A/N: Thanks for all reviews and followers. And also to all the guests whom I can't respond to via PM. I enjoy reading everyone's commentary as much as I hope you are enjoying reading this tale. And for those who have been asking... here comes Porthos!
CHAPTER 7
Several days later, as he again sat outside on a bench in the warm sunshine, Athos wondered why he didn't simply get up and walk out the garrison's gate. He had learned a few days ago that he actually hadn't been locked in his room as he had thought. The damn door had been unlocked since the third day of his, 'recovery' was the word Aramis and the captain used, though 'captivity' was the word Athos favored. So, he asked himself, why was he still here?
Honestly, he wasn't really sure of the answer. Aramis kept warning him he needed time for his ribs and arm to heal. Considering his jaded view of his current situation, he wasn't sure healing was why he was staying at the garrison. Admittedly, he would feel guilty if something terrible did happen to him on the captain's or Aramis' watch, and maybe that was a small contributing factor to why he was still here. It was the honorable thing to do since they both had been very nice to him.
Additionally, he was finding the life of a musketeer appealing. He had always been interested in the military, since he was a small boy. Sword fighting, marksmanship, tactics, and the history of warfare were all things his father would allow to be studied, in small doses, by his heir. But he had made it very clear to Athos that it could never be more than a hobby. It was not what he was born to do, not his purpose in life.
However, were he to be brutally honest with himself, maybe he was seeing the musketeers as a means to an end. He knew he didn't deserve to be on the face of this earth. Not after what he had done to his brother, and to his wife. Yet he wasn't able to bring himself to commit suicide, not directly. Instead, for the last six months, he'd gone about it in a more roundabout manner. He'd drink to excess, then pick fights in the hopes someone would kill him.
Unfortunately, he was too good and he ended up winning all his battles. He had taken a few good trouncings over the last few months, but none were a near death experience. Ironically, that happened quite without planning when he was pitched out of a tavern, as he had been many times before. Only this time he ended up under the hooves of a musketeer's horse which should have killed him, except for the intervention of the chivalrous rider who felt the need to save him.
Thinking of the captain, Athos raised his eyes and scouted the porch were the garrison's commander was known to stand and watch his men. The captain had come to visit him quite often in the last weeks, especially considering that the man was leading a garrison of more than one hundred men, besides being at the King's beck and call. Oddly, the captain didn't press him for any more details about who he was, though Athos had the distinct feeling the commander of the musketeers knew something. It made Athos wary and uneasy around the man. The captain in question took that moment to step out on his porch and the two men's eyes briefly met before Athos deliberately looked away.
It didn't surprise the captain to see Athos acknowledge, and yet not acknowledge, his presence. Treville was trying to understand the enigma sitting in his courtyard, but he wasn't having much luck. It seemed Athos was very good at stonewalling and telling only what he wanted you to know. The captain was never sure if he was bullshitting him or not; Athos' ability to school his face into a mask of neutrality was amazing. Yes, there were tiny cracks now and then, and the captain expected when the man was drunk there might be more, but sober he was the rock of Gibraltar.
They had found common ground in their love of all things military and had many interesting conversations talking strategy, past and present. Captain Treville was very impressed with depth of knowledge that Athos displayed, though he had to be careful because any hint of a personal question and the wary man immediately ended the discourse. The more the captain got to know the man he had run over, the stronger his conviction that this man should be a musketeer.
Today, in the courtyard, the musketeers were focusing on personal combat, practicing their hand to hand skills. Athos noted that there was one musketeer who stood hands above the rest of his brethren in this style of fighting. Tall and broad shouldered, he had a scar over his eye, which gave him a rather fierce demeanor. However, the fighter was quick with a smile when he won his bouts, which was every time, though his grin didn't seem to comfort his beaten opponents. In fact, Athos had the distinct impression that many of the musketeers had a problem with this man, Porthos, he had overheard someone call him.
Ever since Athos had been liberated from his self-imposed prison, he had spent a lot of time outside, lurking about the garrison, watching. It hadn't taken him long to figure out there was a strong pecking order in the regiment and he wondered if Treville understood how disastrous that would be in a real battle. In war, you depended on your fellow soldiers to have your back. If they didn't, you might-as-well run yourself through with your own sword, for an army divided against itself cannot survive.
