This is getting lighter, I promise, but the darkness lingers. Warnings for death idealisation and suicidal thoughts. Mentions of previous trauma including child death, the death of friends, lots and lots of death.

Exhaustion

Athos' feet were heavy as if his boots were caked with mud. Each yard closer to their quarters had seemed longer than the last. Porthos' snores rumbled in the small room. Athos hesitated at the door. The guard's measured steps echoed on the flagstones, approaching down the long corridor. Athos sighed and pressed the door handle down. Awkward talk with some bored night watchman would be even worse.

The door slid shut and he stood still for a full minute, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness after the torchlit gleam of the hall. Porthos lay sprawled on his back, Aramis curled up on his side, as they always were. Dim moonlight fell through the tall window, making them look pale and waxen. He stood and listened to their mingled breaths, Porthos' deep intakes of air catching in his throat before thundering out, drowning out Aramis' quiet sighs and snuffles. They were both breathing.

Undressing took effort. He draped his sodden cloak over the single rickety chair and shrugged off his doublet. As he sat to remove his boots, his eyes fell onto the covered bowl, the pieces of bread, and the bottle of wine laid out for him. His stomach heaved at the earthy smell of onions.

Did they think him one of Richelieu's pet cats? So spoiled he had unlearned how to feed himself? Helpless unless waited on hand and foot? Pet cat or nobleman, not much difference there.

He stripped down to his braies. The night was cold, storm clouds being chased across a sky as black as hell itself. He wouldn't be warm enough without his clothes but freezing was better than the alternative. Even on his skin, the smell lingered. It enveloped him as he climbed into his bedroll. He always washed. He'd scrubbed his hands and forearms red just now, but to no effect. The sweet stench of decay oozed out of every pore.

He turned to his side, away from the two men. Another wave of his own smell hit him. His hair reeked of rot like he himself was turning to dust and bone. He should have lain down next to the last Huguenot they buried. The last in the last layer of corpses in the last pit they dug. They would fling dirt onto him, the heavy, marshy ground of La Rochelle. With every shovel of earth, he would disappear a little more. It would weigh down his body, obstruct his vision and finally, finally, he'd be breathing it in, his last memories of earth being the earth itself, the deep black ground swallowing him up.

Return to the earth, out of which thou wast taken: for dust thou art, and into dust thou shalt return… Words he'd heard so often. Every time they filled a grave, one of the strange, black-clad pastors would give the dead the blessing they had not had in life. He'd be buried a Huguenot, but what did that matter? With every day they had seeped a little deeper into his skin. Which hell he was condemned to would make no difference to him now.

He lost himself in fantasies of death and its eternal rest. He jolted back to full wakefulness when he realised it couldn't happen. He'd missed his last chance. The last grave had been dug and filled. Whatever corpses remained in the city now were not his responsibility. He was back to only being responsible for the rot in his own heart.

In the corner of the room he spotted their saddle bags, already bulging with the belongings they had strewn across their lodgings over the past year. One, two, three pairs, his own included. Because apparently, he wasn't able to pack his own things anymore.

Evidence of life, of moving on, of finally leaving this place behind. He should be glad. La Rochelle had not been kind to them. Aramis and Porthos had both come too close to death. Drowned, diseased, and disappeared. His stomach clenched at the thought of their pale faces in a grave, other bodies carelessly tossed on top until their open, pleading eyes could reach him no more.

Even victory tasted foul in this place.

He left their room before sunrise, trudging back to the pits once more. Row upon row of trenches stretched between the two lines of the walls. Simple wooden crosses stood at each end. Not nearly as many crosses as there were people beneath them. Thousands of people. Fourteen, fifteen thousand out here, with thousands more buried within the city before the gravediggers themselves had died or else become too weak to carry out their duties. Six or seven thousand they estimated before they either ran out of space or else they ceased to record the burials. With nobody left alive to remember them, the Huguenots disappeared under the ground as they had slipped from this life — unnoticed.

The fresh mounds of earth looked eerie in the November mist. In a year or so they would sink. One of the soldiers had told him. One who had dug graves before. Alain? Bruno? Didier? Athos didn't remember. Too many men. Too many short little shifts. He kept them on a rota because he didn't want anyone to face this horror for long. It hurt him to see this day after day. It had to be agony for better man than him. The least he could do was to keep the soldiers away from what their victory had won.

