A/N:

This takes place directly after S 2 Ep. 10, when we see Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan ride after Aramis.

Slight difference is that d'Artagnan and Constance are not married in this story. To be honest, Constance is not even mentioned...

Huge thanks to BootsnHats who is doing the beta for this story. Again. ;-) Typos and mistakes are all mine!
Unfortunately not mine are The Musketeers, they are property of BBC One. However, I borrowed the characters and concept for this work of fan fiction.

CHAPTER 1

Aramis watched the clouds. How they chased over the sky, dragging with them the fading light. Night would soon be upon him, one way or the other. His thoughts wandered back to the day he had last seen the queen and her son. His son. The day he had bid his brothers goodbye. All for one. Later, when he had handed over his pauldron, he had heard some of his fellow Musketeers mutter and wonder what he was running away from, if Rochefort, somehow, had broken him in the end. Whispers, if there was some truth in the accusations brought forward against him. They knew nothing. Knew nothing about him, his reasons, about the bargain with God he had made, a vow he could not easily dismiss. His reasons for going, for leaving it all behind, leaving them behind. Not only his brothers. Some perhaps still saw him as the emotionally damaged man he had been after Savoy.

No, not broken, not even particularly damaged, but he did have to admit he had had doubts that day. Doubts as to whether this was really a path he could take. In his youth he had known it was not the life he wanted to live, despite the hopes his parents had had for him. He wondered why he'd thought himself more suited to such a life this time around. Porthos, of course, had know, must have seen it in his eyes. His brother knew him too well, better than anyone else, might as well be able to read his very soul. But Porthos hadn't said anything, only hugged him tight and allowed him to go. Not that it mattered now, probably wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Did he wish, here and now, that Porthos had not let him leave so easily? Yes. Maybe. But it was wearisome to muse on these things, Aramis decided, as he watched the clouds forming shapes and figures over and over again.

Here and now...

Aramis looked down at his leg, where the blood had stained not only his breeches, but also the damp earth underneath his legs. He watched the blood trickle down, watched the life leak out of him. Wouldn't be long now, he knew. He was too well versed in these medical things to trick himself into believing otherwise. Selfishly, he wished his brothers were here. One of them, at least. Savoy hovered at the edge of consciousness; it was not dying he minded so much as dying alone. Had he not been left to die alone enough for one lifetime? Not that he wished this fate on any of his friends, but why? Why was it always him left to die alone in the woods? It did not seem fair at all.

A breeze swirled around the trees and bushes in the small clearing, rustling the leaves around Aramis, and he saw a bird on a bush a couple of feet away from him, twittering blissfully. No, he scolded himself, he was not alone, not entirely. But no ravens, not yet. "Thank you, merciful God," he muttered. When the ravens appeared, the end was near. Harbinger of death. But not yet. Athos would pull his comte stare if he could see him now, eyebrow raised in just such a way, one only his brother could manage.

"Really, Aramis? You would do this to us?"

"The decision wasn't mine," Aramis whispered. His head snapped up. Whom had he spoken to? Had he really heard Athos' voice or was it just in his head, yet again? Fever caused such hallucinations, he knew that, had experienced enough of such things over the last couple of days. Or had he fallen asleep and dreamed? He looked around, a task which was getting harder and harder to carry out, and not only due to the injuries the torture had caused and left his whole body coated in pain and wounds. No, there was no one. None had come. How could they? No one knew where he was, no one knew what had befallen him.

He was so terribly tired, and it definitely didn't help to see all the blood rushing out of him, dripping to the ground, pooling on the soil. His vision blurred and he couldn't see his legs properly anymore. Startled he looked up. Had the sun already started to set? So soon? Yes, of course, it was time for him ... Though his body burned with fever, and pain, he felt freezing cold, felt it in every fiber of his hurting body. A wisp of wind wafted through his sweaty, matted hair and made him shiver. Soon it would be over. Darkness clouded his sight and he closed his eyes for what he knew was the last time. No sense in delaying the inevitable. He was weary to the bone and now, now he could finally rest. One for all...

"Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua ... fiat voluntas ...tua …. fiat ..."

The marksman's head started to lower and finally came to rest on his bloodstained shirt. Hence, Aramis didn't see the lone raven that circled just above the tree line, trying to assess if the prey down on the ground was safe to be approached yet. A moment later, another raven had joined the first, and it wasn't before long until they descended from the sky and landed, not far away from the dying man's boots.