Porthos, in that rank and file order, was low. Even though he was easily the best fighter of any of them, he received no respect from most of the musketeers. But Athos had the distinct feeling that Captain Treville held Porthos in higher regard than most of the other men in his command. There was no doubt that Porthos was the best fighter, but that didn't seem like enough for the captain to rate him so highly. From what Athos had observed of Porthos' other skills, his marksmanship was only decent, but improving under Aramis' tutelage. Athos wasn't sure if the rest of the troops knew, but Aramis was giving personal, private lessons to the mountain man. He had inadvertently stumbled upon them a few days ago when they had been practicing.
As for Porthos' swordsmanship, it was interesting at best. Effective, Athos supposed, in a limited way. But if Porthos was pressed by an experienced swordsman, who could stay out of range of his fists, which he used rather like a main gauche, Porthos would die someday. Athos actually had a nagging desire to give the man a few pointers. For some reason the street fighter interested him and it didn't bother Athos that Porthos was obviously mixed race. However, Athos suspected that was what many of the nobles in the musketeers held against the man. Athos had never thought the color of a person's skin declared their worth. Honor, integrity, and trustworthiness were the marks of a true man and a true warrior.
Athos smirked as another annoying, self-righteous nobleman's son landed in the dust, courtesy of Porthos. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts and the fight that he didn't see Aramis walk up behind him. When the medic dropped a casual hand on his shoulder, it caught Athos totally unaware and triggered his fight instinct. He leapt to his feet, yanking his right arm free from the sling as he spun around and without a second thought grabbed his 'assailant' by the collar and slammed him, hard, against the wall behind him. Aramis let out a groan as he collided with the stones.
Porthos, hearing the sound, quickly spotted his friend being accosted and charged across the yard to his rescue. Grabbing Athos around his middle, he ripped the man off of Aramis, lifted him partially in the air, and tossed him onto the ground. To Porthos' surprise, the man who had been attacking Aramis, executed a neat shoulder roll and was swiftly back on his feet in a semi-crouch fighting position. Bellowing, more for fun than effect, Porthos closed the gap between them again.
Athos knew he couldn't win this fight, but his pride wanted him, at least, to make a decent showing. Narrowing his eyes, he watched for telltale signs and saw Porthos leading a bit with his right shoulder so he dropped to one knee to try to avoid the blow. But Porthos was quick on the uptake, instantly bringing his fists together and driving them downwards on the crouching man's back forcing him all the way onto his hands and knees.
Figuring the street fighter would try to kick him next, Athos made ready and when he saw the boot coming, he rolled back on his haunches, grabbed Porthos' foot, and using his momentum against him, shoved the leg upwards. Porthos stumbled backwards, but his superior sense of balance kept him from tumbling in the dirt. However, it did give Athos enough time to climb back to his feet and back away again.
Athos was trying to project a calm, cool, detached demeanor, which was somewhat spoiled by the fact his right arm was awkwardly pressed against his stomach. Porthos had to give the man credit for not rushing into a new attack, but strategically waiting for his opponent to make the next move. Porthos was happy to oblige, rapidly closing the distance between them once more.
Athos managed to avoid the street fighter's fist heading for his face, but wasn't as lucky with the other hand heading for his ribs. Porthos swung his forearm slamming it into Athos' midriff and the injured man couldn't stifle his groan, as he doubled over in pain. The next fist caught him square on the corner of his face and Athos stumbled sideways before dropping to one knee, then the other, and finally placing one hand in the dirt to avoid falling flat on his face. His head hung low between his hunched shoulders, as his hair fell forward covering his face.
Aramis, finally recovering from his daze, yelled at Porthos, as he leapt forward to grasp the fighter's arm to stop him advancing on the nearly collapsed man. "It's alright Porthos. He wasn't trying to harm me. I startled him."
Porthos halted, turned, and then raked his eyes up and down Aramis' body as if to verify the claim he was indeed unharmed. Aramis smiled at him and gave a nod. "No harm. Not a hair out of place." Porthos gave a nod of acknowledge, reached over and clapped the man on the bicep.
