Fish sizzled in the skillet. Porthos carefully salted the meat and looked toward d'Artagnan who sipped at wine from a hammered cup. The wine Felix had included in his bags of provisions had lasted more than a day. D'Artagnan, seated on his ground covering, leaned against the root of a tree. Wrapped around his shoulders was his blue cloak, his right knee raised and left leg stretched before him. He glanced toward the mares as Aramis finishing hobbling them by the river's edge. Athos removed the tack from the saddle horses, and line-tied them by a tree close to camp.
The quarter moon's light was minimal, but the darkened sky was clear and the stars twinkled bright against the blackness of night. An owl screeched in the distance, the calls of a wolf pierced the air, and the shifting of nocturnal beasts sounded as they brushed against grasses and bushes.
Porthos took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma of dinner. He looked toward Athos as he took a seat against a boulder and raised his knees and peered between them. Athos watched the fire that blazed, rubbed his face, felt the long hours without sleep, and the exhaustion of tired muscles and an overworked mind. He nodded toward Aramis, who tossed a twig into the fire before he took a seat across from him and exhaled slowly as he finally relaxed. He shook his head and nodded toward Porthos, who grabbed the simple, well used plates that were misshapen, dented, and scratched from years of abuse.
"Should make it to Paris late tomorrow," Athos said.
"What are you going to tell Treville about the baron?" d'Artagnan asked and nodded in thanks when Porthos handed him a plate of food.
"That he respectfully declined the king's request." Athos rubbed his brow and looked toward the flames of the fire as they flickered, jumped, sparked, and danced.
Porthos handed Athos a plate and watched his hand shake. Porthos then handed one to Aramis with a shake of his head. He then wrapped a thick cloth around the skillet handle and sat back to eat.
"So," Aramis cocked an eyebrow, "the diplomatic approach." He chuckled as he tentatively tested the temperature of his food with his finger.
"What 'bout Tomas?" Porthos asked. He blew on a forkful of meat to cool it and then took a bite. He chewed, swallowed, and then asked, "We goin' to explain to the cap'n wha' 'appened?"
Athos nodded, covered his mouth when he yawned, and rubbed his eyes as they watered. "He doesn't need to know everything."
D'Artagnan licked his finger, then looked toward Aramis, who shook his head as he pulled a fishbone from between his lips, and tossed it into the fire.
"What about the horses?" d'Artagnan asked and used his fingers to eat.
"What about them?" Athos asked, pinched at the flakey meat of the fish and took a bite.
"Where will they go?"
Athos closed his eyes and shook his head. "As the baron requested. Four will be taken to the king as a gift, and four will remain at the garrison for the musketeers." He turned and met his eyes. "Why?"
D'Artagnan sighed. "They're not war horses — they may be fast, but they'll never carry men in full armor for long hours."
"That's not for us to decide," Athos rubbed his forehead. "We're to deliver them."
D'Artagnan nodded, finished his meal, and put his plate aside. He adjusted his seat and rubbed at his arm. He winced and sighed when he watched Aramis get to his feet, grab a fresh bandage, and motioned for him to pull his shirt sleeve up.
Aramis exhaled as he squatted next to d'Artagnan and removed the bandage. Still clean, the cloth showed little signs of seepage. "This will leave a beautiful scar — one of my finest," he said proudly, and curled his lips into a subtle smile. He carefully tested the sutures, found them strong, and the wound scabbed over.
D'Artagnan frowned and watched.
"Keep this bandaged until we get back to Paris — don't want the wound to rub raw."
D'Artagnan nodded and looked at the injury. Twelve black sutures stared back at him as well as the pink swollen flesh, severe bruising the size of a spread hand surround his arm, and the brown scabs would tighten and start to itch in the days to come. He watched Aramis wrap the bandage around the wound and finally tie it off before he lowered the sleeve.
Still kneeling, Aramis looked at d'Artagnan's neck, tipped his head to the right and exposed the purples, dark blues, and blacks that would eventually fade to greens and yellows. His eyes were still bloodshot with red around his pupils, but they had started the slow process of healing.
"You're lucky to be alive," Aramis said, shook his head in continued disbelief, and met d'Artagnan's eyes. Aramis pushed himself to his feet and slapped d'Artagnan's shoulder in a brotherly gesture before he returned to his seat.
"You've said that before," d'Artagnan said and took a bite of his food.
"Because you are," Aramis said as he relaxed against the boulder.
"Can't wrap my 'ead 'round the baron's madness — why he woul' let Tomas take control the way he did?" Porthos sighed. He placed the empty skillet on the ground next to him, and lay back against the boulder, glanced up toward the sky, and watched a shooting star streak with a glowing tail and quickly disappear. Clouds moved slowly, white puffs shaded with the blackness of night.
"The affliction of the mind," Aramis said, with a shake of his head. He grabbed a handful of dried fruit from his saddlebag. "It's difficult to say what he was thinking. From Treville's description, I had expected the baron to be mad with anger rather than melancholy." He glanced toward Athos who finished his meal, placed the plate on the ground beside him, and stared into the fire. "Perhaps that was his affliction, severe mood swings."
