Beeblegirl, I agree with you about Porthos... he really is the epitome of a hero! MountainCat, I'm so glad you agree - much more exciting than the first attempt!

And so we continue...

What had started as a simple management of clearing the lower quadrants of Paris had soon turned into a more monumental task as musketeers and red guards worked long hours clearing homes, protecting the vulnerable, and removing debris that collected, damned, and caused more damage to structures as the rush of water pressed against it. Poor workmanship became all too clear as homes were easily destroyed while water continued to sweep across the road and invade the living quarters of those who dared lodge near the low areas of Paris.

At the end of four days, the men were exhausted and eight people were dead, including: a mother who had tried to save her child from being swept downriver, an older man, who prior to the flood had suffered an injury that went putrid, a young musketeer recruit who had hit his head after falling while assisting in the rescue of a family, and four others who had drowned.

The musketeers had worked tirelessly on the banks, rebuilding, reenforcing, and trying to manage the breaks, all the while battling Mother Nature. Animals were moved to higher elevations. Food had been moved and packed within a nobleman's barn, and the men took shifts guarding and dispensing what they could. Church pews had been made into beds while families waited for the water to recede so they might return home.

Constance had found herself busy helping mothers repair and mend clothing and blankets, while the queen continued to supply food and needed supplies for those who had lost so much. Though she had not seen the devastation in person, she had taken what she heard to heart, and worked to supply what was needed for those who suffered.

Aramis sat on the floor, his legs extended before him, hands on his lap, and his head bowed. He had fallen asleep after his last shift. Over the course of the past four days, he had slept only ten hours and even those were restless. He had helped the sick, the injured, and those who simply found themselves overwhelmed with everything they had lost.

D'Artagnan carried blankets and pillows while Constance handed them to those who needed them most. Mothers with small children, the cripples, and the elderly. He, too, looked battered as sweat stained his blouse at his neck, beneath his arms, and down his back. His weapons belt remained secured to his waist, but now included a bag that housed buttons, coins, and a few stones and remnants of lives before the flooding. Tokens given to him out of appreciation for protecting the people and their children.

"We're going to need more oil for the lanterns," Constance said, taking the last blanket from d'Artagnan. She hugged it to her chest as she stepped from between two pews and looked around the room. "These people are exhausted."

D'Artagnan kissed her forehead and nodded. "We all are."

Constance smiled and gently touched his cheek with her palm. "You and Aramis should both return to the garrison, get some rest — I'll be fine here." She paused and looked toward the entry doors as Porthos entered the sanctuary with a large wooden crate, with Alice following behind.

They had not been formally introduced, but Porthos had spoken of her often. He had been so detailed in his descriptions of her that they both recognized her. Beautiful, with soft features and a kind demeanor, Alice stepped forward and looked at Porthos when he gently placed his arm over her shoulders. She was small, petite, with raven black hair, and a small mole to the left of her nostril. It was her large brown eyes that spoke volumes, determined, sophisticated, loving, and gentle.

Porthos handed d'Artagnan the crate and nodded. "Candles. I'm sure the church 'as some bu' this will 'elp." He looked just as tired as d'Artagnan, with drawn features and dark circles beneath his eyes. His normally clean appearance was reduced to muddy boots, britches, and even his doublet had suffered a mishap with the flood.

"Alice?" Constance looked disappointed at Porthos for not introducing her, and then smiled when she looked at Alice. Constance grasped Alice's hand gently. "We've heard about you — I'm glad to finally put a face to your name."

"Given everything that has happened," Alice said, "I wanted to offer rooms at my estate — it's not large, but it will help a few who need it most."

Constance tilted her head toward those in the pews and gently smiled. "Where do we begin?"

"Perhaps families — those with children, particularly those who are most susceptible?" Alice said with a shrug.

Constance raised her eyebrows, broadened her smile, and pointed her index finger toward the ceiling. "Oh, I like you." She stepped forward, slipped her arm beneath Alice's and walked with her to the front of the church. They spoke quietly together, and then, just as suddenly, decisions were made and strategies in place for those most in need.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos and shrugged.

Porthos grinned. It was not his look of contentment or his look of satisfaction, but rather a look of ulterior motives and scheming. "Her estate was on the list of those to check — she was the only one who didn't require a lot of assistance an' the only one who offered to 'elp."

"Is that all?" D'Artagnan looked at the box of candles in speculation.

"What else is there?"

"You need to stop speaking with Athos," d'Artagnan said, shifted the box within his arms and walked to the front of the church near the alcove where Aramis slept. "You're beginning to sound like him."

Porthos chuckled and followed.. "Where's Aramis?"

D'Artagnan tilted his head toward the alcove to his right. "He fell asleep while working." He placed the box on the floor near the wall. "He's gone nearly 96 hours on just a few hours of sleep."

"I'll take him back to the garrison."

"Are you going to carry him?"

"He's not the first musketeer I've 'ad to carry an' 'e won't be the last." Porthos stepped past d'Artagnan and squatted next to Aramis with his elbows on his knees. Gently, Porthos patted Aramis' cheek.

Suddenly Aramis inhaled, leaned back, and rested his head against the wall. "What?" He said and then rubbed his dry eyes. He blinked several times, allowing the dimmed light to focus, and he looked around the small alcove.

"I'm takin' you back to the garrison, brother. You need some sleep."

Aramis huffed, pressed his hand to the floor, and, with a groan, pushed himself to his feet. He leaned against the wall as exhausted muscles trembled and worked to regain their strength. "Where's Athos?" He rolled his shoulder, took a deep breath, and suddenly stretched with a long, drawn out, groan.

Porthos shrugged and d'Artagnan cleared his throat. "He went to inform the Surrette family about their son, young recruit Patrick."

Aramis nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "I can honestly say I'm grateful I do not have the title of captain."

Porthos grimaced and said, "You're not alone."