Would anyone be there to care for these graves? Most of the Huguenots were in them now. Whoever hadn't been dead when they surrendered had followed soon afterwards, their broken bodies rushing from one hell to the next. Some poor souls still lingered. The fortunate ones had dragged themselves away. To other Huguenot settlements still scattered across France. To London and their protestant brethren in the case of Aramis' former captor, the mayor. The poorer and sicker ones stayed behind, pale maggots in this corpse of a city.

Frost crackled under Athos' boots as he walked. Winter would finish off the rest of them. Whoever hadn't died of warfare, famine, and disease would die of cold.

He should stay. His mind conjured images of frozen bodies and nobody left to bury them. Life moved on, leaving the dead behind.

The army moved on.

A few regiments had gone before, ensuring the safety of the road. Once the king had finished his breakfast—early by his standards—the musketeers followed. Aramis rode with Tréville. From what Athos gathered, he'd been helping him collate information, reading through reports and planning their route.

Athos trailed behind, as far away from the core of the regiment as he could be without getting surrounded by their baggage train. With the king in their midst, there were dozens of wagons with supplies following them. Too many people. After weeks surrounded by the dead, Athos found the living rather too lively for his taste.

Porthos, as usual, did not respect his desire for privacy and sought him out after only a mile or two.

"Hey." He guided his horse next to Athos'. "Good to see you in the daylight for once."

Athos shrugged at the implied reproach. "Work to do."

It wasn't like he'd chosen to spend every waking hour burying the dead. Well… he had chosen it so nobody else would have to. Not for long, at least. He hadn't been able to bury them alone and that still rankled.

"How are you?" Porthos asked.

"Fine."

He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. One advantage of big military campaigns was the infrastructural improvement they brought. The road was smooth even in this inclement weather, the few puddles shallow and easily circumvented.

"Really?"

Athos didn't need to look up to see Porthos' raised eyebrows, he could hear them in his tone.

"Yes."

"Athos, would you—"

"I'm fine." He was. He was here, he was riding, he was doing his duty. He was fine.

"Would you believe that the cardinal insisted on taking his writing desk back to Paris with him?"

Athos made the requisite noise of interest or surprise or whatever else he was supposed to fake and tried to direct his horse subtly away from Porthos who chattered away about the eight men it took to move that walnut monstrosity.

"How about you?"

Athos' head shot up. This required more than a grunt but he wasn't sure what was required of him. Some light-hearted story, he supposed, but where was he supposed to find one of those?

"Nothing much." He shrugged. Porthos only had to use his nose to know what he'd been doing.

"How are you feeling?" Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged again, painfully aware of how repetitive the motion was getting. There was so very little to say.

After a few more minutes, Porthos gave up, spurred on his horse, and left him to his brooding. It was better that way. Porthos had a life to live and Athos brought nothing but death.

They continued like that, moving slowly through the barren, wintry land. They found lodgings in monasteries and stately homes, everyone overcome with the honour of hosting their sovereign, or maybe with the horror of the expense of it all. Athos kept to the back and kept to himself, which was easy enough with Aramis who was kept busy by Captain Tréville but proved more and more difficult with Porthos. Porthos hovered ceaselessly and tried to monitor every bite he ate and every sip he drank. Athos slipped away whenever he could.

One day slid into the next and the next after that. Athos didn't much care. Each day they rode. He liked riding. The comforting closeness of his horse, the shift of warm muscle beneath him, so alive. Each night they rested. He didn't like that. Porthos tracked him down each night and directed him towards a space by their side. Then came the hours and hours of shivering in the dark, hoping for morning.

A week or so into their travels, they reached Châtellerault, a prosperous town on the banks of the river Vienne. No matter where they were, La Rochelle followed Athos with its odours of death and decay. He stank of it still. He could only imagine what Aramis and Porthos suffered, having him close each night, reeking as he did. Châtellerault was notable only in that he had managed to find himself some hot water and a bar of soap. He scrubbed his arms vigorously, his face, his hair, and most of all his hands. Small fissures opened up in the cracks of his knuckles, shining red in the dim light.

"Athos?"

He wheeled around. Aramis, not Porthos for once. Why did he bother? He had enough to do with Captain Tréville and an increasingly ill-tempered king.

Aramis looked at him, questions in his eyes. Questions, questions... He could keep his nosiness to himself. Athos pulled his sleeves down over his prickling arms and shrugged on his doublet.

