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Chapter Text

War Heroes

10

Worth Dying For

The Garrison Mess

"You'd best hope your information yields results," d'Artagnan warned, rising dismissively.  "Take him to the chatalet, we'll decide what's to be done with him when we return." 

The guttersnipe had been the lowest of minions, he'd told them next to nothing, though d’Artagnan was certain they had acquired everything the traitor knew.  Grimaud had left town last night, riding east. 

East of Paris covered a lot of ground. 

d'Artagnan jerked his head toward the door and raised an eyebrow, clearing the room of all but the Inseparables with a single glance.  He waited, eyeing Athos slumped against the low sideboard, until the door closed behind Brujon.  The bored ennui dropped away like the façade it was as he yanked a pair of tables together.  Plates and cutlery clattered to the floor with a swipe of his arm.

"How long since you last practiced your suturing, Aramis?"

"Probably the last time I stitched you up."  Aramis cocked his head.  "I was forbidden the practice of the healing arts at the abbey.  Why?"

"Right then, Porthos, get your kit," the youthful war hero advised, warning Athos of his intentions with the merest brush of a hand down the captain's left shoulder before stripping off the man's leather coat.  As gently as possible, but with purpose. 

The door slammed behind their large companion before Aramis realized d'Artagnan was expecting Porthos to stitch up Athos' shoulder.  The bigger surprise was Athos' wordless cooperation as d'Artagnan relived him of his shirt, maneuvered the injured musketeer face down onto the expediently cleared tables, uncorked a bottle of whiskey with his teeth and poured half of it over the deep slash across the right shoulder blade. 

There was muscle visible; Aramis suspected movement of any kind would reveal bone.

Porthos banged back through the door, fumbling open a small log-shaped roll of canvas bound with thin strips of leather.  It rolled out on the table next to Athos as a tool case with a series of pockets containing various surgical instruments, needles and thread, and a small bottle of laudanum.  He splashed the remainder of the whiskey over a largish needle. 

Aramis found his voice.  "Uh, smaller works better.  More work, neater stitches, less scarring."

"I don't give a damn about the size of the needle, or scarring," Athos hissed.  "Just get it over with."

"Ya sure you don' wan' me ta knock ya out first?"  Porthos no longer needed the kindness himself, war having burned away the indignity of fainting at the sight of his own blood, but he could never resist offering when the opportunity arose. 

"Shut up and stitch," Athos ordered, the command no less compelling for being delivered through clenched teeth. 

"Are you sure you don’t me to do that?"  Aramis' stomach did a slow flip watching the too-large needle pierce flesh. 

Athos’ back was a study in rigidity, a sculpture of rippling muscle and bone bathed in cold sweat that rolled down the slope of the taut shoulder blades to pool in the hollow at the base of the spine. 

"No," Porthos and d'Artagnan said in unison. 

"Porthos' last foray into stitching was less than a month ago.” d’Artagnan turned his head, drawing back his hair on the right side of his face.  “When he sewed my ear back on.  No offense, Aramis, but recent activity trumps years ago experience under the circumstances."

"The ladies do love a scar," Aramis said, twitching back an assailment of wounded pride. 

Porthos glanced up sharply, eyes narrowed.  "There's a kerchief in 'm front, left pocket, c'n ya get it and find some more alcohol?  Even bleedin' as sluggishly as it is, it's still hard to see what 'm doin'."  He, perhaps more than the others, knew how much Aramis abhorred self-pity.  "Just took what I'd already learned from you and added some field experience," he muttered, bending back to the task. 

Ack, caught again; Aramis grimaced.  He stretched across the table to pull the kerchief from the pocket of the hip Porthos jutted out, took the second bottle of whiskey d’Artagnan handed him, soaked the kerchief, and swabbed the area clean again.  "You've become rather proficient at it."

"Good God," Athos gasped between them, "could the two of you pick a better time to make up?  We should have been after that monster last night!  d'Artagnan, knock me out and throw me over a horse when they're done.  Maybe I'll wake up in Lorraine two days ago.  If I have any luck left, at the very least I will not wake up until we are there.  In the meantime, SHUT UP AND STITCH!" 

Porthos resumed stitching post haste.  He might use a large needle, but his handiwork was neat and precise and did not produce much more in the way of scarring than the wound itself.  Plus, he'd learned to be efficient and quick about it, since there had rarely been time to administer, much less recover from, any kind of sedation on the battlefield.  Just as there was no time here.

Within the quarter hour, d'Artagnan was bandaging Porthos' handiwork while the big man retrieved Athos' clothing, then strapped up the arm once they had their captain dressed again.

"d'Artagnan."  The quality of Athos' voice stopped the youth as the quartet gathered up their various belongings.   

d'Artagnan, one hand on the door latch, looked back.    

"Good work."  Athos offered the quiet words of praise sincerely.  "Brujon has your excellent sense of timing." 

d'Artagnan grinned.  "Can't teach that."  He caught the apple Porthos tossed him as Aramis squeezed past, took a bite, dragged his coat on and stiff-armed the door open.  "I'll catch up with you in the courtyard.  Constance will need to know where we're going, she can get word to Tréville.  Any thoughts on how long we might be gone?"

Porthos pushed past as well. 

"As much as I am driven to, we cannot just go haring off after Grimaud without any idea where he might have gone."

d'Artagnan stopped again; this time in surprise.  He had expected to be racing east after the madman as soon as they had the horses saddled.  "You don't think Lorraine?"

"I do not believe he can make it that far in the condition he is in."

d’Artagnan let the wisdom sink in.  "What do you want to do?"

Athos sighed. He wanted to be on a horse, riding hell for leather after Grimaud, but he could not chase a phantasm that disappeared at the drop of a hat.   "See who else among the Red Guard we can round up."  He followed d'Artagnan out into the corridor, gingerly pulling his coat over the angry buzzing of his newly stitched shoulder.  God it hurt!  His entire body fought to lay him out horizontal, but he ignored the screaming pain receptors and trudged down the hallway, following d'Artagnan, who trotted ahead of him, full of youthful vigor, down the stairs and into the courtyard.

The youth caught up with Aramis and Porthos, his head turning, too, to watch the guards manhandle a pair of prisoners toward the barracks detention cell.

Oh to be young again and still the possessor of that ability to bounce back from injury or illness in the blink of an eye.  Athos joined them as another pair of new recruits, escorted by Brujon, marched the worthless turncoat out of the courtyard, headed for the chatalet to which d’Artagnan had remanded him. 

"That fool was a waste of time," Porthos spat between his teeth.  "Grimaud could be anywhere by now."

"In all likelihood, he’s headed for Lorraine.”  Aramis merely lifted an eyebrow when Athos caught him staring.

"Athos and I just had this conversation.  It's unlikely.”  d'Artagnan perched on the table, pulled his feet up on the bench and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees.  "Two-hundred-mile ride and he's carrying injuries."   He wiped his hands over his face with a sigh.   He was as eager as Athos to be off hunting the scum, but their captain was right, they could not just take off on a hunch, there was too much at stake.  Marceau would make a nice haul, but he had gone to ground, too, perhaps even traveling with Grimaud.  d'Artagnan had had people out looking for the last twenty-four hours.  In a moment, he would head back out again as well, at Athos’ direction. 

"Long list of nobles in the East who need sweet talking." Aramis slanted his arquebus over his shoulder. 

"If you were him," Athos, holding his arm, barely turned his head from d'Artagnan to Porthos.  "Where would you go?"

Aramis folded away a sigh, burying it deep in a lonesome cavern of his heart.  They had been together a long time without him, the new patterns were ingrained bone deep. 

"Epesses ... the village he's from." 

Four dark heads turned at the sound of the quietly offered words. 

"And how would you know that?" Porthos asked, eyeing Sylvie skeptically as she strolled further into the courtyard.

"He told me, when he was trying to earn my trust."  The refugee advocate, hands clasped behind her back, stopped six feet from Athos.  "I heard you had not found him yet.  That he’s fled the city."  She glanced around the circle of Musketeers, all of whom she'd come to know and like; one of whom she'd fallen head over heels in love with.  "Where I shot him, it's a wonder he survived.  He'll need to heal."  She could not keep her gaze from Athos, though, tallying the black eye, the raw, scraped cheek, the way he was holding his arm, as she continued.  "Men like him are like rats, they go back to what they know best."  She saw a different man than the one this morning; the one who’d matched her need and then revealed his own.  The one who’d risen from her pallet on the floor in a refugee camp smelling of early morning love making. 

"And there you have it, gentlemen."  Aramis palmed his gun.  "Are we for Epesses?"

"Ready provisions.  We ride at dawn."  Athos shot a glance directly at d'Artagnan.

“We’re not leaving immediately?” d’Artagnan had been surprised in the corridor, this was rather more of a shock, given Athos' need to square things with Grimaud.    

Athos turned his head toward the sunset glow liming the arch.  “Useless to start now, it will be dark soon.  Besides, if he made it to Epesses, it’s likely he will hole up there until he’s healed a bit.”

Sylvie watched her friends silently digest this apparently strange order, then watched d'Artagnan rise, offer a terse nod of agreement and collect his companions with a silent look.  Aramis jerked his chin ever so slightly in acknowledgement of her as the trio turned away to give the pair privacy. 

Athos, whose gaze had dropped to the ground lest he reveal the longing in his soul, lifted and turned his head, his blank face masking the upheaval spinning his heart inside his chest.  He had never expected to find love again, but to follow his desire was tantamount to turning his back on his country.  France commanded his loyalty. 

Sylvie met that gaze for a long moment, holding nothing back.  Grief at the nascent death of the start of something beautiful shone in the sparkling unshed tears.  There was no pretense in her, no guile, her love remained freely on offer, but she would not hound him with it.  She did not try to hide the pain as she lowered her eyes and turned slowly away, torturing herself with the breathless hope that he would call her name, stay her retreat, open his arms. 

