So, another one of those horsey stories I've kind of gotten into. This time it's about Porthos, and his horse Flip. This is pre-series so no d'Artagnan, I'm sorry… He will have his moment to shine later, I promise.
Flip a card.
"Porthos..."
"Aramis, I got this."
"You better, because I give you my word, as a gentleman, that if you don't, I will kill you."
Porthos didn't even look up at Aramis, but he knew the man next to him was completely serious. If he lost this hand, he would have to run to another continent if he wanted to survive. Aramis would come after him with the whole French army behind him.
In front of Porthos on the table were a deck of cards spread out, empty bottles of wine, a massive pile of money and everything of value that the five men around the table owned. Pistols, daggers, a pair of gloves lined with rabbit fur, a portable timekeeping device, a gold chain – all sorts of valuable things. Porthos' had placed his beautiful sword, Balizarde, in the pile.
And on top of it all, was Aramis' hat.
Cards were dealt. Played. More cards dealt. There were only Porthos and a Red Guard by the name of Michael left around the table, and there was no way Porthos would lose against a Red Guard. There were more things on the table than he had ever owned in his life. He wanted it, he wanted it so he could buy some new clothes, pay off old debts, and just enjoy some good living for a while.
More cards played. Aramis was biting his thumbnail. The Wren was packed as usual, but in difference from the normal spread out seating, everyone was now huddled closely around the two men still playing the last hand. Winner takes it all. Loser has to fall.
Michael placed his cards to the table with a wide grin on his face, and Porthos can feel Aramis turn stiff next to him, a hand on his shoulder digging into his collarbone in anger. Porthos leans forward across the table, and grabs the hand of the man in front of him who is already collecting his winnings.
"Nah-uh." Porthos grins while he places his kings on the table. "Not so fast."
Aramis is literally squealing next to him as he reaches across the table and grabs his hat so fast that coins are skidding around, before placing his favorite possession back onto his head. Porthos laughs at his brothers before he starts collecting his winnings. In front of his is Michael, pale and confused. Porthos and Aramis help each other out as they collect the winnings, knowing all kinds of hell will break lose in a minute and better get as much as possible before that.
"You cheated!"
And there we go.
"Slander." Porthos mumbles, as quick fingers are dropping coins into his pockets.
'Of course I cheated.'
Porthos couldn't help but to grin as he could hear the sound of a pistol in front of him, and glancing up he noticed he was staring down the barrel of the pistol.
"Give that back."
"I think… no." Porthos grinned as he shoved the last things on the table into his many pockets, before grabbing a hold of Balizarde still on the table next to him. By the time he reached his sword, and by the time Aramis had unsheathed his rapier, the men around them was already attacking.
Both Porthos and Aramis played it at first, laughing and grinning happily as they swung their swords around in the small area of the Wren, Aramis dancing with a hand on his hip as his other hand skillfully swung his sword around, while Porthos attacked with brute strength and a voice that could alone knock most opponents down on their behinds.
It didn't take them long though to realize they were the only Musketeers in the Wren – well, except for Athos who were still sitting with his nose deep in the wine glass over by the bar, most likely rolling his eyes. He wouldn't let himself get dragged into this, at least not until he had finished his bottle. Never one to waste alcohol, he was.
Both Aramis and Porthos were great soldiers and they never had trouble holding their own in a duel – but a duel is a fair fight between two opponents, not ten to two. Somewhere in the midst of the fight, he caught sight of Aramis' eyes, and showed three fingers in the air. Time for 'Third rule'.
Athos had told them both of these four brilliant rules. They only applied when there was no other option, when you were outnumbered in a fight, or just when your opponent is a great deal more skilled with a sword, or those lovely occasions when your hands are tied behind you back and someone is coming at you with a rapier… When you can not fight anymore, Athos had four rules of survival.
'One. If you can run, run. Two. If you can't run, surrender… then run. Three. If you are outnumbered, let them fight each other, while you run. Four. When you can't run, talk your way out of it.'
