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Athos had only to look to his right to see Porthos standing still, pale, as though struck by a thunderbolt, and no more able to defend himself than a child when confronted by an adult. That his father had, assuredly, been Porthos’s size once himself, was obvious. The past strength was still there, in arms knotted with muscles protruding from what looked like a short-sleeved peasant shirt. The breeches below ended just beneath the knees leaving equally muscular legs exposed. He wore what Athos could only presume to be some sort of hunting boot, in a style that hadn’t been fashionable for centuries. But such as he was and such as he stood-his feet apart, his arms crossed on his chest, his gaze threatening to call down Olympian thunderbolts- still, he had lost mass and probably strength. He stooped. The hair was all white save where the reflection of the red fire gave it back lost color. And Athos suspected that if the hall were better lit, it would show the man was wasted and weak.

But this light didn’t show it, and besides, he was Porthos’s father, the recipient of respect inculcated in those distant days of childhood when the reason for respect need not be rational, and the simple fact that his father was such, and a lord, and stronger than Porthos would have been enough to control the wayward boy’s rebellion.

“I do not mean to disturb you,” Athos said, putting on his best and haughtiest manner, his coldest and most polite air. “But we were under the impression that friends of your son, and your son himself might very well be allowed to shelter in your home for a night’s sojourn.”

The grey eyes that turned to meet Athos’s gaze might be the same color as Porthos’s, but the resemblance stopped there. Beyond the grey color and the same shape, there was nothing of Porthos’s warmth in that look. Only cold, icy resentment and a soul that knew its own truth and cared not for anyone else’s opinion. “I don’t know how you could be so imposed upon,” the lord said, his voice cold. “But the truth is that I had one son only and he died, years ago. I don’t know who the imposter in your midst is, pretending to be my son, but he’s none of mine. Go. Leave me alone with my old age and my grief.”

“Oh, this is too much,” Aramis said, from the side, in the tone of voice that sounded like the words had been torn from him by irritation. “He looks like you, just like you, and your servant knows him and-”

“I beg your pardon?” Porthos’s father said, turning to stare at Aramis. “Did you call me a liar, sir? Will I have to call you out on an affair of honor?”

Athos, frozen with terror that Aramis would accept and kill Porthos’s father, or worse, that he would accept and manage somehow to get wounded by the old man who must have taught Porthos all he knew, couldn’t find the words to speak. And then Porthos spoke. He removed his hat, and held it in front of him, as if he had been a plebeian petitioning his lord, or a child petitioning his guardian, “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, his voice slow and exact, in that voice he used when he wished to appear dumber than he was. His appeasing voice, Athos thought.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Porthos said again and bowed very slightly. “I see now that we came to quite the wrong house. I don’t know how I made that mistake, but it is easy in the dark of night, in this place in the middle of nowhere, or certainly nowhere civilized people would want to be. I beg your pardon most heartily and we will go.”

And on that he turned, and walked to his horse to loosen the ties that held him to the wall. “But, Porthos!” Aramis said.

“Shh” was Porthos’s only reply. “Shhh.”

He untied his horse, but didn’t mount, instead starting to walk slowly down the path they’d come. Athos thought this was one of those times he would have to trust that Porthos knew what he was doing and follow Porthos’s lead in his actions. He untied his horse and took him by the rein and started after Porthos down the path through what was either wilderness or very neglected gardens. The other two joined, on either side of them. Looking to his side, Athos could see that D’Artagnan looked wholly puzzled. He wondered what the boy’s home life was and if an unreasonable parent was so wholly unexpected.

“You, stop.” Came from behind them, in a scream.

Athos looked to Porthos, who shook his head slightly and continued walking down the path, as though nothing were the matter. They heard running steps after them, and an irate voice say, harshly, “Are you such a coward, sir, that you do not understand a challenge? I should have known that anyone who thought himself a friend of my son would be craven and-”

Porthos turned, and Athos turned also, just in time to see his friend intercept the old man who had been running straight towards Aramis. Porthos’s father’s left hand had been raised as if to strike a blow, and his right hand had been tugging at his sword. Porthos had grabbed both hands, holding them in their positions, immobile.

“I told you I made a mistake,” he said. “And my friend, too, made a mistake in trusting me to identify my childhood home. It’s clear to me you’re wholly a stranger and not my father. It is obvious to me that I do not know you. Go back to your house, please. And be at peace.”

It was clear to Athos, who was near enough to see the exchange, that Porthos was exerting some force in holding the old man, and that his father was forcing forward, still attempting to carry out who knew what mad attack on Aramis. For a long time they were locked like that, and Athos was sure that the second Porthos let go of the old man he would come running, madly, to attack one of them, to seek the fight which he seemed to believe was essential to his honor or his well being.

But instead, after a long while, the man shook his head and shrugged. “If you’re all such cowards that you won’t duel me, then it is obvious I might as well go inside and eat my supper.”

At the word “coward” Aramis stepped forward, but Athos held him, and the one small step must have been invisible in the dark, because the man turned and went back to the manor house.

“Athos, that was vile,” Aramis said, turning to Athos. “And Porthos also. Why wouldn’t you let me take up his challenge. Surely you’re not going to tell me filial duty held you in place, when he treats you in such a disgraceful way?”

Porthos shook his head slowly, like one in a dream. “Not… not duty exactly,” he said. “But Aramis, if you dueled him and killed him, it would be murder. He’s not the man I remembered. Time has not dealt kindly with him, and he was already old when I was born. You’d have killed him far too easily and once having killed him, you’d have accounted yourself a murderer the rest of your life. He’s not worth it, Aramis.”

Aramis looked like he was about to say something, but he must have seen Athos’s warning frown, because he stepped back.

It wasn’t till they’d come within sight of the village again, that Athos said, “And now what? Where will we sleep, Porthos? Is there a hostelry, hereabouts?”

Porthos, who had seemingly been immersed in thoughts of his own, now turned to look at Athos. “There is no hostelry,” he said. “Not for another two hours riding and that if we’re lucky, as I don’t remember very precisely. And that,” he said, “was a vile accommodation, fit only for the lowest of villains. You wouldn’t want to lodge there. It wouldn’t please you.”

Athos didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I know this is all very well for you young people, but I’m past the age where I find it comfortable to sleep under a tree rolled in my cloak.”

“No need for that,” Porthos said, mounting his horse. “There is still one place around here where I may be sure of my welcome.”

They mounted, and the servants who had stayed fixed on the road behind them as they passed, mounted also, and followed them.