While Porthos' attention was diverted, Athos crawled a few feet so he could use one of the support poles of the balcony, ungracefully, to haul himself to his feet. His breathing was ragged and his injured right arm was wrapped around his aching ribs. However, his eyes remained focused, dark, wary, and dangerous; not those of a defeated man by any means. If the street fighter came after him again, he'd be ready.
But now that Porthos realized it was a misunderstanding, he faced his opponent again and held his hands up, palms flat to show he meant no further ill will. "Sorry. I thought you were attacking him."
Athos stood very still, his intimidating glare still having Porthos in its cross hairs. To diffuse the situation, Aramis broadened his smile and walked between the two men to ensure neither did anything stupid. "No harm done, eh fellows?"
Athos remained still, but Porthos extended his hand in a peace offering, as he took a step towards Athos. "I'm Porthos," he said as he let a smile grace his face.
The street fighter's smile faded when Athos didn't reach out in reciprocation, instead choosing to keep his right arm pressed against his middle.
Aramis sensed this detente was going south and he quickly tried to defuse it. "Your verbal apology will have to suffice, Porthos. Athos is under strict orders not to use his right arm for anything while it heals." The marksman wasn't sure that was the real reason the injured man hadn't met the handshake, but he decided to go with it.
"He used it for fightin'," Porthos pointed out. "And to hassle you."
"A momentary lapse of judgment," Aramis assured Porthos on Athos' behalf who was still dispassionately staring at Porthos.
The street fighter's eyes wandered to the bandage peeking out from under Athos' cuff. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," Athos stated flatly. Had it been five years in the future, the two musketeers would have probably rolled their eyes and sighed, knowing that Athos' definition of fine meant he wasn't about to drop dead in the next five minutes, but he might collapse, bleed, lapse into unconsciousness, or display some equally undesirable medical issue very soon. But since they're were not yet experienced with this meaning of 'fine', they took him at face value.
The three of them stood in awkward silence for a few minutes before Athos stated, "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have had enough fresh air for today." With that, he squared his shoulders, brushed past Aramis and headed for the stairs.
When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he glanced up them with trepidation as he took a deep breath, which he immediately realized was a stupid mistake as his broken ribs screamed in agony. Groping for the handrail to stay upright, he tried to appear as if he was 'fine' as he hung onto the rail to stop himself from collapsing. Painstakingly, he climbed the stairs, his front teeth sunk into his lower lip to keep from groaning out loud.
Once upstairs and out of the sight of prying eyes, he sagged against the wall and nearly vomited. Damn that man packed a punch and Athos knew that Porthos wasn't even using half his God-given strength. It must be like getting hit by a falling tree when the man wasn't pulling his punches. Remaining somewhat bent over, Athos fumbled his way down the hallway to his room and after closing the door tightly behind him, lowered his aching body carefully onto the bed. He let the fringes of black that had been nibbling at the edge of his consciousness overwhelm him and he sank into their welcoming darkness.
Fifteen minutes later, after what he considered a respectable amount of time, Aramis lightly knocked on Athos' door before silently letting himself into the room. Athos was sound asleep on the bed and lightly snoring. After draping an extra blanket over the prone man, Aramis left, letting the man rest. It was probably the best course of action for the moment. He could check Athos' injuries later tonight when he personally escorted him to dinner.
After departing and shutting the door behind him, Aramis headed downstairs into the courtyard and wandered over to the table where Porthos was pouring a glass of ale. Seeing Aramis approaching, he filled a second cup and slid it across the wooden table in front of where Aramis had sat down. "How is he?"
"Sleeping like a baby," Aramis replied, as he picked up his glass and took a sip.
"He's the one who was trampled by the captain's horse, right?" Porthos confirmed as he took a roll and bite into it.
"Hmmm," Aramis hummed, as he drained his cup. "Four broken ribs and I'm still not sure about how his right arm will heal."
"He fought pretty well," Porthos said, a hint of admiration coloring his voice. "Never gave up. Wonder what he can do when he ain't hurt."
"Well, he isn't a musketeer, so unless you deliberately pick a fight with him...which of course you won't," Aramis hastily inserted after seeing the contemplative gleam in his friend's eye, "we will never know."
"Aye, I suppose not," Porthos reluctantly agreed as finished his roll and downed the last of his ale.
