Under a Scorching Sun

With a satisfied grunt, he stashed the big shovel back into its rightful place in a sheltered corner of the courtyard and retrieved the bucket of sand.

It had taken the best part of an hour to get rid of the snow, but he even had already deposited it ouside the barrack walls. New record.

At the rate this is goin', I'll get the chance to break it again tomorrow, or even tonight he mused, raising his face to the overcast sky, which was already shedding new icy flakes.

If he hadn't been hard at work, his blood pumping like liquid fire through his limbs, the Musketeer's latest recruit would have been shivering in the freezing cold that had a hold on Paris for several weeks now. This weather wasn't for him. When he had still been living at the Court of Miracles, he'd had his worst days out on the streets, commiting petty crime, sometimes begging, sometimes stealing. What a blessing it had been to grow up strong like a bull, which had him graduate to the more physically demanding jobs.
At least those got the blood pumping good.

And even though much had changed since then, especially since fate had given him the chance at a commission into the King's Elite Guard, it was still simple, hard work that served best to keep Porthos proper warm in the winter season. As did fighting. And women. And drink. You get the picture.

In fluid moves he now brought his hand around, distributing the sand evenly over the frozen ground.

"You're doing well, boy." The whiplash of a nasal voice almost had him cringe. "Once you're finished here, you can come and give my boots a good shine. "

Heat rose to Porthos' face. Thibault. Wordlessly, he turned around to face his fellow recruit.

Thibault was leaning on the railing of the walkway that connected the rooms facing the courtyard on the second floor, his appearance in pristine condition from the slicked back hair and the neatly trimmed albeit a little whispy moustache to the squeaky-clean boots that hadn't seen much walking let alone marching yet. The look on his face made Porthos think of a bird of prey, but rather a vulture or some other, more cowardly creature. The lopsided grin only added to that impression.

Thibault du Montmercier already had his commission to the musketeer regiment paid for by his family, but still trained with the other recruits to prepare for active service. Much needed preparation, in his case, since he could ride and shoot well enough for the spoilt fourth son of a lowly court noble, but every other virtue usually found in a musketeer...well... needed training.

"There's something that crossed my mind the other day, boy" Thibault struck up a casual tone as he strode along the walkway towards the stairs that led down to the yard. "I was wondering what it must have been like for you to see snow for the first time. Your first winter must have been quite the shock, eh? For someone used to running about in the nude under a scorching sun, I mean. Or did your 'people' wear loincloths? Feathered headgear? Rodent furs?" He laughed a little "Or was it just some paint?"

And there it was. One of his least noble yet all the more pronounced traits. That unfailing instinct to sniff out the best situation in which to bully those he perceived as weak or inferior. He liked being able to look down on others, literally, and he preferred to attack when his victims were alone. So, sure enough, as it was between two training sessions, the courtyard was deserted safe for Thibault and Porthos, his most recent "favourite".

Or maybe not 'favourite'. Porthos yet had to give Thibault the satisfaction of taking the bait and reacting to the taunts. But having endured his fair share of verbal abuse - all in good sport or rather, training - from what the good citizens of Paris mostly referred to as the scum of the earth Porthos simply knew better and kept his mouth shut.

Just as Thibault took the first step down the stairs there was a small noise from the shadows beneath it that caught Porthos' attention.

"And he averts his eyes in shame..." Thibault's words weren't that loud but well-pronounced, intended to cut and harm without attracting to much attention. Step by step he slowly descended, his eyes never leaving Porthos' face who, in turn had again fixed a steady gaze on his fellow recruit.

"To think they let something like you train with the likes of us!" Step. "Proper soldiers!" Step "True Frenchmen!" Step. A hiss had crept into Thibault's voice. "Just look at yourself!" Step "Underneath that shirt, you're still just a painted heathen!" Step "A Mongrel, at best!" Step "Barely fit to be a ser..." Suddenly, spectacularly, Thibault misstepped, grabbed for the railing but missed, and tumbled down the remaining steps, limbs flailing, to collapse on the snow-free hence slightly muddy ground in an uncoordinated heap.

Before Porthos could react, a swish of blue detached itsself from the shadows and Thibault found himself being turned over quite brusquely at the tip of a boot.

"Now, recruit." The voice was low and had an amiable, almost melodious lilt to it but still sounded far from friendly.
"I suggest you consider your own sins and vicious tendencies before you even think of picking on someone else's 'faults'. Personally I'd say you still have a long, long way to go before before you deserve to be considered equal or, God forbid, a brother by the man you just tried to insult. Fortunately for you, it is not up to me alone to decide who becomes a musketeer, which gives you another chance to...clean up, as it were."

The Musketeer straightened and stepped back from the scowling bully "Va-t'en!* Hurry, before Treville sees you like this."

Thibault seemed about to retort something scalding but the young Musketeer only so much as tilted his head and twitched his hand for the man to recoil and scramble up the stairs to the dormitory the recruits occupied.

"Y'know..." Porthos relaxed his stance and flexed his fingers that had been curled into fists at his sides "...I could'ave 'andled him anytime."

"I know. But I couldn't resist the opportunity at a valuable lesson."

"Could'ave broke 'is neck."

"Would I be a bad instructor if I said I was willing to take that risk?"

Porthos rubbed his nose to silence a snort of laughter and added a grumbling "Thank you."

At this, the young Musketeer gave a short nod and turned around "Alright, since the yard is clear - thanks to your comrade - it'll be SHOOTING PRACTICE IN THREE MINUTES!"

Doors sprung open, footsteps thundered along the balcony, shouts and frantic scrambling ensued, while Porthos calmly walked towards the table beneath the porch, retrieved his weapon's belt, buckled it and strode back towards the center of the yard to stand before the other man. He drew his pistol and handed it over for inspection.

"You've been taking good care of it." Came the verdict "Well done, keep it up."

Porthos nodded "Respect your weapon and it will respect you."

At this, for the first time that day, a smile spread on Aramis' lips "Sangdieu, finally someone who listens to what I'm trying to teach."

-xTBCx-

*Get a move on!