107. INITIATION

The young ones were the worst. They had something to prove.

The strength of numbers around them gave them some security though, so when the call came to bring a man down, Benois took the challenge.

Hubert was the one to impress. If Benois could do this, he would be part of his gang. They had gained a reputation of late since Hubert had taken over.

So Benois had agreed. It was his time. He had been on the streets too long. Suffered at the hands of the older boys (and girls, who could sometimes be just as cruel. Just as desperate).

He had had too many days without food, so he would bring someone down and earn his place. Earn their protection. All he wanted in return was enough food and to feel safe. As safe as he could in the company of feral youths.

Then, once he had taken up the gauntlet, it changed.

Hubert changed the challenge.

Benois had agreed to bring a man down, but Hubert did not want an ordinary man.

He wanted a Musketeer.

oOo

Benois gathered his own small group of disenfranchised boys around him and they set out to find their mark.

It needed careful planning. These boys would do his bidding. They were on their own mission to find a place. They would be useful but he wanted to be part of the larger group. He wanted to impress Hubert.

He wanted to be Hubert.

It took a while, but Benois finally decided on the man he wanted.

There were four Musketeers in particular that he watched, but three of them seemed to defer to this one. He found out his name by lurking in the shadows and listening to their banter.

It was Athos.

Athos of The King's Musketeers.

If he could bring him down and deliver his pauldron to Hubert, he would be assured of his place.

But Hubert did not just want the pauldron.

Unbeknown to Benois, he wanted the Musketeer dead.

oOo

He could do this. He could do it.

The man was approaching, unsteady on his feet. He had been drinking.

It was the reason Benois singled him out. He had followed him into the night on several occasions and saw he took little notice of his surroundings when lost in thought, head down, hair in his eyes, weaving across the cobbles.

It did not happen every night, but occasionally, he separated from the other three and made his way home on his own.

From his perch high above the Musketeer, Benois gave his signal and they all skittered away, heading for the alley along the way. The narrow, dark alley that they preferred. The one that opened on the left of the street the Musketeer now negotiated. Silently, they went ahead, dropping down into the alley.

They all looked at each other, spread as they were along each side of the alley, hidden in the shadows, only their stink to give them away. Even that was masked by the general stink of the alley itself.

The Musketeer drew nearer.

In the pale moonlight, he was briefly illuminated as he passed the entrance way.

"Please, sir!"

The Musketeer stopped, his head turning toward the plaintive sound.

Pressed behind a crate, Benois shifted, his naked foot now exposed in a pale shaft of moonlight.

"Please, sir!"

For a moment, he thought the Musketeer would ignore his plea and carry on, but a few short moments later, he took a step forward.

"Who's there?" he called.

His words were not as slurred as Benois expected, and for a moment he panicked. Then, he caught sight of the eyes of his compatriots, only visible to him, as they pushed back in the shadows, eager for the fight.

Benois shifted his foot once more, and groaned.

The sound of a sword scraping free of its scabbard had him holding his breath.

"Please, sir. Help me?"

He was whining now, his prize so close.

The steps drew closer and he heard an inward take of breath from the man, as he obviously caught sight of the child's naked foot.

The sword was slipped back into its sheath and the steps began again.

Coming his way.

Coming his way …

"Who's there?" the voice said once more. Not the voice of a soldier, he thought, but a soft, wary voice.

Benois faltered. But the prize was too much to lose.

He waited, his foot still in full view.

Not many would care, he knew. But a Musketeer should. He should wonder. Investigate.

Closer.

Closer.

Until he looked up into the eyes of the man now leaning over him.

"NOW!" Benois yelled, and they flew across from both sides of the alley, emerging like rats, to fall on the man, leap on his back, drag at his hair and claw at his eyes.

Caught off guard, crouched in front of a stricken, starving child, Athos did what instinct demanded. He spun, he tore at their arms, he reached for his dagger at his back.

Suddenly realising these were not men, but children, he lost his balance.

Benois leapt forward, wanting the pauldron.

But he had seen his face. Seen how the Musketeer had searched for the supposed stricken child; sought to pull him out, and set him on his feet - and so Benois hesitated.

The others though, were all over him now and Benois could not reach his pauldron.

Suddenly, there was a flash of moonlight on a blade and the Musketeer reared back with a roar. The rats poured off him and fled. Only one remained, brandishing a thin blade.

Athos slid down the wall of the alley, the boy watching.

"What did you do!" Benois gasped, staring at the blade in the boy's hand.