But he did not.  Athos watched her walk away, trenchant duty sealing his lips and nailing his feet to the ground.  He did not crane his neck to follow her progress, though his ears strained to listen for the rhythm of the quick footsteps, even as his heart constrained him to follow.  Instead, Athos turned abruptly on a heel and headed back inside to find a place to lie down.  He could at least relive the memories of these last few weeks before they turned grey and ashy as they inevitably grew distant and cold. 

He knew he could count on d'Artagnan to set the wheels of progress in motion.

~*~

They rode out as the first rays of light groped the horizon, grim of countenance, determined upon their mission at all cost.   In this, they carried the blessing of the king and the promise of reward when they brought the coward to justice.  Grimaud had murdered his co-conspirator, though Feron had, at the last moment, rediscovered his misplaced loyalty to his half-brother and fired the warning shot that had alerted Aramis, enabling him to whisk the king to safety.    

Tréville had relayed the news last night; a hundred thousand livre to the men who brought the king Grimaud's head.  Athos would deliver it à la John the Baptist on a silver platter could he but get his hands on the slippery eel.  No incentive required.

They made good time, stopping only to rest the horses as needed, but a day's riding, when one was conflicted and in physical and emotional pain – not that Athos would admit to either of those anathemas - wore down the spirit.  And set one's teeth on edge.

"Why are we stopping?"  Athos winced as he shifted in the saddle, debating as he watched the others dismount.  "Particularly as you just pointed out we are only a mile or two from our destination, d'Artagnan?"  He was not certain of his ability to get back on his horse if he followed suit. 

But d'Artagnan was not listening.  Athos followed the younger man's line of sight, catching just a glimpse of unbleached muslin and a small person disappearing into the forest.  "God help us all.”

d'Artagnan hesitated only a second, catching Athos' eye, though it did not stop him plunging into the woods after the child.

"Porthos."

"On it."  Porthos handed off his reins to Aramis as Athos creaked his way out of the saddle, catching the halter of d'Artagnan's horse. 

"I would have thought Roncesvalles would have cured him of chasing children,” Athos muttered cryptically.  If you are my penance," he said to Aramis over the back of the horse, "he is my bane." 

"What happened at Roncesvalles?"

"Oh, this and that. You know," Athos adroitly changed the subject, kicking himself for having opened it in the first place, "I am finding it much more difficult to forget things I do not want to remember, now that I am no longer drinking."

Aramis, as he was meant to, chuckled.  "I count that a boon, brother.  I cannot tell you how glad it makes me that you have turned into a sober old man."

"Hmph, watch it with the old man, we are not that far apart in age."

"I'm not joking, Athos, we were frequently in prayer at the abbey and you were often the subject of my importuning.  I have discovered there were many answers to my prayers since my return."

Athos, having successfully diverted from Roncesvalles, leaned against his horse.  "Who knows, perhaps it was your prayers that saved our skins so many times." 

The jingle of horse accoutrements heralded Aramis appearing on Athos' side of the horse, his pair in tow.  "You alright?"

"I will be right as rain as soon as that man is dead."

"And in the meantime?" 

"I will survive."

They waited in silence, since Athos had shuttered all avenues of intimate conversation, retreating into his old shell. 

Aramis jumped at the piercing whistle a moment later.  "What?"  And then he remembered - the nighthawk's call. 

"Goddamn him to hell," Athos cursed wearily, when there was no answering nighthawk response.  "I swear to God, Aramis, that kid is going to be the death of me."  He turned in a circle, lifting the reins over his head, 'til he spotted a low hanging branch he could tether the horses too.  "They’re in trouble, let's go." 

Aramis loosely secured his pair of reins to a largish bush, pulled the arquebus from its side holster on his horse and followed a muttering Athos into the woods.  Though the words were barely audible, Aramis was quite certain d'Artagnan was being eternally damned. 

They heard the voices of their own party first, followed by a lighter, distinctly female tone.  Athos twirled a finger in silent command and Aramis split off to the left so they entered the clearing from different angles.  Aramis at the ready, gun sight trained on the female at the center of the clearing, Athos with his arms out, pistol clasped sideways in his hand. 

Aramis heard Athos' sigh halfway around the clearing, where half a dozen females, including more than one small one, were ranged in a semi circle, looking up at their captives.

"You were supposed to keep him out of trouble, Porthos." 

"Right." Porthos scowled through the woven squares of rope suspending the pair of them ten feet off the ground.  "Next time you can chase after 'im.  Get us down."

Athos considered and discarded half a dozen strategies.  His shoulder was not going to allow him to hold his hands out at his sides very long.  As it was, he had to switch the pistol to his right hand.  "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.  I am Athos, of the King's Musketeers."  He flicked the end of the gun at their marksman, who was trying to suppress a grin.  "That is Aramis, also of the King’s Musketeers, as are the two up there, though perhaps Porthos and d'Artagnan have already introduced themselves?"

Clearly the girl holding the gun knew how to handle a weapon, it was pulled in against her side, head tucked, finger on the trigger.  "What are you doing in our forest?" 

Her voice matched the steely look in her eyes, one Athos immediately recognized.  Refugees across France bore the same stamp; often gaunt of face and body, poised for instant fight or flight, eyes wary of any interaction. 

"We are ... " Athos caught back the word ‘hunting’, it never set well with a refugee in any context, "pursuing a fugitive.  We need somewhere to spend the night.  And any information you can give us."  He reached slowly into his jacket, pulling out the wax-stamped arrest order.  "A man by the name of Lucien Grimaud.  Have you seen him?"  Without moving, his gaze cast the circle, searching for reactions.  There were none; he met blank stares at every turn.  Either these women - for it was a higgledy piggledy band of women - knew nothing, or all strangers provoked this reaction.  It looked well practiced to Athos.  "He is a very dangerous man; you are not safe out here alone."

"Who said we were alone?"  The woman with the gun wore britches and a vest over a too-large man's shirt.  She turned the gun on Aramis.  "Something amuses you?"

Aramis released the grin hiding behind his mustache.  "Well, I've been tied up by women before, but only ever recreationally."  He ignored Athos' aggrieved sigh and lifted his gaze to the trapped musketeers.  "May I?"

"I wouldn't if I were you."  The female's finger tightened on the trigger.  "Many soldiers have made the mistake of not taking us seriously."

Athos returned his gaze to her.  "I know what men can become in times like these, but we are King's Musketeers, there is nothing we hold more sacred than a woman's sovereignty over her own life.  We are here only because of this man."  He carefully drew one of the sketches Porthos had collected out of another pocket.  "Have you seen him?  Do you know of him?  Lucian Grimaud?" he repeated.

"There's no one of that name here.  I recommend you continue on your way.  In this village, we cannot guarantee your safety."

Athos, matching steel for steel, returned in that old familiar emotionless tone, "We do not require your guarantee."

"You force me to insist."  She was not backing down.

"Or your consent."  Athos’ delivery was quietly authoritative. 

"You're wrong about that.  Don't make it dead wrong."  She jerked her head toward a nearby booted and cloaked young girl.  "Get them down.”  Her glare never wavered from Athos’ face.  “And be grateful I am letting you go free." 

The girl hurried to do the woman's bidding, kicking lose the trip so the rope went slack and Porthos and d'Artagnan tumbled to the ground, wisely keeping their mouths shut as they shucked themselves free of the well-made net.

"You misunderstand."  Athos lowered his hands deliberately.  "I was not asking.  We are here on the authority of the king --"

An older woman, her shape that of a crone, coarse grey hair held back by a band of thickly braided scarves, stepped forward, putting a hand on the woman's arm.  "Come, Juliette, one night can't hurt."

Her smile curled Athos' toes, though it was kindness personified.  But he had a name for at least one of them now. 

"One night can't hurt," the crone coaxed repetitively.  "In the morning we will ... send them on their way."

Juliette, jaw tight, coolly dislodged the hand on her arm.  Her response, when it finally came, was a bit of a surprise to Athos.  "One night then," she said between clenched teeth.  "And then you will be on your way."  She turned away abruptly. 

Athos clipped his gun to his utility belt.  A flick of a hand and Porthos and Aramis went to collect the horses. 

d'Artagnan knew better than to follow.  "I'm--" his apology was halted by the hand around the back of his neck. 

Athos waited, watchful, as the women reset their trap and trooped after Juliet, disappearing into the woods. Then jerked d'Artagnan closer.  "Did you learn nothing in Spain?"  He had his anger tightly leashed, the memory in his eyes enough to chasten the youth instantly. 

"I'm sorry, but you saw the same thing I did.  They know of him, at the very least, he may even have been here!"

"A fortunate coincidence for you, and the only reason you are not dead from a lead ball, right-" Athos stabbed a finger between d'Artagnan's eyebrows, "here."

Roncesvalles shimmered, its heat oppressive, the stench of rotting corpses tainting the air between them.    

"I was supposed to leave a child alone in the woods?"

"Was she clad in forest detritus?  Wearing the filth of an abandoned child?  Did she look malnourished to you?  Abused? Terrified?"  Athos shook him once and let d'Artagnan go, turning away with another exhausted sigh.  "You court death like an assiduous lover." 

d'Artagnan swallowed his pride, though every detail sliced like a knife.  "You're right.  As usual."  He crossed the clearing to scrounge their parrying daggers from beneath the net that had been spread out again, cleverly concealed beneath the forest detritus the child had not been wearing. 

"I am not Aramis; acquit me of being right all the time." 

The snarl made d'Artagnan straighten and shove back the long hair falling into his eyes.  He turned, caught and held Athos' gaze.  "Your arm is paining you."

For a suspended moment, anger shimmered between them, as potent as the Roncesvalles haze. 

