Hey, there in the past days I've written my new ff.

It's my take on how Aramis, Athos & Porthos became friends.

The story can be read as a stand alone, but it mentions several backstory topics of my ff

"In the hour of need I can count on you."

"Facing the storm" is finished! And I try! to post it between 3-4 days a week, more often when I find the time to do it.

My thanks goes out to Beth & Helen for helping me with proofreading and medical details. My apologies to all of you who have been waiting for the next chapter of "In the hour of need …" I had only little time during the weekend, but I will post the next chapter on Saturday as usual. Thanks for your understanding xx Kira

English is not my first language, so be patient with me. Thank you!

Summary:

Athos' first mission as a newly commissioned Musketeer has him not only running into trouble, but stretches Aramis and Porthos limits as well ...

Disclaimer:

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Facing the storm

"Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes."

"La vie est une tempête, mon jeune ami. Baigné de soleil, vous serez brisé sur les récifs l'instant d'après. Ce qui fait l'homme,c'est votre réponse à cette tempête."

Alexandre Dumas

Chapter 1

"Porthos! Watch out!"

The loud shout of the other Musketeer, his voice obviously filled with fear, a sound which he had never heard from him before, was the first odd noise he heard. Turning slowly around he spotted a fifth raider, he hadn't seen earlier.

How could we miss him? We counted four. Where did he come from?

Porthos tried to escape the attack, but it was too late, the young shabby man, probably about twenty, who smelled of alcohol and onions, had fired his pistol. While Porthos was waiting to feel the pain gripping his body or a frightening blackness which would kill him, that somehow didn't come, he raised his own pistol in slow motion and fired his last bullet from his second pistol.

Now, we are out of ammunition. He bitterly thought realising that although they had managed to kill four other raiders, they had lost the battle.

The second loud noise was unexpected and it took Porthos a while to understand where it had come from. His brother-in-arms had not only warned him, but had thrown himself into the line of fire, when he realised that his warning shout had come too late. Porthos' fired bullet met its aim and the raider dropped with a hole in his chest to the stone floor.

The third loud thud was the worst noise and it made the streetfighter shudder while he tried to grab for his comrade's arms with both hands, but he was too late. Hit by the other fired bullet the Musketeer swayed dangerously, stepped backwards, slipped on the stone floor and tumbled down the stairs, which led to the first floor of the château.

Porthos only heard his comrade slipping down over the circular staircase, his head first, the rest of his body behind. His dark leather uniform touching the wooden stairs and giving only a little protection to the body of the injured man. The metal of his brother's sword scraped over the stairs and it reminded him of the sound of a carriage driving over a bumpy ground and hitting each elevated stone.

After what felt like an eternity Porthos heard a loud thud, when the body of the other Musketeer - he couldn't see any longer - finally reached the floor at the end of the staircase. Eerie silence followed the fall of his comrade. No moan, no whimper, no shout, no scream and it scared Porthos.

The streetfighter had waited while the young man fell down the stairs, which must have been only a few seconds. Kind of frozen from the loud sounds Porthos was now startled and jumped into action. With a last glance over all their attackers, who were lying dead at different spots in the corridor, where they had started their attack minutes ago, the big Musketeer rushed down the stairs, which were covered with blood spots and a long blood trace. Seeing the red colour which belonged to the body fluid of the Musketeer, he feared the worst.

Several seconds later he dropped next to the limp body. The young Musketeer was lying on the cold stone floor. His body had collapsed in a strange form, somehow curled up like a hedgehog, who is in hibernation and disturbed by a cat, which played with it and moved it on its side. The face of the injured man was pressed on the stone floor, covered by thick curls, which hung messily over his cheeks, both hands tangled around his right side and his legs outstretched on the floor.

Please let him live. Please God.

Porthos started to pray, while he frantically removed the black glove from his right hand and felt for a pulse at the injured man's neck. When he couldn't feel anything, because his fingers had started to tremble heavily, he howled out loud, then he gently turned his brother on his side, cradling his head carefully in his hands, while manhandling him. He could see blood seeping from a head wound on his right temple, which was still bleeding. With the greatest care he could muster, he put his head in his lap. The eyes of the man in front of him were closed.