This was Lemi. He did not own a blade. This was Lemi, with the dropping eyelid, who some took at dull-witted. And he was, to some extent. Of all of them, he was the most easily led. Younger, more damaged, but eager for friends; to belong. Benois had taken him under his own broken wing. But this … this was beyond him. The hangman stood among the feral boys who roamed the backstreets of Paris. It was always a fine line they walked. This was a line crossed.

But how, why, would Lemi stab a Musketeer?

"What did you do!" Benois cried, staring at Lemi.

"He told me to," the boy said, his voice breaking. Pleading in the face of Benois's confusion.

"Who did?" Benois said, his eyes on Athos, now crumpled on his side in the dirt.

"Hubert," the boy said. "He wanted a dead one."

"What are you talking about! He told me he wanted proof we brought a Musketeer down!"

"He changed his mind. He wants a dead one," Lemi repeated. "He told me I was helping you," he trailed off, backing away.

There it was.

Benois then understood. Hubert had sent this boy to do his bidding. He had upped the ante, without telling Benois. He was fracturing Benois' small group, even before he had consolidated it; strengthening his own power. Using poor Lemi to do it. Benois ran a hand through his hair. What was he to do now? What choice did he have?

He looked down at Athos the Musketeer and suddenly felt an odd sense of anger toward him. He bent to unbuckle Athos's pauldron.

Athos though, suddenly grabbed his wrist, startling him;

"Don't," he ground out.

"I have to," Benois murmured, under his breath, pushing Athos's hand away.

He turned to Lemi, frozen in place.

"Give me the blade," he snapped and Lemi quickly handed it over.

"So go and tell Hubert we done one," he shouted.

The boy looked hesitant.

"And what are you goin' to do?" he called back.

Benois turned back to Athos.

"I'll finish him off," he said, his shadow falling over Athos's crumpled form.

oOo

Lemi ran off, disappearing into the street beyond as Benois crouched in front of Athos.

"You didn't know," Athos stated.

Benois lifted his head and looked at Athos, but did not reply.

"Change of ... orders," Athos persisted, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Looks like it," Benois finally grunted.

"You have been watching us. This is an initiation," Athos stated, with a sigh.

"What do you know of it?" Benois growled, grabbing Athos by the arm and dragging him up into a sitting position. There was a frisson of pride that he had come this far; watching, planning and bringing this man down. There was also an uneasy feeling creeping into his belly that he should not be talking to him. He should be long gone.

"Initiations are not unknown in the army," Athos replied, tersely; at least grateful he was no longer lying on his own sword in the muck of the alleyway.

Benois picked up some stones from the alley floor and sifted them through his fingers.

"You don't have to do this," Athos said, watching him.

"Can you stop me?" Benois replied, belligerently.

"Probably," Athos replied.

The boy huffed. He flashed Lemi's blade at him. Hubert's blade, no doubt.

"You can try," he said, defiantly.

Athos looked at the blade. It looked blunt. This Hubert really was a prize.

"And I will," Athos said, his voice deadly cold. "Believe me."

He would try and probably take another injury, or be killed. There was only one way out of this and that was to take this boy with him, one way or another.

"I am curious," he said. "What is your name?"

Benois did not answer at first. The truth was, he had no name. None that he could remember. He had taken the name Benois from a stone in a cemetery where had slept some nights before discovering Hubert and his small army. He had not seen the point of a second name.

"Benois," he finally replied, seeing no harm in giving it.

Athos though, saw it as a small victory. A way in.

"I know someone, Benois" he said. "A brother Musketeer who was born into similar circumstances as you."

The boy threw a stone down the alley, having placed Lemi's knife on the floor beside him.

"Liar," he said, flatly.

Athos looked away. He was getting tired. The wound in his back was bleeding, his shirt was sticking to his skin. He was weakening. He needed to get out of here.

"Help me to the Garrison. You can meet him," he said. "If you have been watching us, you will have seen him. His name is Porthos."

"So he just walked into the Garrison and you gave him a pauldron?" the boy said sarcastically.

"Of course not," Athos replied, biting his bottom lip as he shifted position. "Pauldrons are earned. Porthos served in the Infantry and then he found the Musketeers. We all found them," he said, his voice trailing off.

He drew a leg up, and Benois snatched the blade up.

"He was born in the Court of Miracles," Athos continued.

Benois held the blade under Athos's jaw while he worked at the buckles that held the pauldron in place. Pulling it free, he stored the pauldron in his shirt and spat on the ground.

