"These birds!" Aramis lobbed yet another pebble through the curtain of rain and in the general direction of the treetop housing the twitterpated creatures. "I can't take this much longer." He flopped onto the ground rather pathetically and dragged his hands over his face before resting his arm across his eyes.
Porthos, recounting that this was only the second day they'd been forced to remain under their overhang on account of the pouring rain, huffed in amusement. "How did you survive being in a monastery?"
The next pebble was launched at Porthos' head. The bigger man only laughed more, and Aramis, finding none of it amusing, threw himself at Porthos. After all, he did need to work on his hand-to-hand combat, and wrestling was better than listening to those damned birds for a moment longer.
Athos read through the reconnaissance reports for the umpteenth time that day looking for any potential errors in his advance plan.
"Aramis-" he began and looked up even as he remembered, ah, yes, he's in Spain. Borders had a way of hampering the exchange of advice.
He returned his gaze back to the papers laid out if front of him, trying to think of someone who's sharpshooting experience came anywhere near Aramis' for the sake of seeking counsel, but coming up with no one approaching such a qualification, he let the matter go for the moment.
His next thought was to send Porthos ahead as the man had a knack for sniffing out potential ambush sites, but, no, that wouldn't work because he was with Aramis. In Spain.
Athos dropped his head onto his makeshift desk and released a long-suffering sigh. This is going to be a long war.
It was with much higher spirits that Aramis and Porthos set off two mornings later. The sun had finally graced Spain with the full glory of its presence thus allowing the previous days' rain some time to be swallowed by the earth. Of course rain is not absorbed by soil in an instant, and hardly by rock at all, and so traversing the mountain paths was still tricky. However it afforded Aramis enough movement and danger that their slow progress bothered him very little if it bothered him at all.
Athos and d'Artagnan moved in a slow circle around each other, neither breaking eye contact.
They were, per the Gascon's request, sparring. Naturally a crowd gathered 'round to watch and, in the case of the majority, bet on the sport provided by the Musketeer Captain and his young friend.
When finally they engaged one another, a great cheer went up from the spectators, money passing in a mounting flurry with every contact. Athos, being far from naïve, let the match drag for a time while d'Artagnan seemed to enjoy the practice as well as the enthusiasm of those gathered.
At last, Athos felt money had changed hands enough times to finally end their game. He quickly confirmed what he'd noted seconds into their sparring: d'Artagnan continually left his side open to attack. He did not hesitate to exploit the weakness in his friend's defense. It was the work of a moment to overcome him, and before d'Artagnan could so much as blink, he was lying face down in the mud.
Groans and laughter filled the air as those who bet against Athos paid up and those who bet against d'Artagnan collected their winnings. Meanwhile the Captain kept his colleague pinned in the mud puddle and even began smearing handfuls of said mud into d'Artagnan's hair.
"Athos," the young man whined out of one side of his mouth in an effort to keep the filth out.
"If you had been fighting a Spanish soldier, you'd be dead. I think some mud in your hair is a fair alternative to your innards spilling into the mud, don't you?" Athos mused with Aramis-like cheeriness before releasing the Gascon and helping him up.
D'Artagnan indicated his understanding then wandered off to change before dinner. As he squelched through the camp, he mentally kicked himself for his error. I'm not in the garrison any more. I've a wife who's carrying our child. I cannot afford to make such mistakes.
Porthos followed behind Aramis as they meandered across the Spanish countryside, the sixth day since the rain passed. Aramis led him ever deeper into enemy territory, quizzing Porthos on Spanish the whole way. He'd been pleased to find that Porthos had been learning the language while they'd been apart.
"Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"
Aramis clicked his tongue and cast a glance at his friend. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I love adventure. It's the mystery that's driving me mad."
"Not to worry, Porthos. We're nearly there."
Porthos was silent for a minute, but his curiosity refused to let the matter go. "Can I guess?"
Aramis sighed but there was no frustration in the act. "If you must."
A wide grin overwhelmed Porthos' features, and he came along side Aramis as the road finally widened. "Are we headed for a person or location?"
Aramis thought for several seconds before stating, "Person in an advantageous location." His answer earned an eye roll.
"Do I know this person?"
"Yes."
"Do I like this person?"
"You think I would make you travel for days to meet with someone you don't like?"
Porthos raised an eyebrow at that. "If it helped the plan or in any way appealed to your love of danger, yes, you would."
Shrugging his shoulders, Aramis chuckled. "Yes, you like this person."
"All right."
"All right? That's it?"
"It's someone I know and like. I'm satisfied."
Aramis studied his friend the way one might an animal behaving abnormally without obvious cause. "If you say so."
An hour later they came to the crest of a hill, and from their vantage point they could see a house nestled at the forest's edge and on a hilltop of its own.
"That is where we're going."
The sight of the house awakened in Porthos' mind a memory of flowing script on a letter, the description of a house in the Spanish countryside, not terribly large but large enough for her to be happy…
"How do you know she's home?" Porthos looked to Aramis as he waited for the answer.
"If she's not, she won't mind us staying there, but she doesn't drift around as much as she did when we were younger."
Despite the distance between their hill and the house, they saw the door open and a women with wild obsidian hair stepped out into the open air.
"Ramona," Porthos beamed, and he along with Aramis urged their steeds into a distance-devouring gallop.