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2 weeks earlier

Athos spurred his horse, trying to close with Porthos and d'Artagnan who were already almost a mile ahead of him, racing along the way, rambunctious as they were. As the newly appointed captain of the Musketeer Regiment he could not behave as childishly as his friends did from time to time, and the education he had undergone as future Comte de la Fère admittedly helped. Nevertheless, he was not willing to let his comrades reach Douai before him, and he urged his horse on.

Moreover, Athos mused, technically he was not yet their captain, and Tréville, newly appointed Minister of War, was still responsible for the regiment. There was always hope, though he would never confess it, that Louis, inconsistent and fickle as he was, might decide to appoint someone else to that ministry and Tréville would return as commanding officer of the Musketeer Regiment. Ah, one could hope, but certainly there was no one better suited for the position as minister of war than their captain. Former captain, he reminded himself.

Louis hopefully had learned something from the affair with Rochefort and would in future take a closer look at whom he filled his vacant positions within the court with. He had heard rumors that Cardinal Mazarin soon would take Richelieu's place in the king's court and heart and would be granted the position of First Minister of France. Athos didn't know much about Mazarin, but both Richelieu and Rochefort had made sure that he was wary of any men coming close to the king. He definitely would have a close eye on the new cardinal at the king's side.

Athos had made up enough ground to close with his companions. Despite the fun both had made of turning their trip into a race, he could see the tension in Porthos' shoulders. He was probably the one out of all of them who missed Aramis to a point where it hurt bodily. All of them had had some kind of family or other, but for Porthos the regiment and his brothers were all the family he had and probably would ever have. Having to let go of one of them, letting his brother go, had almost ripped the big man's heart out, though he would never admit it.

From the bottom of his heart Athos, too, had been willing to let Aramis leave and find the peace of mind the marksman seemed to be in search of lately. Athos knew how the futile love for a woman, and in Aramis' case for a child as well, could cloud ones soul. If Aramis thought he could find peace in a life for God, then he wished him all the very best. But war with Spain was as good a reason as any why they were in NEED of Aramis, of their brother in arms. The time they had served together in the regiment, the life they had shared, made him feel confident that the marksman would not forsake them. At least that was what he hoped. Athos was not happy with the war declaration on Spain, but he certainly was glad that they had a reason to ride after Aramis and bring him home.

They reached the outskirts of Douai in the late evening hours, long after the monks had held their last liturgia horarum and retired to bed. Despite their impatience to get to Aramis, and by dint of Athos' voice of reason, they searched for a place to stay the night before seeking the monastery the next day as soon as the sun cast its first rays over the horizon.

Soon they found an inn that looked welcoming enough and was not far from the huge steeples that towered over the city and belonged to the grand abbey of Douai. Handing over their horses to a young stable boy, they gathered their saddle bags and made their way over to the entrance of the inn. Given the noise level they could hear through the closed door, the taproom seemed bursting with life. Upon entering they heard snippets of conversations going on in the small room and once more were reminded that technically they were on Spanish soil now. A fact they were not happy about, though it was unlikely that any news of the war declaration had reached this part of the Spanish kingdom yet. Shortly after they had sat down at the last vacant table, the innkeeper came over and greeted them.

"How may I help you, messieurs? Do you require a room for the night, or merely a meal?" The innkeep put a hand to the back of Athos' chair.

"Both," Athos replied, taking off his hat, "and bring a bottle of your best wine." He squinted his eyes at the short man, one could even say in a rather unfriendly way. "And I don't mean the swill you serve your usual miscreants."

Porthos put a calming hand on Athos' shoulder, smiling brightly at the innkeeper. "What 'e meant to say is we'd be glad to pay a little more for one of your best wines, the ones you'd store away for special occasions," and after he had squeezed Athos' shoulder lightly, added, "we well know it's not easy to acquire enough good wine to fill all those thirsty souls." He winked once more at the innkeeper before he turned his gaze to Athos, warning him with a glare to keep his mouth shut.

"Very well, messieurs, I have a room big enough for three, with two beds, so you'll have plenty of space for a good night's sleep. Water and towel at your disposal. I'll bring stew and bread. And the wine," he added, quickly glancing towards Athos, before he bowed slightly and retired to the kitchen.

