D'Artagnan sighed as he entered his quarters. The room had been expanded and now allowed for a small kitchen, seating area, and a bedroom in the back. It smelled like Constance, of leather, and the soup she had warmed for his dinner. It wasn't a perfect location for a married couple, but it was functional. It allowed them privacy, and the luxury of home and work. They had learned over the past few months and grown accustomed to the smell of the horses, the men, and everything that followed as it wafted into their bedroom at night, or the kitchen during the day. Or the sounds of men sparing in the yard, the occasional arguments or disagreements, and the sounds of the horses as they greeted each other. It was all a part of the life at the garrison, a part of being a musketeer, and a part of something more.

He took a seat before the fire and warmed his hands. With his elbows on his knees, he hung his head and then rubbed his face. Athos had yet to return. He and Porthos had walked throughout the streets, had searched the taverns Athos frequented and found nothing. His horse was still in the stables. His quarters were still uninhibited, and his office was empty.

"Are you alright?" Constance asked as she stepped from the bedroom. She wrapped her brown woven shawl tightly around her shoulders as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her long nightshirt flowed around her hips and legs. Her long hair was braided loosely behind her back and strands frayed around the soft curvature of her face. The only light in the room came from the fire, and its light moved gently across her beautiful features.

D'Artagnan looked at her and shook his head. "No," he said, "not really." He returned his gaze to the fire.

Constance frowned, pursed her lips, and walked toward him. She gasped when he grabbed her waist and pulled her toward him. He pressed his face against her belly and wrapped his arms around her hips and he just held her. She rubbed his back and ran her fingers through his hair. "What happened?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about it. He tried not to dwell on what he had seen and what a brother had done. He tried not to think of the crowd as they thirsted after those whose time was short. "Milady de Winter is dead."

Constance furrowed her brow and she shrugged her shoulders. "She murdered the king's brother — you told me as much."

With his hands on her hips, he looked up at her. "She was supposed to hang, Constance…"

She ran her fingers across the side of his face and pulled her brows together in question. "Supposed to?"

D'Artagnan swallowed and nodded. "She was terrified… I didn't think she was capable of such an emotion —"

"I think she was quite capable of any emotion, d'Artagnan, as long as the moment called for it."

"This was different." He pressed his forehead against her. "Athos…" he took another deep breath, collected his thoughts as he thought about his own life and the woman he loved. "She didn't want to hang… Athos made sure she didn't."

Constance slipped her hands around his head as she leaned forward. She didn't need to know the details. She didn't want to know. What she knew was how much the past few days and hours had hurt d'Artagnan, and she could only imagine the others as well. "Are you alright?"

"You've already asked me that."

"I'm asking again."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I will be."

Constance kissed his forehead and then looked at the flames of the fire as they danced and moved within the confines of the smooth stones and mortar. Ash had darkened the fireplace, and what had once been bright stones in shades of reds, greens, creams and blues was now black. "He loved her… despite all she had done… he loved her." She looked toward the mantle, the small trinkets that collected dust, small reflections of her past life. "Could you have done it… if it were me?"

D'Artagnan frowned, gripped her arms, and met her eyes. "No…" he thought a moment, glanced from her face to floor and then back again to meet her eyes. "It would kill me to do something like that — I can't even bear the thought of it." He held her tighter.

Constance nodded. "I'd never put you in a position to do it…" she kissed the side of his head. "I'm sorry I asked."

"I can't bear the thought of losing you," he whispered and pinched the fabric of her nightshirt between his fingers. "I can't."

"You won't," she said and remained standing before him. She listened to him breathe and felt the fire against her skin. The room was peaceful with the sounds of crackling of wood, the shifting of hot coals, and the subtle sound of the breeze as it entered beneath the door. "I promise you," Constance said, "you won't lose me."