"I'm truly sorry, Athos.  It was a stupid thing to do."  d'Artagnan stowed his parrying dagger and stuck Porthos' in his belt.  "

Athos growled, but the angry façade faded, weariness slumping the normally straight shoulders. He turned away, wrapping his left elbow with his right hand in an attempt to ease the fiery, throbbing ache that was his shoulder.  "I am no better, chasing after the ghost of Grimaud when I should be back running the garrison."  He was light-headed, the horizon dipping and swaying occasionally, though he would admit that to no one.  "Let's go."  He ignored the empathy in d'Artagnan's eyes, brushing past him as Porthos rode into the clearing, leading the extra two horses, Aramis a pace behind.

"Best not let 'em get too far ahead of us," Porthos rumbled, flicking reins at the pair, "don' wanna give 'em time to regroup and decide to put up a fight after all." 

Athos mounted silently, d'Artagnan swung into the saddle as well, and fell into his usual place beside their captain.  Porthos took the lead. 

Only Athos kept his eyes straight ahead as the quartet rode into the industrious, nay, nigh unto prosperous, forest village. 

Of women. 

Porthos' head swiveled at all the sights they were passing, guessing he should not have been surprised, given their welcome party. He heard, then caught a glimpse of, a contingent of females chopping wood, the rhythmic sound of the axes almost musical; saw another band scrubbing laundry in tubs and hanging it out to dry.  There were voices raised in song and, weaving in and out of that sound, the treetops rang with laughter. Children raced in an out and around tree trunks and snug little cottages made appearances every now and then on the prow of a hill or in low dales.  He counted a dozen and thought there were likely far more hidden in the trees.  For a refugee camp, the place was not only well-organized, it was obviously flourishing.

They were directed to a surprisingly large and well-kept stable where their horses were taken with assurances of being watered, fed and curried, ready for an early departure.  They left their gear with the horses and followed Juliet to a small dirt escarpment, overlooking a blacksmith’s forge.  An outdoor dining room apparently; the area was furnished with a wooden table and benches, with more benches ringing a tripod supporting an iron kettle over barely simmering coals. 

“You built this place,” Porthos observed as Juliet turned from pouring water into a mug.  She pulled the drink into her shoulder defensively and pursued her lips, apparently against the venomous words she wanted to pour out as well. 

“Us women?”  A blond, apron-clad female, one hand on her protruding belly, the other steadying a bow over her left shoulder, said a bit breathlessly.  “No need to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” the big musketeer said sincerely, deploying his best diction.  “I’m impressed.”

The archeress went on up the hill, Porthos’ gaze following her until she disappeared from view.  “We sleepin’ here t’night?” he asked the still purse-mouthed female. 

She deigned to nod, traded the barely touched mug for her gun and went to mount guard over the quartet a dozen paces into the woods. 

“May as well get the gear,” Aramis suggested, turning back toward the stables. 

They returned with bed rolls, saddle bags and packs, ranging their belongings, and themselves, along the benches around the fire, d’Artagnan keeping a watchful eye on his mentor as Athos sank down with a grimace and a sigh of pain. 

“Juliet doesn’t really like strangers.” The archeress had apparently been assigned guard duty as well, she was back, bow end planted in the ground. 

Aramis, toting his gun over his shoulder, could not suppress a wicked, “We would never have guessed,” as his gaze sought Juliet’s.  Unlike most females, she ignored him. 

The archeress was garrulous.  “We’ve had raids recently, looters.”

"Looks like you're managin' all right," Porthos observed, leaving off messing about with his pack.

“We’re learning.” 

There was nothing downtrodden or repressed about the woman, her reply was downright cheeky, broadening Aramis’ grin as Porthos acknowledged their efficient capture.

“Yeah, I can see that.  Your traps were ehhh … very effective.”

A young man, his right foot dragging, came toward them bearing four tankards.  “Don’t tell her,” he glanced over his shoulder at Juliet, keeping his voice down.  “It’s ale, not water.” 

He handed round the tankards as the archeress made introductions.  “Bastian has been staying with us for a couple of days, we found him in the forest.”

“You rescued me, more like,” the youth offered gratefully. 

“What, you injured?” d’Artagnan eyed the offending leg with a raised eyebrow, glancing askance.

“I was on my way to Epesses looking for work and I came across some bored soldiers who saw a cripple and an afternoon’s amusement.” 

d’Artganan’s quick gaze flashed around the circle questioningly.  Porthos changed the subject with a sidelong glance at the pregnant woman. 

Obligingly, she filled the awkward silence.  “My … husband’s away fighting, as are all our men.  He’s in the Picardy Regiment, under the Comte de Breve, have you … heard anything of them?”

Juliet, either deciding they were as harmless as Bastian, or knowing what was coming, drifted closer to the cooking tripod. 

There was an ominous exchange of glances again. 

“What?  Tell me?” 

Porthos shook his head.  “They were due to advance on Fryeburg … that’s all we know.” 

“Put him out of your mind,” Juliet admonished, though the sharpness was gone from her voice.  “If he isn’t dead, he may as well be.” 

Another very awkward moment ensued before Juliet, turning a gimlet eye on Bastian, ordered, “Fetch some firewood for them.”

Aramis shoved to his feet instantly.  “I’ll help you.”  The wary woman could not have provided a better opportunity for a friendly interrogation, which Aramis doubted she even realized.

The chatty one broke the new silence by asking, “So, this Lucien Grimaud, what do you want with him?”

“He’s a criminal.”  Athos spoke for the first time.

“Hardly a rarity these days,” she pitched back.

“This isn’t just some boy stealing sheep, he’s dangerous, a murderer.  If we don’t find him, he will kill again.”

Juliet turned away in a swirl of cape.  Athos, pushing off the bench despite the flare of pain, followed quickly.  “You know that name.  I saw it in your eyes.”

“I knew his mother once.”

“Once?” Athos echoed.

“We were children together, she was my best friend, but her … family disowned her.  She left here a long time ago.”  She turned again and started down the hill.

“Where is she now?” Athos called after the rapidly retreating back.

“Dead, I expect.” And the woman was gone, disappearing into a thatched hut.

Athos stood at the top of the hill for a long moment, staring into the open, empty doorway.  An old crone, a woman filled with fear and loathing, another full of hope and longing - the crucible of war made for strange companions, for they were all, equally clearly, companions.  His sixth sense was clanging like a fire alarm.  “She’s hiding something.”  He turned back to his own companions.  “Search the place.  Leave no stone unturned.”

“Gently,” Porthos recommended, though there was in his voice as much command as suggestion.  “Let’s try not to make any more enemies.”

~*~

Sunset heralded the cessation of hammering down at the blacksmith’s, as fires began to appear through the trees, the smell of roasting rabbit and venison adding a tasty tang to the soft evening air. 

“The day we let our guests go hungry is the day we are truly lost.”  Theresa, the crone, bustled into the midst of them, setting a kettle on the bench Athos occupied, then passing out bowls.  “You haven’t found your man, then, yet.” 

Athos gave her a measuring look.  They’d searched every nook and cranny of the thriving village, with a twitchy Juliet constantly on their heels.  He made no response. 

“He grew up near here we believe, in uhmmm … Epesses.”  Aramis held out his bowl as Theresa ladled a heaping helping of stew into it.

“Ah, a few miles that way,” she said, indicating the direction with a tilt of her head.

Porthos rose as she came to him.  “So have you got a name for this place?”

Theresa, a half-smile on her lips, just looked up at him.

“It has no name, that’s how they keep themselves safe,” Aramis speculated.

“It uh … it was built by us,” Theresa admitted.  She put the kettle on the ground and sat down on the bench across from Aramis.  “After our men first left, and the soldiers kept coming, we took what we could carry from Epesses, a few tools, some animals, came here.  It’s not much, but it’s safe.”  She glanced sideways at Athos.  “At least we thought it was.”

“If Grimuad is alive, and here, you won’t be … if you know anything, help us keep you safe.”

Her gaze slid to the ground, as if the admission was being pulled from her by a tooth drawer, “I …. was walking this morning … there’s a cabin in the forest, it’s abandoned, but …”

“What?” Athos insisted.

“I saw a fire, a pair of men’s boots, bloody bandages,” she turned something over in her fingers before holding it out to Athos.  “And this.”

It was a signet ring, with a seal, similar to the one Athos had passed to the mayor of Pinon.  He held it out to the light of the fire, turning it between his fingers, not for one moment imagining it to be something Grimuad would have had by right.  Though boots and bloody bandages strongly suggested their quarry had found a bolt hole.  Athos was certain Theresa had stumbled upon their quarry.  “Was he alone?”

“I wouldn’t know.  The cabin was abandoned long before we arrived.  I was surprised to see it occupied, but I did not stop to make inquiries.  I saw those things on the porch and found that on the forest verge.  You are carrying injuries, too,” the woman observed.  “What happened to you?”

Athos met her inquisitive gaze squarely.  “I was the unwary victim of an ambush I should have seen coming.  It would behoove you and your community here, to learn from my stupidity.”

“Oh, trust me, Monsieur Captain, we are a wary bunch indeed.  We have a few blankets to share if you need them, otherwise, I will bid you goodnight.”  Theresa pushed off with her hands on her knees, whipping the long, grey hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head.

“Thank you,” Athos rose, offering a slight bow, “but we are well provisioned.  Our gratitude, madame, for a place to sleep tonight.”  His eyelids were growing heavy, his body feeling turgid and thick as well.  A glance at his companions and he saw he was not alone in fighting the creeping lethargy. 

“You’re most welcome,” Theresa slanted him a slowly broadening smile.  “The stew was tasty, yes?”  She collected their bowls and strolled away unhurriedly.  “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

d’Artagnan blinked and yawned into his fist.  “Too late to go hunting an elusive cabin in the dark, I expect.  We’d best hunker down and get what rest we can.  No need to set a watch what with the sentry’s around the camp.”  He leaned backwards to retrieve his bedroll from the pack behind him. 

