CHAPTER 2

The wind tried to ruffle his mussed brown hair, but sweat had plastered it to his skull and only the wavy tips were able to flutter in the breeze. His breath still came out in occasional harsh gasp as his distressed green eyes swept the landscape around him. His stomach was roiled and was on the edge of staging a revolt. His normally calm facade was cracking and on the verge of crumbling into a million shattered pieces.

It was over. It felt like he had been battling for an eternity, fighting for his very survival. Repelling attack after attack with no time for any thought that didn't keep him alive and ready to meet his next foe. And now it was over and his mind was horrified, shocked and numb at the carnage scattered around him.

Athos let his eyes drop from scanning the battlefield where he stood, which was littered with dead men, to the bloodstained weapons of war in his hands. His rapier and main gauche were bathed in the blood of the enemy. Though he would clean each one thoroughly, scrubbing, sanding and honing away the life fluid of his adversaries, he realized the memory of what occurred here today would not be so easily dismissed. There was no denying he had been fundamentally changed by what had transpired and from that there was no going back. Survival meant learning to process, accept and move forward; but it wasn't going to be easy.

War was nothing like what he'd read in the books. Dry tomes would never be able to capture the sights, sounds, smells and emotions that made up a real battlefield. There was no glory. Yes, one side prevailed, in this case the musketeers, but at what price? Up to now, when he had killed someone, he knew why; he knew exactly what they had done to deserve being shot or run through by his blade. If the truth be told, he really had only killed a few men in his life and each one he could personally declare why they had to die. Even his wife, though he quickly clamped down those thoughts before they could spread and add to his misery.

But today he had killed men just because they were on the opposing side. Yes, they were the so-called enemy, soldiers of Spain that were illegally on French soil. Yes, they had killed innocent French civilians in the nearby village. But had every single Spanish soldier he killed today deserved to die? Had each one he had dispatched to heaven or hell committed an atrocious crime that required death? How many were simply soldiers who died for nothing more than following orders?

Following orders, another place he knew he'd failed today. More than once he had found himself unwilling or unable to carry out the intentions of Lieutenant Roudon. It wasn't that he thought he knew better, well not always. Even though he was the inexperienced one, Roudon had made at least one serious mistake in Athos' books, one which he felt had almost caused Porthos to lose his life. Roudon had ordered Porthos to charge into a situation, alone, that would have gotten him killed had Athos not 'convinced' the rest of the men that they all were meant to charge forward. Roudon had not been happy to see all his men suddenly advancing not just the one he'd ordered. Roudon would surely complain and Treville would have a talk with Athos once more. But Athos struggled with the concept of following an order that didn't make sense, at least to him. And that, he supposed, was where the difficulty lay. If being a soldier meant blindly following a leader he didn't respect, Athos had a feeling the musketeers were not going to be a place where he could survive.

His mind was such a whirlwind, he barely registered Porthos' arrival at his side. That six sense that was beginning to form between the trio gave him just enough of an inkling so that he didn't do more than flinch when Porthos dropped a hand onto his shoulder.

Porthos let his eyes drift across the field to the large grey-black birds who were circling in the sky and he had to suppress a small shudder.

"Scavengers. I hate them," the streetfighter declared vehemently. "Though, they did make me become a musketeer.

As he glared at the skies watching the carrion birds circle lazily in the thermals, Porthos' mind drifted to the past. The streetfighter detested those birds. To him, they represented death. After every battle he'd been in, they appeared, the harbingers of the underworld. Trying for a moment to be charitable, he acknowledged they had a place in life, and he knew what it was like to be hungry, so he supposed it wasn't their fault, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

He'd actually met one, so to speak, up close and personal. It had been after a skirmish near the border of Spain. A blow to the head had rendered him unconscious on the battlefield. Luckily, when he went down, he took three other soldiers with him, so he ended up on the bottom of a pile of bodies. On the surface that might not sound blessed, but it proved to be when the Spanish, who won the day, had come around to ensure all the enemy were truly dead. Even though he was alive, he'd been overlooked at the bottom of the stack of human flesh and that had saved his life.

