Porthos helped himself to another serving of d'Artagnan's venison stew and retook his seat on a chair he had pushed closer to the fire. The meat, despite the age of the buck, was tender, and fell apart beneath the force of his utensil. Despite his hunger, he could feel the weight of the past few weeks on his shoulders, and exhaustion crept at the edges of his vision. He wanted to ride back to Paris, sleep in his own bunk, eat some of Serge's food, and sit through hours of regimental practice, and duty rosters. He looked toward Aramis who, barely through his first bowl, continued to tell the tale of the past few days.
Treville nodded, took note, and watched each of his men as they continued to show signs of extreme fatigue.
"How'd you know it wasn't winter fever?" Aramis asked, he took a spoonful of gravy, potato, and meat. He blew on it to cool it and took a bite. The flavors marinated as he chewed, and he looked toward Treville.
"He stopped coughing and no chills," Treville said. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He looked up from his position on the floor next to Athos, and met Porthos' eyes and then Aramis' and shrugged. "Cavalier lungs… horsemen's lungs… is what my father called it and what the stable hands would talk about." He rubbed his brow.
When Aramis looked at Traville in question, he quirked his brow and nodded. "When I was a boy I used to watch my father train horses," he stirred the stew in his bowl, "he trained horses for the king's army." He raised his eyebrows and continued. "It was a difficult job and it wasn't unusual for him to cough up blood after a day of falls from the unbroken stock — but when it was bad, when he came to the house not able to catch his breath, there was a trick my mother would use," his lips curled into a slight smile and he looked at the gravy in his bowl. "Gagweed was a common remedy in our home — and if my father refused to drink it," he shrugged, "my mother would threaten to shoot the horses."
Traville took a bite of his food and chewed. "You don't see it often… but," he looked at Aramis, "it can be deadly." Their eyes met, and Aramis bit his bottom lip. "Your skill removing musket balls, or treating the injuried on a battlefield, Aramis, is unsurpassed —"
"I didn't see this," Aramis said, and nodded toward Athos.
"I've seen horsemen's lungs kill in minutes, Aramis, whatever you were doing…" Treville met his eyes and nodded, "You helped save his life…"
"I like your mother, cap'n," Porthos said, and raised his bowl to offer a salute. He glanced toward Aramis and nodded.
Treville feigned a smile. "Athos' sense of duty is…" He shook his head.
"Exhausting," Aramis said with raised eyebrows.
Treville shrugged his right shoulder and frowned. "…is what drives him. It's why you all survived."
Porthos stood, set his bowl on floor, and grabbed his saddlebag. He pulled the bolt from the confines, handed it to Treville, and shook his head. "That's who we were dealin' with," he said, reached down and pulled the mechanism that released the prongs. "The Empire created 'im… they should 'ave destroyed 'im."
Treville tightened his jaw muscles, pursed his lips, and sighed as he examined the modified bolt.
"Auch used 'is crossbow, hit Athos — meant to hit 'im square in the back," Porthos hit his chest with his fist, burped, and returned to his seat, "but Athos turned. It hit 'is back, but exited his shoulder, 'is pauldron stopped it from puncturin' 'is chest — Auch was tryin' to tie 'im to a horse an' drag 'im — Aramis put a bullet in 'im to stop 'im — thought he was dead." He shook his head.
Treville flatted the spear shaped prongs along the bolt's side and looked up. "How did you remove it?"
Aramis looked toward Porthos and shook his head. "Found some tools that were small enough to release each of the prongs." Aramis rubbed his face. "Auch was planning to ambush us in Chalons, but I think Lorange surprised his men — he put up a fight, gave us enough time to see it coming and it forced Auch to react."
"Lorange?"
Aramis shook his head. "Dead, along with the five others that surprised Auch's reinforcements. They destroyed Chalons — killed civilians, burned most of the homes and buildings — there's nothing left."
Treville took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the bolt.
"Auch's men fought long an' hard," Porthos said, "they knew they were goin' to die — an' they just wanted to take as many of us with 'em as they could." He retook his seat.