"What?" Athos, staring at his hat on the table, felt Porthos, as well as d'Artagnan, glaring at him.

"What do ya' mean with what? Can't you be a little less snobbish when confronted with inferiors?" Porthos growled.

"Are you calling me snobbish?" Athos' voice had a dangerous edge to it.

Before Porthos could answer, d'Artagnan intervened. "It's been a long day and you're both tense with the expectation of reaching Aramis. As am I, but it will not get us to Aramis any faster if you two start a fight over nothing." D'Artagnan looked tensely from one to the other. "Just let it drop."

Athos scrutinized the younger man for a moment with cold, unfathomable eyes, before he uttered, "Bon d'accord."

Porthos nodded once in acceptance of the Gascon's words, but didn't add anything to Athos' comment. He knew that Athos missed Aramis as fiercely as they all did, and his appointment as commanding officer and the responsibility for the garrison surely didn't help to ease the strain on the older man. If Athos' speaking became cutting and sardonic, meant to sting, it was most often a sign for the walls he raised to keep himself from being hurt. Athos certainly was not as sure as he wanted to make the others believe that Aramis would really return with them, that much Porthos understood.

The innkeeper came back with a bottle of wine and three cups, putting everything down reverently, before he backed off again.

D'Artagnan grabbed the bottle before Athos could so much as reach for it. The young man uncorked it, filled all the cups with the dark red liquid and then raised his own, declaring "To Aramis, for tomorrow we'll bring him home."

Porthos raised his cup as well and nodded, the downwards pointing corners of his mouth reflecting the seriousness of it. "Aye. Where he belongs."

Both Musketeers looked over to their leader who had not yet grasped his cup or otherwise moved, his eyes fixed on the goblet in front of him.

After what seemed like a long time, Athos finally lifted his cup as well. He looked first d'Artagnan and then Porthos in the eye. "I hope it was right to come after him, but it's damn time he comes home." He gulped down most of the cup's content, and when he finally put the cup back on the table with a thud, he announced, "I might not have to shoot him after all."

When d'Artagnan couldn't decide if Athos referred to Aramis or the innkeeper, and it showed on his face, Porthos let out a guffaw and slapped the Gascon on the back. "'s good stuff, I'm sure this 's not the last bottle of wine we'll have tonight."

The maidservant brought the promised stew and Athos immediately ordered another bottle of wine, not without explicitly pointing out to her that it had to be the very same vintage as the one they already had.

The evening went on while they consumed what food had been brought, not really paying heed to what they ate, and mused about what Aramis might have done in the short time he had been away from them. Well into the third bottle of wine and with no food left on the plates, they decided to turn in and get some sleep so they could rise early and be at the abbey with the first light of day. The innkeeper caught Porthos' gesture and hurried over.

"Messieurs, how may I serve you?'

"If you would show us the room for the night, good man," Porthos declared, rising from his seat.

"Of course, please follow me." The man shuffled to the back of the room where a small stairway led up to the first floor.

The brothers followed and, once upstairs, were pointed to a door on the right. It was indeed not a small chamber they entered but a room big enough to host two rather sturdy looking beds as well as two small chairs, a trunk beneath the window and a small table where a pitcher with water and a basin offered a place to wash.

"There is a candle on the table, if you need more, it costs extra." The innkeeper hesitated, as if he wanted to add something but was unsure if he should do so. Having made up his mind, or so it appeared, he once more addressed the men in the room, placing himself on the threshold, ready to leave. "If I might ask, messieurs, you are the French King's Musketeers, are you not?"

"We are. Is this a problem with you?" Athos replied.

All three men were instantly alert, their hands drawn to their weapons as if simultaneously guided by some invisible power, once more aware that they were on Spanish soil. Even though great parts of the population were still French or of French origin, there were a lot of Flemish people who still would not accept that their land belonged to Spain now, and their hatred for France, in their eyes responsible for their fate, was as big as their enmity with Spain.

"No! Not at all," the innkeeper hurriedly assured, "I just wondered if there is a reason for French Musketeers to come this far north. I hoped that maybe King Louis might be willing to negotiate with Spain over the Flemish territories. Not everyone here is happy to have to bow to King Philip." The last words were spoken with disgust and the man looked as if he might spit on the floor to emphasize his statement.