Sitting now on the cold floor his legs and feet outstretched. Porthos was glad that he could use his lap as a cushion. After he was certain that his comrade was lying in a more comfortable position on his right side. He lifted his right palm and placed it gently onto his brother's chest. He could feel the fast heartbeat under his strong hand and he sighed out loudly, realising that he must have held his breath while examining him.

Even in his unconscious state the injured Musketeer's hand was still pressing down over the area of his left hip and Porthos could see blood seeping from under the long fingers, finding its way to the stone floor. The streetfighter's eyes wandered back from the bullet wound in his brother's lower abdomen to his face. The eyes still shut, the breathing barely audible, but kind of erratic, and the skin on his face much too white. The freckles seemed to have gone, instead a layer of cold sweat had formed on his face, especially the forehead, as he gently wiped the strands of hair out of his face.

"Can you hear me?"

Porthos broke the silence and was startled by his own voice which sounded dull, harsh, far away, somehow broken, expressing his own emotional state of shock.

The streetfighter received no answer. He wished his other comrades would come and help him, but they were still outside of the château. They had decided to split up and the two of them had entered the castle, while the others had gone to check on several sheds, the small stable and the huge French and English gardens.

"Come on, open your eyes."

Porthos bent over his comrade's ear and whispered the words over and over again and quietly calling his name, while watching his face closely, but the latter didn't react. Porthos searched in his clothes for a handkerchief and when he finally found a piece of cloth he pressed it down on the wounded temple, stopping the blood loss. He knew he had to examine the wound at his brother's abdomen and for other injuries he might have sustained while falling down the stairs. He wasn't sure if the young man, whose head was lying in his lap, would survive or die in his arms.

"Don't do this to me. Don't die. Live!" Porthos heard himself saying in the silence of the great corridor where they were now sitting and lying. "Do you hear me, fight. Help is on the way. I am sure of it."

He bent over the man's ear and whispered in it, while considering what he should do next. A sound from behind him startled him.

XXXXX

Ten hours earlier

"He's not fit for duty Captain!"

Porthos shouted angrily at Tréville and both men locked their eyes for several seconds.

"Careful, Porthos!"

Tréville's pale blue eyes did not let go of his soldier's face, until the latter ruefully dipped his head and mumbled an apology. Tréville continued in his loud roaring voice, which Aramis was certain could be heard outside the Captain's office even with the door closed.

"I've ordered you to take him under your wings." Tréville shouted angrily back. "You know that he has a problem with alcohol. It's your duty to stop him."

"How can I save someone who doesn't want to be saved?" Porthos asked a little confused. "All I am saying is that he is not fit to come along to the palace today. Aramis, say something." Porthos turned his head towards his brother pleading with his eyes for help.

The medic had watched his Captain and Porthos for a while to become upset about their new commissioned Musketeer. Athos had been only commissioned several days ago. Tréville had needed more men. Aramis wondered if the Captain would have supported any other recruit such as he had done with Athos. They all knew that the talented swordsman had saved their Captain's life*, but the medic wasn't sure if that was the only reason why Tréville was protecting him more than other soldiers who wanted a commission to become a King's Musketeer. Now Aramis sighed and looked first at Porthos blaming him with his brown eyes that he had put him into this position, before he removed his hat from his head, while kneading it, embarrassed he looked at his commanding officer.

"Porthos is right, Captain. Athos is not fit for duty today."

"He was in time for morning muster, he stood directly beside you, Aramis. His back straight, his eyes directed forwards. He appeared fit to me." Tréville answered with a dangerous tone in his voice telling Aramis not to provoke him any further. "So what makes you think that he's not fit?"

Before Aramis could answer that question, Porthos stepped nearer to their Captain and answered for the medic.

"He is drunk Captain. He's not sober."

"For being drunk he could still walk upright and hide his facial expressions." Tréville now sighed, knowing that he should listen to his two advanced soldiers.

"We know that he can tolerate more alcohol than other men and we even managed to stop him from drinking himself into a stupor in following your orders for these past weeks, Captain, but …"

Aramis wanted to continue, when Porthos finished his sentence.

