Chapter Text
"Wolves"
“I can’t hear anything. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m bloody sure.” Porthos raises his drawn sword and lets them see the tremor in his usually steady grip. His breath seizes and he shrinks back from Aramis’ hold. “I can’t face this-”
---
As though struck by a snake, D’Artagnan recoils from the headstone he had been examining.
“Did you read this?” He scrubs a hand across his muddy face in disbelief. “Did you read it?!”
Athos grabs the boy’s wrist, preventing him from frantically rubbing more foul water into his eyes. He bends low, attempting to make out the freshly carved lettering in the darkness.
Constance Bonacieux. 1631.
