Porthos yawned, rubbed his forehead, and wiped sleep from his eyes. He lowered his arm, rested his hand against his belly, and looked at the dagger imbedded within the painting. The sun's rays entered the room through the windows and highlighted the walls, the floor, and the refined features of d'Artagnan as he readied a skillet near the fireplace.
"Wha' time is it?" Porthos asked, and groaned when his body voluntarily stretched. He felt his toes curl, his back arched, and his thighs tightened. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
D'Artagnan chuckled. "Nearly noon."
Porthos cocked an eyebrow and pushed himself to a seated position. He looked toward Aramis who still slept on the floor on his right side, and covered with blankets. Treville dozed on the settee, his left knee raised and against the backrest, foot on the fine fabric, and his right foot on the floor. "Athos?"
"Sleeping…" d'Artagnan turned and smiled, "soundly."
Porthos sighed, tossed the blanket off his legs and slowly stood. He slipped into his boots as the call of nature beckoned.
"Take the bucket with you," d'Artagnan said, "we need fresh water."
Porthos grabbed the bucket, and rubbed his face. His voluminous shirt fluttered against his skin and he rubbed the back of his neck, as he left the room.
D'Artagnan sighed, removed the salted pork that Treville had brought with him, as well as the potatoes, apples, suet, and winter squash. The suet melted and the meat sizzled against the surface of the fry pan. He turned when he caught Treville's eyes upon him.
Treville sighed, pushed himself up, and rested both feet on the floor. He leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands. He turned and looked over his shoulder as Porthos entered with a bucket of fresh water. His collar was wet, as well as his hair, and he looked refreshed.
"Cap'n," Porthos said, and placed the bucket on the floor near the hearth. He stretched his back and looked at the paintings on the walls.
Aramis sighed, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and licked his lips. He lay still for a moment, took in the sounds, the sights, and the light that entered the room. He took a deep breath, yawned, and felt the sun's rays shift and fall across his face. He pushed himself upright when the scent of cooking reached his senses. He glanced toward Athos who continued to sleep on his left side. Aramis pushed himself to his feet, raised his hands over his head, and stretched.
Porthos chuckled and grabbed a cooked slice of meat from the tray. "I'm goin' to thank Serge when we return." He smiled, ripped a portion of the pork with his teeth and chewed.
"If you don't like my cooking…?" d'Artagnan said, and added another slice of meat to the pile before he added the potatoes and squash to the pan.
"Never said I didn't like your cookin'," Porthos chuckled, and took a seat. "I'm just tired of rodent meat an' ash." He winked at d'Artagnon and smiled with a nod. Porthos took another bite of the meat. His stomach rumbled and he rubbed his eyes when the light shifted position toward him. "How'd you find us anyway?" Porthos said, and licked his fingers.
Treville raised his eyebrows and raised the right side of his lips into a half smile. "Remy mentioned the ambush had occurred a few miles west of Chalons — I took the back roads in hopes of arriving sooner," he shrugged, "if I hadn't seen your horses, I would have ridden on by."
Porthos tightened his chin, forced his lips downward, and raised his eyebrows. "Always knew those beasts were worth their salt."
Aramis knelt, pressed his hand to Athos' forehead, and then looked toward the plate of food. "How long before that's ready?" He pushed himself to his feet.
"Nearly done," d'Artagnan said. "How is he?"
"Fever's gone," Aramis said, "He's exhausted — sleep is what he needs."
Treville watched d'Artagnan dish up the food. "We'll stay here until he's strong enough to return. Given Auch's death, and the king's position regarding Burie, a few days will not effect the outcome."
Aramis nodded toward d'Artagnan who handed him a plate of food. He picked up a slice of squash, took a bite, and walked slowly toward the west wall and looked at the paintings. "Why so much art?" he asked nobody in particular. He continued to chew, licked his finger, and turned toward them.
Porthos shrugged, wrapped a slice of meat around the onion and squash and took a healthy bite. He pointed toward the east wall while he chewed. "Looks like the same artist." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, uninterested.
"Whoever it was liked birds," d'Artagnan said, and sat cross legged on the floor and started to eat his food. He watched Athos shift his legs beneath the blankets and burrow deeper into his bedding.
Aramis rested his plate on the gate-leg table. He grabbed a chair and stepped onto it and pulled a painting that hung high from the wall between the windows. He wiped his arm across the surface to remove the dust and frowned. He covered the woman's chin and jaw with his hand, tilted his head to the right and squinted. "Who does this look like?" He held the painting upright toward the others.
