The Inseparables

Self-Portraits

My name is Porthos du Vallon, legitimate son of the Marquis de Belgard, though I learned of this only a bit ago and it has no substantial bearing upon my story.

I may be the heir to the Belgard estate, but I grew up fatherless. Motherless too, for the most part, since m'mother died when I was five, or there abouts. Never did know my real birthday, she never got 'round to tellin' me I suppose, since birthday's weren't somethin' we celebrated. In The Court we jus' counted ourselves lucky to be alive.

The Court of Miracles that is, where I grew up by m'self from the age of five on, wiv half a dozen mother's who fed me and looked after the whalen' on m'behind when I got too far outta line. Otherwise I migth'a turned out a lot worse than I did.

Wasn't a family in The Court didn't feed and care for extra kids, since disease and fever stalked our stews and alleys daily, plucking lives at will. One day you was there, the next you weren't. 'N, oh well, always a'nother to take the place of a lost soul. Weren't missed in The Court more'n a day or two, if that.

It was a hard scrabble life in those days, e'vn though we looked out for each other. Flea didn't have no parents either and me an her, we had the run 'o the place by the time we were ten. She was the best pick-pocket in The Court; she could lift a purse and a man never know it was gone 'til he went to use it, by which time she'd be on the other side of the Paris going about her daily marketing just as if she'd worked sun-up to sundown to make the money she was spendin'.

But I digress. You wanted to know how I came to serve at the pleasure of the king.

I 'spect you'll remember Cap'n Tréville tellin' General de Foix that I came to him. Not callin' the cap'n a liar or anything, but that ain't exactly how it happen'd. At least not in my memory. I know I didn't go to him of my own accord.

I woulda been around ten when the old king died, some say because m'father plotted with the treasonous François Ravaillac, a catholic zealot, I've heard, who claimed he'd been told by God to assassinate Henry IV. From the little I learned of Belgard in the short time I hung around 'em, it wouldn't surprise me if he was in league with the traitor. In the end, whatever his prior sins, he got his just reward for his current vices.

I got no memories of life with m'mother on my father's estate. He was as much of a surprise to me as I was to him. Turned out to be a rather nasty surprise - for both of us. He was certainly not what I would have wished for in a father, and I clearly did not turn out to be what he wished for in a son.

Most of my adult life I've thought of the captain as the father figure I'd never had. It was a close run thing there for a couple a days, whether or not I'd find forgiveness in my heart for his treachery. And keeping that secret from me until de Foix wrenched it out of him. We've established the fact, me 'n the cap'n, that I earned my place here with the Musketeers and found a compromise that allows us to continue working together. Probably helps that I wasn't raised by m'father and can't carry a grudge to save m'life. Tréville's flawed, like the rest of us, and scarred with the carryin' of this burden for so long, but he's a good man. And a good leader.

When I met him, there was no such thing as the Musketeers. The present company wasn't formed until 1622, by a young king Louis XIII, as a consequence of desiring to match Cardinal Richelieu's personal Red Guards. I know because I was already under Captain Tréville's command when the Musketeers were formed. Had been for nearly six years; I was nineteen when I was commissioned as a Musketeer.

Thing is, long about my thirteenth year, I got a touch of the crazies. Knew I wanted to leave The Court, knew I wanted a bigger life, a better one 'n constantly scrounging for m'daily bread, but I wasn't cut out for apprenticin' or workin' at a trade like 'ostler or store clerk. Would'a jus' ended up stealing the horses or the goods, since, in those days, stealin' was in my blood .

Me and Flea, we'd snatch ourselves a sausage or two and some rolls and find ourselves some nob's deserted garden to chow down in. Fountain ledges was grand dinin' tables, 'n we'd pretend we was eatin' off gold plates with fine utensils. We'd lie in the grass and talk about livin' in a house like that someday, with servants and all, then we'd find ourselves an unlocked window and sleep a night'r two in the master's bed.

I was busily laying plans to make an exit though, saving up a bit from each little job we'd do for Nark, the old King 'o the Court. Nobody could kill the man; he was like the original cat with nine lives. Charon musta got on 'is good side, somehow, since he became king after the old man - probably a good thing for me, though my brother's never would'a let me hang. Anyway, after Flea, me and Charon were the best. The three of us were a trio, workin' together, pickin' a mark, then takin' it in turns as to who would do the job while the other two distracted or otherwise set up the pigeon.

Until I got caught.

Doin' a job on my own; tryin' to nick an army uniform off the washer women's line. If I'd learned anything from the short time I was with my mother, it was to be meek as a lamb around a woman. Could usually turn 'em up sweet after a bit, but ... not this one. She was a man'o'war in full sail when she caught me. Dunno how she snuck up on me so silent like, but she did, had m'arm snatched up behind m'back afore even the thought o' running hit m'feet.

Now Aramis, he believes God looks after us all, rich or poor, saint or sinner. Not s'sure o' that m'self, but I ain't in a position to disprove his theory. Because that old besom marched me down the street to the army garrison - same that's become the Musketeer garrison now - straight up to Tréville's office.

