A/N: Hi you wonderful readers! Welcome to the third story in my "Origins" series covering how Aramis, Athos and now Porthos found themselves as members of the Musketeers!

If you haven't read the others (Foundation and Orders) you might want to take a peek - there are some minor references to things from those stories - but I think this story stands pretty okay on its own...at least I hope so anyway!

I really hope you enjoy this and I look forward to hearing your feedback! Cheers!

Patience

Chapter 1

He stood alone at the edge of the practice ring as the other cadets sparred in hand-to-hand combat, but this was nothing new. Sure, there was an unlucky odd number of new cadets to the Musketeer regiment, but it wasn't a coincidence that Porthos was once again the odd man out.

Saying that he stood out from among the others was a bit of an understatement. Porthos was a giant of a man, towering over most of the Frenchmen in the garrison, and retaining a good two inches over the taller of the men. His size was matched by an unrivalled strength – again, unrivalled because so far none of the other men had agreed to step into the ring with him. He was not one of those from a noble family that were mixed among the cadets; he had been handpicked by Captain Treville himself from amongst the infantry, along with a few others.

Porthos had hoped that maybe some of the other common-born men would be friendly if not accepting, but so far he had only been met by apprehension at best and scorn and derision at worst by the other men who were training to become musketeers – not that Porthos had heard them say anything. No one would dare say anything outright to him – no one said anything at all to him actually, other than Serge, the cook. No words were needed though, as the wariness in their eyes said everything.

Perhaps the biggest barrier to Porthos' acceptance by the others and the reason he stood out most among the rest of the regiment was literally skin-deep. Porthos was a black man, and proud. In a country where slavery was immoral, but not illegal, and with many of these noble men having grown up with black slaves, Porthos knew it would be hard to break certain individuals of their ignorance. He knew he would need to prove his worth to these men, which made the others' unwillingness to spar with him – so he could prove himself their equal or better – even more frustrating. But Porthos was patient. You had to be, growing up as he had.

Raised on the streets of Paris, Porthos had grown up as a thief and a pickpocket. His mother died when he was a boy, barely five, and so he had been raised, in a way, by the members of the Court of Miracles – the complex network of the poor, the grifters, the cons, the whores, the thieves, the sick, the psychics and the like that formed the poorest, most vibrant and most difficult area of Paris. Here you needed to be patient, but quick to survive.

It was an interesting education for Porthos. In the Court he learned to trust people to a certain extent, yet to never rely on others. He learned to move as quietly as a cat to avoid detection, and to fight as though his life depended on it – because often it did. He learned about loyalty and betrayal. He learned how to read people, and play people, and to care and protect those weaker than him.

Having lost his mother at such a young age, and to have lived such a difficult life could have hardened Porthos' heart to the world, but perhaps his miracle from the Court was his heart. Despite everything, Porthos heart was, if possible, even bigger than he was.

And he had dreams.

Each day he remained within the Court, his dreams of getting away from there – for bettering his position in life – grew.

As he looked on the other cadets and assessed their skills, taking note of moves that he might have used to counter their attacks, Porthos frowned. Not for the first time he questioned whether Treville had made the right decision to pull him from the infantry. He wondered if he made the right decision to leave his makeshift family of sorts at the Court. He wondered how he would ever earn a commission if the others simply ignored him the whole time. But as Porthos, and every good pickpocket knew, patience was a virtue. His opening would come sometime. And he would be ready for it.

Porthos turned with the others as the clatter of horses' hooves announced the return of some of the Musketeers to their garrison. Four men rode through the gates; at their head rode Athos and Aramis. Treville had introduced these men to Porthos when he had first joined the regiment two weeks before. Of all the men in the regiment, only Athos and Aramis had made any attempt to welcome Porthos.

Well, Aramis offered the same warm greetings that he offered all the men of the garrison, but made a point to speak to him on a regular basis whenever he could. Athos never said much of anything, but to be fair, Athos rarely said much to anyone other than Aramis. Nontheless he was always courteous.

Porthos grinned as he took the reins from Athos; Athos for his part gave Porthos a thankful nod as he dismounted.

"Thank you," he said. "Make sure you stay on his left side. Roger…can be difficult and uncooperative at times."

"Are you talking about the horse or yourself?" Aramis quipped, his handsome face marked by a wide grin, as he joined them having left his own mare with another cadet to groom. Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning, but he could tell by the glint in Aramis' eye that he was failing. Athos rolled his eyes.

"It seems Treville is headed your way," Porthos said to the men giving them a small smile.

Athos nodded. "Thank you Porthos," he said. Aramis gave him a wink and the two musketeers turned to walk towards the Captain.

oOo

Treville stood on the balcony and looked down at his men sparring below him. He frowned as he saw Porthos standing alone again and observing the others. He could tell by the way that he watched the others, his fists unconsciously clenching as he tracked their movements, that he was eager to get in there.

Treville considered whether or not he should intervene, but stopped himself before he could say anything. No, if Porthos wanted a place among the musketeers, he would need to demand it. Treville knew that Porthos could be equal to any man there, but it would be for him to find a way to prove that, even if that might mean beating the ignorance out of some of them...

Treville looked up as the group of his musketeers rode through the garrison gates. He watched as the cadets broke up to give the four riders room to dismount. Treville descended the stairs, his eyes focused on three men in particular.

"Gentlemen. Report," said Treville as Athos and Aramis turned away from Porthos to join him.

The two men stood at attention in front of their Captain. "We came upon the men responsible for the recent robberies just outside of Rouen," said Aramis as the senior musketeer. "There were nine men in total. Four of which are now in custody at the Chatelet. The others were killed during the altercation."

Treville nodded. "And the goods that were stolen from the palace?"

"Marsac volunteered to return them to His Majesty. Girard accompanied him," said Athos, his blue eyes flashing slightly.

Treville nodded again. Marsac was a good soldier, and one of the senior musketeers, but he was also vain and braggadocios and never missed an opportunity to grasp attention to himself. He knew that Athos didn't have the highest opinion of the man – though he knew Athos would never voice it aloud, at least not within earshot of the Captain. Treville knew that Athos tolerated Marsac more than he wanted to due to both of their close ties to Aramis, so instead, Athos suffered in a near silence interspersed with angry glares and cool remarks.

"Any injuries?" Treville asked, shifting his discerning gaze from Athos back to Aramis. Aramis frowned slightly at Athos before responding to the Captain.

"Nothing of note to report sir, other than the usual cuts and bruises. Pierre twisted his ankle a bit in the skirmish, but I splinted it and he seems to be walking on it fine. Maybe just light duty for the next few days. Hugo took a blade to the arm but we managed to clean and stitch it. There shouldn't be any complications if he keeps it clean," Aramis reported as one of the regiment's medics.

Treville surveyed the two men in front of him for any hurts; both had the tendency to downplay or disguise any injuries of their own, preferring to see their comrades tended to first. "Anything else?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the two. For their part, neither man flinched or looked away under their Captain's scrutiny as they shook their heads. "Very well. You're dismissed. Serge should be serving dinner soon. There should be time for you to wash up first," he said, acknowledging the weariness the men were trying to hide. It had been a hard few days' of pursuit and battle in the saddle. The two men nodded to the Captain and headed back to their rooms in the barracks.

oOo