This takes place a few months after Savoy and before the events of "Irresistible Forces".

"What do you think, then?"

Aramis placed his hands against the railing of the second-story walkway, leaning on them as he looked over the courtyard. Porthos imitated his pose, staring down at the cadets that were practicing their formations under the watchful eye of Thomas, their current swordmaster. He threw a confused glance at his friend.

"What do I think about what?"

"Our new recruits. Do you think they are worthy of joining our ranks?" A faint note of grief-ridden bitterness still clung to Aramis' voice whenever he alluded to the tragedy that befell him at Savoy a few months ago, but he maintained the mischievous little smile that curled the corners of his lips as he glanced at his large friend. The tightness that had balled up inside Porthos' chest on that fateful day slowly loosened another inch. It was heartening to see Aramis finally take an interest in the cadets that were to replace their dead comrades.

"Hmm." Porthos furrowed his brow and stroked his beard with exaggerated deliberation, inspecting the sweating recruits with the intensity of a baker testing the crust on his baguettes. To him, the men looked raw and untested, but Porthos suspected that he likely looked the same when he'd joined the Musketeers. "Looks to me like they'll need extra time in the oven before they're ready. They're still undercooked."

Aramis tilted his head. "Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yeah, why?"

Aramis shrugged. "Just curious." The young marksman turned his attention back to the courtyard and nodded towards a lone figure that held himself apart, propping himself up against a wooden post rather than participating in the exercise. Porthos had yet to see him join any of the training sessions in the week since he'd arrived. "How about that one?"

"You mean Athos? Eh, don't know why that one's even here," Porthos said with a disdainful curl of his lip. "Thinks he's above all of this, I'd say."

"Perhaps he mistook the garrison for a tavern," Aramis said amusedly.

Porthos chuckled. The scent of wine often wafted after the lone recruit and although he hid it well behind a forbidding, blank expression, Porthos was fairly certain that he was inebriated most mornings. "I'm surprised he didn't go for a fancier option."

"Indeed." Aramis' eyes narrowed as he stared at the somber man. The cadet looked up and caught the marksman's stare. Aramis gave him a little wave and was promptly ignored. "He seems very friendly," Aramis commented, turning around and reclining against the railing with his arms crossed. Aramis leaned towards Porthos and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, my dear Porthos, exactly how did our heavily marinated cadet find himself within our walls?"

Porthos frowned as he stared up at the beams of the terrace roof. "Well, he's probably a noble. Maybe he's a third son or something."

The marksman hummed thoughtfully. "Unlikely. Younger sons of nobility qualify for comfortable officer commissions in the military. They are the ones that send men to die; they do not do the dying themselves." Aramis lay a hand over his heart. "No, mon ami, that glory is reserved for men such as us. Try again."

"Maybe he was disowned by his family?"

Aramis tsked at him. "Perhaps, but that is a very pedestrian explanation." He draped an arm around Porthos' broad shoulders. "Consider our new comrade-to-be carefully, Porthos. He is an enigma, a mystery with a face of stone that rejects the companionship of his fellow man for that of a wine bottle. There is some sort of terrible misfortune in his past, I can just feel it."

Porthos rolled his eyes at the overly dramatic picture that Aramis painted, but had to admit that his friend had a point. Disowned sons tended to be petulant ne'er-do-wells that gambled, whored or killed their way out of their noble families' good graces. Drinking habits aside, Porthos had difficulty imagining Athos lowering himself to misbehave in such as way. He seemed too contained.

"Then...maybe he's the bastard of some nobleman, and he's joining the Musketeers to gain some respectability in the eyes of his father?"

"That's better, but does he strike you as an illegitimate son?"

"I suppose not," Porthos said reluctantly. Like all Musketeers, he could instantly recognize the entitled, arrogant carriage of those born into nobility, and their inscrutable recruit certainly looked the part. It was the reason why Porthos assumed he was of noble blood in the first place.

"No," Aramis agreed. "I don't think so either."

"What do you think, then?" Porthos challenged. "You must have something in mind."

The marksman tapped contemplative fingers against the railing as he thought. "There was a woman, and she was the love of his life. They were set to be married, but something went very wrong and drove them apart." Aramis' voice became distant. "Perhaps he finds himself here in an attempt to forget what could have been."

Porthos stared at Aramis for a moment and then snorted loudly. "Are we still talking about the recruit, or are we talking about you, now?"

"I'm not the only person that falls in love," Aramis said somewhat defensively. "It could be possible."

The big man shook his head. "Of course you'd think so," he said as he glanced back down into the courtyard, catching another glimpse of their conversation subject. "The only expression I've seen that man make is a scowl. Do you really believe that he's here because of a failed love affair?"