Porthos cocked an eyebrow and looked toward Aramis. "Is 'at an observation or doctor's diagnosis?" He tried to fight his smile, but couldn't.
"Pure theory, brother," Aramis said, and chuckled. "Tomas had the true affliction." He glanced toward Athos who continued to stare into the fire. He blinked lazily, and rubbed his finger against the fat of his thumb. "Reminds me of a woman I met once…"
Aramis' voice blended with the sounds of shuffling grass, water that slapped the sides of the bank, horses that ripped grass in quick bold strokes as they grazed, the flames of the fire as they wavered, sparked, and manipulated the surrounding air. Even the branches of trees that swayed and trembled weakly with the subtlest of breezes. The night air was warm, not hot, and the fire added to the comfort as the night wore on. Voices blended into one, until the soft cadences of Porthos' snores, and d'Artagnan's deep breaths and exhales that tended to whistle when exhaustion overrode his readiness.
Porthos shifted to his side, hitched his breath, and shoved his arm beneath his head. He returned to sleep within minutes. D'Artagnan lay on his back, left knee raised and leaned against the extended root that curved around the left side of his body. He had shoved his cloak beneath his head, and succumb to sleep shortly after he had lain back.
Aramis tossed another log into the fire as the flames died down. He looked toward Athos, who continued to stare into the flames. He had adjusted his position, leaned forward, and rubbed his face as his mind continued to race. He couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion, and instead stared up at the night sky and watched the stars flicker, the clouds move, and the moon shift position.
"You're exhausted," Aramis said, looked toward Athos who didn't acknowledge him. "Athos?"
Athos rubbed the back of his head, his hair too short to tie and too long to manage, flipped between his fingers and rested in disarray. He watched the log split and flames reignite between the pieces.
Aramis pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and then squatted in front of Athos, intent to block his view. "Hey," he said, and slapped Athos' boot with the back of his hand. "You're exhausted… you should sleep."
Athos nodded, looked wearily toward him, and said, "I know."
Aramis exhaled, shifted to his backside, kicked his feet out before him and rested his elbows on his knees. "I could have Porthos hit you," he said with a smile. He turned from facing the fire and looked toward Athos.
"I need to sleep, not a headache."
"There's catnip growing by a cluster of trees — we passed it on our way here — I could brew some for you… it would at least help you relax?"
Athos shook his head with an appreciative smile.
Aramis shrugged and nodded. "There's more wine?"
Athos chuckled. "Not enough," he said, and rubbed his eyes. He watched red coals fade from shades of red to gray to black, only to lighten and then darken as the heat of the fire fluctuated. "The cardinal won't stop…"
Aramis licked his lips, and then carefully pinched and smoothed the points of his mustache. He slapped Athos' leg again and chuckled. "And we keep defying him — he may even accuse us of witchcraft when we return to Paris." He smiled and rocked on his backside to adjust his seat.
"He will try again."
"And we'll be ready."
"Will we?" Athos said. He pinched the bridge of his nose and felt the weight of his eyelids. "We weren't ready this time… and looked what happened." He glanced toward d'Artagnan and then Porthos, who despite acting strong was still sore.
Aramis said, "We're strong," he met Athos eyes, "and together we're stronger." He lowered his knees, extended his feet toward the flames, and rested back on straightened arms. "We've faced bigger challenges, brother… let the cardinal try, and enjoy watching him squirm when he fails."
Athos frowned, folded his fingers together and shifted his elbow to his other knee. "Still…" he said, tightened his jaw, and ran his hand over his face. "We should be cautious."
"I'm always cautious—"
"You're a fool if you believe that," Athos said.
"Perhaps," Aramis shrugged, "more pensive?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"Exultant maybe," Athos nodded, "Pensive?" he shook his head. "Absolutely not."
"Come now, brother." Aramis lay back, folded his fingers behind his head and looked toward the stars.
"Need I remind you of your little indiscretion that has the potential to bring France to her knees?" Athos sighed, rubbed his eyes, and tried to blink away the dryness.
"Impulsive," Aramis said. "I'm content with impulsive."
Athos pushed himself to his feet. "While you contemplate your descriptors, I'm going to find a tree."
Aramis chuckled and moved his hands to his chest. "Ah yes, the unrelenting pressure of a full bladder does make one…" he lifted a finger from his chest, "cooperative." He yawned, raised his right knee, and felt muscles relax. His breathing slowed and his eyelids grew heavy as the heat from the fire warmed him.
Athos stepped from the shadows and looked toward the camp. He shook his head, grabbed more wood and added the broken and dried branches to the fire. Sparks flew upward and wood snapped as the flames continued their hypnotizing movement. Athos retook his seat, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched the flames. He listened for sounds of warning. He wanted to sleep, allow his body to relax and succumb to the unknown and reawaken refreshed. When he closed his eyes he continued to hear Tomas' taunts of his hunt, the sounds of footsteps on the cobblestone floors, echoes of keys and unlatching locks, the sound of a ladle being lifted from a bucket and the droplets of water that splattered. Athos scratched the back of his head, forced his unruly hair upward, and then stared at the fire and watched sparks fly only to fade and turn to ash.