“We will set one anyway.  Porthos, take the first watch, wake me in two hours.”  Athos kicked his pack closer to the fire, wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out, using the pack for a pillow.  He was asleep before he could wonder if the old crone had purposely drugged them in order to warn their quarry. 

Aramis, yawning as well, finished the ale in his mug and went in search of the pack he’d left by the table.  It seemed heavier than usual, his fingers, working the knots holding the bedroll tied to the pack, were troublesomely unwieldy.

Porthos sat on his bench staring into his mug fixedly, until his body slumped sideways on the simple board and he began to snore.  Aramis and d’Artagnan were already fast asleep, rolled up tight in their respective bedrolls. 

~*~

A crowing cock woke d’Artagnan, who blinked sleepily and nearly rolled over to catch a few more zzzs in the warmth of the morning sunshine.  The angle of the sun was all wrong though, way too far up on the horizon, and he sat up, muzzily wiping at his face as though the cobwebs in his brain could be dashed away with the swipe of a hand.  “Aramis!  Porthos!”  He kicked the nearest sleeper he thought was Aramis, though it was Porthos who slapped at his prodding boot. 

“Break your leg I will, if ya kick me again,” Porthos muttered, pulling his blanket up around his neck 

d’Artagnan put a hand to his forehead.  “God and the devil, my head feels like it’s full of feathers.”

Beyond Porthos, Aramis rolled over, freeing himself from his blanket to stretch awkwardly.  “Owwww,” he rolled away from the blinding sun streaming down on their small escarpment but dragged himself to his knees using the bench to prop himself almost in an attitude of prayer.  He ran a hand through his hair several times before swiveling to prod Athos, who lay on his back still, his cloak thrown off as though the night had warmed to sweltering.

Athos grumbled and turned on his side.  His right side; bringing him swiftly to full consciousness between a grumble and a growl.  “CHRIST!”  He popped up like a cork bobbing on a river of wine.

Aramis eyed him balefully.  “Will you at least let me look at that shoulder, or if not me, Porthos or d’Artagnan.”

Athos ignored him.  “Why the hell did you not wake me, Porthos?”

“’cause I fell asleep m’self; couldn’t keep m’eyes open.”  Porthos hefted his bulk up on his elbows, kicking off the blanket.  “Musta’ been some’in in the ale or the stew.  Knocked me right out.”  Rubbing an arm across his blurry eyes, he squinted at each of his companions in turn.  “Ye-ah.  Got all of us it did.”

Athos, dragging his right arm tight into his chest, rolled cautiously to his knees, using the end of the bench Aramis was leaning against to push up to his feet.  “That witch drugged us.”

“Juliet?  I don’t think so.”  Aramis staggered to his feet as well.  Though in light of his extreme lightheadedness, Athos’ accusation certainly carried weight.  His mouth tasted like the home of a dung beetle.  

“No, the other one.  The old one.” Athos swayed, sinking down on the bench as the cartilage in his knees turned to sand. 

“Theresa?” d’Artagnan asked, coming to his knees and then his feet as well.  “But why?”

“To warn Grimaud.”

“We don’t even know if he’s the one in that cabin,” d’Artagnan asserted with more verve than he felt.  Athos’ obsession was beginning to worry him.  He stepped over the bench and, using the trees for props, made his way around the bench behind Athos.  “Aramis is right, at the very least, that wound needs to be re-dressed.  Off with the coat.”  He did not wait for Athos to comply, once more stripping off the heavy leather jacket, easing it carefully off the wounded shoulder. 

Aramis watched the youth glance over at Porthos.  The shirt was a bloody mess. 

“Get your kit, it’s going to need restitching before I can put on a new dressing.  Aramis, see if the witch will get us some kind of a poultice, it’s blazing hot.”  d’Artagnan rolled up the hem of the shirt, shifting it over Athos’ locked jaw so the wound lay uncovered. 

“No poultice,” Athos stated between clenched teeth.  “We don’t have time and furthermore, I don’t want anything that woman touches near me.”

“Ask Juliet, or the female archer, did she ever tell us her name?  Aramis, is there water left in that pitcher?”  d’Artagnan was digging in his pack for a clean rag. 

“Elodie,” Porthos supplied.  “I’ll go find her.”

“No.” Athos’ command was such that Porthos’ big feet stopped in their tracks.  “Stitch it up again and be done with it.  They have made it abundantly clear they do not want us here and have no intention of helping us find Grimaud.  If he was in that cabin, I will track him down, with or without their cooperation.  Just get it done.”  His shoulders hunched involuntarily as d’Artagnan began to wipe away the seeping blood with the rag Aramis had wet for him.  “And do not touch any food or beverage they tinder this morning.”

“Probably wise,” Aramis agreed. 

“What did you learn about Bastian yesterday, when you were gathering firewood?” d’Artagnan asked, wiping his hands clean on a rag as he traded places with Porthos who was readying himself to start stitching again. 

“He’s hiding something, or at least he’s not being truthful.  That limp is particularly suspect, I think he’s as fit as the rest of us.”

“Then I think I will go pay him a quick visit.”  d’Artagnan tossed the bloody rag on the table next to the water pitcher.

“He’s staying in one of the small cabins behind the stables,” Aramis called after d’Artagnan.

“I saw,” d’Artagnan acknowledged, striding up over the hill. 

Porthos had not set five stitches before d’Artagnan was hitching angrily over the bench, brandishing a dirty, ragged blue coat.  “He’s a deserter!  I found this hidden in his things!” 

Athos half rose.  Porthos pricked him hard enough to make him sink back down.  “We split up.  You two,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Porthos as he glared at Aramis, “deal with Bastian, d’Artagnan and I will go after Grimaud.”

“With pleasure,” Porthos growled, setting the last stitch.  “You’ll need a clean shirt,” he said, using the bloody one to sop up most of the new blood before d’Artagnan swiped it again with the rinsed rag and started bandaging. 

Finished, d’Artagnan fished through Athos’ pack for another shirt.  “Here, while you get into it, I’ll go saddle the horses.”  He left his mentor struggling to get his arm into the right sleeve, with the hope that Athos might see reason and leave the tracking of Grimaud to the rest of them.

It was forlorn hope, and d’Artagnan had been well aware of it.  But then, he’d often wondered if Athos was truly made of flesh and bone or perhaps only a walking, talking bar of Toledo steel forged in the shape of a man.  Nothing slowed the Musketeer while on a mission.

Athos hauled himself into the saddle by the good graces of his horse and an unexpected boost from d’Artagnan, nearly pitching him off the other side, but he righted himself, adjusted his hat and took up the reins in his left hand.  Together, he and d’Artagnan rode out of the village, into the deeper woods.

They had gone no more than a league when simultaneously, a grey-cloaked figure reared up among the trees, taking off at a lumbering run, and gunshots sounded thunderously behind them.  They both recognized the unique roar of Aramis’ arquebus. 

“Did you see that?” Athos reined his horse. 

“That figure?” d’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder as he reined up as well.  “Was it him?” 

“I don’t know.”  Athos stared into the distance, trying to will another glimpse of the fleeing individual, though the forest was as still and silent as if he’d seen a ghost.     

“Go.” d’Artagnan reined around, back toward the sound of gunshots.  “Go!” he shouted, urging his horse into a leaping gallop without waiting to see which way Athos choose.  He didn’t need to; he knew which path Athos would choose as surely as he knew he must fly to the aid of his brothers. 

Athos shifted warily in the saddle, cursing the sounds of battle behind him as he stared through the slicing rays of sun slanting between the towering trees and cued his horse to move forward.  Foolishly, he knew, since if it came to hand to hand combat, he would have to rely on the battle rush Aramis was so fond of studying.  But to be this close and give up pursuit – he did not have it in him. 

Head on the swivel, watching the flora and fauna for the least sign of movement, he walked the horse a dozen yards off the beaten path following the trail.  His head knew it was too obvious, too easy, too wildly improbably Grimaud, but he could not stop himself.  His blood was up and a crazed kind of enchantment dragged him forward like a reluctant dog on a leash.  Again, the sound of the battle behind yanked at his awareness, but he could not force his hands to draw up the reins, turn his mount and return to his brothers. 

A ringing clang smote his ears as his horse’s front hooves parted company with the forest floor and his posterior parted company with his horse.  He tumbled sideways, down on his right side, the newly stitched shoulder taking the brunt of the fall.  But even that could not stop him.  He still had a left arm and with it, he drew his sword, slammed it against the earth, and staggered to his feet.  His horse was long gone by the time he was standing. 

Relentlessly, he lurched on, switching the sword to his right hand despite the feel of blood seeping down the back of his arm.  Anyone watching would think him a buffoon fencing with the tall, slender tree trunks that wandered into his path.  Athos knew himself for a fool, but his sword kept pulling him forward, his witched feet stumbling onward, his battered body refusing to yield to the clamor of his brain to just give up and die.  He had to switch hands again, the damn rapier was too heavy, and yet, he could not stop, could not turn his steps back toward the village and certain help, even in the midst of a battle raging. 

The trees were thinning, though they continued to jump into his path so he bounced off one into another and another until he stood, trembling, at the back edge of a verge, a derelict cabin standing in the middle of a clearing not ten body lengths from where the rough bark of a towering evergreen held him upright. 

There came faintly, the smell of smoke, though from hours past, as though it had permeated the trees and the ground around the cabin.  He saw no sign of habitation, but unlike Theresa, he would not pass it by without inquiring of its inhabitant - if there was one still.

He crossed the open space without hesitation, yanked open the door, and stepped in, though he knew immediately the place was unoccupied.  The bloody bandages should have warned him.  They were not on view on the porch; they were in untidy heap on a small table.  Neither had there been boots present on the porch.  But there was a bed that had been recently slept in, telltale signs of blood staining the thrown back covers. 

