They rode well into the night and finally stopped when the light of the moon no longer provided guidance through the unfamiliar terrain. The long hours, longer nights, little sleep, and the uncertainty of the past days had all four musketeers setting up camp quietly, and without words.

D'Artagnan settled the horses. Hitched the eight mares to tethers by the creek and allowed them to graze from their lines. Bred for speed and endurance: the mares stood tall and sleek, with long muscles and legs. Their confirmation and beauty would impress the king. D'Artagnan hoped the gifts would lessen the king's disappointment in the baron's refusal of service.

Porthos had started a fire and built a short rock wall around the flames. The light flickered and reflected off their faces, the stones, the branches and bark of the trees around their embankment. Sparks flew upward and disappeared within the foliage of branches. The wood snapped, and Aramis pulled a small cast-iron skillet from his pack and placed it on a flat stone to warm their provisions: salted pork, suet, and hard bread.

Athos unsaddled the horses and hobbled them near the water's edge. The light of the moon reflected off the gentle waves of the narrow creek that ran steadily over the curves of stones, and took with it fallen branches, leaves, and debris. The howl of a wolf echoed in the distance, and the hooting of an owl was quickly followed by a gush of wind as wings spread wide and waved. Athos stood, rested his right hand on his horse's withers, and looked toward the trees in the darkened forest. They were reminded once again that the threats of men to the mission of the king were alive and well. Tomas and Evan had nearly shattered the musketeers' lives for nothing more than one man's madness and another's will for revenge. They had paid with their lives, but others would follow.

"Do you think it was Richelieu who hired him?" Aramis asked, as he stepped from the shadows and looked toward the light of the moon. Thin clouds made their way slowly across the sky.

Athos sighed, looked downward, rubbed his face, and then glanced at Aramis, who stretched his back and closed his eyes as the light of the moon highlighted his features. "We'll never know for certain."

"We could go back," Aramis said, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Question the remaining guards — take them back to Paris to stand trial."

Athos took a deep breath and exhaled. "No," he said and swallowed. "Let the baron manage his part in this —"

"I don't think the baron can manage himself, much less the men locked in his cells." Aramis pinched the point of his mustache and crossed his arms over his chest. "We could manage this," he shrugged, "quietly —"

"I said no, Aramis." Athos looked up and met his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand and gripped his horse's withers. "If the baron can not manage it, then Felix will. Let them have that."

Aramis clenched his jaw and nodded. He watched Athos shift uncomfortably, a display of annoyance rather than discomfort. "The turnkey… you awoke before —"

"I cannot…" Athos turned toward him with a look of warning, "and will not, discuss what happened."

Aramis met Athos' wide eyes and stern jaw that flexed as he clenched his teeth. Athos did not carry the height or the weight of Porthos, but Aramis knew the blade he currently walked, and friend or foe, Athos would not hesitate to strike when cornered. He took a deep breath and said, "Nothing happened —"

"Enough!" Athos growled, pushed himself away from his horse, grabbed his tack, and walked back toward camp.

Aramis sighed and then took a deep breath in frustration. The ripples of the water shifted over smooth pebbles and stones, and the light of the moon reflected off the surface. He looked toward the horizon, watched a bird of prey swoop for its kill, and disappear into the darkness of shadows and trees. Aramis rubbed his neck and slowly returned to camp.

Porthos rested with his back to a boulder, legs stretched before him, and ankles crossed. He chewed on a dried fig and nodded toward Aramis, who took a seat a few feet from him. Porthos handed him an uncorked bottle of wine.

"Felix," Porthos said with a smile, "saw fit to include this — good man." His smile broadened. "It's good."

Aramis cocked his eyebrow, took a pull, and nodded. D'Artagnan rested against the underside of his saddle. The bruising around his neck had darkened, blackened wrists expanded past the bandages, and stood out in contrast to the cuff of his doublet and shirt. He had positioned his arm across his chest and dozed with his head tilted to the left.

