The ride through Chalons was just as gruesome, if not more so, then when they rode through just days before. Scavengers had worked overtime on the bodies of those who had fallen. While the rains had washed away the blood, it had not reduced the stench of death. A wild boar and her piglets trotted across the path and disappeared within the brush alongside of the road. Two stray dogs dug at the carcass of someone or something hidden behind a trough. Black soot marked the unburned remains of buildings and speckled the ground as all four men urged their horses homeward.
Athos bowed his head and closed his eyes from the sight when he spotted Lorange amongst the dead. He lay in a garden that had been trampled, he faced the sun, with a gash to his forehead.
Athos pulled his horse to a stop, looked at the garden, and the men who had given their lives to try and protect the town. The men who had ultimately saved the musketeers from certain death. He swallowed, and felt Aramis' eyes upon him.
Aramis dismounted, handed his reins to Porthos who nodded, and then walked toward Athos and met his eyes. "I'll do what I can for them now… but," he paused, looked up the road, and swallowed. "We'll have to send someone back for their remains, Athos… the weather… we're in no shape to dig graves and we'd be digging with our hands," Aramis closed his eyes, rubbed his brow and whispered, "For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing…" he paused, unable to finish the biblical verse, and met Athos' eyes. "They'll be seen to… you have my word."
Athos inhaled through his nose, closed his eyes, and nodded once before he looked again at the carnage. He watched Aramis visit each of the men, kneel at their sides, and say a quick prayer. Athos gripped the leather reins, ran his thumb over the smooth leather, and shifted in his seat.
When Aramis finished, he nodded toward Athos, and grabbed his reins from Porthos who leaned forward, and gripped Aramis' shoulder. "We'll put 'em to rest, brother… maybe not now, but we will."
Aramis gripped Porthos' wrist and nodded. Aramis mounted his horse, watched Porthos urge his mount forward and then watched Athos and d'Artagnon follow. Aramis turned, took one more look at those they were leaving behind, and the condition in which they were leaving them in, and felt his heart clench and his spirit crumble. He nudged his mount's right side, and followed. Chalons would eventually be rebuilt. Aramis looked in regret toward the bodies one last time. He pressed his hand to his chest. He felt the crucifix beneath the fabrics of his doublet and shirt, and said a silent prayer.
It had been just three days since the battle, and muscles still protested, blisters were still healing, and bruises were just beginning to change from black and blues to yellow and greens. Joints would need time to heal, as well as torn muscles, ligaments, and brutalized tissue. Aramis looked at his hands, and felt the fine leather of his horse's reins between his fingers. Their hats were missing, cloaks long since tossed aside and abandoned and weapons dropped as priorities had overridden sentimentality.
Athos felt the gentle motion of his horse beneath him. Heard the clip-clops of shod hooves on stone, and the hollow thuds as iron shoes struck the muddied ground. The sun worked to dry the results of heavy rain, and warmed his face as they progressed. Sparrows flew across the road, their formation shifted from right to left and then right again. They finally sought refuge in the branches of trees that promised to bloom in the coming days. A squirrel scampered from the grass, stopped suddenly and looked at the riders, then turned abruptly and rushed up the side of a tree. Athos looked toward d'Artagnan who covered his nose and mouth with his right hand, and kept his attention forward. His horse's smooth, sure-footed gait, navigated the terrain. The big black turned his head and nipped at an itch on his shoulder before he resumed his steady walk.
Porthos rode ahead, and kept aware of their surroundings. He had tied a cloth over his head, and in his usual style bound it into a tight tail behind his neck. The cool air and sun felt good against his skin. He listened, and caught sight of a small herd of deer in the distance. Their ears peeked up over the grass, large brown eyes watched, and finally, in graceful elegance the herd leapt to the right and fled from the scene. The leaves on the service trees fluttered, and pine covered branches waved gently.
Athos rubbed his brow, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the town of Chalons disappeared in the distance behind them. They followed the path through the trees, and the cooler temperatures forced Athos forward as the ache in his shoulder increased. The cold nipped at his skin, and exhaustion continued its curse.
Aramis sighed, they should have waited another day. He watched them all: Athos' stiff movements and obvious discomfort, and d'Artagnan tried his best, but his shoulder — despite the reduction — was causing him pain. Aramis rubbed the back of his neck. Even Porthos shifted in his seat as they continued their travels. At this pace, they would not arrive in Paris for weeks. He exhaled slowly and looked at the sun's rays as they streamed through the tree branches and amplified the darkness of shadows that cascaded across the road. Mud puddles rippled as bugs landed and flew across their surfaces. The horses' strides elongated and they adjusted their pace as they sank deeper into the mud.
