Sofie sat at the kitchen table, threaded the needle, and cut the thread with her teeth. The sun had gone down, and the oil lamp flickered as she flipped the fabric and adjusted it for better access. With experienced hands she punctured the material with the needle, pulled the thread through, and repeated the process.

The fire burned and kept the home warm as their uninvited guests took residence on the floor and the narrow cot along the wall. Her husband slept in the small alcove off the kitchen, her side of their bed undisturbed as he snored softly. The lantern flickered, and she looked up toward the window as the light of the moon peered in and cast light on Porthos as he slept on his side with his blanket shoved beneath his head. She was relieved that he had relinquished his dagger, and instead of a firm grasp, kept it near the head of his bedroll.

She listened to the thread as it snagged the fabric, and she once again repeated the stitching process. She looked toward her husband as he rolled to his back: he was simple, kind, unassuming, and caring. Age, time, and experience had changed him. She took a deep breath and reflected on the day.


Porthos had spent the afternoon chopping wood, restocking the supply, and providing an outlet for his frustrations. Sore muscles had stretched, and lungs had breathed fresh air. The ground, still muddy, had absorbed the spring sun, and standing water had evaporated. Grasses shifted their blades upward, and the buds on the trees worked to open. Porthos had looked at his hands, strong enough to crush the bones of another man's. Calluses had become a part of him, they were course, hardened, and well earned on his thumb from firing his musket, and his palm from brandishing his blade. He paused, looked toward the corral, and watched the horses as they ate the hay that was tossed to them, swatted their tails, and moved from one pile to the next as dominance was established.

Athos was his colleague, friend, and brother. They had fought together, buried friends, and watched each other struggle through anger, frustration, and disappointment. Porthos looked up toward the sun and allowed the heat to penetrate his skin. The knowledge of death was always there, a shadow in the corner of his vision that he knew he would find when the time came. It didn't make it easier, but his brothers… the few he had, he loved. Brothers bound by blood lost, and not blood shared. He could depend on them, trust them, and know they would do their best to protect him no matter the situation. Porthos sighed, felt his gut tighten as he remembered Athos' gasps for breath and the desperation in his eyes when he couldn't breathe. A moment of fear shared by all. Porthos swung the maul ax, wood snapped, flung to the sides, and landed with a clatter near the woodpile. He took a deep breath and repeated the process.

They had all eaten their fill of stew. They had listened to Richard talk of his farm, the duties he needed to accomplish, and the pride he felt for what he had achieved. D'Artagnan, limited with one arm, had left with Richard and helped him set traps. The simple cages were woven tight, and heavy enough to prevent escape. They had walked a well-used trail, collected quail, a rabbit, as well as a pheasant. D'Artagnan stepped over a log, and watched Richard pull a snake from a trap, smash its head, and toss it into the brush. The idea of becoming a musketeer had never entered d'Artagnan's mind — not until he'd met them, the men who helped find his father's killers. He admired their friendship, their brotherhood, and over the course of the past few weeks had earned a place amongst them. They pushed him to be better, challenged him, coached him, and had included him within their brotherhood.

D'Artagnan sighed. Despite their strength, they were still open to defeat. A reminder of how frail life was, how frail they all were — when the moment came. And moments always came. He ran his hand through his long dark hair, pulled a dried clump of mud from a cluster behind his ear, tossed it toward the bush, and wiped his hand on his breeches. He watched Richard reset an empty trap. His was a hard life, day-to-day, meal-to-meal, always fighting what may knock on his door, or take from him what he'd earned. D'Artagnan admired Richard's and Sofie's relationship, strong for each other, devoted, and protective.

Sofie had cleaned the dishes, stored the remaining stew, and again simmered the herbed water. She had watched Aramis, who sat at the table and glanced toward Athos who continued to sleep despite his mild fever, and then Aramis returned his gaze to her. He was exhausted. Despite his few hours of sleep, dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and pallor was still pale. Sofie had placed a cup before him and smiled.

Aramis picked up the cup, sniffed, and raised it to her in thanks. "I don't know how we'll ever be able to repay you." He took a sip and sighed. The wine felt good, and he had to admire her for offering it to him.

She turned from the fireplace, shook her head, and patted her chest above her heart. Aramis watched her pull the two towels from the drying line near the window and dump them into the water.

Aramis stood, grabbed the bucket by the door, and left only to return with cold water from the spring. He carried it to the side of the bed, nodded toward her, and carefully grabbed the simmering pot. He placed it on the floor and watched her motion for him to take a seat on the edge of the bed. She grabbed a dowel, handed it to him, and pointed toward the steaming pot. Aramis had smiled, nodded in understanding, and pulled the first towel from the hot water. It was too hot for his hands and he had to let the towel cool just enough to grab and wring out. He pulled back the blankets, the ripped shirt, and placed the first towel on Athos chest. Aramis then wrung out the next and placed it over the top and covered Athos again with the blanket. He never woke. Aramis looked toward Sofie and she nodded, held her hand up, fingers spread wide and watched him nod.

