crowd was shouting. Goliath would have been a more appropriate name, for all that the others had tried to beat him and failed. Athos, however, wasn't one to believe in impossible foes.
"Next!"
Raising from his seat at the wooden table, Athos stretched and bent sideways. His head was still throbbing from all the drinking of the past day, but he had fought worse under poorer conditions. Well, he thought as the Musketeer loomed over him, perhaps not worse.
"Gentlemen's terms?" Porthos asked with a toothy smirk, his tone warning his adversary that it would be no such thing.
"Of course," Athos agreed, mockingly bowing to his opponent. Had he blinked while doing so, he would've failed to see Porthos' booted foot rising up to meet his face.
The former Comte smiled. He was going to enjoy this.
Raising both hands, Athos grabbed Porthos' leg and, instead of pushing it down, pulled it further up, hoping to unbalance the larger man. Porthos stumbled back, but not before sending a closed fist flying out towards Athos' head.
The blow was merely glancing, but still Athos' ears were left ringing. He took a step back, regaining his balance, happy to realize that the other man was not holding back. Had he been struck by the full force of that blow, Athos was sure he would have been knocked out.
The other man was smirking, waiting for him to attack. Athos wasted no time in indulging him. Figuring that a man that size would have a higher center of gravity, Athos raced towards him, lowering his body to hit Porthos against his waist, rather than his chest.
They both fell against one of the barn's columns with twin grunts of pain, almost splintering the wood in half. Neither gave the other quarter, as they rolled on the ground, each man trying to get the upper hand, each landing the occasional hit.
Athos lost track of time, only to find himself with lungs burning at the exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes and Porthos, sitting astride his waist, fist pulled back to land the final blow. There was a feral look in his eyes, a complete abandonment to violence that made Athos sigh in relief. Finally, he had met someone who would put him out of his misery.
"Enough!" a commanding voice called out. Treville.
The change that overcame the larger man's eyes was immediate. Gone was the murderous look, replaced by pure gentleness. A bear, turned into a cub on command. It was uncanny. "You're good!" Porthos offered, quickly moving to his feet. He offered Athos a hand up, along with an honest smile.
Athos looked up, confused. He had lost, hadn't he? Still, he took the other man's hand, feeling himself being pulled up with such strength that it almost tore his arm from the socket.
He looked around, expecting to see mockery and laughter in the faces of the men watching, but there was neither to be found. Yes, there was amusement, but also respect for what had just happened.
"I don't understand," he confessed.
"The idea was not to beat our Porthos here," Treville explained, leaving it implied that there weren't that many who could. "Only to last long enough to convince me that, with proper training, one day you will. Welcome to the His Majesty's Musketeers, Athos."
Athos took the hand that the man was extending to him, giving it a firm shake, not really sure if he should be happy or disappointed about such a turn of events.
~§~
Treville scrubbed at his beard, knowing that he needed to stop finding excuses to return to the papers on his desk, wishing with all his heart that maybe they had sorted themselves out in his absence. He had twenty two dead soldiers to replace and the King's carte blanche to choose who he pleased as a recruit, but that was as far as his good luck went.
Back when the Musketeers' regiment had been formed, three years before, Treville had been able to handpick the best of the best from the rest of France's regiments, but, being a group of limited numbers, there had been a few fine soldiers left behind.
They weren't however, enough. Hence the decision to open the doors to any Frenchman able to hold his own in a fight. But, as Treville had quickly realized, thinking themselves able and being able, were two very different things when it came to battle.
So far, he had about fifteen new recruits. Sixteen, with the recent addition of Athos. He needed six more. And then there was all the paperwork from the other sixteen to attend to.
Athos had been a happy coincidence. Treville had not recognized him at first, thinking him just another drunkard wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris, but the sword he had carelessly left behind carried the mark of the Comte de la Fère, an old aristocratic family from Pinon. Treville had certainly recognized that.
Either the man carrying that sword was a thief, or one of the Comte's two sons. The bearing of the man Treville had followed from that tavern, even emptying his stomach on his knees, had made it fairly obvious that he was no thief.
The old Comte, Athos' father, had been an accomplished swordsman and Treville had hoped that he had instilled in his sons the same love for the art of war. He had not been wrong.
Pushing the door to his office open, the Captain was surprised to find papers on the floor. He was sure he had left all the windows closed when he left, so there was no wind to be blamed for such a mess.
He drew his pistol from the belt as he took a good look inside. There were papers scattered everywhere, his desk in disarray. Even the locked cabinet where he kept his files was gaping opened, all of the contents spilling out.
It looked like a storm had passed through, leaving nothing behind but that unholy mess. Someone had been there.
A clatter of noise coming from the armory called the Captain's attention. With so many new men coming and going, there were plenty of unfamiliar faces around, but he was certain that the three men currently sneaking around the garrison's armory had no business being there. "Are you gentlemen lost?" he asked, the gentle click of his pistol disrupting the silence that had fallen across the room.
Startled, the men turned, obviously not having realized his return. The fact that they hadn't left someone to stand watch spoke highly of their stupidity.
Treville opened his mouth to raise the alarm when he realized what the men had been so focused on that they had not heard him coming. The shout died on his lips as a fear as cold as the icy winter took hold of his heart.
It was not the pistols in their hands, for that was hardly a sight to instill fear in the experienced Captain.
No, it was the lit fuse, leading straight to the pile of gunpowder barrels at the corner of the armory storage, that made his blood freeze in his veins.
The men followed his gaze and, rather than fight, turned to run, knowing that they had only a few seconds to escape the blast. Treville fired his weapon, feeling the satisfaction of seeing blood explode from one of the men's legs before he, too, started running for his life.
Part II