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On the way back to the garrison after a long night at the tavern, Porthos turns the corner on an isolated, slushy street and runs into a bloodied d’Artagnan facing half a dozen Red Guard pointing their muskets at him.
The tableau is both concerning and, having come to know d’Artagnan over the last month, entirely unsurprising. Porthos shifts, his boots squelching in the mud, and seven pairs of eyes—and one musket—turn towards him.
“Well, this is interesting,” Porthos says.
“This is none of your business,” one of the Red Guard says shortly. “This street rat was directly challenging the Cardinal’s authority.”
“You and I,” Porthos says slowly, carefully, “have very different definitions of ‘directly challenging’—considering the Cardinal isn’t anywhere near and you speak for him as much I speak for the King, which is, not at all.”
The Red Guard who spoke twitches. His companions shift restlessly, the barrels of their muskets wavering. d’Artagnan breathes heavily, holding onto the wall behind him for support. Sweat rolls down Porthos’ face as the next minute stretches silently.
“Fight me, you cowards!” d’Artagnan shouts.
Porthos curses and dives for the Red Guard who’s trying to (incompetently) prime and fire his musket. He topples into his companion, who knocks another’s musket off-kilter, and a ball cracks into the wall mere inches from d’Artagnan’s head. Scrambling to his feet, Porthos grabs one musket and swings it around to slam into the head of the nearest Red Guard. He collapses to the ground, and Porthos leaps over him, grabs d’Artagnan’s hand, and runs.
He leads them down winding, slushy, poorly-lit streets, only slowing down when he feels d’Artagnan stagger. He turns just in time to catch the lad before he collapses, hefting him by hooking his hands under his shoulders, and dragging him underneath the shadow of a rickety overhang.
Blood drips in a steady line from his hairline and there’s a worrying wheeze trailing every breath, but d’Artagnan grins, says, “If we go around, we can still catch them before they go back to their garrison.”
Porthos pauses in the middle of patting him down to check for more injuries to give him an incredulous look. “We were lucky,” he says, “to get away without you getting your head blown clean off your shoulders. And you think we should go back?”
“But,” d’Artagnan’s eyes go very wide, very brown, “it’s not honourable to run away from a duel.”
Porthos gapes at him. “There’s nothing honourable about—what if you died because of—” He takes a deep breath. “You can handle a sword, I’ll give you that lad, but there’s a lot more you need to learn if you want to survive for even a week in this city, leave alone become a Musketeer.”
d’Artagnan straightens, shaking off Porthos’ hands, a curious glint entering his eye. “Then teach me,” he says, and grins.
Porthos grins back.