Aramis stood outside of Athos' tent and looked up at the moon. Its brightness highlighted the tents, the muddied ground, and the branches of the trees. The men continued to feed their fires, tell their stories, and dry their clothes. He stepped back and watched Porthos walk with Walnut across the grounds. Porthos was a big man, but standing next to Walnut made him look small in comparison. The big man clapped Porthos' shoulder, said something to him in jest, and both men laughed before Walnut stepped away and walked back to his camp.

Porthos chuckled, unbuckled the heavy leather armor across his chest, and allowed it to fall open and flap awkwardly against his left arm. "That is the only man I've ever met that I wouldn't fight." He held up his hand and stretched his fingers toward Aramis. "Mine looks like a child's in comparison." He glanced at his hand and sighed.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Can he out eat you?"

Porthos huffed and slapped his belly. "No." He laughed and then shoved Aramis' shoulder and watched him take a couple of steps backward to counter the push. "Why are you outside of Athos' tent?"

"He ah," Aramis said and then stopped when the tent flap was pushed open.

"I can help with that too," Ninon said, and then allowed the canvas to fall closed. She smiled at Porthos and Aramis. "Gentlemen, it's good to see you both." She clutched at the folds of her skirt and pulled the hem to keep it from getting muddy. "My bread basket?" She looked at Aramis.

Aramis winced as though in pain and snapped his fingers. "My apologies, Mademoiselle," he tilted his head toward his shoulder and said, "I truly meant to get it to Athos, but…"

Porthos chuckled and clapped Aramis' shoulder. "But the wounded men enjoyed it."

Ninon smiled and nodded. "Good," she said. "I'm grateful someone enjoyed it." She nodded and continued her walk to her tent.

Porthos watched her as the men nodded and welcomed her as she passed their tents. "You don't remember where you set that basket, do you?"

Aramis tightened his lips and shook his head. "No." He scratched behind his right ear and then crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't remember." He shrugged and then turned toward the entrance to Athos' tent.

Porthos chuckled and followed him.

Athos sat behind his desk, carefully writing in beautiful script the words of condolences to young Nolton Oris' parents. They were sheep farmers, simple people with a large family, who had one son who wanted more than anything to be a soldier for the King's Musketeers. The young man had found himself in good company and had become an excellent marksman under Aramis' tutelage. Nolton had told stories of his childhood at the garrison and kept the men laughing, even when there was little to laugh about.

Athos looked up, replaced his quill next to the holder of his inkwell, and looked at both Porthos and Aramis as they stood before his desk.

"You look—"

"Ninon did a fine job," Aramis said and leaned slightly toward Porthos, "she's a much better barber than she is a cook." He quirked an eyebrow.

"I was goin' to say you look good —"

"Rugged," Aramis interjected.

"Tidy," Porthos countered.

"Handsome," Aramis grinned.

Athos inquisitively cocked an eyebrow. "How's d'Artagnan?" He asked. He moved the letter to his right and then leaned his elbows on the surface of the desk.

"Resting," Aramis said. "I have him drinking horehound, garlic, and comfrey teas, but my supplies are running low and I'm diluting it as much as I dare. If his cough continues to grow worse," he shrugged, "and his fever continues." He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I'm concerned."

Athos closed his eyes, rubbed his temple, and nodded. "What does he need?" He looked at Aramis in the eyes. "If you had the supplies… what does he need?"

Aramis clenched his jaw and then licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. "A hot bath, clean sheets, a warm fire to sleep by." He exhaled slowly. "A few of the older refugees — three women — have offered to hunt for wild garlic, horehound, and comfrey root. It's the middle of winter, but they were willing to see if they could find anything that might be useful. I have four others with winter fever, and then the injured as well."

With his elbow on the table, Athos pinched his bottom lip and frowned.

"What is it?" Porthos asked. He grabbed the short stool that Athos kept next to his bed and took a seat. He rested his forearms on his raised knees and allowed his hands to relax.

Athos took a deep breath, looked at them both, and said, "I've found evidence that General Raboin had been intercepting my communications to Treville."

Porthos rubbed his face with both hands and then looked up at Aramis, who shifted uncomfortably. "What do we do?"

"I need d'Artagnan back on his feet. I need you both to keep this quiet until I can decide what to do next. Once I do, I want to meet with everyone — Levi and Marc included. Then," he sighed, "I'll speak with the other captains." He rubbed his thighs and looked around the tent. "Move d'Artagnan in here — I'll take his quarters. There are several fires outside that keep it warmer, my tent is on higher ground and less muddy, and he's closer to the medical tent so you," he looked at Aramis, "can monitor him. Don't dilute the teas — use what you have — I'll find a way to replace what has been used. Treville should have my message if not already, then in the days to come."

"What message?" Porthos frowned. "You just said General Raboin has been interceptin' your letters to Treville?"