Chapter Text
A pointed cough broke the air behind them.
Athos drew back — barely. His hands remained warm against her cheeks. Claire could feel his breath on her lips, and she allowed herself to indulge in it for a heartbeat longer before she leaned just enough to peer past his shoulder.
Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan stood a few paces away with wide grins plastered on their faces.
“By all means, take your time,” Aramis said. “We shall shiver discreetly.”
Athos let out a short breath, half exasperation and half amusement. His gaze returned to her once more — her heart stumbled against her ribs at the look in it — before he stepped back. His hand settled at the nape of her neck.
The others approached in a loose circle; Porthos reached her first and clapped a broad hand on her shoulder. “Congratulations, mademoiselle,” he said. “Five years of war, and you still choose the most difficult man in France.”
D’Artagnan shot her an intent look. “You do remember that he wakes before dawn and stares at nothing for an hour?”
“Sometimes two,” Aramis supplied mildly.
Claire laughed, truly laughed, a sound that broke free from somewhere forgotten inside her. “I always did enjoy a good challenge,” she replied, glancing at Athos.
He tilted his head a fraction and lifted one brow. “A challenge,” he echoed dryly, and this time he did not bother to conceal the faint curve of his mouth.
She felt her own smile deepen as she looked at the four Musketeers. Porthos, all dark curls and open warmth; Aramis, with his idle smile beneath the brim of his hat; d’Artagnan, standing straighter than she remembered, the hilt of his sword resting against his hip; and Athos beside her, his hand still resting at her neck as though it had always belonged there.
She was unsteady on her feet, almost light-headed. She did not know if it was the exhaustion, or because that heavy weight in her chest — a cage of caution, restraint, and isolation that had held her upright for five years — had vanished at last, leaving her suddenly empty.
Room for something else. Something brighter, perhaps. Just this once.
“Well, then.” Porthos clapped his hands with satisfaction. “Paris it is.”
D’Artagnan had already turned toward the horses. “I suppose it’s de Villiers’s lucky day,” he said. For a moment, a shadow crossed his features.
“The account is not settled,” Athos said. “That will be remedied.”
“God help him, then,” Aramis said as he mounted.
Athos turned back to her and inclined his head toward her horse.
“Ready?” he asked softly.
“Only a moment.”
Claire faced the border, that invisible line still draped in fog. She slid the wedding band from her finger and held it in her palm for a moment.
She thought of the house in Pamplona that would begin to gather dust; of Colonel de Echevarría, who would note her sudden disappearance and forever wonder how much he had revealed to the enemy; of the black mourning veil she would never have to wear again.
She drew her arm back and threw the ring in one smooth, decisive motion. It traced a long arc against the pale sky, flashed once in the morning light, then vanished into the snow.
When she turned back, Athos was watching her. His eyes on her were soft and clear, and still a little bewildered. A smile played on his lips, making him look younger, gentler, despite the scars and the bruises.
He extended a hand to help her mount, and she took it; his fingers closed around hers, warm and steady, and gave a light squeeze.
“Ready,” Claire said.
She swung into the saddle, turned to the Musketeers, and smiled.
“Let us go home.”