"Liar," he said. "You would not have a Court rat in the Musketeers. I'm not a fool."

Before Athos could reply, he turned and ran, leaving Athos alone.

Athos closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very detached.

oOo

The city came to life as soon as the sun was up. The sound of carts and horses moving across the entrance to the alley and the weak sunlight now filtering in came to him as he opened his eyes.

For a moment, he was confused. He had woken up in similar places but not in the pain that now radiated from his shoulder blade down his back. He lifted one arm to push himself up, but the other refused to obey him. Reaching behind his back, his fingers came away bloody and his stomach clenched. He had not drunk that much last night, but he had been distracted and had allowed himself to be jumped.

Then, he flinched at the memory of the boy leaning over him and, turning his head, he saw that his pauldron was gone, but he was alive.

Grabbing onto a nearby crate he pulled himself to his knees, biting back a groan as pain flared down his arm. The boy who had stabbed him had made a poor job of it, though it may still be the death of him if he could not get help quickly. He could feel his shirt adhering to his skin, and his legs were so weak he could hardly stand.

He had been on his way back to the Garrison though, he remembered, so he did not have far to go. He was vulnerable though and would need to hide his injury if he was to get back without further harm.

His sword was gone and he cursed at the thought. It was a good, balanced blade that suited him well. No doubt now sold, whoever had it now would not do it justice, he knew. That knowledge was perhaps worse than the fact he had been overpowered by feral children, though he could not conceive of killing them. It would have been like killing Porthos, he thought, the image bringing a dark smile to his lips. Honour was indeed a heavy ideal to uphold sometimes.

He set off, hand steadying himself on the rough stonework of the alley. By the time he reached the entrance, he thought he had himself under control. If he could just walk the length of the wall, which would take him to the Garrison. Once in sight of the familiar stall holders, there would be someone who could go for help.

It was not long before he was cursing himself for his choice of tavern the previous night. He had sought solitude and so had taken himself in the opposite direction to the one that would lead to their more favoured tavern, The Wren. Consequently, he would not reach his own rooms first, but would come to the Garrison the longer way round.

It was becoming harder to put one foot in front of the other, and he still had a way to go. There were people on the streets now, but they were not the sort he would ask help from. His feet did not go in the direction he wanted, even with the wall for support. Several men were closely watching him as he walked by, one hand always on the wall to steady himself.

He finally stopped, his back to the wall, head back, breathing hard.

Just as he was about to give in and sink to the floor, a hand grasped his own and lifted it. A head ducked under and took his arm across a shoulder and supported him. He looked sideways and found himself staring into the upturned face of the boy from the alley. The one who had taken his pauldron. The one who had not killed him.

The boy did not speak. He merely reached up and took Athos's hand, pushed them both off the wall and began to walk.

It was easier now.

Slowly, step by step, the two made their way back. If anyone looked as if they were about to challenge them, the fine sword in the boy's belt made them think twice. No-one had a sword like that if they could not use it.

"I didn't sell it, if that's what you were thinkin'" the boy suddenly said, eyes to the front.

"It never crossed my mind," Athos grunted, though his steps felt a little lighter.

Finally, the Garrison archway came into view.

"Nearly there," Benois said quietly.

Athos raised his head and saw the welcomed sight.

"You should go now," he murmured, his vision beginning to grey; but the boy did not let go. If anything, he tightened his grip.

Benois had never been inside the Garrison and the sight that met him made his blood run cold. Several groups of battle hardened men stood in the courtyard, ready for muster, and as he staggered forward with Athos almost senseless, the group of three he was familiar with broke free and ran toward him.

Relieved of his burden, he was instantly lifted up by his collar, to meet the glare of the dark-skinned Musketeer. This was the one he had originally wanted to target but had dismissed when he saw him fight several Red Guards at once.

"What the Hell!" the man now growled as he shook him until his teeth clamped around his tongue, drawing blood.

Then, he was pulled along, behind the three Musketeers as they conveyed Athos into a nearby building.

oOo

Inside the room, Benois was pulled to the side, the big Musketeer gripping him tightly by the collar. He had relieved Benois of Athos's sword, an action that seemed to anger the big man more. Benois could feel the waves of anger flowing off him.

Athos was now sitting backward on a chair, his folded arms supporting his head on the back of the chair. One of the Musketeers was busy swabbing his skin while the other pulled a bowl and bandages from a cupboard.