Athos relaxed slightly, dropping his hand down beside the pommel of his rapier. The innkeeper seemed to be a man not too happy with the current political situation in this province, but that was none of the Musketeer's business. "We are here on a private matter, not at the behest of King Louis."

"But maybe you know something about the king's plans? There are rumors that he is inclined to take back what belongs to him, travelers tell of a war declaration on Spain. Have you heard about this?"

So much for that, Athos thought and looked over to his companions. Both were still tense and alert, though it looked like there was no imminent danger other than a dissatisfied innkeeper hoping for news.

"We have no such information, Monsieur. If there is nothing else, we would like to retire now, we have to get up early tomorrow."

"But of course, forgive me for holding you up." The innkeeper stepped back and closed the door.

The Musketeers looked at each other. They were not sure what to make of this, but it bid fair that the news of the war declaration had already reached this part of the land as well, which could be a threat to them, depending on who they encountered.

"Maybe Aramis has already heard of it and has his belongings packed to return to Paris," d'Artagnan suggested and grinned to lift the solemn mood. "Didn't you say he would come if he knew? It would keep us from having to beg."

Athos looked from d'Artagnan to Porthos. The latter bore a slight smile, undoubtedly thinking how lucky it would be if Aramis would already awaited them with packed saddle bags at the gate of the abbey. Then his face turned more serious and he looked to Athos. "I'm not happy with this news of the war declaration already spreading wide and far. As soon as Aramis has packed, we're leaving Flanders for good."

Athos nodded. He had never intended to stay longer than it would take to convince and retrieve Aramis.

Porthos bolted the door while Athos and d'Artagnan removed their weapons, doublets and boots. D'Artagnan launched himself on one of the beds and propped up his head with his arms. He looked up to the ceiling and inquired, "Should we keep watch or trust the bolt on the door?"

Both Porthos and Athos heard the tiredness in the young Gascon's voice, after all it had been an exhausting week and a long day. They shared a quick glance, enough to convey their thoughts, and Athos declared, "I'll keep first watch, Porthos will take over. You have third watch."

D'Artagnan yawned and his answer was unidentifiable, something between "All right" and "Good night", but it didn't matter anyway.

Meanwhile Porthos had climbed into the other bed, heaved his body to lie on his left side, facing d'Artagnan, and closed his eyes. Not one minute later Athos heard the regular breathing of both men and decided to blow out the single candle that lit the room. He silently dragged a stool to the window and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible without being in danger of falling asleep. With his feet propped up on the side of d'Artagnan's bed he looked out into the star-lit sky. The moon was bright enough he could see the shapes of the buildings surrounding the inn, and in the distant the steeples of the Douai abbey. He wondered what Aramis was doing at this very moment, if he would be getting up soon for matins to sing the Te Deum Laudamus or whatever it was the monks did when they gathered after midnight to sing the first praise of the day. He would not survive one single day as monk in a monastery, Athos mused, but then he had never had Aramis' faith. On the other hand, the life of a soldier seemed not so different from that of a monk. Aside from the fact that they served two very different lords, both lives demanded discipline, devotion and unwavering loyalty. But he was sure that serving the Lord Aramis so devotedly believed in was probably more promising in the end than serving Louis; it definitely comprised far less killing and dying, of that he was sure.

Athos sighed audibly, wishing he had brought a bottle of wine up to the room. He let his thoughts wander, back to a couple of days prior, and wondered if he had been able to make his way to the crossroads sooner, if Anne might still have been there. Maybe she had not waited for him at all, maybe she had teased him to stab his heart one last time. But her glove, now safely stowed away in his doublet, had been there. Maybe, maybe she had waited for him, looking down the road hoping to see him come. Alas, he would never know. It was unproductive to ponder 'what ifs', he chided himself and didn't know where the sentiment came from.

When he could no longer keep himself awake, Athos walked over to the bed Porthos slept in and shook the bigger man by the shoulder.

Porthos, trained on the streets of Paris, and with skills honed by years of soldiering, came awake instantly and only needed few seconds to know where he was and that no danger awaited him. He rubbed his face and sat up, then nodded to Athos and silently climbed out of the bed to make room for his captain.

Athos dropped onto the bed, immediately aware of how alluringly warm it was, and closed his eyes.

