The battle was over. He looked out at the field of dead and dying men and wondered if this would ever get easier. He'd been serving in the army for a few years now, but as he wiped the blood from his sword, he doubted he would ever really be comfortable taking lives.

The sounds of the dying men echoed around him. The men he killed – the men trying to kill him, he corrected – lay scattered around him. It was better not to look too closely at the faces; it was easier if you didn't see someone you knew.

He checked himself over quickly as he began the long trudge back to camp. His hands were bloody but other than that he was lucky this time.

He paused at a vast bowl that had been erected as a communal bath. The water was still relatively clean, so he plunged his arms into the basin and washed the blood of other men from his hands. He stared at them briefly as the pink rivulets fell from his fingertips. He crossed himself and said a brief prayer for forgiveness for himself and those who had died, and joined the queue shuffling towards the camp stoves in the bleak hopes of better rations than the previous few days.

"Hey! Kitten!" called a large man as he pulled the younger man ahead of him in the line. The others didn't say anything under this big man's glare. "Still managed to hang onto your nine lives I see."

"Better than you, Gaston" he replied glancing at the bandage that was wound around the giant's bicep.

"It's a just a scratch," he said, mussing the younger man's hair.

He scowled slightly as he ran his fingers through his dark curls. The older man laughed.

"Still think you're too pretty to be a soldier. Surprised you've lasted this long, frankly. I'd have thought a face like yours would stand out from a mile away. A bloody beacon for jealous enemy fire."

The younger man laughed. "I'm only here to develop my reputation as the romantic hero – stockpiling anecdotes to tell the beautiful ladies of the salons of Paris." This brought another laugh to the large man as he pushed the younger man along in the line.

oOo

Gaston had come across the young man, Aramis he had introduced himself as, a few years ago. He was a scrappy thing then, barely more than 16, and he was fighting a man nearly twice his size and age. He was getting beaten, and badly. The man he was fighting was a bastard that Gaston was well aware of and spared little thought for, but he, like the others, stood to watch this little pantomime of David and Goliath playing out before them.

Aramis' lip was bloody and his cheek had started to bruise. He had his left arm curled protectively around his ribs. The larger man showboated for the crowd as Aramis staggered back to his feet. The older man sneered and made to grab the lad. Aramis darted under the outstretched arms and delivered a hard punch to the man's lower ribs, which made his opponent gasp in surprise at the impact. He swung wildly and Aramis leapt back out of the man's reach. Another wild swing and Aramis avoided that too, coming up behind the brute. He kicked behind the man's kneecap so he came crashing down upon it with a howl.

Aramis circled to the front; a kick to the side of the other knee was accompanied by a sickening crack. The large man howled again and dropped his arms to grasp at his ailing legs. He lowered his chin, and Aramis' fist made contact with the man's temple with as much force as the plucky lad could muster. The older man went down with a crash and the audience roared its approval.

The crowd broke up quickly. Though brawling was inevitable in a camp full of men, if you were caught, you were punished. The large man was carried away by a group of his cronies and Aramis was left standing alone. One man lingered behind for a moment and looked at the boy, but then turned and walked away.

Gaston watched the young man as he staggered, stumbled, and then fell to the ground and moved no more. Scooping the boy into his arms, he carried him to his area of the camp. His camp mates had the fire going and were passing around a wineskin as Gaston approached.

"What's that?" asked Michel.

"Looks like Gaston found us a kitten," laughed Javier as Gaston smirked and lay the boy down on his own cloak and bedding.

oOo

A few hours later, the boy's lashes fluttered as he awoke to the campfire and the faces of three strange men. He scrambled backwards instinctively.

"Whoa, Kitten, whoa," said Michel. "We ain't gonna hurt ya." Aramis stopped, but his head swivelled from man to man. "Calm down before ya hurt yourself."

Slowly, Aramis eased back onto the bedroll near the fire. He took the water that was handed to him, but shook his head at the food.

"Eat. You'll need it," said Javier with a grin, forcing the bowl into Aramis' hands. "I'm Javier – Javi – and this is Michel. Your knight in shining armour over there is Gaston."

Michel was an older man who hid kind eyes behind fair scraggly hair and a wry sense of humour. Javier had the easy jovial manner of a gambler. His dark eyes, hair and tawny skin tone hinted at his Spanish descent. He smiled at the younger man who eyed him warily.

The boy scowled. "I'm not a damsel in distress."

"Yer pretty enough to be," said Michel with a grin. "But no, we figured you're more of a Kitten."

"Apparently one with claws. Gaston told us about your fight," Javier said with a raised eyebrow. "Heard you took quite a beating, but came out on top."

"I'm fine," said Aramis as he swallowed a grimace and fought to keep his breathing even. He looked at Gaston who had so far said nothing, his green eyes just observing the interaction.

"Of course you are, Monsieur Fine. Why don't you tell us why you're looking to give up one of your nine lives by taking on a man twice your size?"

"Aramis," he said. "My name's Aramis. And I didn't go looking for a fight."

"No? It just found you, did it?" said Michel.

Aramis winced as he shifted his position. His head was throbbing but the pain in his side was agonizing. "He kept picking on Gerome. Kept saying awful things about his sister. I was brought up to respect women, to never say the kind of things he was saying. It's ungentlemanly. Someone had to teach him a lesson."

The other men grew silent. Incredulity was written on Michel and Javier's faces.

"Good," said Gaston firmly. "Glad you did it."

Aramis looked at the large man, surprised.

"Where'd you learn to fight?" Gaston asked.

"Where I had to," replied the boy with a shrug that made him wince.

The large man paused and looked at the boy. "You can stay with us," he said. "Javier, go fetch his things." Javier rose and with a grin at the lad, he strode away.

"Take your shirt off," Gaston said. Aramis eyed him suspiciously.

"It'll be easier for me to bind your ribs," he explained.

Aramis did as he was told and the two older men hissed when they saw his naked torso. His chest looked like a patchwork quilt. The results of the day's beating were obvious, but other fading welts of purple, brown and green also littered his skin.

"Apparently I have a problem with obedience," he said with a grimace as he shrugged his shoulders.

Gaston bit the inside of his cheek and began binding the ribs. Michel passed Aramis the wineskin.

"Here," he said, "This'll help."

ooooooooooooo

A/N: Well, there's chapter one. I've been thinking a lot about where our heroes came from and what made them the men that they are. I apologize in advance for what I'm sure will be my lack of research into the history and geography of France. My only justification is that I got caught up in the story as it came to me, and I hope you will too, forgiving any factual errors. I guess that's why this is fiction though, right? Facts don't matter :-P

As always, I love to hear from you with any feedback! Hope you enjoy!