Once his back was cleaned, and while the Musketeer-medic threaded a needle, Athos raised his head to look at Benois.

Porthos pulled the boy forward.

"Is this the one that did it?" he growled.

Athos did not reply. He continued to watch Benois through half-focussed eyes.

"Yes," Benois finally said, firmly. "I didn't stab 'im. But it was my doin,'"

With that, Athos dropped his head back down and Benois saw his hands curl into fists as the Musketeer began stitching his wound.

Out of respect for Athos, Porthos pulled Benois outside and roughly sat him down at a bench under the wooden stairs. The courtyard was empty now, thankfully.

"Notice how he didn't give you up?" the big Musketeers said.

Benois did not reply. He dare not raise his head and look at this man.

"Kept 'is peace? Gave you a chance to do that yourself?" the man continued.

"And you did," he added.

Benois looked up then in surprise.

"That's when I knew there was a spark there. A little bit of honour. So don't blag a blagger," he said. "Tell me the truth of it all."

The boy frowned.

"I was where you are now," the big man added. "No one helped me. But I'm goin' to give you a chance."

"You're Porthos?" the boy said, suddenly, his eyes widening.

"Yeah?" Porthos replied, "How do you know that?"

"He told me," Benois replied. "I didn't believe 'im. Called him a liar."

Porthos huffed out a laugh.

"Athos is many things. But a liar he isn't. He's the most honourable man I know."

Benois nodded, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

"He could have killed all of us, but he didn't."

"How many were there?" Porthos asked. "Just curious."

Benois held up both hands. Ten. He obviously couldn't count, but knew how to figure it out.

Porthos nodded.

"Unfair. But, yeah. He could have cut you all down before you knew he'd drawn 'is sword. You're lucky to be sittin' there with your head on your shoulders."

The boy looks suddenly horrified. Events were catching up with him. He told Porthos about Hubert and the initiation and how he had changed the challenge.

"I can understand this Hubert wantin' a Musketeer pauldron. It's quite a prize. But from what you say, we need to take him off the streets. And you're goin' to help us. You owe Athos that."

With that, he took hold of Benois's arm, though not as roughly now, and pulled him to his feet.

"Where are we going?" Benois asked, nervously.

"I'm goin' back to that alley. You're goin' back to Hubert."

"What?"

"You're goin' to tell 'im you brought a Musketeer down. Tell him you finished him. Bring him to the alley. You and me are goin' to take him off the streets. He doesn't want to help you, he wants to control you. Before you know it, you'll be the one controllin' the younger ones and we will come after you. So do the honourable thing now, yeah?"

Benois stared at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted ..."

"I know what you wanted," Porthos cut him off bluntly. "There are better ways to get it. Do this, and I will help you. We all will."

By reply, Benois pulled out Athos's pauldron from his shirt and placed it on the table.

"Let's go," he said.

oOo

Back in the alley, Benois showed Porthos where Athos fell. There was blood on the wall where he had rested, and on the crate where he had pulled himself up.

There was such a dark look on Porthos's face, that Benois took a step back.

"What are you waitin' for," Porthos finally growled. "My boot up your arse?"

Benois did not need telling twice. He took off, and did not look back.

Porthos settled himself in the place that Athos had vacated. This was an exercise in trust, but ultimately, it was the lad's choice. Either Hubert would come, or he wouldn't. It depended on how desperate Benois was, and how much he would allow himself to trust the Musketeers.

Porthos sighed. He really could not judge which way Benois would go.

Above him on the rooftop, the boy who had stabbed Athos, watched.

oOo

Porthos had almost given up on Benois when there was movement in the alleyway entrance. Two figures approached.

Porthos kept very still, playing dead; his eyes closed, though his hearing was acute.

"Dead, like I said, Hubert," he heard Benois say loudly as they both approached. If Porthos heard correctly, Benois had stressed the other's name, for good measure. Good lad.

"He's a big one," the other one said. Then he broke into guttural laughter. "You did well, Benois."

Just then, there was a sound as someone dropped into the alleyway.

"Benois didn't kill him," another voice said. "I did."

Hubert turned toward the other boy.

Benois frowned. That wasn't right. Benois had told Lemi to go, that he would finish Athos off. Why was he now saying he'd killed him, when he could see this wasn't Athos, but another Musketeer?

"Which was it?" Hubert growled. "Which one of you is lyin?"

"It was me that stabbed him," the boy said, his voice stronger now.