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he took two steps in and stopped, eyes drawn to a curtain to the right of the ancient dresser housing dusty cobwebs draping dishes long unused.  Across the room, a crude wardrobe stood hanging half open.  He stepped toward the curtain to draw it back just as the door slammed behind him.  He whirled, hearing the wooden shaft slid home and threw himself against it, shoulder first – stupidly - as the impact tossed him back like a rag doll so his knees buckled and he slid to the floor clutching said shoulder instinctively.  Fire, a cold fire, raged down his arm clear to his gloved fingers.  His vision swam so he could not at first see the face pressed against the window bars, but he recognized the voice.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you find him.”

“You …” he panted, rolling to his left, trying to bring the room into focus, “You were protecting him.”  He shoved his left arm under him, half raising himself, sword trapped beneath him.  “He was here and you were protecting him.”

“I nursed a young man who might have died,” Theresa stated.

“Where is he?” Athos spoke over her.

“By the time your friends find you, he’ll be across the other side of France.”

“No!” A heave and stagger and he threw himself at the door again, grabbing the bars.  “No, no, no NO!  Do you realize what you’ve done?  He’s a monster, do you understand?” he shouted.  “He’s EVIL!”

He saw her stop, her back stiffen, but he turned away, searching for something to give him enough extra force to break the wooden bolt.

“No!  No!  You are the one who doesn’t understand!”

She was coming back, he could hear it, but he paid no mind, searching, searching for anything heavy enough to lend aid.  “I pulled him out of the water when he was a boy.  When his own mother tried to drown him!”

She was at the door again.  He yanked at the metal window inserts at the back of the cabin, then the side, before turning back to Theresa’s face.

“She was such a sweet girl, trusting, but she tried to make friends with the soldiers, and then she was passed around them.  They kept her tied up; every time she tried to escape she was flogged.  By the time Lucien was born it was all she could do to drag him around like an animal, she was barely a child herself.  I – got him out of the water – I raised him as best I could.  Do you know, he didn’t even know how to cry.”

Athos was shedding no tears on dear Lucien’s behalf.  “Do you think this changes a thing?  Do you think this makes any difference at all?”  He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“I want YOU to understand-”

He cut her off, voice low, ferocious.  “You should have left him to drown.”

“You will never catch him.  He has endured worse things than you can even imagine.  He’s stronger than you, he’s smarter than you.  You – were outwitted by a woman!”

She turned and fled the porch.  Athos reared back and kicked the door, once, twice, thrice before snatching up the bench bearing the bloody bandages and with a shout of rage, slammed it with all his might against the door, shattering the bolt and flinging the door back against the outside cabin wall. 

The battle rush Aramis appreciated so much coursing through his veins, he stomped across the porch, past the verge into the forest, barely slowed when Theresa chucked him across the back of the shoulders with a length of fallen branch.  It slammed him to the forest floor, but he grabbed an ankle, slapping down her kicking feet as he crawled hand over hand up her body, pinning her to the ground.

“Do it!  Do whatever you like, I don’t care anymore!” she screeched, winded and panting like an animal.

Athos reared back, though this time it was to lift and spread his arms in a gesture of disengagement, his swimming senses shattering at the implication of her words. 

Theresa shimmied backwards on her elbows.  “I’ve seen soldiers like you and maybe you were good men once, but when you’ve seen so much violence it becomes the only thing you truly understand.”

Athos, on his knees, backed away.  “I will find him; he will face justice.”

“I didn’t want to do this.” Theresa palmed her last resort and with a strength born of desperation and a mother’s unconditional love, flung herself upward.  “But you’ve given me no choice!”

It felt like no more than the prick of a thorn, but the forest that had begun to come into focus tilted and spun again.  Athos clapped a hand to the side of his neck as he curled in on himself, cursing, if only in his mind, his further stupidity. 

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.  Sound faded as his vision darkened from the edges inward.

~*~

His name …

“ATHOS!”  He was hearing his name, though faintly, as from a great distance.  Shouted, over and over, in numerous voices.  He could distinguish d’Artagnan’s as it rose above the rest. 

“ATHOS!”

He rolled over in the dirt, crushing his shoulder yet again, in an effort to rise and stumbled blindly to his feet, pitching forward so hard the sword came into play once more as he threw himself toward the sound, one ungainly hobble at a time. 

“Nin-non!” he shouted, knees buckling as his feet gained the path.  His body refused to tolerate further abuse; he fell, shoving with a foot, onto his back.

“Athos!”  Aramis reached him first, d’Artagnan and Porthos pelting to their knees barely a second later.

“It was Theresa,” Athos got out, as d’Artagnan lifted his head.  “She fled.”  Consciousness fissured like shattered glass.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan rasped, “do we need to makeshift a stretcher?”

“Nah,” Porthos bent and slid his arms beneath the comte, cradling Athos’ limp form, though he required Aramis’ helping hand rising to his feet.  “Go,” he said to d’Artagnan, “find a place and get my bag.  Be ready.”

d’Artagnan took off at a dead run.  Porthos lumbered into something resembling a shuffling gait, faster than a walk, slower than a run, Aramis beside him. 

Juliette watched them go.

~*~

“Nothin’ t’be done fer the shoulder, it’s mincemeat.”  Porthos reached for an end of the bandaging d’Artagnan had wrapped between his hands, saw the lean jaw clench tight, and shook his head.  “S’not the worst.” 

“Poison.” Elodie, perched precariously beside Athos, turned his head carefully, exposing the side of his neck.  The red mark was no larger than the end of Porthos’ little finger but Athos shivered and shook like a stand of aspens in an autumn wind. 

Shock bounced around the walls and primitive stockade fencing holding back the deluge of dirt from which the room had been dug.  Flickering candles clawed at the shadows above the makeshift bed. 

“Poison!” d’Artagnan wheezed, attempting to draw breath past the weight of revelation constricting his lungs.  He swung around, headed for the steps.  “We have to find her; she’ll have an antidote.” 

Aramis snatched a handful of leather.  “She is in cahoots with Grimaud, she will be long gone.” He turned them both back toward the bed as Elodie rose.  “Theresa – she knows herbs?”

Elodie nodded, pleating the damp cloth nervously between her hands.  It would be a delicate balancing act, placating Juliette’s ire without angering these battle-hardened soldiers further.  Theresa had a lot to answer for, though she suspected the gun-toting musketeer had the right of it.  The woman had long since fled.     

“Does she treat the camp?” Aramis asked as politely as possible under the circumstances.

Elodie narrowed her eyes but answered with equal civility. “Yes.  We built her a small infirmary.”

“Take me there,” he commanded. 

d’Artagnan sucked in air.  “Now.”   

“Juliet won’t like it.”

“I’ll deal with her.”  Aramis had had enough of Juliet. “Take me or I’ll send d’Artagnan and Porthos rampaging through the village looking for it.  And I promise you, no slings or arrows will stop us.”

Elodie did not need the headache of Aramis dealing with their camp leader.  Juliet would mount a defense against that kind of siege; Elodie had no doubt people would die. 

Decision made.

She rose, handed the bowl she picked up to d’Artagnan, and gestured toward the wooden staircase with a jerk of her head.  The treads echoed hollowly as Aramis followed her up and out.

“What do we do?” d’Artagnan sent over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Athos’ contorted features.

“Do not let him die!” Aramis’s voice returned faintly as the sounds of their rapid footsteps faded into the distance. 

Porthos tied off the bandage.  “Yeah, how’re we s’posed t’do that?”

d’Artagnan dropped to his haunches at the head of the bed, plucked the cloth from the basin and wrung it out.  “I guess - whatever it takes,” he said, sliding to his knees to lean forward so he could bathe away the sweat beading on brow and nose and chin. 

Once before, eons ago by d’Artagnan’s reckoning, he had kept the musketeer among the living with ceaseless yammering.  Back when Athos has courted death like an assiduous lover.  The comté, though, had been in a different, darker place in his life, when his demise would have meant surcease from the crushing guilt he had carried.  Their captain had crawled out of that deep, dark fissure, one grimy fist at a time, the regiment cheering him on every step of the way.  Athos no longer wooed death, but cheating it, yet again, was going to require every ounce of will the Inseparables possessed.

“We will do whatever it takes,” d’Artagnan repeated grimly. 

Athos jerked his head away from the light touch, chest heaving as spams shook his body.  Porthos yanked him up recognizing eminent emesis.  “Get the bowl!”  Dysentery had been a frequent uninvited guest in the military camps.   

Athos spewed what little he had eaten.

“Not a bad thing,” Porthos noted, “since we d’know ‘zactly what was in that stew she fed us.  Better find a bucket.”  He eased the comté back down, careful not to jostle.  

d’Artagnan, glad for anything to do, flew up the stairs in leaps and bounds. 

No sooner had the booted heels cleared the top of the flight of steps than Porthos was leaning over a glassy-eyed Athos.  “You’re not bastard enough to die on ‘em, so you damn will better keep breathing, you piece of puffery,” he growled softly, shucking his friend out of the soaked shirt with practiced ease. 

Athos groaned, thrashing beneath Porthos’ hands.  “Sylvie,” he gasped.  “They’ve got … her!  Anne is behind …” His hands came up to grip Porthos’ forearms with claw-like fingers.  “…behind it!  Stop them … we must … stop them!  Porthos!”  For a moment, in the dim light, there was lucidity in the shadowed blue eyes.  The clawing grip became desperate entreaty.  “Porthos, we must stop them!”

“We will,” Porthos assured.  “We’ll save her, Athos, Sylvie’s fine.  She’s fine, I swear to you, she’s perfectly fine.”

But it was only a second and the eyes glazed over again with a mad sheen, fingernails gouging Porthos’ shirtsleeves.  “Unhand me, villain!  I must go …”

Porthos slid his hands up over the slick torso, pinning Athos by the shoulders.  “That’s it, then, fight like bloody ‘ell mate, if it keeps ya breathin’!” 

