Aramis ran a hand over his face, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the window that overlooked the woodpile, Auch's burned remains, and the pasture where the horses grazed. The quarter moon was partially covered with puffed clouds that curved and shifted in shape. The leaves on the trees fluttered as a subtle gust of wind swirled across the ground. Grasses bowed, tipped, and relaxed beneath the force.

The hours had been long, and the day even longer. Porthos had cleaned swords. He had removed dried mud, and blood from blades, handles, and the crossbars. The blades — placed upon a blanket near the door — gleamed, and the tips reflected the light of the moon as it peered in through the windows. Athos' sword rested along with others, flat on a blanket near the far wall. Their weapons belts had been oiled, the buckles and buttons polished. The pistols had been wiped clean, the frizzens, pans, side-plates, cocks, and flints cleaned and made ready for their next use. While the work had been as habitual as any, it allowed their minds to wander, thoughts to darken, and mistakes to manifest.

Athos' had slept, surrendering to his need at each interval of wakefulness.

Porthos, ever the guardian, had walked the grounds, and stood at attention facing in the direction of Paris. His face a shield of questions and uncertainty as he thought of home, his brothers, and those who had lost their lives.

Aramis turned and looked toward Treville as he shifted position on the floor near the fire. He grabbed his blanket and pulled it up and over his shoulder, dug his head deeper into his pillow, and returned to sleep. D'Artagnon snored, abruptly woke himself, but turned to his side, relaxed his knee against the wall, and resumed his sleep.

Porthos looked up and met Aramis's eyes and nodded. The firelight cast orange and red light across the floor and walls. The movement was erratic, violent, and unmerciful. Flames consumed, eliminated, and sent sparks and ash upward. Wood crumbled and found peace among the charcoal lumps beneath the grate.

Athos shifted to his right, adjusted his position to avoid his shoulder and scratched the tip of his nose. He swallowed, and watched the shadows shift and reflect off the surrounding surfaces. He watched Aramis walk toward him, and sit on the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees, grasped his left forearm, and nodded toward Porthos who joined him.

The pop of a cork leaving the neck of a bottle echoed. Porthos took a long pull, sighed, and nodded. He handed the bottle to Aramis who was quick to join him.

Athos glanced toward them, and then looked toward Treville as he slept, and then toward the wall. He spotted the portrait that rested beneath the window. Darkened shadows surrounded the image, but the flames of the fire illuminated her face, and danced along the gold frame. Younger than when he remembered her, in the time before — or perhaps soon after, he and Thomas had been born. She had been young once, vibrant, youthful, and full of energy. Athos closed his eyes, and then looked again at the image. He remembered tracing the veins on the back of her hands, following the faint blue lines that crept from her delicate wrists and disappeared within the valleys between her knuckles. Her ring never set right, always twisted to the side, the jewel never stationed above. Her hands, during the summer months, had exhibited cuts and scrapes when her roses bloomed. Red had always been her favorite, and he remembered her standing proudly before a gold vase with dozens of roses: some fully bloomed, others days away.

"Athos?" Aramis said, lowered his left leg and leaned forward. "You alright?"

"Where did you find the portrait of my mother?"

Aramis pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and cocked his head. He looked toward Porthos who rolled his eyes and shrugged. "It was hanging on the wall by the door."

Athos remained quiet, looked again at the portrait, and nodded. He looked again at her face, grateful for the moment of reverie, and wished the artist had painted her eyes forward, not cast downward. She had been a whirlwind, spirited, determined, and true to her values. The sound of her voice had faded over time, as had the memories of her face… instead there were moments, flashes of memories from his perception that may been viewed differently by another. What he did remember was her love of her children, and their father. Her undying dedication to them, no matter the cost to herself. "Auch grew up here… for a time," he said, and glanced toward Aramis. "We're on Emilian lands."

Aramis looked at Athos, watched his features change from mournful to stern. "Treville mentioned something"

"I should have checked the land manifests —"

"You couldn't have known to look—" Aramis shook his head.

"Auch knew," Athos pushed himself up, rested his left elbow on his knee as he rubbed his face. "He knew that both roads — Chalons and Annoy — would take him across Emilian lands… the other roads washout this time of year." He shook his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. "That's why he arrived in Paris when he did — this is the wettest spring in years." He looked toward Aramis and chuckled. "When he recognized me… he was forced to change his plans." He ran his hand through his hair, and rested his forehead on his palm. "Brilliant… but poorly executed."

"Who would've thought," Porthos said, and took another pull from the bottle, "tha' members of the red guard would 'elp us succeed." He shook his head, ran a hand over his face and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. "To Lorange," he raised the bottle, "for blowin' Auch's plans to shit… and to Anora… who let us know who we were dealin' with." He handed the bottle to Aramis, and looked toward the portrait. "I still don't see it?"

Athos frowned. "What?"

"The likeness," Porthos said, furrowed his brow, wrinkled his chin upward, and smashed his upper lip beneath his nose. "Are you supposed to be the fat baby in the tree? Stupid place for a baby if you ask me," he shook his head and leaned back, "don't know what nobles were thinkin' when they pu' babies in trees — looks outta place an' why does everyone look miserable?" He inhaled deeply and looked again at the paintings on the walls. Shadows overcast the details, but the flames highlighted the subjects. "An' the horses — they're always fat with skinny legs — 'ave you ever seen a fat horse with skinny legs?"

"Here," Aramis said, "have more wine."

Porthos took the bottle, slipped the neck between two fingers, and with his elbows on his knees he swung bottle between his legs. "Auch may 'ave executed 'is plan poorly, bu' we ended it — ended 'im. Might be the only time the red guards and the musketeers worked together to make it 'appen, bu' we did it — an' you," he met Athos' eyes, "led the way." He took a long pull from the bottle. He shifted forward, handed Athos the wine, and nodded toward him. "We weren't fortunate," he said, and rested his forearm on his thigh, "we were soldiers followin' your orders — an' I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Athos nodded, took the bottle, and swallowed. A smile crept to the corners of his mouth and he watched Porthos rest back into his previous position. "Not for a while, Porthos," he said, "not for a long while."