Athos sat astride Kelpie and rode back toward his regiment. He watched the Spanish commanders shout orders to their men. It wasn't a defeat, but it wasn't a victory either. Those who had spent the past two days fighting slipped their swords back into their scabbards, and then struggled thorough the mud to rescue the living, and collect the dead.

Athos called for his men to stop their fighting. They too had men that needed medical attention, and comrades who needed to be buried. Puddles of standing water reflected red against the rays of the sun. Men had tried crawling to safety but had died hoping to survive.

He could hear the sounds of men groaning, whimpered cries, and the hushed voices of those that cared for the injured. He looked at those who suffered the effects of his decision. Athos closed his eyes, turned his face toward the sun, and then felt his chest tighten as he remembered seeing Aramis fall backward. The chaos of the battle, the urgency to meet with the Spanish General, had rendered Athos unable to help a friend… a brother. While he had sent Jacques to assist Aramis, the young man was nowhere to be seen. Athos turned his head toward the trench, hoping to see Aramis crawl from its embrace, and suddenly closed his eyes. The image of Aramis being shot plagued his mind.

He never wanted to be responsible for the death of a brother.

Not Aramis, Porthos, or d'Artagnan.

Armor could withstand the blunt edge of a blade, deflect some shrapnel, but it could not stop a bullet. Slowly, Athos dismounted, dropped Kelpie's reins and walked in trepidation toward the trench. He felt muscles protest as exhaustion cursed his thighs, his arms and shoulders, and his back. His gut twisted, and his heart ached.

Mud and puddles of bloodied water stood out amongst the ruins. Bloodied handprints marked the bark of the trees. Broken branches lay on the ground and hung desperately for release by bent but not torn limbs. Crows circled above. Sparrows and starlings fluttered in the branches of trees.

A dog barked in the distance, voices shouted, and then a group of refugees rushed toward someone. Horses pulled wagons full of bodies and the wounded… and the dead.

It was a disgusting and unsettling sight.

Athos looked toward the trench where Aramis had fallen. He grasped the hilt of his sword and, with a grunt; he slowly pulled his booted foot from the grip of the mud and strode forward. Kelpie followed. He felt sick to his stomach. Fear inched its way up his back.

This was war. He knew the risks. But knowing the risks didn't make the threat of loss anymore acceptable. It was difficult enough losing Aramis the first time. When he walked away from the Musketeers — doing what he believed was right — but walking away all the same.

Athos tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, closed his eyes, and then peered over the edge of the trench. With a sudden release of a held breath, he looked at Aramis who sat with his elbows on his knees, holding his Bible.

"Aramis?"

There was a long pause before Aramis looked up. He gripped the sides of his Bible with both hands. He watched Athos walk awkwardly down the muddied slope.

"Are you injured?" Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head, clenched his jaw, and then took a deep breath. "No… I'm not injured."

Athos exhaled in relief and then took a seat on the muddied ledge next to Aramis. "Are you alright?"

Aramis quirked a slight smile and nodded. "I often wonder why," he paused as he looked upward and a group of refugees and soldiers walked past, "some lost their lives… others — myself included — can get up and walk away." He looked at his Bible and then handed it to Athos.

Athos looked at the hole through the leather and the musket ball that was firmly planted within the pages.

"Had I not carried it with me," Aramis said, "I would be dead."

Athos grasped the back of Aramis' neck and squeezed. He handed the Bible back and said, "Keep that. And every time you question where you should be, pull it out and look at it."

Aramis nodded and then rubbed his face. Dried mud scraped along his jaw and into his beard. A cut from his forehead had dried within the strands of his hair and right eyebrow. Creases of dirt marked his neck and discolored the collar of his exposed blouse. A hole pierced the chest of his leather armor. He had opened the front to retrieve the Bible and still looked down occasionally and pushed the tip of his finger through it.

Whatever the reason God wanted him to survive, he would never doubt His existence. Whenever such thoughts had entered his mind, he had always found himself going back to his Bible, reading the stories, feeling the strength and courage of those believers who dedicated their lives to Him. Aramis had always wanted to be like them, but had frequently suffered the effects of sin. It was a personal battle, and one he would continue to fight. He looked again at the Bible. The sun gleamed off the edge of the musket ball that was still partially hidden within the pages.

"I will," Aramis said in a low, but confident, voice. "More so now than ever before," he looked at Athos, "I know I'm where I should be."

Athos nodded with an understanding smile. He clapped Aramis' shoulder and stood. "Come, brother, you have injured to see to, and I have a general to update."

Aramis nodded and followed Athos from the trench. They both struggled momentarily with the muddy footing, but once they were atop, they looked around the grounds and found soldiers and refugees working as one.

"You made the right decision about them," Aramis said and watched as the refugees helped soldiers carefully to their feet, lifted them onto the beds of the wagons, and helped carry them back to camp.

"We still need to feed them."

Aramis smiled and said, "We will." There was a confidence in his voice that caused Athos to stop and look at him in a new light.