“I must go … “Freed, the writhing limbs found purchase.  Athos heaved himself up off the bed with the strength of ten men.  “Must go to … her…” He slammed his head against Porthos’ jaw, grabbing and tossing the big musketeer’s not insignificant weight halfway across the room. 

He was up and running like the wind in his mind, though he slogged toward the stairs as if his feet were mired in treacle, the blanket, plastered to his chest, wrapping around his knees. 

Porthos, head spinning, ignored the whirling room enough to spring up and forward, just managing to catch Athos around the hips as the possessed man gained the first stair.

They crashed sideways, rolling across the dirt floor, their momentum halted as they smashed into the side of the lashed wooden bedframe.  Porthos felt the extra limbs entwined with his own lose tautness and Athos was a dead weight on top of him.  He lay still for a several seconds, eyes closed, still reeling.  Probably should’a given himself a ten count to clear his head, seeing as he might have stupidly done more harm than good with his snatch and grab. 

“What the bloody hell happened?” d’Artagnan demanded, jumping the last three steps to land lightly beside the sprawled bodies, purloined bucket clattering to the floor.   

Porthos, still seeing stars, heaved Athos’ inert body up far enough for d’Artagnan to catch him under the arms.  “’Bout took m’head off s’what happened.  He hauled off and rammed his head ‘gainst my chin with the force of battering ram.” He felt his jaw gingerly.  “Might lose a few teeth h’got me s’hard.  Get ‘em off me.”

d'Artagnan lugged the quiescent body back far enough to allow Porthos to roll over and shove himself up to hands and knees, where he remained panting for several heartbeats before hauling himself to his feet. 

“Mmmphhh,” he grunted, bending carefully to assess the ropes holding together the bed frame.  He righted the legs, adjusted the ropes and gave it a sturdy shake.  It held together but wobbled a bit.  One small further adjustment and the second shake proved reliable. 

Between them, d’Artagnan and Porthos maneuvered Athos back onto the bed.  d’Artagnan scooped up the blanket puddled on the floor and spread it carefully back over their captain.  “How…”

“Form’a battle rush,” Porthos stated matter-of-factly, “come and gone quicker than a cow can wink, but the strength of’a entire battalion in the moment.”  Holding his jaw, he bent again to retrieve the shallow basin, fortunately they had not knocked it over.  “Bet’er empty this and we’re gonna need water.  The way he’s shivering, hot’d b’good.”  He was also well acquainted with d’Artagnan’s need to be doing something. 

d'Artagnan, breathing through his mouth, took the bowl, but stepped back hurriedly as Aramis practically slid down the stairs on his fundament, clutching something protectively to his chest. 

“I know what it is!” Aramis hitched a breath.  “Nightshade!  Well, not just nightshade, deadly nightshade.”

“Great,” d’Artagnan pronounced a bit savagely, followed by a hissed, “but did you find an antidote?”

“Yes!  Sour wine will dilute it in the blood stream!” Aramis raised a wine skein like a trophy, then pulled a small, stoppered jar from inside his coat.   “I know Theresa is not our favorite person, but she knows her herbs. Found a salve, too, that may keep that should from going putrid.”  He set the pot on the small table.  “But let’s get this wine into him.  Porthos, get behind him and sit him up.”

“Still need water,” Porthos directed.

“Right, get water.”  d’Artagnan, filling his lungs to capacity with relieved breaths, heedless of the smell, ran up the stairs.     

Elodie, also out of breath and cradling her belly in her apron, passed him on the landing, stopping her skid down the turning only when she tumbled into Porthos, who caught her and made sure she was steady on her feet before letting go.

She bent awkwardly, propping her hands on her splayed knees to accommodate her girth, breathing hard, as Porthos slid himself behind Athos. 

“You alright?” Porthos eyed her worriedly.  “Ain’t goin’ inta labor are ya?”

The blonde curls bounced as she shook her head in denial, daring no further response lest she make a liar of herself. 

Aramis spared her a glance before pinching Athos’ jaw open.  “Hate to do this to you, old man,” he said, regret coloring his tone, “especially after finally have gotten sober.  But it’s live or die here.”  The healer in him was finding its footing again.  He tipped the pliant head back further, shifting up to prop a knee on the bed in order to have enough height to pour the wine down the back of Athos’ throat. 

Athos arched and reared back, though without the backlash of battle rush induced power.  Porthos held him easily.  The comté gurgled and spit out the next mouthful, as though his subconscious recognized it was merely exchanging one poison for another.  Aramis physically clamped his mouth shut before Athos could hurl the one after.

Regaining her equilibrium, Elodie propelled her ungainly body across the room, inserting herself between Aramis and Athos.  “May as well leave him die of the poison than drown him,” she said tartly.  “Ahhh, look at you,” her tone swung to compassionate like a door hinge, “you’re back among us are you then?”  Athos was staring at her.  “Not feeling too well, at a guess.”  She nudged Aramis with a hip so he surrendered his place

“Bring me that cup.”  She pointed Aramis to the low table against the wall as she eyed Porthos.  “You shy ‘bout takin’ your shirt off?”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot to his hairline.  Athos continued to gape as if she’d removed her clothing, though she doubted he was fully aware of anything.   

“No, he’s not.” Aramis beat him to an answer before Porthos had quite processed the question.  “Clever.  Skin to skin will warm him quicker than blankets.”

“Right.”  Elodie nodded, eyes twinkling as she unabashedly watched Porthos one-handedly peel out of his shirt before sliding, again, behind a shivering Athos.

Porthos tucked the elder musketeer against his heart, beneath his chin, letting Aramis wrap them both in the extra blankets Elodie had couriered over from the tiny infirmary.   

“My what beautiful eyes you have,” Elodie observed, smiling warmly as she took Aramis’ place on the side of the bed and leaned to press the cup to Athos’ lips.  “Can you swallow?  It will be easier if you can drink rather than having it poured down your throat.”

“Syl…vie,” he murmured, attempting to turn his head away.

Elodie caught his chin and very gently pressed the cup to his lips again.  “Drink, it will dilute the effect of the poison. Who’s Sylvie?” she whispered over her shoulder as d’Artagnan, sloshing water from a pair buckets, one steaming, stepped down into the room. 

“Uh, that’s a long story.” He set the buckets down carefully, drawing extra cloths from inside his jacket.

“Shorten it,” Elodie retorted.

“His … uh … girlfriend?” d’Artagnan supplied hesitantly. 

“Someone he’s been sleeping with recently,” Aramis said bluntly.  “Whether or not they will work out their differences remains to be seen.”

“Well, it seems he cares for her.” Elodie turned back to the injured musketeer.  “Athos, if you want to help Sylvie, you must drink as much of this as you possibly can.  The poison has made you very ill, but you will live if you cooperate.” 

Again, Athos turned away.  Elodie, however, was made of equal parts woman, refugee and warrior’s wife.  “It’s Sylvie, Athos.”  She laid the back of her hand against his cheek in lover-like fashion, drawing his attention with a deliberate caress. 

“Syyylvie,” he moaned again, turning to kiss the hand that cradled his jaw.  “You … you … Grimaud … safe…”  Violent retching assailed him, contorting his body like a snapped bow string, rivulets of cold sweat soaking the bedclothes. 

d’Artagnan was sent for more blankets, leaving to Aramis to pace anxiously, while Porthos tried to keep Athos from diving head first into the foul smelling bucket.  Elodie, between bouts, continued to pour wine into him. 

At the first lull, Elodie made way so they could remove the rest of his clothes.  Aramis stripped off the bloody bandages, slathered the wound with the salve and bound the arm again.  Porthos’ broad torso was making little progress wicking the cold from Athos’ shivering frame, so they bundled him into clean blankets and laid him back down, his head in Porthos’ lap.  It served to stop the flailing of limbs, but Athos struggled so frantically against the cocooning, Aramis released him.  Though not before he was satisfied they had decanted at least enough of the vinegary wine into him to make some headway against the poison. 

Deep into the night, Aramis took Elodie’s place on the side of the bed and d’Artagnan spelled Porthos, Aramis continuing to tip wine into Athos in the quieter periods.  Elodie draped herself over the end of the cot and closed her eyes, praying her water would not break before the ordeal concluded. 

Athos fought their ministrations as hard as the Inseparables fought for him, his muzzy head portraying them as the enemy to be defeated at all cost.  The dizzy pounding of his head swirled him through murky dreams fraught with slithering images of Grimaud coming upon him suddenly out of the mist, the dark, hooded face revealed slowly, as if by design of the elements casting a half-light upon the grim countenance.  So slowly, he could not react, lest he endanger innocents, until the last moment.  And then Grimaud was on him like leaches, rapier slicing, slicing slicing, nibbling away at Athos’ sanity as death arias sang from their swords.  Neither advance nor retreat wrought a difference; if he turned, the prey was on his right, or left, behind or before, always circling.  Just beyond the outer reach of his weapon.    

The crisis crept in at the dark of the moon, when all life is at its lowest ebb.  Aramis, slumped over his knees on the steps, woke to a low keening slipping eerily through the hovering shadows.  d’Artagnan, who had taken Aramis’ place, jerked from an upright doze, sloshing wine over himself, the bed clothes and Athos. 

Porthos, back at the head of the bed, was dozing with his head against the wall.  He roused enough to instinctively tighten his grip, as if by strength alone he could tether the drifting spirit.  The keening faded at the end of a distinctly audible rattle, and Athos was nothing more than a dead weight in Porthos’ arms.  

Elodie sat up, meeting Porthos’ instantly alert gaze with a shake of her head and a weary shrug.  Her hands and shoulders rose in a gesture of defeat.  “Nothing more we can do.”

“It’s in God’s hands then,” Aramis said softly, shifting up from the step. 

