As they rode closer to the home, the larger it became. The stone facade crumbled along the eastern side, window shutters had fallen and lay scattered within the weeds and overgrown vines that tentacled around the home's exterior. Windows were cracked, a few broken, and a portion of the roof had crumbled beneath the heavy winter snow. The pathway to the house had long since overgrown with long grasses, fireweeds, and bindweeds.
Something had been smeared across the door, but weather and time had made it illegible. Aramis and Porthos dismounted, pulled their weapons, and ordered d'Artagnan to stay with Athos and the horses.
They circled the property, checked for signs of inhabitants, and then entered through a back door that creaked, and shifted as they pushed and lifted it off its bent hinges. Dust and mildew hit their senses as they entered through the servants' quarters. Pots and pans rested on shelves covered in cobwebs that fluttered when hit with the subtle breeze. Dust covered the floor and the counters. The fireplace that still contained the remnants of its last use: a skillet, wooden spoon, and dried wood that had partially burned. As they progressed through the house they found much of the same: dust, cobwebs, and debris. Porthos looked out a broken window in the foyer and watched d'Artagnan speak to Athos.
"He doesn't 'ave the strength to continue," Porthos said, and looked at the curved staircase that at one time provided a grand entrance. The doors leading to rooms upstairs remained askew after their hasty search. The massive foyer chandelier above them — despite the cobwebs that stretched across it, heavily laden with dust — had at one time been beautifully lit and shined before its abandonment.
Aramis nodded, and pushed open the heavy double doors that led to the parlor. He slipped his weapon back onto his belt and ran his fingers through his hair. He stepped forward, ran his finger along the top of the gate-leg table and left a wake of dust in his trail.
The firedog next to the fireplace still held logs of wood, a bell shaped cauldron had been left by the hearth, and a high-backed settee had been covered with a blanket. Aramis pulled back the fabric and exposed a wood carved frame with embroidered scenes of running horses on fabrics of bright reds, yellows and greens. The painting above the fireplace, covered with dust, was the image of a hunting scene.
"There's enough daylight left," Porthos said as he entered the room, "you an' I can search for a couple more hours — d'Artagnan can stay 'ere with Athos."
Aramis nodded, caught sight of a lantern, and looked toward a wooden trunk near the wall on the far side of the room.
"Aramis?" Porthos said. "You've not said a word for 'ours." He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, shifted his weight to his left leg, and relaxed his shoulders.
Aramis took a deep breath and nodded. "Men don't just disappear," he said, and looked toward Porthos. "I hit him dead center…" he rubbed his eyes, "he couldn't have made it this far — not on foot — and not without help." He looked around the room, and spotted a discarded doll on the floor next to a chair.
"You think we missed somethin'?"
Aramis ran his hand over his face and smoothed the corners of his mustache. "I think," he paused, and tightened his fist around the handle of his weapon, "I should have checked the body," he scratched the back of his neck, "I should have noticed Auch wasn't dead." He slammed the flat of his hand against the doorframe.
Porthos exhaled and watched Aramis walk toward the iron casement window, placed his hands on the sill, and bow his head. "We'll find 'im — it's only been a day," Porthos said as he shifted, scuffed his footprints on the dusty floor, and walked toward the heavy trunk. "An' we can still check the surroundin' areas, Aramis — we can't give up, not now."
Aramis looked out the window when an overgrown tree branch slapped the glass as a gust of wind swept by the home. "What if we don't find him?" He looked over his shoulder and turned when Porthos opened the trunk. The lid hit the wall, and sent dust to the floor to land in a shallow plume.
"We will," Porthos responded confidently. He flipped through a few trinkets, and then grabbed a gun-case from the confines and opened it. He whistled, glanced toward Aramis, and raised his eyebrows with a curled lip as he ran his fingers over the carved handle of the pistol, the brass trimmings, and shining wood.
Aramis crossed his arms over his chest and turned to lean against the window sill. "And if we don't?"
Porthos removed the weapon. He looked toward Aramis with a cocked eyebrow and said, "We 'elp Athos escape, an' put 'im on a ship to the New World."
Aramis looked to his left and chewed the bottom right side of his lip. He looked toward Porthos with a shake of his head and said, "I'm serious."