Porthos stretched his muscles in front of the window, his joints creaking, and looked out into the still dark night. When he turned to look over to the two beds, he heard a soft snoring. The big man sighed and dropped down on the stool Athos had vacated earlier, also propping up his feet on the bed d'Artagnan was sleeping in. He hated night watches, but if they were on a mission and camping outside, there was at least the fresh air and the sounds of night which kept him awake. Being on guard in the middle of the night in an inn was boring and dull. He stared out of the window.

When d'Artagnan came awake it was to the face of Porthos only a couple of inches away from his own and he flinched. Dawn was already bathing the room in a diffused light.

"Sorry to wake you, but if you take watch for an hour or so, I could get another handful of sleep." Porthos looked apologetic, but tired.

D'Artagnan instantly sat up and assured Porthos that he would of course take his part of the watch, muttering under his breath that his brothers should stop treating him as a baby. He crawled out of the bed, tripped over his boots and quickly turned towards the other bed to see if he had woken Athos. The older man only shifted in his sleep and d'Artagnan moved to the window to look out at the beginning day.

D'Artagnan didn't have to wait long before Athos woke, the older man was wide awake in an instant despite the fact that he had had only few hours of sleep. A fact d'Artagnan envied, for since his childhood days he had always had problems getting out of bed, especially after too little sleep. Both men made use of the chamber pot as well as the cold water for a meager morning wash, and then finally woke Porthos.

Instead of spending time with breakfast or pleasantries they paid the innkeeper, retrieved their horses and made their way to the abbey. The huge abbey gate was still closed when they rode up only a few minutes later. The Musketeers dismounted and Athos used the big, ornamented doorknocker to make their presence known to whoever was detailed to guard the gates.

Shortly, a small window opened and they were inspected briefly before the monk demanded. "What do you want?"

Athos, no friend of needless pleasantries anyway, replied , "We are here to see a comrade of us, his name is Aramis, but he also goes with René d'Herblay."

"Wait a moment, please," the monk told them and closed the small window, only to open the gates a moment later and invite them in.

They led their horses into the courtyard, surprised by the vast expanses of the abbey once they were inside the walls. They had already guessed, given how high the steeples reached into the sky, that the Abbey of Douai must be one of the richer abbeys in this part of the country, but what they found was not only a big church but also many buildings and much agricultural land.

"I'm sorry, but I have never heard your friend's name, nor have I any knowledge about his admittance to this order, but I will ask our prior if he knows the one you seek. Please wait here." The monk nodded once, crossed the courtyard and disappeared into one of the bigger buildings.

Stunned, the Musketeers gazed after the monk until he entered the building. That was not the answer they had expected, but given the size of this monastery it probably was not unusual that not every monk knew the names of newcomers, especially if the abbey was also a shelter for pilgrims, which was the case here.

"Do you think he gave them another name? Not that I could think of a suitable one," Porthos asked his friends, "or maybe he came here as a pilgrim? Do they register the names of pilgrims as well?"

Athos shook his head, having no answer to either question, but d'Artagnan offered a reply. "Maybe he really was afraid we would come after him and gave a false name?" The young man looked to and fro between his companions, adding "But he must know that we would not surrender so easily."

"If he thought he could fool us with something like that, his mind must be more muddled than I thought."

"Let's wait until the frater comes back, Porthos, I am sure the prior knows of him, no reason to worry," Athos replied, though he could not even convince himself. Without having to vocalize it aloud, all of them felt the same familiar feeling that something was not right here.

They shuffled nervously for a couple of minutes. Their horses, seemingly picking up the nervousness of their riders, also started stamping their hooves and shaking their manes, now and then yanking at the reins. Finally, two monks came to join them, one of them the frater who had let them in, the other one definitely not Aramis as well. Seeing two men leave the building, for a split second the Musketeers hoped that one of them was Aramis, but their hopes were crushed immediately upon realizing that both men were much smaller and broader than their brother.

When the first man had reached the little group, he greeted them with a slight nod and a warm smile. "I am Père Clément, prior of this abbey and I hope I can help you. Frère Lucien here says you are looking for a friend of yours?"

"We are looking for our brother, Father," Porthos growled, miffed that the prior spoke of Aramis as a friend rather than the brother he was to them. A fact the monk couldn't be expected to know, but Porthos obviously wasn't willing to concede.