The room reeked of spirits and the stench of the aftermath of battle.  Elodie would remember them forever, these three who had fought so valiantly for their brother, pushing death back and back with the sheer force of their personalities.  Porthos’ tenderness had surprised her, though she supposed it should not have, given the chivalry with which he had responded right from the start.  He was a man with a big heart, she thought, shoving her fists into the small of her back as she rose to retreat to the stairs. 

d'Artagnan’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the bed.  It took conscious effort to unclench his fingers one by one in order to rise and help Porthos very carefully shift their bother to lie flat upon the thin mattress.  Aramis, on one knee beside the low cot, momentarily wrestled with the blankets, drawing a moan from Athos as he tucked them securely around the still figure. 

Elodie saw their drawn faces brighten at the sound, saw the fear creep back when the blanket-covered chest rose with a guttural breath, sink back as if deflated and then not rise again.  She saw their utter despair transform to unabashed and terrible grief.  It was etched, indelibly, upon each countenance.    

“Surely there is something else we can do,” d’Artagnan begged, dark eyes wide with dread. 

“Pray.” Aramis’s fingers itched for the wooden beads that had become an inseparable part of him at the abbey. 

“Wrong musketeer,” d’Artagnan said, desperation in his voice as he turned his face to Aramis, who just shook his head.  “You’re just … giving up?”  He shook his head as if shaking away a cloying lethargy.  “No.” And again, even more frantically, “Nooooooo!” 

Searching, with his own, for the cold hand buried under the bedclothes, his voice barely a whisper of sound in the tallow-scented shadows reaching out with the gelid fingers of finality, he girded his loins and approached the Almighty with anxious veneration.  “God … if you can hear me … I’m no Father Grandier … I don’t have his provenance or his faith … but … but I don’t believe Athos’ work is done here … in your earthly kingdom … either … we need him … don’t take him from us … please.” 

Elodie bowed her head, the glint of tears on the faces of these battle-hardened soldiers, drawing her own. As if the inevitability of death hovering in this room made the reality of her husband’s loss personal at last, Juliette’s words smote her heart.  “Put him out of your mind.  If he isn’t dead, he may as well be.”  She felt the separation of spirit in her heart and knew it was not the loss of the musketeer, it was her first love winging aloft with the release of her acceptance.  Her hands came up to conceal her face as she wept silent tears.

Perhaps she fell asleep, the night had been long and her aching back a sore trial, but she became aware of a muscular arm about her shoulders and her face pressed to a warm, solid chest; sadly, shirted again.  Behind them, when she turned to rest her chin on the broad shoulder attached to that wonderfully warm chest, the open doorway was suffused with a misty dawn light, heralding a new day.  She tucked her head back under Porthos’ chin as she swiped the edge of her apron over her gritty eyes. 

“I am so sorry,” she murmured, giving in to the desire to nestle like a kitten seeking the kitchen hearth. 

“For what?” Porthos moved one arm to brush the fine hair off her forehead so he could lean down to kiss it.

Her awareness broadened beyond the pair of arms holding her close, encompassing a whiffling snore and the sound of hushed voices.  A pair of boots passed through her limited field of vision, then another, stepping carefully over the long leg pressed against her own and around the obstacle they made on the stairs. 

And still the snoring continued. 

Elodie sat up abruptly.  “He lives?”

“He does, thanks in no small part to you.” 

“But I thought…”

“We did too.”  Porthos hugged his armful tight before letting her go to creak to his feet.  “Let me take you home, you should get some rest.  If you have chores you’re responsible for this morning, please let us do them.  It is the least we can do.”  He drew Elodie to her feet, clapping his big hands gently around her shoulders when she swayed.  “He is very dear to us.  We can never thank you enough for what you did for Athos this night.” 

She was aware enough to notice that his elocution had returned to that of a gentleman.  “I did nothing extraordinary.  If he pulled through, it was because he was meant to, not because of anything I did for him.”

Porthos tilted his head, hiding a shy smile behind a grin.  “Yeah, maybe.  But I doubt it.” 

Elodie peered over his shoulder again, watching Athos roll to his back and fling an arm above his head.  The snoring ceased for a moment, then began again in a deeper register. 

Porthos turned on the stair to watch with her, infinitely grateful to see the slow, steady rise and fall of easy breathing.  “Come,” he said, taking her arm.  “Let’s get you home.” 

They were no more than a few yards beyond the open doorway when the first scream shattered the dawn stillness, followed by a thin, sharp second and then a cacophony of voices raised in alarm. 

“What now?”  Elodie clamped her jaw shut on the moan trying to sneak out.  “Ermmm, this noise is like to wake your captain.”  Pots were being beaten all over the camp, the shouting rising in volume.  “Better go check on him.  I know my way home.”  She stretched her mouth in a smile.

Porthos saw the grimace behind it and was torn.  “You go on then, I’ll be right along.”  He knew the look.  “Go,” he said again, giving her a little nudge onward.  “Promise, I won’t be a minute or two, probably catch up wif ‘ya before ya get there.”

Elodie went because she knew he would not budge until she continued on her way.  Porthos turned, boots churning the dirt as he sped back, hard on the heels of Aramis and d’Artagnan pulling on gear they’d collected from the little knoll.  Elodie clamped both hands to her back and plowed forward, ignoring the gush of warm liquid sliding down her legs. 

Porthos caught the sword d’Artagnan tossed him on the run, slowed to take the pistol and they were all tumbling down the stairs, Aramis in the lead, to find Athos sitting, bleary-eyed, on the edge of the bed.  Grinning, Aramis claimed the place to the right of him, sliding an arm carefully across the slumped shoulders, avoiding the damaged shoulder. 

“Captain.”  Porthos, grin blossoming, hitched up his sword as he dropped to his knees, leaning in as Athos leaned forward, their foreheads touching briefly. 

d’Artagnan, swallowing an enormous sigh of relief, bent, putting a hand to the back of Athos’ head, leaning to bestow a typical French bise as his mentor briefly turned his face into d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“You had bad dreams,” Aramis said.  “About Grimaud.”  He knew better than to test the circumference of that tight circle by mentioning their vigil.  

“I know.”  Athos ran a hand through his hair.  Until the traitor was dead those dreams would haunt him waking or sleeping.  “What happened?”  The hand moved to explore his face as if it was unattached to his neck.  “Where are my clothes?  And what the hell is going on?” 

“Some kind of alarm has been raised.”  d’Artagnan gathered up Athos’ clothes, steadying him as he pulled on britches and attempted to shrug into his shirt.  The shoulder refused to cooperate.  “When I left you yesterday, at the sounds of fighting, it was because Bastian had shown his colors.”  They managed, between them, to get his arm into the shirt sleeve and d’Artagnan tied the laces. 

“Porthos and I did not find him when we went looking yesterday morning,” Aramis put in, holding back an offer to help.  “The cabin he was staying in had been emptied.  However, before we could set out after you and d’Artagnan, the traitor showed his face, accompanied by a motley band of followers.  My guess is they are back; with reinforcements.” 

“Back?”  The boots proved a bit difficult as well, but d’Artagnan finally wrestled them into place and drew Athos to his feet to stamp into them.  “What do they want with a bunch of women and children?”  Athos struggled into the coat d’Artagnan held up. 

“Gold.” Porthos parsed the word as if weighing its worth. “Prob’ly robbed off n’army pay wagon.  They stashed it here and they want it back.”

“Except it’s gone.” Aramis sketched the situation quickly.  “The women found it and used it to buy supplies they were unable to makeshift themselves.”

Athos put a hand to his aching head.  “Why not tell them it’s gone?”

“So they’ll just swan off?” Porthos’ lifted eyebrow said it all as he edged toward the steps. 

“Right.”  Athos accepted his sword belt from Aramis but had difficulty setting the tang, d’Artagnan finished the job.  “How many of them?”

“Dunno, couldn’ get a proper count.  But they left half a dozen behind yesterday.  Dead.”

“So they are diminished.”

“That don’ make ‘em any less angry.”  Porthos was already on the landing at the turn of the wooden staircase.  “But you’ll have’ta do this wiv’out me.  Looked like Elodie was ‘bout to pop the baby.” 

“Elodie?” Athos wobbled like a round-bottomed toy. 

“The garrulous archeress,” Aramis identified.

“Woman with the bow,” d’Artagnan supplied in unison with Aramis.  “Porthos has taken a shine to her.”

“And here I thought we had erased Aramis’ influence.”

d’Artagnan and Aramis shared a grin at the flatly intonated jest.  “Apparently not,” d’Artagnan laughed, slapping Aramis on the back.   

“She saved your life.” Aramis gave back as good as he got, catching one of those corner-of-the eye glimpses of the circle opening a crack.  “You have reason to be grateful to her.”  Briefly, he was warmly cloaked in the routine of the old, easy banter. 

“No,” d’Artagnan contradicted. “Aramis saved your life.  If he had not figured out how Theresa poisoned you - and the antidote - Elodie’s work would have been for naught.  Though, she certainly helped keep you alive,” he admitted freely.  He stepped forward but resisted the urge to reach out.  Instead, he shot a look over his shoulder.

Aramis, on the receiving end of one of those speaking glances that so often passed between the returned war heroes, gaped for the single breath it took to interpret the look.  The gap opened just enough to allow him to slide fully into the inner circle once more. 

“And having saved your worthless hide yet again…” Aramis cocked his head, running a critical eye over their captain, who while still standing, had lost all the color he’d gained back.  “There is no way I will allow you to undo all our hard work.”  He fell easily into the old patterns, when his word as healer had been unchallenged. 

“You are not in charge here.”  Though Athos had not the strength to resist the hands propelling him back toward the bed.

“You would not allow any man under your command out in the condition you are in,” Aramis countered.  “You damn well know you are in no condition to be slashing about with a sword-”

“I can still shoot,” Athos interrupted, though he sheathed his sword, if somewhat awkwardly, half a capitulation.  “Why are we still standing here?”  Released, he shuffled forward again, around d’Artagnan, who had planted himself directly in the path to the steps.

d'Artagnan folded his arms over his chest, but said nothing, leaving the field to Aramis. 