Hubert turned toward Benois and pulled his dagger, a wicked looking curved blade.

Several things happened at once.

The boy Lemi stepped forward and threw himself on Hubert's arm; Porthos rose with a speed that surprised Benois and twisted his main gauche against Hubert's blade, sending it spinning across the alley, and Benois punched Hubert in the throat, sending him to the floor, gasping for air.

Porthos put his boot on Hubert's chest and his blade at his throat, as the thug's eyes bulged as he tried to breathe.

"I saw what you did," Lemi said, facing Benois. He looked up toward the roofs. "Followed you. Saw you help him."

He looked down at Hubert, who Porthos was now dragging, still gasping, to his feet.

"I don't want to be like him. Rather follow you, Benois," he said.

"Me?" Benois said. "How can I lead you?"

Porthos pulled out a rope.

"Tie him up and I can tell you how you can lead," he said, tossing the rope to Benois.

Porthos and the two boys walked back to the Garrison, prisoner in tow, and Porthos handed Hubert over to the guard to be locked up in the holding cell. It was the first step to disbanding that particular gang and Porthos suspected, from what Benois had told him, that it would now fall apart naturally without the brutish control of Hubert.

Aramis and d'Artagnan were sitting at the table as Porthos and the two boys approached.

"This is the lad that stabbed Athos," Porthos said, pushing Lemi forward. "But he also helped disarm Hubert, so I reckon we're square. That's if Athos agrees."

Aramis did not look particularly benevolent though. He rose slowly and walked around the table to stand in front of the boy. He was all of twelve years old, at most; a scrawny, sorry looking lad. Aramis looked him slowly over from head to toe, and Porthos abandoned him to his fate, settling himself down and reaching for the jug of wine.

"Athos is sleeping," Aramis finally said. "As soon as he wakes, he will leave the infirmary. It's not his favourite place. He may have his own punishment for you, but I for one did not intend spending time sewing his back up this morning, so you owe me too as I am now behind with my chores."

"The stables, you mean?" d'Artagnan asked. "The straw needs turning."

"And the infirmary needs cleaning," Aramis replied.

"Stairs need scrubbin'" Porthos added, nodding at the flight of stairs leading to the Captain's office.

Aramis gave him a look at that, as the stairs had never been scrubbed in all the time he had been a Musketeer, but Porthos winked at him.

"The stairs do need scrubbing," Aramis agreed, quickly. "Most definitely."

Benois looked at Lemi, who was looking very shaky now, and nodded.

"Anything," he said, squaring his shoulders and looking at the three of them.

oOo

There were, in fact, stables to muck out, Serge's ovens to clean, and sacks of vegetables to shift. There was water to be fetched, and weapons to be gathered for cleaning. The boys were fed at noon, but it took them both most of the day, and they were still only half done.

The boys were busy to the point of exhaustion, and now Aramis wanted them to go into the Infirmary and see Athos.

Eyes wide, they almost bolted but Aramis had a firm grip on both their arms and d'Artagnan was behind them now, so they all walked slowly into the Infirmary.

Inside, Aramis went ahead and opened the door at the end of the long room, waving the two boys to follow. Porthos gave them both a shove and they tripped forward, into the room.

Athos lay on his stomach on the cot, but shifted when he heard their footsteps.

"Be still," Aramis said, "Let me check my stitches."

Aramis untied the bandage around Athos's back and removed the pad of linen that protected his stitches.

The sight of the row of eight black stitches in angry red skin made the boys both take a step back.

Again, Porthos shoved them forward.

"It's a longer wound than you would imagine from a thin blade," Aramis was saying, "But I had to cut along here," he said, pointing to one end of the wound, "to open it a little more, in order to clean it out."

He turned and looked at Lemi, while wiping his hands on a cloth.

"I doubt you cleaned your blade before you thrust it into our brother's back?"

Lemi was looking decidedly green, as he looked at Athos's back.

"No, I thought not," Araimis continued.

Turning to Benois he pointed to the small pot on the table next to the bed.

"Pass me that, would you?"

Benois pushed off on unsteady feet and retrieved the pot, holding it out to Aramis.

But Aramis did not reach for it. He waved him forward, and handed him a fresh pad of linen.

"Dip this into the pot, and put it back in place," he said.

"On his back?" Benois asked, in horror.

"No, on his foot," Porthos growled behind him.

Benois looked at Lemi, who he thought should be doing this, but Lemi was currently holding a bowl that d'Artagnan had shoved into his hands, and making gagging sounds.