"Five minutes," Aramis said, smiled for the first time, and watched her return to the kitchen to brew more tea. He ran his fingers over his mustache and glanced toward toward Athos who stared back at him. "Hey," he said, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"D'Artagnan, Porthos?" Athos' voice was rough, graveled, weak, and dry.

"They're fine… d'Artagnan dislocated his shoulder — but he's healing. Porthos is chopping wood," Aramis said.

Athos closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead with his left hand. "The men?"

"Remy is on his way to Paris to notifiy Traville," Aramis said, "Marc and the others are following behind with those we lost, musketeers and most of the red guard." He folded his fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees. "Lorange and a few of his men are still in Chalons — you were right," he exhaled, turned and met Athos' eyes, "Lorange interrupted Auch's plans for an ambush — he and his men died fighting his reinforcements."

Athos glanced from Aramis to the window that overlooked the distant mountains. "Their bodies?"

Aramis swallowed, licked his lips, and shook his head.

Athos recognised the silence, exhaled slowly, and brought a trembling hand to his forehead. "We need to return to Paris."

"You lost a lot of blood and you're not in any shape to travel." Aramis took the cup from Sofie who handed it to him and helped Athos drink. "You have a mild fever — we'll ride when it breaks…" he turned when Sofie tapped his shoulder and pointed toward the towel she had dropped into the bucket of cold water. "You need weeks of rest, Athos… not days," Aramis said as he grabbed the towel, and wrung it out. He pulled back the blanket, removed the warm towels and replaced them with the cold.

Athos winced, squeezed his eyes shut, as the cold shocked his skin. He inhaled quickly, and slowly relaxed as he was once again covered with blankets. "New torture device?"

"It saved your life this morning," Aramis said, and met his eyes.


Guided by the meager light from her lamp, Sofie pushed the needle through the fabric, and pulled the thread through. She checked the tension, and stitched again. She looked toward Richard as he yawned, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair. He poured himself some water, kissed her cheek, and pulled a piece of bread from the freshly baked loaf she had made. "Were you up all night?" he asked, and grabbed her hand as she continued to sew.

Sofie shrugged, and nodded.

"They should be on their way today," Richard said, then looked at the cleaned and folded doublets that rested on the table. He smiled at her and shook his head. He pulled the bolt mechanism from the hutch. He tested the trigger, watched the arms snap open, he winced, and placed it at the end of the table. He took a seat and watched Aramis and Porthos stir as the hint of a new day peeked over the horizon.

Aramis pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and then looked up at the ceiling. He curled his toes, tossed the blanket aside, and pushed himself into a seated position. When he looked to his left and met Athos' eyes, he knew without asking that their departure was eminent. Aramis pushed himself up, stretched his back, and nodded toward Porthos who sat with his left knee raised and his right leg extended. He reached over and patted d'Artagnan's chest which earned him a groan.

D'Artagnon draped his arm over his eyes, and mumbled something that caused Porthos to chuckle.

Porthos stretched his toes before he slipped into his boots, and stood. He dusted off the backside of his breeches, and knelt to roll his bedding. He covered his mouth in a yawn, rubbed his face, and then tied the blanket and ground cloth into a neat roll.

Athos gingerly pushed himself into a seated position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, rested his left elbow on his knee and looked for his clothes. He clenched his right fist, and tried to roll his shoulder but the healing wounds protested at the movement and he paused in his actions. He looked up as Aramis placed a chair before him.

"I want to change the bandages, we'll get you dressed, and then I should immobilize your arm." Aramis raised his eyebrows, sighed when Athos nodded, and started to untie the bandages. "I still think we should stay another day — you need time to rest."

Athos met his eyes, shook his head, and looked toward the table as Porthos spoke with Richard, and Sofie worked.

Sofie finished her last stitch, and trimmed the thread with her teeth. She stood, placed the newly mended shirt atop the folded breeches, and well worn charcoal leather doublet. She gripped her husband's shoulder as she walked by him and handed Athos his laundered and mended clothing. She nodded at his thanks, and turned back toward the kitchen.

Richard shoved the bolt toward Porthos as he slipped into his doublet. He paused a moment, and smiled when he ran his fingers over the polished studs along his collar, and the leather that had been cleaned and oiled. He looked toward Sofie who raised the left side of her mouth into a smile and nodded.

"You, monsieur," Porthos said, "are a fortunate man."

Richard nodded, looked toward his wife, and said, "I know." He looked at Porthos. "Take this with you," Richard crossed his arms over his chest, and met Porthos' eyes. "I saw something like this many years ago…" he shrugged, "when I was a young man fighting for what I believed in." He leaned forward, positioned the bolt and pulled the metal release that was attached to the cross bar. "The man we fought would hang live men from trees using something similar… it was a warning."

Porthos sighed and nodded. "The man who used this is dead," he met Richard's eyes. "As are the men who followed him."

Richard nodded. "All the same… I don't want this in my house." He watched as Sofie collected some herbs and slipped them into a small cotton bag and added additional bandages.

Porthos nodded, pursed his lips, and took the bolt. He turned as Aramis helped Athos slip into his doublet, and then secured his arm to his chest with a long cloth.