"What?"

Aramis smiled at him. "Tréville wants to speak to you."

Athos jolted. Tréville wanted to ask him to leave. To go away, to not tarnish them anymore. He'd have to disappear back where he came from. Take his stench with him. He knew that wasn't right. He'd done his duty. They'd all done their duty and Captain Tréville thanked them for it frequently. It wasn't the fear of being sent away that shocked him, it was the lack of fear. For the first time since joining the regiment, not being a musketeer filled him with nothing but indifference. It wasn't so different after all. His old life or the new one, in both he did his duty, buried people, then had them come back to him in his sleep, haunting him with their sepulchral voices and accusations. Only one voice back then, mocking and shrill, and now the chorus of thousands joining her in death, accusing, questioning…

"Athos?"

Startled, he looked up at Aramis, who was still standing in the door.

"Yes, of course." He followed him out of the room and to Tréville's chamber where Porthos greeted them with a broad grin.

It was a nice room. A great bed with a heavy canopy stood on lush carpet. By the large window there was an expansive desk where Captain Tréville had scattered his things. He looked oddly out of place. The plump pillows and rich fabrics were about as far removed from his usual spartan furnishings as they could be. Athos kept himself as far away as possible from the furniture. He didn't want to infest it with his scent.

Captain Tréville rose when they entered and smiled.

"Athos, I'm glad you could join us." His voice was bright, but oddly pressed, like he was trying too hard to stay friendly. His choice of words was strange as well. What else would Athos do? He was only there to follow orders, to await word from his commander.

"I'm sorry to bother you." Tréville beckoned for them to sit on the bed for lack of any other chairs, but only Aramis did so, looking quite at home on the ornate fabric.

Athos could feel the clouds of death waft from his body. Any moment, one of them would throw open the window, gagging for air.

Tréville scrubbed a hand over his beard. "I'm sorry to have to ask this of you."

Porthos bounced on the balls of his feet, leaning forward with glowing eyes. Aramis dropped back onto the bed, supporting himself on his elbows, fingers idly playing with a loose thread. But Athos couldn't fail to notice the hesitation in Captain Tréville's voice, the slight hitch of discomfort. This was all very reminiscent of that doomed first excursion into La Rochelle. Where was he sending them now? He wasn't a cruel man, he wouldn't ask needlessly, but he was, above all, a man of duty. He'd send them where they were needed most. Athos wished he could anticipate their orders as eagerly as Porthos, or with as much indifference as Aramis, but he felt only dread.

"I need your assistance for a special mission," Captain Tréville said. "You have to leave the main party tomorrow and ride East. Aramis knows the rest."

He rooted around the cluttered desk and handed Aramis a large, sealed envelope. "Do not open this until you reach your destination. You will find in this a letter and also some coin to… ease the way."

He put so much emphasis on those last words that Athos' stomach clenched. How difficult was this mission going to be if they had to resort to bribery?

"Take your time with this. The king wishes to stay at Chenonceau for a few days to hunt. I do not expect you there for at least a week."

That castle was no more than a day's ride away. Athos' throat constricted with the sense of foreboding. Six days to complete whatever needed doing. The quiet ride back to Paris had suddenly turned ominous.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He stood very still, fighting every instinct to shrug it off, answering Tréville's friendly gaze as best he could.

"I know that I'm asking a lot, but it is of the utmost importance that you carry out this mission, Athos."

Athos swallowed against the growing tightness. It was not in Captain Tréville's nature to be so vague and mysterious. Whatever this mission held had to be of a particularly secretive nature for him not to divulge any details. Either that or he feared they wouldn't follow his command if they knew…

Athos pulled himself up straight. "We will do our duty." He could not stand this lack of certainty in his captain's face. "It is an honour to follow your command, Captain Tréville," he added.

Captain Tréville nodded thoughtfully and Athos took the opportunity to take a big step back, losing the hand on his shoulder. Maybe too quickly. He did not miss the meaningful glance that passed between Porthos and Aramis.

Captain Tréville himself saw them off the next morning. "One week," he reminded them. "I understand you are eager to return to Paris but give it one week." He nodded. "I'll see you in Chenonceau. Take care, Athos."

Take care of my men. Athos heard what he meant. Don't let them get hurt. Not any more than they already were. That siege had taken its toll. As they rode from the town, Aramis heaved a great sigh. Athos was struck by how tired he looked.

