I'm glad you've found this little tale of mine. But eventhough I've written it down, I unfortunately don't own the musketeers.

I won't work on this sotry as I do on the others, as this is supposed to be something different. I will probably update less and in times where I have a writer's block in my main storys. I haven't worked out yet how it sis supposed to go on, so maybe your rreviews can achieve some change in the storyline?
I'm just as curious as you where this one leads!

He shuffled back to his feet, gripping the sword tighter so the knuckles of his freezing fingers turned as white as the snow beneath him. He took a step forwards, careful to not slip again on the wet ground. His lungs burned as the ice cold air rushed into them, his muscles arched with every move and he felt the strain in his arm as he blocked another stroke from his opponent. The man was smaller than him, weaker. Still he had enough strength to cause Porthos to stumble back. The opponent's moves were faster and precisely. He seemed to read the taller man's mind, as nothing Porthos did could suprise his opponent.
Another few fast blows and Porthos lost the grip around his sword, the weapon flew through the air before it crashed to the ground and in front of another muskteers feet.
Porthos grumbled as he walked over to get his weapons back, frustrated that he had lost another match against one of the other new recruits. Yesterday, as they had to fight with nothing else but their fists, he felt proud as no one had a chance against him. But today, after hours of training, he still hadn't won one yet.
"Did you ever held a sword before?" His opponent suddenly asked. Porthos belived his name was Athos or something like that, a highborn son. The dark skinned recruit shook is head, a little bit ashamed.
In the Court of miracles he had his fists and knifes - and that had always been enough to defend himself. But now he not only had to learn how to ride a horse, but also how to shoot and fight with a sword.
"That explains a lot." The noble man answered with an unreadable mask and Porthos wondered if he had ever seen the man laugh.

Porthos huffed and turned around as Serge called for dinner. His stomach grumbled in response.
As he hadn't found any friends yet - a dark skinned man from the Court wasn't the most popular person in the regiment - he sat down on a still empty table.

As he heard the screaking of a chair being pulled back, he looked up to find a young man sit down in front of him. Porthos remembered to have seen him a few times around the garrison, the worn and used pauldron on his shoulder indicated that he wasn't one of the new recruits.
There only a few comissioned musketeers left, as twenty men were attacked a month ago. That was why so many recruits were new at once and Porthos couldn't help but wonder if the young man in front of him was there at the attack.
But there was no way he would have asked him this question, as he watched the musketeer shove his food from one side to the other one.
"Watching won't be enough, you need to eat it too. " Porthos joked in hope to get a response. The young man only looked up for a short moment before he looked back to his food as if it had offended him.
Just now Porthos noticed how thin the man was, the muscles of a usual musketeer weren't to be found.
"I'm Porthos byt the way." He then tried and earned another short glance from the dull eyes of the man. "Aramis." He answered quietly and the blood in Porthos veins froze. He only had heard the tales of Savoy, but in each one there was the same Name. The lone survivor. Some said he was a coward, who had hid in the forest. Others said he was a hero. Some told him that Aramis had gone insane after the massacer... There had been so many storys, that Porthos didn't know which one to believe.

"I'm sorry." Was all he was able to get out of his suddenly dry mouth. Aramis huffed and shook his head, before he stood up far too slowly and wearily for a man his age. "They all are." He answered and went, his food was still untouched.

"Let him be. He doesn't want to make friends, so you shouldn't force him." Josef had turned around on the bench right behind Porthos. The tall man decided not to answer, but to himself he thought otherwise. Aramis seemed lonely and lost and maybe he only needed someone to show him the right way. Moreover, this had been one of the longest conversation he had ever had with anyone of the musketeers and Porthos was grateful that he didn't find any sign of hate in Aramis' eyes.

After dinner Porthos decided to go and drink a few glasses of wine, play a little bit of cards and maybe find some woman to share the night with.
As he walked in the tavern that was closest to the garrison, his eyes fell on a lonely person in the corner. An almost empty bottle and a newly filled glass of wine stood in front of Athos as he stared at the table.
"Drinking alone isn't that much fun, huh?" Porthos had his hand alread laid on the rest of the chair, ready to pull it back and sit down, as Athos glanced up sceptically. "Maybe I chose to drink alone to stay alone."
Porthos frowned but then shrugged as he saw a few older men playing cards at the next table. "I will be right there." He said, but Athos had his attention already turned back to his wine.

And so the evening turned into night and Porthos wealth grew with each round of cards.

After a few hours there were no one drunk or stupid enough to play against him. As the tall man looked around the room in search for another opponent he only found a few lost souls left, as most people had already retired to bed.
Athos sat slumped in the same spot he did as Porthos had arrived, two empty bottles in front of him and a cup in his left hand, while the right one supported his heavy head. Morning muster would start in only a few hours and Porthos started to worry that the other recruit wouldn't make it till then without up.
So he took the coins that still laid on the table from the last game and strode towards the table in the corner. "Athos?" He asked carefully but got no answer from the drunk man.

"We should get you to your rooms." As Porthos pulled the cup out of the noble man's hand, Athos muttered something before he lifted his head. Half-opened eyes eyed Porthos in suprise, as the tall man laid an arm around Athos' shoulder and pulled him upwards. "You're not sleeping in the Garrison, do you? Haven't seen you there. Where are your lodgings?"

Outside the tavern Athos tried to oriantate himself, but with all the alcohol in his system it was hard enough to stay upright. "No problem. You can sleep in my room." Porthos offered and as the drunk man didn't respond he dragged him towards the garrison.

After what seemed like hours the recruits finally made it to Porthos room, where he lead Athos to the bed. The noble was asleep the moment his back met the soft material beneath it. Porthos laughed to himself and took of the man's shoes and put a blanket over him.
As the only available bed was already in use, Porthos took a chair and placed his legs on the table. He dozed off moments later.


Porthos stood in the first row, his back straight and his cheat filled with pride as every morning at muster. It remembered how far he had come, that he now was part of the King's personal guards - the best of the best.
"Athos." Treville's voice echoed through the courtyard and Porthos flinched as he prepared to explain the man's absence. But what could he tell that wouldn't get Athos into trouble? He had tried to wake the hungover man, he really had tried but Athos had just turned around and kept on sleeping.

"Here!" Relief and suprise filled Porthos as he saw the recruit hurrying out of his room. Treville didn't seem fond that Athos was late, but he didn't say anything.

"Aramis." As with Athos before there was no imediate answer but this time Treville didn't seem annoyed or angry, not even suprised and he just went on with muster.
After orders were given and Athos and Porthos were supposed to train with the muskets, Treville didn't vanish in his office as always but into one of the other rooms.