Aramis shrugged. "It's...not improbable."

"Well then. If we're going to begin making wild speculations, then I say that he joined the Musketeers in an attempt to hide himself from a crime he committed."

"A crime of passion?" Aramis asked, eyebrows raised. He then gave a little gasp, eyes wide with innocent shock. "Do you think he killed the woman he loved? Is it possible that we have a murderer in our midst?"

Porthos rolled his eyes again with annoyance. "Will you stop with the romance? No, I think he murdered his brother, the heir of their estate. Perhaps he wanted the inheritance for himself, and he arranged for his brother to suffer a convenient accident but was caught in the act."

"Yes! Porthos, I think you have hit upon the answer. Except for the small fact that the regiment does not accept criminals into its ranks."

"Maybe his crimes haven't been discovered yet."

Aramis' face lit up as he slapped an enthusiastic hand against Porthos' arm and gripped it tightly in his excitement. "Or, perhaps he's not of noble birth but rather the child of thieves. I believe that a wealthy comte had a son that could have been Athos' twin, and the comte's son was kidnapped so that Athos could take his place and become the sole beneficiary of a very large fortune. Only, he was caught and forced to flee when his plans were revealed."

Porthos frowned severely at Aramis, and then the two men burst into laughter. "I don't know why we're laughing," the marksman mused with a wide grin. "It's a very reasonable explanation."

"Yeah, of course it is. It seems so obvious now," Porthos huffed cheerfully. It felt wonderful to share a bit of levity with his brother. There had been a time when Porthos had feared these moments were a thing of the past, never to be recovered.

"Look, Porthos," Aramis said as something caught the corner of his eye. He gestured towards the courtyard. "We are about to be treated to a rare sight."

Down below, Athos stripped off his fancy doublet and walked towards the center of the courtyard where Blanchard, one of the most experienced Musketeers in the regiment, waited for him. Blanchard tossed an unsharpened practice weapon to Athos and the two men circled each other, wary and searching.

"Let us see how our disowned, criminal-minded, lovesick, noble cadet fares, shall we?" Aramis rubbed his hands in anticipation and eagerly bent forward over the railing. Porthos resisted the urge to pull him back to safety.

As the sparring session began, Porthos grudgingly had to admit that Athos was quite good. It was clear that the man knew his way around a blade, and if the big man was going to be perfectly, and privately honest, he was a bit jealous. He'd been working with his schianova for a year now and the weapon still felt awkward when he wielded it. Athos, on the other hand, fought like he's been born with a rapier in his hands. He danced around Blanchard, gracefully evading the older man's attacks before launching one of his own.

Aramis whistled as Athos executed a particularly aggressive maneuver, driving the Musketeer back. "Very impressive," he said appreciatively, a pleased grin crossing his face. "It's not easy to get the better of Blanchard."

The bout ended in a draw, and the two men formally saluted their respect to each other. Blanchard then casually slapped the cadet on the shoulder, saying something to Athos with a wide smile. The other man merely nodded in response as he shrugged his doublet back on.

"That was excellent," the marksman declared. "I think it's time we extend a warm welcome to our recruit."

"What? Why?" Porthos asked with a groan. Of all the cadets that had recently joined the Musketeers, of course Aramis would choose to be friendly with the aloof nobleman that acted as though he'd been carved from rock.

"Why not?" Aramis threw out his arms in an expansive gesture as he made his way towards the stairs. "Every Musketeer needs someone to watch his back. Who better than us?"

"He looks as if he'd prefer to soldier on alone," Porthos muttered sourly.

"Ah. Perhaps he thinks so now, but I'm certain we'll change his mind." Aramis gave the big man a fond smile as he paused on the landing. "Every man needs good friends, people he can rely on to support him and lift him up during his darkest hours," the young marksman said quietly, suddenly serious. "I recently learned that it is one of the most precious things a man can have."

"Well." Porthos gruffly cleared his throat. "I suppose we could say hello."

"I thought you might see it that way." Aramis beamed at Porthos and then ran down the rest of the steps, taking them two at a time as he called out. "Athos! It is Athos, correct?"

The other man gave Aramis a glare before turning away. "What do you want?"

Aramis grinned, encouraged by the response. Porthos rolled his eyes. Athos might not have realized it, but he had opened himself up to a very persistent pursuit. Porthos might have intervened, but it had been a long time since he'd seen his friend so buoyant. "I'm Aramis and this is Porthos, at your service."

Athos raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I'm aware of who you are."

"Wonderful. That was a fine display of swordsmanship, Athos. It's not often that a cadet can stand his ground against Blanchard. Would you care to buy us some drinks to celebrate?"

end

I'll leave you to imagine what Athos' response might have been. :D Thanks for reading!