Two Weeks Later

Athos sat at his desk as he wrote out the schedule and duties for the men for the week ahead. The early morning sun peeked through the clouds and cast its light through the window and across the paneled floor. Porthos sat astide a chair with his arms resting on the curve of it's back. He tapped his foot on the floor as the minutes past by. D'Artagnan stood at the window and looked out as the men readied their horses, polished their blades, and prepared for the day. A war was coming, they all knew it, they could all feel it, and without doubt they did what they could to ready themselves. Aramis flipped through the pages of his Bible while he sat next to the desk waiting.

A knock at the door echoed and all eyes looked toward it.

"Come," Athos said and then placed his quill in its receptacle.

Young Mathias Alphonse nodded as he entered the room. He looked at the faces of those that looked toward him and swallowed. "Captain."

Athos looked to his right and nodded toward the young man. "What is it?"

"Captain," Mathias said. "There's something you should see." He stood with his shoulders back, short, dark brown hair captured by the glow of the lanterns, the fire, and the light that entered through the windows. Clean shaven and youthful, large brown eyes held confidence while at the same time humility as he earned his place amongst the musketeers.

Athos frowned, looked at those around him, and then pushed himself to his feet. "Relax, Mathias," he said, and clapped his shoulder as he walked toward the door.

"Yes, sir."

Porthos chuckled and stood with the others and quickly followed Athos out of the office. They all stopped suddenly when they were met by a wall of horses and young men. In formation, and in a row of three, the line extended from the courtyard, out the garrison's arches, and down the side street of Paris. A young man stood next to his black mount, shoulders back, with a dark blue doublet, leather britches, black boots, and weapons that shined and looked ready for use at the palace. He stepped forward, blue eyes danced, and his long blonde hair was tied at the base of his neck.

"Captain Athos?" He said and cleared his throat. "My name is Warin Monnot, I am Marquis Monnot's eldest son."

"And your friends?" Athos asked as he looked critically at the young man before him and those who stood behind him.

"My father sends his regards and while he wished that more men could have joined us…" Warin took a deep breath and cleared his throat, "we have all come to be a part of the Musketeers… if you'll have us." He turned and looked toward the men who remained standing at attention and the horses beneath their care. "My father and several landowners have agreed that serving the king as Musketeers under your command is a task that will bring honor to our families." He shifted his feet and tightened his hand around the brown leather reins. "My father believes it is our duty to protect France, her king, and serve with those who will not allow dishonor to tarnish what he and those like him have worked so hard to build."

Athos felt a hand tighten on his shoulder and he glanced over his shoulder at Aramis, who nodded.

"How many of you are there?" Athos asked.

"Eighty-seven, Captain — more of us wanted to come," he paused and shrugged, "but we didn't want to leave our lands unprotected."

Athos quirked a smile and nodded. He reached forward and shook the young man's hand and then slowly walked between the row of horses and men. He wecomed them, listened as they each spoke their names, and nodded and accepted their roles as young recruits to the Musketeer Regiment. He would never remember them all — not immediately — but he would, eventually. He would learn their ages, their dreams, whether they were married and had children, if they were the last in their line, or the first. He would eventually call them by name, and when orders were given, he would take the time to think about the repercussions and take responsibility for them.

Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan followed, and then, without being ordered, the rest of the regiment joined in the greeting.

Whether it was four brothers, 50, 125 or 212 and eventually 300. They were a family bound by duty, honor, and brotherhood.

When they reached the end of the line, Athos turned toward d'Artagnan and said, "Ride to the palace, let Minister Treville know we'll need additional supplies: food for the men, oats for the horses, bedding, weaponry," he ran his hand along the saddle of the horse next to him, "tack." He turned and looked at Porthos. "Find Remi and Marc, have them create a roster… I need names, family affiliations, ages, and the skills of each man." He walked back toward the garrison. "Find out who is skilled with blacksmithing, carpentry, horsemanship, cooking, and fabrication."

"Yes, Captain," Porthos said with a smile. He jogged forward and looked for Remi and Marc.

Athos looked over his shoulder at Aramis, who raised his eyebrows and, while he tried to stifle his grin, he failed. Athos exhaled slowly, nearly overcome with admiration, and asked, "Are you ready for this?"

Aramis chuckled and looked at those around him. "I could ask you the same thing," he said and draped his right arm over Athos' shoulders.

Athos nodded and walked side-by-side with Aramis back to the garrison.

Coming next: Follow the Storm