"Found Athos fighting with Salvador in a ravine a few hundred paces from the road — don't know how long they'd been fighting, but both were having trouble standing by the time we found them." Aramis rested his head back against the seat of the settee and felt his muscles relax. He rubbed his brow, then lowered his hand to his eyes and tried to rub away the dryness.
Porthos lowered his hands to his lap and took a deep breath. He shifted in his seat, felt muscles twitch, relax, and he closed his eyes as he rested his head against the wing of the chair. Within moments he was snoring softly.
Treville looked toward Porthos, and then d'Artagnan who had succumb to sleep during their discussions. The young man had fought hard, and had earned his place among them. He rested with his left arm protected, flat against his side, and his forearm draped across his stomach.
There were bruises that Treville couldn't see, he knew as much. He also understood and could empathize with sore and exhausted muscles that craved rest, but couldn't have it until the threat was gone. His men needed uninterrupted sleep to heal their bodies and their souls. They needed food for nourishment, and all were in desperate need of a bath.
"I couldn't have done it," Aramis said unexpectedly, he looked up, raised his knees, set his dish aside, and rested his forearms on his knees. "Auch… the things he said… the things he did." He rubbed his hand over his face and looked toward Treville. "I would have killed him — or at least tried to."
Treville exhaled slowly. "Why didn't you?"
The question caused Aramis to frown and pull his brows together. He paused a moment, picked at the dirt beneath his thumbnail, and sighed. "He wasn't mine to kill," he said, and met Treville's eyes. "That's what I thought at the time." He was ashamed, disappointed in himself. "Athos never took the bait… never." He swallowed and chewed on his bottom lip. "I'm grateful," he met Treville's eyes again, "that he doesn't remember."
Treville shook his head and took a deep breath. "He remembers… it's because he remembers that he was able to maintain control." He shifted his left foot beneath his right knee. "What makes you all work so well together are your differences, Aramis, not your similarities." He turned and looked toward d'Artagnan who continued to sleep on his right side, and then toward Athos who rested against the packsaddle, facing the fire. "Thirty-four musketeers and red guards defeated over fifty of Spain's finest soldiers led by one of the most diabolical military generals that we have ever seen."
"And nobody will know about it," Aramis said. He raised his eyebrows, and looked toward Athos as he slept, and the fire blazing behind him.
"Your king knows… you know," Treville said. He folded his fingers together and thought a moment as the light from the moon entered the room. He watched Aramis shift to the floor, lie on his side, and shove a blanket beneath his head.
"Auch has an entire army, captain, not just those we fought a few days ago." Aramis shifted his arm beneath his head, and placed the palm of his right hand on the floor near his elbow.
"An army without a leader is nothing more than men without direction. Should they be marching on French soil, they will be kindly asked by King Louis' military to return home and wait for instructions from their duke." Treville swallowed, and glanced toward Athos.
"At what point," Aramis said, "does Athos tell you all to go to hell?"
Treville looked toward the fire and nodded. He paused a moment, cleared his throat and said, "When his honor is overshadowed with something stronger than duty." He watched Aramis close his eyes, inhale deeply, and slip into sleep. Treville stood, placed another log onto the fire, and then grabbed several blankets from the pile he had brought with him. He covered each of his men, took another seat on the floor, and watched the flames as they flickered upward and caused the wood to snap and crumble beneath the pressure. He ran a hand over his face, and pulled at the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He shifted to his knees, pressed the palm of his hand to Athos' forehead and sighed when he found the fever less severe. Whatever injury had been done to his lung was clearing, and his breathing had eased so much so that he'd slept through dinner, their discussions, and even as they had positioned him into a more comfortable position against the packsaddle.
Treville sighed, felt the age in his joints as he moved after the long hours on horseback, and the tension of not knowing what he would find when he arrived. He admired all of his men, those who entered the gates of the garrison with a desire to serve their king, but the inseparables had found a special place in his heart for reasons he didn't understand. He knew without a doubt these men would fight to the end for what they believed was right. Treville was proud to have had a hand in training them. He scratched the back of his neck, and hoped for them what he did not allow himself: a wife, children, a home, and lives beyond the garrison.