They rode past the overturned carriage, Athos and d'Artagnan both had to cover their noses at the stench of the dead horses and dragoners lying where they had fallen. Porthos exhaled and inhaled through his mouth, curled his nose. Despite his efforts, he shook his head as the odor caused him to cover his mouth with the sleeve of his doublet. The smells would haunt them, and the images would flood their dreams even on the calmest of nights. Crows and ravens boldly landed and scavenged the carcasses, wild dogs feasted on the flesh of a dead gray horse, they yipped, snapped, tugged and fought despite the ample supply. Vultures spread their wings and feasted on flesh.
The long tall grasses stood strong amongst the disarray. Blades lay flat toward the sun, spring blooms greeted bees, and cattails pushed upward as they thrived within the standing water.
Athos leaned to his left, spit, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up in time to see the next batch of clouds rolling in. The white puffs were followed by gray hints of the storm to come. He rested the heel of his hand on the pommel of the saddle, reins held loosely between his fingers, and he exhaled slowly. Strong thighs relaxed as his horse's smooth gate continued. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and listened to the birds sing, bits jingle, and leather rub.
D'Artagnan glanced toward Athos, and then peered over his shoulder toward Aramis who nodded. D'Artagnan urged his horse into a trot and rode alongside Porthos who looked toward him.
"We need to find someplace to rest for the night," d'Artagnan said, and looked toward the tree line.
Porthos turned in his saddle toward Athos, who appeared to have fallen asleep, and then looked toward Aramis. He nodded in acknowledgement. "Couple of leagues," he said, "then we'll stop."
The day wore on, and the hours in the saddle had taken their toll. They had followed the road until the smell of death faded. Porthos guided his horse to the right and onto a clearing. It was surrounded by trees that overlooked a series of boulders, and a narrow water source that weaved between the rocks and continued toward the creek in the distance. He pulled his horse to a stop, dismounted, looped reins over the branch of a tree, and reached for the reins of Athos' horse.
"Brother?" Porthos said, grabbed Athos' knee and shook. "We're stoppin' for the day."
Athos met his eyes, and shook his head. "We should keep going."
Porthos pulled the reins from Athos fingers. "No, Athos, you're in no shape to continue — an' a storm's comin' in."
Aramis dismounted, tied his horse, and helped d'Artagnan before he walked to help Porthos. Athos slowly dismounted, felt Porthos' strong hand at his back, and rested his forehead against the leather skirt of his saddle. He leaned against his horse and took a deep breath. Athos felt Aramis shift beside him as he untied Athos' ground covering, tossed it toward the boulders, and beneath the heavy branches of trees that would provide cover from the storm.
"Come on, brother," Aramis said, grabbed Athos' upper left arm and guided him toward the base of a tree trunk with roots that broke the surface of the ground and tentacled outward.
Athos groaned as he sat and leaned against the tree. He watched through half-hooded eyes as Aramis unsaddled his horse. Porthos gathered wood for a fire, and d'Artagnan gathered a few supplies from his saddle bags.
Porthos dumped an armload of wood near a boulder, walked toward Aramis, grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. "I'm goin' to ride back a ways, see if I c'n find 'is sword an' gauche — I'm sure the pistols were retrieved, but I wan' to look."
Aramis rubbed his eyes and nodded.
"I'll ride with you," d'Artagnan said.
"Get the fire goin'," Porthos said to Aramis, "hopefully we can find some game while we search."
"Be careful," Aramis said, clapped the back of Porthos' shoulder as he stiffly slipped onto the saddle, and watched with an eyebrow cocked as d'Artagnan mounted and followed him from the outcropping.
Aramis sighed, finished unsaddling his and Athos' horses, and placed the saddles beneath the tree. He tipped one upright, rested it behind Athos, and then grabbed the bedroll and untied it. "Are you in much pain?"
Athos cocked an eyebrow and looked up. "I'd rather be suffering the overindulgence of wine."
Aramis chuckled. "Lean against the saddle, it will help stabilize your shoulder."
Athos nodded, but made no effort to move. He watched Aramis organize rocks into a circle, gather kindling, and light the fire. Smoke filtered upward, and drifted to the east. He added more wood, watched the flames catch, and sparks floated upward. It took just a moment before the heat was enough to remain steady, and welcome the larger pieces of wood. Aramis looked toward the sky as the heavy gray clouds overwhelmed the sun's presence. A breeze picked up, and branches fluttered, and swayed with the passing winds.
Athos shifted to sit within the padded underside of the saddle, watched the flames, and felt the heat as his body surrendered to injury and exhaustion. He hooked his left ankle behind his right and raised his right knee, and rested his left hand on the inside of his thigh. He shivered against the chill, but felt his shoulders relax as his eyes closed.
Aramis stood, tossed a blanket over Athos', checked his brow for a fever, and sighed.