Athos meantime, had turned his head and caught sight of Porthos, who grinned at him. Athos rolled his eyes and allowed his head to drop onto the pillow, rolling back onto his stomach.

Benois dipped the linen into the green paste in the pot, and held it out to Aramis.

Aramis pointed at Athos's wound.

Swallowing, Benois stepped forward and very gently placed the linen over the stitches.

The sound of retching reached them, as d'Artagnan pulled Lemi from the room.

"Hold it there," Aramis said, as he picked up a fresh roll of bandages, and bound the pad in place, with a little help from Athos, who awkwardly raised himself to allow the bandage to pass around his chest.

"Wipe his face," Aramis said, then, handing Benois a cloth.

"What?"

Aramis nodded toward Athos, whose forehead was now damp with sweat from his exertions. Benois took the cloth and walked slowly around the bed, before crouching down. He now found himself face to face with Athos.

To say the experience was daunting was an understatement.

As he passed the cloth over Athos's face, his eyes opened.

Benois nearly fell back on his haunches in shock.

"I'm sorry," Benois whispered, staring into Athos's eyes.

He looked across at Aramis and Porthos;

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "We never meant ..."

"Of course you didn't," Athos said then. "And you helped me back. But this is the consequence of your actions, Benois. The King expects his Musketeers at his side. He expects them to protect him. To protect France. I will not be able to do that for several days, and he will not be pleased."

"You're not goin' to ask me to say sorry to The King, are you?" Benois said.

"That's not a bad idea," Porthos said, as Benois really did fall on his backside, staring at them.

"Porthos, don't be absurd," Athos murmured.

Benois relaxed, until Athos added; "The Cardinal will be much angrier."

When Benois paled to the shade of the sheet, they all laughed.

"Go now," Athos sighed, closing his eyes. "Remember this day."

oOo

The boys continued to work, both more subdued now. Lemi had thrown up behind the stables several times, and Benois had lost his early cockiness.

Late afternoon, Athos had emerged unsteadingly into the courtyard, arm in a sling, looking exhausted. Benois rushed to pour him wine and offered it to him after he had sat heavily at the table.

Athos's eyes flicked from him to the other boy, halfway up the stairs, scrubbing furiously in a pointless task that he had obviously been given. Benois himself was flushed and sweating. Whatever tasks his friends had bestowed on these boys would probably not be finished today. He accepted the wine with a tilt of his head and drank it down in one.

Just then, Porthos emerged from the Captain's office with a piece of parchment. He strode down the stairs, narrowly avoiding Lemi, who pressed himself out of the way.

"This is for you," he said, handing it over to Benois.

"What is it?" Benois asked.

Porthos looked across to Athos.

"You'll 'ave to teach these lads to read," he sighed, before turning back to Benois.

"You've just cleaned the stables and the infirmary and the stairs. You've worked in the kitchen and tomorrow, you'll work in the armoury. That's called experience. Set up some of your lads and offer work to the locals. If you work hard and are honest, you'll get more work. Then, when you're older, with what you learn, you'll each be able to go out on your own. This letter says we trust you. Don't let us down."

"You make it sound simple," Benois murmured, looking up at the other boy, who had now stopped to listen.

"It is simple," Porthos said. "If you have a plan. It's not easy. But it's simple."

"You are looking at someone who had a plan," Athos said, looking at Benois. "Porthos had a plan."

"Initiations are about acceptance, Benois," Athos added. "They mark the beginning of something new."

"A rite of passage," Porthos said.

"A rebirth," Aramis smiled.

"Into something worthwhile," d'Artagnan added, indicating their surroundings. "Something worth having, because you chose it, and worked for it."

Benois watched them thoughtfully and then reached out and took the parchment.

"I had a plan," he said, raising his head to look at them;

"But it wasn't my plan, was it? It was Hubert's."

"That's right," Athos said.

Benois looked at the other boy and held up the parchment. A look passed between them.

"I think we've just been initiated," he said, a smile spreading across his face.

"Hopefully," Athos replied. "But there is one more initiation before you stop work for the day."

"What is it?" Benois asked.

Porthos took hold of Benois by the collar, as d'Artagnan moved to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Lemi, so that neither could bolt.

"A trip to the bath house," Athos replied, pouring more wine.

"Sooner, rather than later," Aramis said, wrinkling his nose.

That truly would be an initiation!

oOo

Thanks for reading!