"We are King's Musketeers," Athos interrupted quickly, "I am Athos, this is Porthos and d'Artagnan. We are here in search of our brother Aramis, who sought admittance to this order a couple of days ago. We have urgent business to discuss with him and would appreciate it if we could talk to him." Athos, having had his turn at being surly, knew it was important to be as polite as he could manage in this surreal situation, certain they would have no success with unfriendly words or threats.

"I fear I must disappoint you, we have not had any new admittances in the last couple of months, nor do I know of a man named Aramis." The prior watched his words hit home, assessing the signs of impatience and distress he saw often in the eyes of abbey visitors these days.

"What do you mean, you have not admitted anyone within the last couple of months? Did Aramis tell you to turn away anyone who came asking for him?" Porthos' growl was threatening enough to make a lesser man than the prior quiver, but Father Clément was not a man to flinch in the presence of the enemy.

"That cannot be," d'Artagnan spoke up, "he explicitly told us he was retiring here, in the Benedictine Abbey of Douai, or do you have another monastery here?" D'Artagnan glanced over to his brothers. They had missed checking to see if there were more monasteries of the Benedictine order located in or around Douai.

"No, we are the only monastic confraternity here in Douai. There is a small convent of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy here in Douai, but the next monastery is in Méricourt, a Franciscan order."

"Maybe he gave you his proper name, René d'Herblay. Or, "Athos paused briefly, "he might have given you any name. If Aramis is determined to see through what's in his mind, he sometimes takes unconventional ways."

"He is lean and tall, dark hair and our age. Handsome face," Porthos added, hoping his description would jog the prior's memory. "He must be here."

"Monsieur, I can only repeat what I have already said. Your friend is not here. We have not had anyone seeking refuge with this order within the last two months. The last person who asked for shelter and is still here is Monsieur Laquerièrre from Brest, and he is not a soldier but a merchant. We had some visitors, pilgrims, who stayed one or two nights, but none remained, and none of them were young enough to be the Musketeer you seek," Father Clément declared, looking apologetically from one Musketeer to the other.

"But he must be here! He left Paris almost a week ago. Where else should he be?" Porthos was getting louder, demanding answers the prior obviously could not provide.

Athos took another step forward to stand between Porthos and the prior. He feared Porthos would do something rash, given the despair one could hear lingering in his voice. "Father, I am sorry for being such an inconvenience to you, and please forgive us if we appear indignant, but it is really of the utmost importance that we speak with our friend. There is urgent business on behalf of King Louis waiting for us in Paris, and we have to make haste to return, but we were in expectation of meeting our brother here. And returning together with him. He explicitly told us he was coming here and we have no reason to believe that he has changed his mind without letting us know. So you must understand why we are irritated that it appears he is not here after all."

"I can see your disappointment and if it helps," Père Clément's expression radiated sympathy and understanding, "you are welcome to join us for laudes and look for your brother among us. All the monks will gather for the prayers with the exception of our abbot who is bed-ridden at the moment as well as two elder brothers who are in the infirmary right now. You may check the quarters for the pilgrims as well if you so desire, but I can assure you once more that no one has sought shelter or admission here for over eight weeks." The church bells started to toll, calling the monks for laudes. "I really am sorry, messieurs," Father Clément added.

Athos looked to his companions. He saw the expression on Porthos' face and knew the bigger man was willing to search in every nook and cranny for Aramis, while d'Artagnan looked rather like the lost puppy his brothers used to tease him with since he had joined them. Athos knew it was up to him to make a decision and addressed the two monks again. "Thank you, Father. We will head back to Paris." Athos inclined his head slightly and put his hat back on.

"Do you want to leave a message for your friend, should he arrive here at a later time?"

"No, thank you, there will be no need for that later. Adieu." Athos turned to make his way out of the abbey and found himself faced with an angry d'Artagnan. Porthos' mein was downright threatening.

"We cannot simply turn back," d'Artagnan hissed. "He ought to be here!"

Athos glared briefly at the young Gascon and replied in a dangerously calm voice, "We can and we will," and before d'Artagnan could even open his mouth to protest, he added sharply, "And before you say anything else, that is an order." Expression blank, eyes fixed straight ahead, Athos stomped past his companions to make his way through the gate, dragging his horse with him. Without looking back to verify whether or not his friends joined him, he mounted and spurred his steed to a trot.

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