Athos must've realized what they were about to do, because he stoically and effortlessly made his way across the floor where the fight was taking place, walking behind some of the Red Guards, and while out of sight, he 'accidentally' grabbed a hold of a chair, and hit one of the Red Guards over the upper back, before diving back into the shadows of the bar, casually picking up his hat and placing it on his head. As the Red Guard regained enough composure to turn around, the first person he saw was someone completely random guest of the Wren – and a few seconds later the brawl was at a full go. While every man inside the bar was fighting because of the lone reason that there was a fight going on, the three Musketeers snuck their way out of there.
As they drunkenly stumbled into Athos' room, Aramis emptied the contents of his pockets onto Athos' table, while Porthos' used the bed to scatter all the things filling up his many pockets. There had been a big load of different things on that table, so much that neither of them had really kept up with what they had literally stolen from the other players.
Athos sighed at the two of them like children in a confection store, but settled across Aramis by the table, pouring himself wine.
While Porthos was counting the coins with a wide grin across his face, Aramis held up a piece of parchment.
"Hey, Porthos…"
"What?"
"These are owner papers of a horse."
"What?"
"It appears that you won a horse."
"Uh-uh. That doesn't mean I wanna learn to ride. Those animals are still frightening. Kick in the back, teeth in the front and they seem rather uncomfortable in the middle."
"Porthos, you know to be a good Musketeer you need to learn how to ride." Aramis chimed, the wide grin covering his face.
"I done fine so far, thank y'very much."
"Because you drive the carriage yes. But that's slow. You need to learn how to ride too. This is a fine opportunity. You have your own horse, and we will teach you."
Porthos could hear that Aramis was sincere in his invitation to be Porthos' horse master, but he could also hear in the way Aramis formed his words that the Spaniard would probably enjoy Porthos' misfortune a little bit too much.
"Mhm." Porthos mumbled. "Does it say what kind o'horse it is?"
Porthos turned to look at Aramis who had his nose down in the piece of parchment, apparently reading it over. Porthos was just about to snap it out of his hands, when Athos beat him to it, pulling it out of Aramis' hands, reading it over carefully, before a small grin spread across his lips.
"You are the owner of a mix breed horse named Flip."
The way Athos said it made Porthos glare at him in anger, and Athos quickly realized his mistake.
"Oh no, dear Porthos, I did not intent to sound degrading."
"Yeah y'did." Porthos growled, walking up to Athos and pulled the papers from his fingers, quickly walking out of the apartment with determined steps, hurrying down the stairs and out onto the dirty street. The cold night air and stench of the Parisian streets hit him instantly, but never made him hesitate as he picked a direction and walked in it.
Athos gulped in Aramis direction, before both of them turned on their heels and scurried after Porthos, rumbling down the stairs and sliding after him along the street.
"So what may your destination be if I may require?" Aramis asked as he fell in step with Porthos, Athos a step behind on Porthos' other side.
"I'mma get my horse."
"Porth-"
"Don't, Athos."
Athos sighed before grabbing a hold of Porthos' upper arm, doing his best to stop his friend but failing miserably as Porthos shook his hand off as easy as if he'd been a fly.
"My apologies. I just found it ironic, if a man gambles with a horse he usually do it with a horse of more valuable breed-"
"The horse is valuable no matter who 'is sire 'nd dame were. A dog in the streets might not be valuable to you, but it could mean the life to someone else when they share warmth below a blanket."
"You are valuable to me."
Porthos rolled his eyes. He wasn't really upset with Athos, he knew what his friend was getting at when it came to the fine horses of nobility with their long lists of mothers and fathers and great grandfathers as if that actually meant something. To Porthos, heritage didn't mean anything, considering he had never met his father, and just barely even met his mother. He grew up in the slums of Paris, and was still today serving next to the finest soldiers of the King's elite regiment. He was damned proud of himself – even though he was 'mix breed.'
Now he was intent to go find this horse, and love it with all his might.
Then he was just going to learn how to ride.
The four rules of getting out of a fight is from Xena; The Warrior Princess, episode Dreamworker (S01E03)