"So am I." Porthos replaced the pistol inside the box and closed the lid. "In the meantime, we're wastin' time 'ere when we should be lookin' for Auch." He stepped forward. "Auch is an old warrior." He raised his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. "He's strong, built an army, overtook Burie, an' was removed as general for the northern armies of the Holy Roman Empire because of 'is excessive brutality… walkin' a few miles with broken ribs or a bullet to 'is side isn't goin' to stop 'im — he'll lick 'is wounds an' find the person that crushed 'is plans — he'll kill Athos, then the rest of us, an' then he'll go after the king if… an' only if, Spain will support 'is efforts." He walked toward Aramis, slapped his shoulder, and shook his head. "Treville 'ill protect the king… we need to protect each other an' that stubborn fool we call a brother."
Aramis nodded and followed him from the parlor. Porthos unlatched the front doors, pushed them open, and took in a deep breath of fresh air. He looked toward d'Artagnan who had dismounted and placed his hand on Athos' back as he slipped his foot from the stirrup and leaned against his horse.
"Get a fire goin' in the house," Porthos said. Meeting d'Artagnan's eyes, he tilted his head toward Athos. "We'll be back b'fore dark — try and get 'im settled." He chuckled and shook his head as he looked toward Athos, "before he kills 'imself."
D'Artagnan nodded, watched both Aramis and Porthos mount their horses and slowly walk them toward the back of the building. "Do you think they'll find anything?" He asked, and watched Athos untie his bedroll from behind the saddle with his left hand.
"Let's hope," he said, and walked toward the house.
D'Artagnan followed. He immediately built a fire, and warmed his hands as the flames surrounded the kindling and ignited the dried log that he placed on top. The glow of the flames illuminated the room, and eased the scent of damp, old and unused fabrics, furniture, and the staleness of it. He dusted the glass bulb of a lantern, adjusted the height of the wick, and watched the oil sway a moment before he pulled a twig from the fire and lit the lantern. It smoked for a moment, flickered as dust burned, and finally it settled. He placed it on a wood table near the settee where Athos had taken a seat, rested his head back, and closed his eyes.
The room grew quiet except for the sparks and cracks of wood as it burned. D'Artagnan stood, backside to the fire, felt the warmth through his clothing, and against the backs of his thighs. His shoulder still ached, but it was tolerable as he rolled his shoulders and looked toward the paintings that hung from wires against the walls. Dust distorted the imagery, but the sentiment of a simple life had been created through the eyes of the artist. Exposed wood ran parallel to the ceiling where rafters, covered in dust and spiderwebs, remained strong. The room itself was larger than the home he had grown up in, and in some ways, he pitied those who had left it to such disrepair. He wondered about the children that ran through the halls, the sounds of their voices, and pitter-pats of feet up the staircase and within their rooms above. He thought about the conversations between men, the discussions of war, peace, the importance of missions and goals as decisions were made. For a moment he inhaled as though the kitchen were abuzz with activity, bread baking, meat seasoned and cooking. D'Artagnan sighed, as he remembered his father telling him stories while spicing his food, joking while he sliced bread. D'Artagnan's stomach grumbled as he thought about warm bread smothered with fresh honey.
Athos brought a shaking hand to his forehead and rubbed his brow. "There's jerked venison in my saddlebag," he said, without opening his eyes, "you're welcome to it."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "I was just thinking about my father's cooking… and how much I miss it."
Athos looked at the ceiling, while still resting his head against the back of the settee. He lowered his hand to his lap and turned his head to the right when he heard the branch slap the window. The sun continued to descend, and shadows started to elongate. He scratched his jaw, and looked toward d'Artagnan. "I'm sorry," he said.
D'Artagnan turned, and tossed another log onto the fire. "I'm going to see what I can find around the house — supplies, maybe some blankets that are dry."
"Take your pistol with you," Athos said.
D'Artagnan nodded, cocked the hammer back, and held the weapon by his side as he left the room.
Athos felt the heat from the fire, and shifted to remove his pistol from his belt. He pulled back the hammer, placed it on his lap, and leaned back. There was silence for a moment, but the old house creaked as visitors renewed what had been abandoned. He looked toward the painting above the fireplace, the brown and white speckled spaniel that barked at a buck hidden within the trees and preparing to charge, a spooked horse, ears perked forward, neck arched, front leg raised, and the rider looked alert to his surroundings. It was an unusual piece, unlike most he had come across over the course of his years. The artist's signature was hidden by dust in the bottom left corner but his elegant strokes, fluidity of application, represented the moment that the hunter became the hunted.
Athos swallowed, pushed himself to his feet, and grasped the handle of his weapon. He looked at the other paintings on the wall. Though the content was different, more serene, and less dramatic, the strokes and style were similar. He looked toward the opened trunk, clenched his jaw when he noticed the brass plate with the initials VAE. Athos caught his breath, pursed his lips, and drew his eyebrows together.
