Musketeers are men of honor. But there was no honor, not in this.
Aramis dropped the soiled shirt to the floor and grabbed the new recruit's chin, lifting it so he could wipe the vomit and blood from his face. The man was completely unresponsive, sagged like a bag of bones against Porthos' broad chest. He stank of sour, regurgitated wine… and something worse.
"Can you hold his head like this? I'll have to stitch this cut."
Aramis directed Porthos' large hand toward the drunken man's forehead. The big musketeer pulled a face in disgust. "God, he stinks! What did they do with him?"
"Other than buying him one bottle of wine after another?" Aramis cleaned his hands and reached for his small medical kit. "Relieved themselves on him. Those bastards were engaged in some kind of contest when I came back to the tavern. Poor sod was their target."
Porthos huffed, eyes dark with outrage. "Unbelievable. If I had known they'd go this far, I would've-"
"Yeah. Me too."
The two musketeers exchanged a remorseful look.
They'd witnessed the beginnings of what had seemed like a harmless enough hazing ritual for the new recruit. The taciturn swordsman had already been deep into his cups when a group of musketeers had joined him in that quiet corner of The Wren he seemed to reside in most evenings. A few of the men had been sporting nicks and small cuts from the day's practice session - the majority of them a testament to the rookie's frighteningly skillful swordsmanship.
The new man, usually wary of attention and intentionally foregoing it, had been too drunk to question their motives when they'd invited him to more bottles of wine in quick succession. Aramis and Porthos, engaged in a card game with two Red Guards at another table, had witnessed the swordsman being engulfed in a throng of raucously singing musketeers who'd seemed a little too sharp, a little too mean in their joking, but they hadn't interfered. Every new brother in arms had to make it through a night of hard drinking and rough pranks. They might take it a little further with this one, prickly and reclusive as he presented himself. But they wouldn't take it too far.
And then they had.
Porthos and Aramis had left The Wren after the two Red Guards had begun to cast suspicious glances at Porthos' sleeves after every win. No need to provoke a fight and, by consequence, trigger one of Treville's famous "sermons". Their ears were still hurting from last week's. So they had left, casting a final pitying glance at the new recruit, surrounded by noise and fake joviality, staring blearily into his cup with those uncanny pale eyes of his.
When Aramis had noticed that he'd left his hat behind, he'd returned - and happened upon an ugly scene. In a side alley of the tavern, four of the musketeers - indignant, tempestuous sons of noblemen in their first year in the regiment - had been standing over their victim, their urine splattering onto his black leather uniform, his new fleur-de-lis pauldron serving as their target.
When Aramis had shouted and run towards them, they had dispersed, knowing all too well that the regiment's markman, though barely older than any of them, could mean serious trouble - especially if his best friend, the black streetfighter, wasn't far behind. Instead of following them, Aramis had turned to their victim, lying in a puddle of piss and vomit, bleeding from his nose and a cut on his cheek. Somehow, Aramis had dragged him to his feet and half-carried him back to the garrison dorms.
"'E's an arrogant ass," Porthos now commented ruefully, swiping their patient's overgrown hair out of his face so Aramis could get to the wound. "'E deserved some puttin' down, if you ask me. Treatin' everyone like they're no better than the dirt under 'is boots. But we should've stayed behind to make sure he was alright. We should've stopped 'em."
"I know," Aramis said, looking guilty. „Ducas and those other three - I've never trusted them. Wait till the captain hears about this! They'll have been recruits for the longest time. Hold him steady now."
Porthos adjusted his grip on the drunken man whom he'd tucked between his knees and against his chest for support. "Got 'im."
When Aramis leaned in an threaded the needle through the recruit's flesh, carefully pulling the skin back together, the man's lifeless form stirred. He moaned, his injured cheek twitching.
"Don't move," Porthos rumbled into his ear, nose wrinkled against the awful smell of his vomit-encrusted hair. "Aramis is stitchin' up yo' face."
At that, pale green eyes opened and blinked in confusion. "Wha-...?"
Needle poised, Aramis paused. He didn't want to hurt the man, should he start flailing, but he was also taken aback by the wide-eyed look of vulnerability on the recruit's face. That same man, a few hours ago, had hacked at him with his rapier with cold efficiency and a granite expression. After practice, he'd stalked off wordlessly, his posture radiating annoyance and condescension.
"You have a cut on your cheek," Aramis explained patiently. "I'm sewing it."
"Wha-... why?" He struggled against Porthos and sat up, almost slipping from the cot.
"Because you're bleedin'," Porthos said, slowly and irritated, as if talking to a child.
The new musketeer somehow made it to his feet and stood, swaying precariously, blood seeping from his half-stitched wound.
"I don't need your help," he slurred, defiance in his aristocratic voice.
"Oh yeah, you do," Porthos sighed, and it only took one pull on the swordsman's belt to break his unstable balance and draw him back into his lap where he immobilized him between his big arms and thighs. "You jus' don' know it yet, you arrogant li'l shit."
"Name's Athos," the swordsman corrected him sullenly, struggling against Porthos' stronghold with flagging conviction. He'd paled and was swallowing hard.
Aramis smiled at the incongruous display of hostility and forlornness. "We know," he said mildly. "We know."
And then Athos stopped fidgeting while Porthos held him, and he managed not to throw up until Aramis was done.