When he woke, he'd felt like he had the weight of the world pressing on him, but after a minute he realized it was three deceased soldiers, pinning his limbs and torso to the earth. After a moment or two to marshal his reserves, he'd shoved the bodies off until he was free. While he was pleased, the vulture that had been having a midday snack on the top body, was not as happy. The bird had flapped its massive wings, which were brown shaded down to black on the top, and all black underneath. When the bird spread its wings, it was as if a shroud of death was flapping in his face, which had caused Porthos to quake. Having shown its displeasure, the vulture had drawn its wings back to its sides and simply stared at its food, which had dared to move before it could be eaten.

The bird's head, neck, and part of its chest were surprisingly white, not such a good design Porthos had thought, given the bird's bloody, raw, carnivorous nature. What was more surprising, and perhaps even a bit comical, was the ruff of brown feathers around the lowest portion of the griffin vulture's neck. It almost gave the bird a slightly clownish look, until one noticed the dark grey beak with the business-like hook which left nothing to the imagination; there was nothing laughable about this bird's mission or intentions. And that vulture had not been alone. A small rotation of Porthos' head had shown a flock of vultures that was picking its way across the quiet battlefield.

Porthos had struggled to sit up for many reasons that day, not the least was to prove to this carnivore that he was not its next meal. The vulture had remained mostly unimpressed, simply hopping a few feet to the right, but never taking its dark, beady eyes off the wiggling soldier. Slowly, but steadily, Porthos had made it to his feet and stood in the midday sun, gazing about him. The battle clearly was over and based on what he saw, had been for a while, making him wonder just how long he was unconscious. There was no sign of human life anywhere. Porthos wasn't sure who had won and he wasn't sure which scenario was worse. Either the Spanish had won, or the French had won and deliberately left him behind. It wouldn't have surprised him to be forgotten; many of his fellow soldiers felt his presence, as one of mixed heritage, was undesirable even in a simple infantry unit. It had made him think back on the offer he had been recently presented by a Captain Treville, who was putting together a troop of elite soldiers to guard the King. Musketeers the Captain had called them.

Porthos had been shocked that he'd been sought out, personally, by this Captain and he had jokingly asked the man if he were colorblind, to which the man had answered he judged men by their worth, not their skin color or their parentage. Porthos had found it hard to believe that simple statement, for in his experience that was not how the world operated. He had to wonder if the man was not whom he seemed to be and his skepticism must have shown on his face for the Captain had smiled gently, repeated his offer and told Porthos to think upon it and get back to him when he was ready. There had been no doubt in Porthos' mind that Captain Treville was sure the streetfighter would join his new regiment of musketeers. It was on that battlefield, as he stood there wondering if his own regiment had abandoned him, that Porthos had decided that he would seek out this Captain Treville of the musketeers and see if he was a man of his word. And so, he had come to join the musketeers as one of the founding members.

Porthos came out of his reverie to find Athos looking at him with a curious expression, one eyebrow slightly peaked.

"I had been left by the bastards for dead and one of those," he nodded towards the circling vultures, "eyed me up for dinner."

Reading between the lines, Athos understood the bastards in this story weren't necessarily the birds.

"Not long before that battle, Captain Treville had sought me out to join his musketeers. He said he didn't care what color my skin was, or who my parents were, he simply saw me as a good soldier. So, when I got back to Paris, I looked him up and accepted his offer."

Athos' eyes shifted away from his friend to the littered landscape. "And so, you became a musketeer."

"I know. Sounds crazy." A small grin crossed Porthos' face. "But then again, you were run over by the Captain's horse and ended up joining the musketeers."

Athos let the side of his mouth quirk in what passed as a smile most times for the somber man. "I had a lot of prodding."

"And with good reason. You make a damn fine musketeer. You did great today. Always had Aramis' and my back," Porthos praised his friend. "I also know you defied Roudon to save my life."

"As you two had mine," the swordsman noted ignoring the comment about Roudon, which he did not want to discuss. "But still…" His eyes swept the dead men surrounding them.

Porthos, following Athos' gaze, nodded. "Oi. War ain't ever pretty. But trust me, you want to be where you are standing and not where they are lying."

Athos gave a quick, though unsure, nod.

"Come on. We're burying the dead of our enemy. Help me with moving these bodies over by the rest of their brethren."