He turned and looked more closely at the room. The reinforced windows, solid walls meant to withstand enemy fire, and the metal bracings along the solid wood doors. Athos felt his heart pound against his chest. The home he'd grown up in had a similar room; the last location for refuge should the lands and home befall an adversary. A room filled with hidden compartments with food, bandages, and an escape route. He tightened his grip on the handle of his weapon and pointed it toward the wall to the right of the fireplace. He couldn't see the lock, the seams where dust may have been shifted due to air creasing the surface, but age and time had a way of changing expectations. He felt his heartbeat increase as he approached.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted, and suddenly fell backward when the hidden door was forcefully slammed against him. He fell to his right, dropped his weapon to protect his right arm, and landed with a "humph" on his side.
Auch rushed forward, grabbed Athos' weapon, and then closed the double doors leading to the parlor. He secured it from the inside with an iron rod that was braced with a metal plate on the floor.
"Twenty three years, boy," Auch said. He breathed heavily for a moment, and pointed the pistol toward Athos.
Athos scraped the heels of his boots on the floor as he pushed himself back toward the wall. He held his right arm tight and watched Auch's erratic movements.
Auch walked toward the hidden door, secured it, and looked toward him. He chuckled. "You didn't think about whose lands you'd be crossing when you were making plans for my escort from Paris — that the Duke of Burie would have property less than 30 leagues from the border — that my family was French — that my brother sent his gifted son here for protection — to keep him from Spain and Rome…?" He kept the weapon pointed toward Athos, and paced slowly before him.
"My nephew failed to survive past his 43rd year…" Auch said, and squatted before Athos. "Died three years ago… I didn't feel the need to continue to pay for repairs when the Emilian name died with him — but his death did open up some opportunities for me." He smiled, licked his bottom lip, and shrugged. "This estate has been in my family for 200 years — these lands spread from Chalons to Annoy — you had two choices, boy… and they were both wrong." He chuckled, and shrugged. "I only visited once after my mother rescued me from the wretchedness that was my father," he stood, scratched his head above his ear, "but I remember —"
"Athos!" d'Artagnan pounded on the door.
"— everything that I have ever done and worked for," Auch flared his nostrils, "gone!" He barked, and sent spittal across his beard, and toward the floor. "I gave Rome everything! And then they took from me my title, my lands… they even slaughtered my family — turned my men against me." He looked toward his hand, opened his palm, and closed it. "Everything I ever did was for them." He looked toward the window, listened to Athos breathe, and shift against the floor. "I was a fool," he said, "I did what was asked of me," he turned and looked toward Athos, "I never asked why… they used me like a tool, tossed me aside when I was no longer useful." He raised his weapon and pointed it toward Athos. "When my brother died… I took his place… becuase I wanted something different." He paused, and in a moment of clarity he looked at the painting above the fireplace. "I wanted to be him… be loved like him — just for a moment, I wanted to know what it was like to be respected — not feared." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Your mother destoryed that for me." Auch licked his bottom lip.
Athos heard frantic steps outside the doors. "My mother simply acknowledged you as a fraud."
"Athos!" d'Artagnan's yell echoed as he pounded on the door.
Auch smiled, stood, turned the weapon toward the door and fired.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos pushed himself to his feet, but was hit above his right ear with the handle of the pistol and he fell back to the floor.
The pounding at the door stopped.
Auch struggled to catch his breath, and then said, "I heard once that there is nothing more deadly than a man who has nothing left to lose." He tightened his hold on the pistol and leaned over Athos. "I have nothing left to lose!" Auch grabbed his right side and pressed his hand to his ribs. He winced when he righted himself, tossed the weapon across the room where it landed with a clatter against the far wall.
Athos closed his eyes, pressed his hand to his head, and struggled to his knees.
Auch chuckled and kicked Athos in the ribs, watched him fall to his left side, and kicked again. "I'm going to die here today," Auch squatted, rested on his haunches with his elbows on his knees, "the moment I saw you I knew it was over — everything I had worked for… alliances, partnerships, trade agreements all in the name of his majesty the king… I compromised myself — stepped foot on French soil to appease the whims of a Spanish king who fails to recognize order, design, and dignity." He tilted his head and listened as the pounding at the door once again continued. "Everything… gone!" He reached for Athos' weapons belt and fought with him to remove his sword. Auch grabbed a fist-full of hair and yanked Athos' head back. "I'm not dying alone," he said through clenched teeth, and met his eyes.