I remember that day, 'cause he give me a choice - join the army, or appear before the magistrate. I was so scared I wet myself standing there in front o' him. I just knew they were gonna chop off my hands, or put out m'eyes, and then I'd be like old blind Bart who used to beg at the mouth of the alley that was the entrance to the Court.

What I didn't know at the time was there was no evidence that I'd stolen a thing. I'd only attempted to steal that uniform jacket, it never came into my possession since Madame Besom caught me before I could get it off the line. I might'a got off lightly or I might'a been thrown into one of the hellholes they called a prison and never again seen the light o' day just for attemptin' it. I dunno. Never asked, 'cause I took to army life like a pig to a wallow.

Wasn' old 'nough back then, even to be a bugle boy, which did'n appeal to me anyway - I wanted to fight! So I worked in the stables 'til I was sixteen. Since I never minded hard work, and there was a little bit of gratitude in me toward the man who offered me a chance to fulfill my dream of gettin' out of the Court, I done all I could to make sure I earned my keep. Learned a thing or two 'bout horses while I was at it and worked m'way up to under groom 'fore Tréville put sword 'n musket in m'hands and told me to start practicin'.

Ain't never gonna be as good as Athos or Aramis, but I can hold m'own when it comes to sword fightin' n'shootin'. Gimme heads to bash though, and I'm better'n anybody else in the company. That's 'cause 'm big and brawny; few folk can match me for height and girth, a legacy of 'm father I realized on meetin' him. Didn' really spend 'nough time 'round him to figure out what else I inherited from him, sides that pile that's twice the size of the comte's holdings in Pinon. Which I have'ta rib 'em about regularly.

I'd been with Tréville for about five years when Aramis showed up, trailin' his père like a pack mule pulled along with or without its consent. He wasn't much to look at then, still scrawny as a new foal and all gangly arms and legs, no grace whatsoever, but he sure could shoot. Put a musket in his hands 'n everythin' meshed like perfectly oiled gears. He could load, aim, fire and hit dead center on the target 'fore most of us could light a musket's firing mechanism.

Back in those days, most'a the recruits were from the nobility, younger sons straitened family circumstances had forced out of their feathered nests, or worse, younger sons who came to play at war because they had nothing better to do. I'd made 'm own place in the company with m' fists, but Aramis was'n a fighter; he was already a lady's man with those soulful eyes. He was used to horseplay, him being from a huge family 'n all, but not the malicious, jealous pranking his marksmanship provoked like weeds that grow up overnight. I let 'em roll him in the stable muck a time or two, 'n toss 'em off a roof onto the hay bales he had no idea were there before he landed, but I went to Tréville when I heard 'em plottin' a fake hangin'.

Every new recruit took it on the chin a few times 'fore he won his place, but that was takin' it too far. I coulda' stopped it myself, but Tréville needed to know what was goin' on in the ranks. Aramis, that je ne sais quoi he's famous for now already giving him a larger-than-life quality, started carrying a musket over his shoulder. He didn't need me too, 'specially after he put a bullet precisely into the thigh - where it would do little damage, but hurt like hell - of a man who knocked him down accidentally on purpose, but I got into the habit of hangin' around with him.

We were the first Inseparables. In fact, the two of us were the first to be commissioned when the king tasked Tréville with building the new elite unit that was to be Louis' own personal guard; the first Musketeers. Athos didn't come along until nearly four years after the Musketeer unit was confirmed and had moved into our new headquarters on the rue de Tournon.

I had'ta rethink Aramis' chivvying about God's will in our daily lives when Athos turned up shortly after Savoy, the comte's plight challenging Aramis on a level that finally made him realize he wasn't the only one carrying ghosts around in his head. Athos took some bringin' along, but Aramis saw the gold beneath the dross and was willin' to put in the time to buff up the comte's shine.

Personally, though I've never told Aramis or Athos, I think they were the saving of each other. Athos would have drowned in some bottle if Aramis hadn't insisted on pulling him out. And Aramis might just as well have shrunk into his own mind battling those Savoy demons if Athos hadn't come along to drag Aramis out of his own mind.

And then there were three Inseparables.

T'was a few years between, but long about 1630, d'Artagnan turned up on our doorstep, lookin' to challenge France's greatest sword master, and instead, threading the needle that had sewed up Richelieu's little plot to discredit the Musketeers, saving Athos from a firing squad in the prcoess.

It wasn't long until we were four instead of three.

Perhaps I'm wrong in thinking the identity of my father had no substantial bearing on my story, as it occurs to me my brothers are the true legacy of my dead father. Had he not turned me and my mother out that fateful night, I might never have met them. At the very least, we would not have met on equally footing, perhaps never experienced this camaraderie that is deeper and broader than most familial ties. For we are bound by blood mingled on battlefields, and not just the battlefields featuring sword and pike and cannon, but the battlefields of life as well.

My father had these bonds, too, and threw them away like so much chafe in the wind. Had I been mentored by him, instead of Tréville, my legacy might well have been bitter disregard for my fellow travelers on this mortal coil.

I am a fortunate man to have forged bonds that will never be broken, neither in life, nor death.

We are - and always will be - The Inseparables.