"A fat child," Porthos said, and wiped his plate with a slice of potato. He ate the last of his meal and licked his lips. He leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees.
D'Artagnan chuckled, and took a bite of squash.
"Not the child," Aramis said, and rolled his eyes.
"It's a cherubim," d'Artagnan corrected.
"A what?" Porthos frowned and looked toward d'Artagnan.
"The woman!" Aramis pursed his lips and pointed to the woman in the portrait. He held it closer to Porthos who shrugged.
"Is that all you can think about?" Porthos asked and shook his head. "An' you can't even see her bosom in that — an' she 'as dark hair — thought you prefered blondes an' red 'eads."
Aramis pursed his lips, scratched his forehead in frustration, and stepped in front of d'Artagnan. "Do you see it."
"What is it you want us to see, Aramis?" Treville asked, and set his plate aside.
"You don't notice anything?" Aramis raised his eyebrows. "The eyes… the nose?" He raised his shoulders, opened his eyes wider, and shook his head in disbelief. "The perpetual frown?" He cocked an eyebrow, expecting someone to make the connection.
Treville took the painting and held it at arm's length. He pulled his eyebrows together and frowned. The woman's gaze was cast downward, her dark brown hair divided down the center of her scalp, and an embroidered hat haloed around the back of her head. Long gold earrings dangled below her chin, and her refined features had been gently highlighted with soft strokes of shadows, rose colored cheeks, and eyes were surrounded with dark thick lashes. She was simple, unadorned and without the more traditional gaudiness of overindulgent jewelry and dress. Even the background was simple, except for the cherub that rested in the branches of the tree she sat beside.
Treville handed the painting back. "I think you should leave this alone." He watched Athos shift to his back, pushed the blanket passed his shoulders, and continue to sleep.
"You think it's Athos' mother?" d'Artagnan said, pushed himself to his feet to look at the painting. He took the gold frame from Aramis. "Could be."
"I don't see it," Porthos said, leaned back in his seat. "We're leagues from Pinon — why would there be a picture of 'is mother 'ere?"
Treville took a deep breath and sighed slowly. He stood, looked at the paintings on the wall, and then walked past Aramis toward the trunk. "Victor Emilian had a son who died — it was rumored that he was touched." He tapped his temple and looked toward Aramis. "He was a deaf mute who was skilled in the arts — he was sent away for his education, his father never called for his return."
"How could he?" d'Artagnan said with a shrug. "His father was dead."
Porthos watched Treville open the trunk, remove the pistol case, dig through trinkets, items of clothing and a stack of love letters. The captain sighed when he found a leather-bound portfolio. He walked back toward the settee, handed Porthos the pistol case, which he took gleefully. Treville took a seat on the divan and opened the portfolio. Letters tumbled toward the floor, unsealed, but folded. Aramis placed the painting against the wall and took a seat next to Treville who started to open the notes: Bills, promissory notes, notes of land disputes. Treville sighed, but paused when he caught sight of a letter written to Landry Emilian in the elegant script of his dear cousin Annaleigh d'Athos. Treville exhaled slowly opened the note and read.
"Find something interesting?" Aramis asked, and shifted to read the note Treville held.
Treville sighed, folded the letter, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Leave it alone," he said, and looked at Aramis and met his eyes. "Sometimes it's best to let the past die."
Aramis bit on the bottom right side of his lip. "The past never dies, captain, no matter how hard we try to bury it."
Treville handed the note to Aramis, stood, and walked toward the window.
Aramis watched him, but opened the letter and read the gentle words to a distant cousin, thanking him for his kind offer to paint her young children. She encouraged him to wait for word from his father, who was an honorable man and loved him. Aramis looked up and met Athos' eyes.
Athos winced as he shifted, rubbed his face with his left hand, and nodded when Aramis chuckled.
"You want to piss in a pot, or find a tree?" Aramis said, and set the letter aside.
"Tree," Athos said, and grunted as Aramis helped him to his feet. The blankets fell to the floor. Dressed only in his braies and shirt, he felt Aramis slip his arm behind his back to steady him, and Athos placed his left arm on Aramis' shoulder and they slowly walked from the room.
Treville nodded toward d'Artagnan. "Any food left?"
D'Artagnan nodded.
"As soon as he's strong enough, we'll depart."