"Fell 'sleep as soon as he sat down," Porthos said, and shrugged. "Tha' was one 'ell of a shot, Aramis." He exhaled through puffed cheeks and shook his head. "One 'ell of a shot."

Aramis raised his eyebrows and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked toward the tack Athos had left by the fire. "Where'd he go?"

Porthos tilted his head toward the horses. He exhaled and then watched the light of the flames flicker across Aramis' face. "Wha' happened?" He nodded toward Athos' saddle. "Exactly?"

Aramis rubbed his face, picked up a twig, and rolled it between his thumb and finger. He watched the twig spin, stop, and spin in the opposite direction before the routine started again. The rough and dried bark around the edges dug into the tender flesh of his thumb and finger. "The turnkey had…" he paused, "less than honorable intentions."

"I know that," Porthos said. He glanced at Aramis, and then toward the fire.

Aramis flexed his jaw muscles, swallowed, and nodded. "Athos awoke before anything happened… but," he met Porthos' eyes, he bit his bottom lip, "Athos," he shook his head, "the turnkey was dead before he hit the floor." He rubbed his face. "Athos snapped his neck."

Porthos clenched his jaw and shook his head.

"We've known him what… six, seven years?" Aramis glanced toward Porthos. "I've never seen him react like that…"

"He was drugged —"

"He was terrified." Aramis cleared his throat. "I don't know if was because of what could have happened… or the way he reacted to it that scared him more." He watched the twig twist between his fingers. "It could have been any of us — the turnkey knew what he was doing… I hate to think how many times he'd done it before." He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at Porthos. "I was the only one who didn't drink the water… but I could get to you and d'Artagnan… I couldn't get to Athos." He tossed the twig into the fire. "If the drug had taken it's full effect…" He rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I can't even bear the thought…"

Porthos flared his nostrils and looked toward the flames. He looked toward d'Artagnan who continued to sleep, toward Aramis who fought his inner demons, and toward the empty bedroll that had yet to be unrolled. "You know Athos… stubborn as they come and twice as hard-headed."

"He hasn't slept in days," Aramis said, and glanced toward Porthos. "I think he saw what happened to that boy —" he pinched at the bridge of his nose, "I didn't — you didn't, and d'Artagnan was… was hanging," he met Porthos' eyes, "but I'll never forget the wails of that boy's father."

Porthos nodded, shifted his feet, and grasped Aramis' shoulder and squeezed. He handed the bottle of wine back and ran his hand over the curve of the glass. "Maybe instead of focusin' on wha' happened… we should focus on the fact that d'Artagnan survived, Athos gave us enough time to get freed with Felix's help, you saved all our asses and I…" he took a long pause and glanced toward the water, "I didn't stick Tomas' head on a spike — I wanted to… even after he was dead," he paused and rubbed his head, "I wanted to."

Aramis nodded, teased the corners of his mouth into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and watched the flames of the fire. He watched Athos check the horses, run his hand along their backs, and pause a moment. Aramis tapped Porthos' leg and pointed. "Watch him."

"He'll sleep when he's home, brother… when he doesn't feel the need to watch over us," Porthos exhaled slowly, "when he's safe."

"He'll never make it."

"He will," Porthos said and tossed a twig into the fire.

Aramis took a deep breath and shook his head. "Watch him… he's slower to react, he's using the horses and the trees because he's dizzy, he's moody—"

"Athos is always moody —"

"Not like this… and he's trembling — I noticed his hands earlier." Aramis rubbed the dryness from his eyes. "Just… help me keep an eye on him."

Porthos nodded and looked toward Aramis. "A couple bottles of wine might do the trick — might even get him to talk about everythin' that's happened." He raised his eyebrows and lifted the bottle of wine. "Course, you'll never understan' a word he's sayin'."

Aramis cocked his eyebrow. "You'll need more than two bottles."

Porthos nodded. "Good thin' Felix sent us with more." He chuckled and took a pull. "Makes me wonder though…" he sighed, and exhaled slowly, "what the cardinal 'ill try next," he met Aramis' eyes, "if he really does wan' us out of 'is way?"