"Where's Porthos?" Aramis' question went unanswered, and the marksman's stomach rolled.
Athos and d'Artagnan wearily dismounted, handing their reins to the stable boy hovering nearby.
Aramis studied his brothers with an intensity they'd compared to sunlight passing through glass.
It had been bad enough that the trio was meant to have returned a week prior, but now they returned with Porthos' horse. With Porthos' weapons. Without Porthos. Looking like hell. With. Out. Porthos.
"Athos."
"Aramis, not now."
"Athos-" Aramis persisted. Athos couldn't show up late without Porthos and expect Aramis to wait for answers.
"Aramis," Athos began again, voice deadly low with exhaustion and warning. "This is not a conversation I wish to have here in the yard."
Athos trudged to the stairs, d'Artagnan following close behind.
"Athos, if you're about to tell me he's… that he's…"
"I'm not." Athos' voice was softer than before but no less tired. The two weary Musketeers resumed their slow climb of the stairs to Athos' office and disappeared from view of the courtyard before Aramis so much as inhaled again. The lack of oxygen left the marksman feeling vaguely off, but its effects were nothing compared to the relief of knowing Porthos still lived and the mounting pain brought on by his brother's absence.
"Oh glorious apostle Saint Jude," Aramis began praying in fervent whispers when his lungs finally righted themselves. His legs moved him with difficulty, as through water, toward the captain's office. "Faithful servant and friend of Jesus…"