"But last night he managed to hide from us. We couldn't find him anywhere. He returned to the garrison one hour before morning muster. Alfons, the inkeeper from the "Royal sword", had mercy and brought him back after the gates of the city were opened in the morning. He recognised his blue Musketeer cape."

"Athos could barely stand and wasn't able to walk on his own." Aramis added. "I've no idea how he managed to come to morning muster at all, but one thing is for certain he's still not sober."

Aramis closed his report, while remembering the smell from Athos during morning muster. It had smelled of cheap wine.

"I warned him in the beginning. I told him that I won't allow him to become a soldier and a Musketeer in the King's guard, if he wasn't in time for morning muster. I guess that's the reason why he appeared instead of sleeping it off somehow."

Tréville drew his hand over his face, then he sat down behind his desk on his wooden chair, put both of his elbows on the dark brown desk, supporting this way his chin and looked up to them.

"Captain ..."

Porthos tried it again, however he was stopped by Tréville who lifted his left hand to give him a sign to stay silent.

"Do you know why he hid from you and drank himself into a stupor last night? Are other recruits and Musketeers picking on him again?"

Tréville knew exactly that there were several of his men, who were envious because Athos had been protéged by him and commissioned faster than others. He had known that it was a risk, albeit he had seen Athos' abilities and during the past weeks the young man had managed to show him his gratitude by working hard. Somehow Tréville had the feeling that he had given the young man a new purpose in life that perhaps helped him to drink less. Until now.

Nevertheless the Captain of the Musketeers was well aware that the withdrawn young man carried a dark secret in his heart he wasn't able to talk about yet. He assumed some trauma that had caused him to lose a loved person, but what did he know?

"Not that I've heard of. Certainly there are still recruits who don't like Athos, however they admire his sword skills and see that he's a born soldier, when he's not drunk." Aramis said cautiously.

"Now that he's commissioned they are keeping their distance." Porthos added.

"So it will be your task to find out what happened last night!"

Tréville ordered them, looking both his soldiers in their eyes, stood up again and walked towards the door, he stopped at his metal folding screen and fetched his hat and blue cape, which he put on. The hat still in his hands he turned towards his men. "I've to go to the palace, meeting with the King. Make sure that he sobers up and then come after the other Musketeers. You will be allowed to start your palace guard later today." Tréville went over to the door, opened it and turned around. "I will talk to him tonight and you can bet that I will have him on stable duty for the rest of the week. Oh, and Porthos, try not to batter him this time."**

Porthos smirked, while Aramis inwardly sighed. Their Captain knew exactly that it hadn't been Porthos' intention to cause his comrade so much bruising several weeks ago, but their stubborn new recruit had fought him a whole afternoon long.**

Porthos looked ashamed over to Aramis who answered him, after Tréville had left.

"You know that the Captain just wanted you to cool off before seeing our drunkard." He laughed and gave him a slap on his back.

Porthos looked sadly at him.

"Believe me I still feel guilty about that afternoon."

"I know, mon ami, but you do recall that Athos never held you responsible for his bruised ribs and bruises on his face."

"That's what makes it even worse." Porthos mumbled. "Anyway I still think that he's not fit for duty and I doubt that he will tell us why he went alone to that cheap and filthy tavern. He never says anything about his past. He is good in hiding his true emotions, unless he's drinking."

"Let's make sure that we sober him up with cold water and food. Come, I have to tell Marsac that we will follow him a little later."

"Don't tell Marsac the reason." Porthos suddenly looked at Aramis. "Or we have to hear again that Tréville should have never recruited Athos. He's good at causing trouble talking nastily about Athos when he is with the recruits or other Musketeers. He still thinks that Tréville has made a big mistake by accepting Athos as a Musketeer."

"Forgive Marsac. He's from a noble family and sometimes he forgets that not only noble men are serving with him, but he is a good soldier and would give his life for you."

Aramis put his hat back on his head and left Tréville's office, followed by Porthos in the search of their miserable comrade.

To be continued ...

Notes:

* Scene from "In the hour of need, I can count on you", ch 9

** Scene from "In the hour of need, I can count on you", ch 34 lol (already written, I still have to post it).