Porthos had been coughing for several days now. Another week of riding in this wind and rain would do him no favours. Aramis' dire warnings about the impact of Porthos' childhood on his long-term health sprang to mind. The long reach of hunger… the big eyes in the emaciated faces of the Huguenot children… their bony bodies no weight at all as he threw them into their graves. The soldiers who bit their lips to keep from crying when they saw them, reminded of their own children back home. To Athos they were Porthos. Even the flaxen-haired girls. They were all Porthos. Every starved little body.

He tried to keep his distance from his companions as they rode, but they wouldn't let him. Objectively, they were right, of course. There were plenty of Protestant insurgents still roaming these lands. Aramis had shared some reports from their scouts with them that morning. They had to stick together. As uncomfortable as his presence might be to them, at least he was one more blade, one more shot when they were attacked. One more body.

"Where are we going?" he asked. He wanted to be as content as Porthos, who was grinning from underneath his sodden hat, happy to go wherever he was needed. But his own was a much smaller heart. He clung to information.

"La Roche-Posay," Aramis said.

"The baths?" Athos had a vague memory of the name being linked to some healing springs. Maybe his mother had bought water from there as a tonic to brighten her complexion.

Aramis nodded. "Only another ten miles or so."

Athos wracked his brains for any mention of the place. Had there been a Protestant uprising? If so, they'd hardly send only three of them. Another rebellious landowner? Were they delivering a letter of warning? He loosened his pistol in its holster. If they were that close to their destination already, he had to be on his guard.

The ride lasted no more than three hours, even at the leisurely pace Aramis had set for them. However, they hadn't left as early as they had wanted to, so they had a light lunch in a sheltered dell by a small stream.

Athos filled their waterskins with the clear water and lingered over it for a long time. His hands turned numb from the cold, but it made him feel no cleaner. He was reminded of the frozen hands of the dead. The tightly curled claws of the recently deceased… he relaxed his fingers and imagined the water stripping the flesh off them until nothing remained but the small, white bones…

"Let's see what this is all about," Aramis said when Athos returned, perching on the end of the fallen tree they occupied. He fished the envelope Captain Tréville had given them from his doublet.

"He said not to open it until we arrived," Porthos said.

Aramis tilted his head from side to side, thinking. "We're close," he said eventually. "I'd rather know what we are getting ourselves into."

Athos nodded. "We might want to take precautions." He might want to. Because he needed to protect them. Captain Tréville had no choice but to send them where they were needed, following commands from their king and cardinal. It was down to Athos to ensure they were safe in carrying out their duty. What else was he good for?

Aramis broke the seal. Captain Tréville's personal one, Athos noted. Direct orders, not passed down from Richelieu. He felt a small flicker of warmth at that.

Aramis piled coins onto the fallen tree. Quarter-francs, half-francs and several golden francs. A more than generous allowance. Enough for a bribe? Depended on who they were bribing, of course.

"We should divide that between us," Porthos said. Maybe that was why Aramis had wanted to open the letter now. He must have felt the weight of all that money.

Athos' limbs were tingling. He restlessly shifted in his seat. What were they expected to do with all that money? Did it come from Captain Tréville's personal coffers? Was this a mission only condoned by him? If so, who were their enemies? Or was this Captain Tréville sending them away? But why would he? Athos, yes, of course, but not the others. He cared for Porthos and Aramis.

The instructions in the letter gave no clarity. After Aramis had read it out, they looked at each other. Porthos looked as confused as Athos felt.

"He wants us to stay in La Roche-Posay for the full week?" Athos asked.

"'Take a room at L'Auberge de La Roche'," Aramis read out again. "'Do not leave until Monday in a week's time.'"

"And this…" Porthos ran his hand over the pile of coins. "Is our pay…"

"'You are ordinary soldiers returning from the siege and are stopping on your way home for some rest and recuperation'," Aramis read. Their alibi. Their cover story, but cover for what?

"Is there anything else?" Athos reached for the envelope and upended it. It was empty. Why? What was the purpose of all this? How could Captain Tréville send them away for one whole week without any clear instructions?

"Have we done something wrong?" Porthos asked. His brows creased and his shoulders curled forward. "I know I haven't been…"

"You've been great," Aramis said. "You helped so much in breaking down our camp."

Porthos rubbed his knees. "Maybe I should have helped Athos more."

