CHAPTER 2

A few bottles of wine to the wind already, Athos folded even more inside his self-afflicted hell, as he sat, alone, in the back corner of the dingy tavern, trying to drown his tormented mind. His anguished green eyes stayed fixed on the scarred, wooden table in front of him, though that was not what they were actually seeing. The scene he was living was one of five years in the past, the day of his brother's, Thomas, death. The blood, dark, rich, red, like the wine he was gulping, staining Thomas' shirt. His younger brother's eyes, vacant, staring into the nothingness that was his death.

Athos' traitorous mind then flashed to her. The once love of his life. Her face. A dichotomy. Lovely, yet evil. Helpless, yet harsh. The face, no matter how much he drank, he couldn't forget. He lowered his dark, tousled head, to rest on the filthy table and softly sobbed, not that anyone would hear in this noisy environment. He was so far into his cups that he didn't care what people saw or thought, only wishing he could escape the torment ripping at his soul.

It was in this position that Porthos found him, a few hours later, well after the midnight bell. At first, the musketeer with the menacing demeanor and curly, dark hair thought his quarry had passed out. But a somewhat strident calling of his name had Athos raising his weary, wine-soaked head to stare at him with bleary, red rimmed eyes. His voice, which commanded Porthos to leave him alone, was as rusty and scarred, as the bottom of an old kettle.

This wasn't Porthos' first rodeo and he bluntly ignored Athos' demands to leave. "Time to go," he declared, as he approached the table where Athos was sprawled.

It truly hurt Porthos to see his friend in this condition, in a place such, as this dirty tavern. The seediness of the place spoke volumes to just how low Athos had let himself sink this night. It wasn't who the man really was and once again, as he had countless times in the past, Porthos cursed the demons that could do this to his brother-in-arms.

Athos mumbled a few indistinct words, which Porthos didn't catch nor care if he heard. No matter what Athos' opinion on the subject, they were going home. This self-crucifixion had gone on long enough and it was time to get him back to his rooms where the equally unpleasant process of sobering up could begin.

Porthos had learned from previous experience, there were two ways this evening could end. The first, and better of the two, was Athos' giving in and letting Porthos assist him out the door and down the bleak cobblestone streets, back to his room. The second, usually not as preferable unless Athos' was being a particular ass that night, was with the drunken man, unconscious by Porthos' fist, slunk over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, being carried home. Porthos really didn't care how it went down. Trying to get a drunken Athos to walk was nearly as laborious as carrying an unconscious Athos; six of one, half a dozen of the other, as the saying goes.

"So Athos," Porthos genially inquired, as he came to a halt alongside the table where Athos resided. "How are we going to do this tonight? Walking or riding?"

"I don't see a horse," Athos slurred, as he dropped his head, which he had momentarily lifted, at his friend's approach, back on his leather-clad forearms.

"Horse, no. Ass, yes. But, whatever. Are you going to get up and come with me, or am I going to take my nice fist here, bash in your soggy face, and sling you over my shoulder like an ugly wench."

"You wouldn't dare," said the voice from the tabletop.

"Come-on. You know I have before and I will again. In fact, I'm actually a bit pissed having to come get you tonight. You see, I was fleecing the Red Guards royally and…"

Athos' head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "I didn't ask you to come!" His furious green eyes radiated anger at the man casually standing in front of him, though it was really anger at himself, not Porthos. "Leave me alone!" His intoxication, momentarily burned off by rage, quickly returned, as he lowered his aching head again towards his chest. "Leave me," he half-demanded, half-begged.

Porthos, ignoring the tirade, laid a gentle hand, on the drunken man's shoulder. "Come my brother, it's time to go."

Porthos had no clue what an unfortunate choice of words he had just uttered. His compassionate speech and act of kindness were met by a snarling ogre that sprang from the table, shoving the taller man into the tavern's stone wall on his left.

"You are not my brother! My brother is dead! Because of me!" Athos' hand clenched the front of Porthos' collar, scrunching up the leather and lace, but offering no real threat. The only thing it invoked in Porthos was sorrow and pity.

Porthos gazed sadly at the shorter, disheveled man in front of him. "Your demons are riding you hard tonight."

Athos released his grip on the man's clothes, as he started to slide towards the floor, his knees buckling. Immediately, Porthos slid a supporting arm under Athos' shoulder, keeping him aloft.

"Let's go." Porthos steered the inebriated man towards the door of the grungy tavern. Sluggishly, Athos allowed himself to be dragged along, not that he really had the wits to resist. The man did, however, manage to snag a bottle of wine off a table, as he was hauled past it by Porthos' strong grip.

Once outside, the brisk night air haughtily slapped Athos in the face and he let out a groan of displeasure.

"What? I thought you liked the cold," Porthos jokingly remarked, as he started heading them towards Athos' residence. "I mean you must because you are always sticking your head in a bucket of ice water. Or is that some secret beauty ritual 'cause if it is, it isn't working."

Athos didn't dignify that remark with an answer, but instead attempted to take a swig from his stolen bottle of wine. Some of it made it in his mouth, most ran down his beard onto his doublet, and some splashed over onto Porthos who was not amused.

"You've had enough." Reaching over, he snatched the nearly empty bottle from Athos' hand.

"Hey!" the indigent voice of his drunken companion rang out. "That's mine."

Swallowing the last mouthful of the gruesome vintage, Porthos lowered the bottle, and then slung it into the night. "All gone," he informed the highly agitated Athos. "And if you are gonna get stinking drunk, at least do it on a better quality of wine. That was awful."

Athos decided he was offended and used it as excuse, to take a swing at Porthos, which wildly missed its intended target. Overbalanced, the sodden man tumbled onto the filthy cobblestone street before Porthos could grab him.

"Athos," Porthos pleaded. "Don't." Though he had joked about it, Porthos really didn't want to have to render his fellow musketeer unconscious.

But it was clear Athos had decided he would be going home in a comatose state. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and took another wild swing at his friend. Once again, Porthos easily avoided his fist and gave him little shove sending the man back, on his knees, in the filthy street.

"I don't like doing this, Athos," Porthos reasoned with his friend. "Please stop."

Only God knew what Athos was really seeing, as he once again lurched to his feet and launched an attack at Porthos. One thing was for sure, it was not his brother-in-arms, who has only trying to help him.

When it was obvious Athos was not going to stop, Porthos sighed, clenched his fist, and delivered a single blow to Athos' temple that knocked the man out cold. He gathered the soul-broken man in his arms then, with great tenderness, slung him over his broad shoulder and transported Athos back to his room.

When he reached Athos' place, he opened the door and carried the man over to the rumpled bed, where he carefully lay him down. After stripping the man of all his weapons and placing them on the nearby table, Porthos struggled to get Athos out of his black leather doublet. It was such a chore that by the time he had succeeded, he was so annoyed that he forgo the thought of removing the unconscious man's boots or pants. Wouldn't be the first or last time Athos slept in such a state.

Knowing there was nothing more that could be done for his friend tonight, Porthos took his leave, securing the door behind him. The thought of staying the night, and keeping guard over his friend crossed his mind, but he really felt Athos was so far gone tonight, he wouldn't wake until way into the next morn.

When he did wake, Athos was going to be in a very, bad way, not something Porthos was anxious to see or experience again. However, he loved his brother and would do his duty by him, in a few hours. Right now, he felt it was safe enough to leave and get a few hours of shut eye.