It was late in the afternoon, the sun already started to set, as Porthos dreamed of a warm bath and a beautiful woman by his side. The winter this years was long, cold and hard. Porthos couldn't be more thankful than now to be a musketeer's recruit. He had a room for himself with a fireplace and a hot meal once a day. He frowned as he thought about his friends he had left in the Court, how bad they had to freeze, how hard it had to be to get some food. He thought about bringing some bread to them in the evening, but he didn't think that this gesture would have been appreciated.

Why had the king to go for a walk in the royal gardens in winter? Porthos wondered as he tested his frozen fingers, made a fist and opened it again. His muscles arched against the movement despite the leather gloves he wore. Finally, the king decided to head back to the palace. The brim of his heavy cloak was already wet and his cheeks got red, even though his thick clothes were much warmer than the ones of his musketeers. The soldiers didn't hesitate long as they were finally dismissed after a long day and hurried back to the garrison.

"I think I will take a long and hot bath after Serge's stew." Porthos admitted and tried to start a conversation with Athos who walked beside him. The man hadn't talked a word with him till now and didn't intend to change it as he only answered by shrugging his shoulders. He would drink some wine, he thought to himself but didn't think about sharing this idea with the taller recruit.

"You're not a talker, are you?" Porthos huffed. Athos didn't intend to answer this – because no, he wasn't a talker. Moreover he didn't get the chance as shouts from the garrison reached them. The musketeers changed a short look before they hurried into the courtyard too find out what happened. Only a few men had stayed back to work on their swordplay earlier this day, as most were needed at the palace. The once that now returned from duty found a small group of musketeers huddled up in the middle of the courtyard. It looked as if they were restraining someone, but from where he stood, Porthos couldn't see whom. He pushed through the rows to notice that the someone in the middle also wore a musketeers uniform, and soon he cought a glimpse of the face – it was Aramis.

He pushed the ones that came close away and shouted words Porthos couldn't understand, it wasn't French. "What happened?" He asked another musketeer that watched the small fight, as two older, commissioned musketeers tried to restrain Aramis once again. "He's going insane." Answered the man and hissed in sympathy as Aramis caught another man in the face with his fist. The nose that was hit bled hard and fast.

The flow of strange words didn't stop from the confused mans mouth as he tried to get out of a tight grip around his left arm. "Let me." Porthos muttered as another man was hit and made a step forward. He now was behind Aramis, the angry man didn't notice him as he was distracted by other musketeers in front of him. One fast move was enough for Porthos to catch Aramis' hands and turn them one the mans back, making him flinch as he pulled slightly at them. Porthos didn't want to hurt the man, but still he had to somehow stop him. Aramis struggled against his grip, but Porthos didn't let got.

As he started to wonder what he now was supposed to do with the angry and confused man, Treville hurried down the stairs. "What is the meaning of this?" He wanted to know. "He's insane! Almost stabbed Pierre while they worked on his swordplay!" Josef pointed at a discarded sword a few feet away and Pierre, who held his hand protectively over a gash on his arm. "I'm fine." Pierre reassured before Treville had to ask, it wasn't a deep cut.

As Treville knew there was no immediate danger for his recruits he finally turned to Aramis and Porthos and took in the sight for a moment before sighing.

He suddenly turned back around and faced the mob of musketeers. "Dismissed! All of you!" Mumbling and whispering interrupted as the men parted and went to their room or the kitchen, leaving the three man behind in the courtyard.

Aramis had calmed down a bit by now, but if looks could kill, a couple of men would already be dead by his icy eyes. "Aramis, do you know where you are?" Treville asked gently, but didn't allow Porthos to let go. The Musketeer only tried to get out of the tight grip once again and hissed an answer in the strange language. Treville seemed to search for the right words, searched in the dark eyes for clarity that wasn't there. "Estás seguro." (You're safe) He said, voice calm.

"Is this spanish, Sir?" Porthos asked carefully and earned a short nod from his captain, who didn't turn his attention from the struggling musketeer. "You're in the garrison, Aramis. Estás seguro."

The foreign language seemed to change something in Aramis and he stopped struggling. Porthos let go of the arms gently as the Musketeer looked around in confusion. "What happened?" He then asked and searched for an answer in Treville's face. "You should rest, Aramis. Porthos, would you get him to his room?" Porthos nod and gently nudged Aramis towards his room, walking a good step behind the commissioned musketeer. "What happened?" Aramis asked once again as they were in his room, he couldn't shrug of the feeling that something bad had happened.

Porthos scratched his neck unsure what to say – he himself didn't quite know what had happened.

"There was an… accident. It seems that you have cut Pierre slightly, but I wasn't there I don't know for sure. As we came… the others tried to restrain you, you spoke Spanish and…"

"And what?" Aramis demanded, horrified by what the recruit was telling him. "You punched a few of us, injured them. You were not yourself."

Aramis gulped and sat down on his bed as his legs started to tremble. "How's Pierre?" He looked up at Porthos. There was nothing left of the fury, only pain, sorrow and guilt. "He's fine, it wasn't that bad." Aramis nod, but he didn't seem to believe him completely.

"May I ask… what happened there to you?" Porthos asked carefully as he placed wood in the fireplace.

Aramis fumbled with his fingers, licking his lips before going through his hair with his hands nervously. "I don't know. I – suddenly I was back there." Savoy, Porthos guessed and didn't dare to ask further questions.

He stood in front of the fireplace, glancing down on Aramis unsure of what to do now. "I want to sleep now, I guess. Would you mind and close the door when you leave?" The musketeer didn't give him time to answer as he laid down and turned his back towards Porthos, who sighed and left the room and closed the door.

He heard whispered voices as he walked towards the staircase and stopped in his tracks to listen. He didn't want to, but something in him made him feel that this could be interesting.

They stood around the corner, two men obviously. As he strained his ears to listen he noticed they weren't whispering to gossip but more likely hissing, spitting words in fury. "You should be careful what you're saying about others, Josef." Porthos heard a thud, as if someone was pushed against a wall.

"Do you think you can give me commands? You may once was a noble but you're nothing now. Just a pitiable drunkard."

"Call me what you want, I don't need your admiration. Just shut your stupid mouth and stop spreading this rumors and leave this poor man alone." Another thud, then footsteps. Porthos hurried to get a way from the corner and walked down the stairs as casual as possible as if he hadn't heard anything. From the corner of his eye he saw Athos turn around the corner.