"No," Athos and Aramis said as one. They looked at each other. Anything but that. While they didn't know the details it was clear that Porthos had seen enough death and devastation to last a whole lifetime.

"He's not sending you away." Aramis covered Porthos' hand with his own. No, never Porthos. Only Athos.

He'd done his duty, outlived his usefulness. He'd been sent away. No way back to Paris for him. He looked around the flat land, the barren fields around them. Not too different from Pinon. Would he go back there or somewhere else? He could go, of course. It didn't really matter. He had options. It wasn't important. He could go elsewhere. Buy himself some small house. Live out the remainder of his days. This was as good a place as anywhere. Better, maybe. The Loire valley was close. They grew good wine there that would help him shorten his days.

Despite the worsening rain, he insisted on circling around the village, exploring it from all sides before entering. It appeared sleepy and grey, houses of roughly hewn stone clinging to the bank of the river Creuse, clustered around a stocky church and a mighty medieval keep. While the town was walled, it seemed to have little need of its paltry defences. Several houses had been built outside the walls, a smithy and several cottages with pigs and chickens rooting around their gardens.

There was no indication of why they were here. It seemed unlikely that there was any danger to be found in this place. The L'Auberge de La Roche turned out to be an entirely unremarkable inn at a small square next to one of the gates in the town wall. They led their horses to the stables at the back but were met only by a sleepy grey cat. If Athos had hoped for some clandestine meeting in this inn, he would have been sorely disappointed. The salon was empty when they entered, except for a shaggy dog spread out in front of the fire. It came over to greet them with a sniff and a wag of the tail before its owner bustled into the room, a strong smell of meat wafting after her.

"Come in, messieurs," she cried, drying her hands on her apron. "Come, come out of the rain. You poor things, you must be frozen solid. Come, come, Odette will take care of your horses."

"Madame." Aramis bowed to her, but she seemed impervious to his charms, unceremoniously bundling him onto a bench.

Athos went on his own before she could touch him, so she focused her efforts on Porthos, fussing over them all like a mother hen. She took their sodden cloaks and draped them over chairs by the fire, rousing the dog who had just settled down again. It trotted over and rested its head on Porthos' knee, looking up at him with pleading eyes until its ears were dutifully scratched.

Athos felt instantly uncomfortable. He shifted as far away from the others as he could, but there was no escaping their hostess' fervour, especially not after Aramis had told her they were veterans of the siege. In her eyes, that made them heroes and great patriots rather than the dregs of society that they were. When Porthos complimented her for the spiced wine she served, her face shone with delight. Athos barely touched his cup. He was too warm already. The air in the room was stuffy and he felt like the whitewashed walls were closing in on them, choking him.

He shouldn't be there.

Whatever this was, he shouldn't be part of it. Not that he begrudged the others the comforts of an inn, but he'd much rather camp in some field. The very cosiness of this house made him feel out of place. His presence could only spoil it.

He was about to get up and leave when their hostess announced their room was ready for them. Porthos slung his arm around Athos' shoulders and left it there despite his best efforts to duck out from under it. In that way he found himself steered up the stairs and into a room he assumed qualified as comfortable, in some bucolic way.

As soon as the woman left them alone, Aramis dropped his bags where he stood and flopped down backwards onto the bed closest to the door.

"Heavenly," he declared. The smell of fresh straw spread through the room.

"Not in your dirty clothes," Porthos complained as he shifted Aramis' things to the corner of the room. "You're messing it all up."

Porthos himself put his bags into an orderly pile before removing his boots, doublet and trousers, smoothing them before hanging them over the back of the middle bed. He pointed towards the third, at the back of the room opposite a large window.

"You heard her," he said. "Dinner's not until seven. Might as well lie down."

Athos didn't. He sat on the very edge of his bed, as if that would not contaminate it. Porthos bustled around, removing Aramis' boots for him and collecting various garments as Aramis took them off and dropped them haphazardly around his bed.

When Porthos finally sat down, Aramis shoved his feet into his lap, lying sideways across his own bed. Porthos wrinkled his nose as he carefully peeled off socks that had been darned so many times their original colour was indistinguishable. Aramis sighed contentedly and curled himself around his pillow when Porthos started to rub his bare feet.

Athos eyed the door, plotting his escape, but he knew it was pointless. They would stop him, for whatever reason. Some sense of duty, he supposed. But if Porthos disliked the smell of Aramis' feet, how much worse must Athos' presence be?