The setting was beautiful. Lit torches surrounded the outer perimeter of the audience, who listened to the music as the strings of the violins and cellos sang. The maestro moved his arms and hands as the music shifted in tempo and rhythm. Performers attuned to their instruments caressed the strings with precision and delicacy. The music filled the inner courtyard and the four walls amplified the harmony and melody of the composition.
Porthos looked upward toward the stars as the sunset continued to morph its colors. He watched the faces of those in the audience, including the king who sat in the front row center next to his queen. The king's face was a picture of peace and tranquility. His guests were just as enamored and overwhelmed. The weather was perfect: calm, cool, and the air was filled with the scent of lilacs.
"Never seen him look so peaceful," d'Artagnan said, as he stepped closer to Porthos. He crossed his arms over his chest, and shoved his hands beneath his armpits, and watched the musicians stroke their instruments.
"Wish we all were," Porthos said, and looked toward the doors. He wanted out, he wanted to be looking, he wanted to be away from these people who found peace in music and found something to rejoice in. He looked toward the second-story balcony and spotted several red guards and musketeers checking their stations and looking for threats. "There are plenty of guards here… we're not needed." He huffed as he looked toward Aramis who shifted uncomfortably a few feet from Treville, who also monitered the doors and the windows.
"Athos," Porthos said, and cleared his throat, "was the first person of position to ask me my opinion about an assignment — he never judged me 'cause my readin' was poor, or my words weren't right… he always said any man could make somethin' of himself if he tried — I respected 'im for that." He swiped at his nose and gripped the back of his arms with tightened hands. "The garrison ain't gonna be the same without 'im… he knew what to say and when to say it — not like some who talk because they like the sound of their own voice."
D'Artagnan nodded and shifted his feet.
"He pulled us out of a few scrapes… me an Aramis… You knew where you stood with 'im," Porthos said, "an' once you owned your mistake — whatever it was — he put it behind him like it never happened — he was good like that."
"Like Treville," d'Artagnan said.
Porthos nodded. "He may not show it," he nodded toward Treville and Aramis, "but he's hurtin' just like the rest of us… figure Athos was more of a son to 'im than he realized — the rest of us… you, me, Aramis we're like his sons too — but Athos…" he shook his head, "was the son Treville never 'ad."
"I'm sorry, Porthos," d'Artagnan said, and shifted his gaze toward the doors.
"He thought highly of you… you know that, right?" Porthos said and rubbed the dip below his lip with his thumb. "Told me once that you'll be the best of us all," he chuckled and shrugged, "if," he stressed, "you would stop and think before runnin' into situations." Porthos exhaled slowly and said, "Course…" he rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb, "he was drunk when he said it."
D'Artagnan smiled, rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shit," he said with a long sigh.
"We didn't just lose a friend… we lost a brother." Porthos stopped suddenly, inhaled deeply, and flared his nostrils.