“Can you load?”

Athos ground his teeth.  “Get me a loader and prop me in one of those goddamn crevices.”

“Let him go, d’Artagnan.  He will not make it up the stairs.”

d’Artagnan, who had seen his leader rise from the dead any number of times on the battlefield, was not quite as assuming as Aramis.  He was closest when Athos tipped too far, a slowly toppling lead soldier.  A long step and he had him by the back of his coat collar.  “Athos,” he wrapped an arm around the older man’s chest, gingerly righting him, “your shoulder looks like some housewife took a meat tenderizer to it.  Come on, you can barely stand on your own.  Aramis is right, you would never let one of us go into battle in your condition.”

“Leave me here and I will have you both cashiered.”  Athos squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the nausea still swimming in his gut.  ‘And I am not jesting.”

“I’d rather give up my pauldron than see you dead.” Aramis thrust his face close to Athos’.  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Athos cracked an eyelid. 

Aramis knew the old familiar strength better in a quieter form.  “Stand down, brother,” he said softly, like d’Artagnan, pulling Athos in to whisper as he bestowed a bise, “I would not have you waste your life in this manner.  Stand down and live to see another day.”

“Devious tactics … brother,” Athos grumbled, knowing surrender was inevitable.  His feet would not obey the commands his brain was frantically sending.  He did not have a death wish, but to be left behind like an old crone, past even her prayers, was galling.  His body, however, conspired against him.  Clearly, he was as likely to shoot himself or any loader they might secure for him, as the enemy.  Or, worse yet, with his vision hazing in and out, one of his currently bothersome brothers. ‘Do not get yourselves killed out there.” He had never learned to swallow the bitter pill of retreat easily. 

d'Artagnan phffed at the very thought.  “These women are Amazonian,” he stepped forward to hug Athos once more, “we could as well stand back and watch them tear the deserter’s limb from limb.  Though one feels obligated to side with ones hosts when they have been so…” The dark features slid into a frown. 

“Accommodating?” Aramis supplied with a smirk. 

“Exactly.” d’Artagnan’s chuckle was dry.  “Accommodating,” he repeated wryly.  “This won’t take long.  Have a nap if you can, we should be leaving as soon as we rout the fugitives.  Treville needs to hear this news.  He would not neglect such a hotbed of treason as Lorraine, perhaps he already has pigeons strategically placed.” 

A thought that had not occurred to Athos, who allowed his stiff spine to soften and slumped back on the bed, one booted foot, and his sword, hanging over the edge.  “Go then.  Wipe the forest floor with them.” He draped his undamaged arm over his throbbing eyes, realizing there was no part of him that did not ache.  “You are correct, d’Artagnan, Treville must get this news as soon as possible.” Though it meant his own personal vengeance would not be achieved; such were the much-vaunted glories of war.      

 “Captain.” d’Artagnan snapped off a quick, respectful salute, despite the covered eyes, echoing Porthos’ verbal salutation.

Aramis followed suit, touching a hand to his forehead, a bit astonished at the flood of deference that swamped his normally cavalier attitude towards authority.   “Captain.”  And followed d’Artagnan quickly up the stairs.  It felt … he contemplated for a moment, feet following in d’Artagnan’s footsteps without thought … it felt good.  Very good.

Despite the increased numbers, it took no longer to rout the renegades than it had the day before.  The village Amazons had not been lying about mourning the loss of their men.  Their fortifications, if not the standard weapons of war, had been ingeniously planned and skillfully deployed for maximum benefit.  And while the women made appreciative noises at the pair of musketeers, it was equally clear their help had merely hastened the end of the engagement, not turned the tide of the battle. 

There were scrapes and bumps and mashed fingers to be dealt with, and bodies to bury, but no serious injuries on the villagers’ side.  Aramis hung around to lend what aid he could offer, especially since their actions had caused the hamlet’s healer to abscond, but even that bit of service was required only by those seeking a closer look at the handsome musketeer.  For the most part, the women tended to themselves or sought out a neighbor for assistance. 

Eventually, Aramis retreated to the escarpment assigned to them two nights ago, where he found d’Artagnan sprawled at his ease against the tree, quaffing from a tankard.  “Athos?”

“Sleeping.”

“Best thing for him.” Aramis palmed an empty tankard, swishing it out with a handful of leaves plucked from a nearby bush. 

“Agreed, which is why we will not wake him until it becomes necessary.”

Aramis picked out a dead fly floating in the pitcher of ale probably left from their first meal.  A whole thirty hours ago, if that, he thought, calculating swiftly. He sniffed the drought warily before pouring it into the mug, then lifted it, returning d’Artagnan’s salute, and took a deep draft, quenching a thirst he had not realized he’d acquired.  “Porthos?”  He leaned back against the table, reaching to rub a gloved hand across the back of his neck. 

They might have been superfluous as far as the women were concerned, but they had come away with some bruises and abrasions of their own.  d’Artagnan was absently rubbing a knee and he had a cut over his left eye.  Aramis was beginning to feel a few bumps and contusions, as well, now that the battle rush was subsiding.  “Seen Porthos?” he prompted again.

d'Artagnan blinked and shook his head.  “Uh, no.”  He shifted uncomfortably, discovering new places that hurt.  “Hope that doesn’t mean Elodie is in trouble.” 

“I should …”

“No.”

“But-”

d’Artagnan sighed.  “I don’t mean to disparage your skills at all, Aramis, but we have all had more than a bit of experience with battleground births.  Being surrounded by murder and mayhem tends to bring on labor whether a woman is near her or time or not.”  He struggled to his feet, pushing off the tree to limp across and pour another round, then leaned back against the table beside Aramis.  “Porthos has gotten really good at it.”

“You all have gotten really good at a lot of things I have missed out on.  I was never more shocked than hearing you pray last night.”

The darkly-tanned features disappeared behind a curtain of hair as d’Artagnan ducked his head.  “Needs must when the devil drives,” he mumbled.   

“I did not mean to embarrass you, youngling.”  Aramis cocked an arm around d’Artagnan’s neck, drawing him in for a quick hug.  “You did good; I’m proud of you.  Athos’ predication all those years ago in Berne is coming to fruition.  You will fill his shoes admirably when he finally figures out Sylvie is good for him.”

“Yeah,” Porthos lumbered up the small incline, yawning hugely.  “Though Sylvie’ll hav’ta to hound him like’a coon dog for that ta’happen.” 

“Looked to me like she was quitting the field,” Aramis observed.  “Elodie?”

“Delivered a lusty baby girl.”  Porthos grinned.  “Athos?”

“Sleeping.” d’Artagnan leaned to look around Porthos’ big bulk.  “Well, he was.” 

Porthos turned, casting an examining eye up and down their plodding leader.  “If you ain’t the cat with nine lives.  Need a hand?”  He offered one.

Athos took it, puffing, and let their gentle giant pull him the rest of the way up the hill.  “The subject of Sylvie … is off limits.” 

Porthos, beside him, rolled his eyes at the other two, both of whom swallowed laughs. 

“One of you, report.”  Athos shuffled to a bench like an old man and sank down. 

d’Artagnan cleared his throat.  “Four prisoners, the rest dead or fled.  Not enough resources to track them.  No serious injuries among the villagers.”

“Maybe for the best.” Aramis shoved off the table.  “I doubt this band spread the word there was gold here, they would have kept that as close as possible.  But word will spread now, that the women here are armed and dangerous.  We have wrought no further harm with our presence here.”

Athos sighed.  The best possible outcome, short of collecting Grimaud’s head. 

“Just so ya know…” Porthos hitched his utility belt a bit higher, hiking a leg onto the end of the bench Athos occupied.  “I offered to stay.”

Three heads swung toward him: two with raised eyebrows, the other with a chuckle. 

“Porthos has never been the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind.”  Aramis shouldered his arquebus and strode across to clap his brother on the shoulder. 

Porthos turned his gaze down to the bench.  “She turned me down.”

No one missed the genuine regret in his voice. 

Athos hitched himself down the bench, carefully lifting his right arm around the bent neck, gingerly bending to rest his forehead against Porthos’.  “I am sorry.” 

d’Artagnan moved to stand behind his friend, resting his hands lightly on the broad shoulders.  “Me too.” 

Aramis, of the second sight, put a hand over d’Artagnan’s.  “You’ve planted a seed.  Who knows, Elodie may find in it herself to nurture it.”

On the little knoll there was silence, though around them the village was returning to its various tasks.  Hammer and tong could be heard clanging rhythmically against the forge.  A lone voice lifted in song, joined by another and then another, until a rousing chorus rang among the trees.  Childish chatter piggybacked faintly on a gently drifting zephyr.

“Indefatigable,” Athos murmured as he pushed up off the bench.  “We must to horse if we are to arrive at our destination before dark.” 

“I will collect the prisoners and meet you all at the stables.”  d’Artagnan steadied Athos, met his gaze and inclined his head in silent understanding.  There was work to do, and Athos, the man of steel, would see it done. 

A bright morning sun had burned off dawn’s pearly fog as the Musketeers rode out through the narrow entrance to the stables.  d’Artaganan, in the lead, caught the eye of the deserter he and Elodie had offered a second chance. 

Robert met the look steadily for a moment, before lowering his head respectfully. 

d’Artagnan returned the nod.  Something worth dying for, he thought, resisting the urge to turn a fiercely protective eye on those that rode, single file, behind him.  He found himself strangely grateful Robert had embraced that second chance, and not just because the man had turned on his former collaborators and saved not only Elodie from harm, but d’Artagnan as well. 

Elodie, standing next to Juliet, bundled baby warm against her chest, watched them go with hungry eyes.

~the end~