Athos stared at the moon with his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and his left on the leather of his belt. Despite the cold air and the tingling of his nose, he listened to the sounds around him. There was something gnawing at him, no different from a sliver that continued to fester. He couldn't place it, the uncertainty, the feeling he was missing something that was within arm's reach but unattainable. The feeling had started before the battle and continued to grow worse as the days continued. It haunted his dreams and his waking hours.

Not only had he discovered that General Raboin was intercepting his letters, but the maps that the man was using for reference as well. Both went hand-in-hand, but why, Athos couldn't place. Not at the moment, but as his mind continued to put the pieces into order the feeling of unease grew more intense.

He turned when he heard the sounds of horses, the creak and groans of the old wagon, and he paused when Musketeer Josse Pelland pulled the team of horses to a halt and slowly stepped from the wagon.

"Captain," Josse said. He stretched his legs, loosened the reins, and hooked them to the wagon. Both horses relaxed, cocked their hind hooves, and waited patiently for their next move.

"Were you able to deliver the letters?" Athos asked.

Josse nodded. "Constance was the first to greet me when I arrived — she must have had a premonition," he chuckled, reached into the back of the wagon and pulled a leather bag from the back. "She sent letters for d'Artagnan." He handed it to Athos. "Alice sent some for Porthos and there are more in there for some of the other men. Not everyone could write, but a few ladies stopped me on my way out of Paris and asked that I tell their men they were being prayed for."

Athos nodded, turned, and walked toward the wagon. "The men?"

"Are being seen to by none other than the king's physician," Josse smiled and walked to the back of the wagon. "Remi sent some supplies. — I let him know we were running low."

Athos peered over the side of the wagon and nodded. "Medical?"

Josse grabbed a heavy trunk, hefted it from the wagon, and then set it on the ground. "Remi said to take this." He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. "It's filled with some of Aramis' teas, ointments, and some herbs I've never heard of. — Remi said the physician didn't know what any of this was good for and he figured Aramis would know." He motioned again to the wagon. "I've got some grains, oats, and a few herbs. Billy's grandmother said he needed some stockings and biscuits. She said the boy needed to eat." He smiled and watched Athos nod.

"The replacements? How many did Remi send with you?" Athos looked around and found several men had dismounted and were speaking with friends and colleagues.

"Fourteen, sir. He would have sent more, but Treville has requested a more robust guard at the palace. Someone broke in, nearly entered the queen's chambers had it not been for a lady-in-waiting seeing him."

"Was the culprit caught?"

"Yes, sir," Josse said. "He didn't appear to be affiliated with anyone, but because he is not a local, Treville requested more guards."

Again Athos nodded.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back," Josse said. He snapped his fingers and got the attention of two men who rode with him on his return to the camp. "Where would you like this, sir?" He asked and looked at Athos.

"Take it to the medical tent and find Aramis. Let him know it's here."

Both men nodded, and each took a side of the crate and moved it toward the bigger tent.

"It only took me a week to get to Paris," Josse said with a shrug, "even with all the injured, but several roads have washed out and I had to take different routes… We were able to cut across an old farmer's lands, otherwise it the conditions would have pushed us back another day or so."

Athos nodded and clapped Josse's shoulder. "You did well." He stepped back and Josse grabbed the reins to the team of horses. "Get the food to Gentry and let your lieutenant know you've returned."

Athos turned, looked at the bag, and walked toward his tent. He nodded to his men as he passed their tents. Their fires blazed, lit the area, and warmed it. Sparks flew upward, flames danced, and logs snapped and cracked. The cold weather had tried to break their spirits, but the heat of the fires kept the men warm, and in good humor as they continued to talk, tell stories, and share antidote of life's challenges. Whether it was love, passion, or simply a joke that caused the men to burst into laughter, the sounds blanketed the camp like a layer of familiarity. They knew what they needed, and they knew how to achieve it.

Athos pulled back the canvas flap and entered his tent. Aramis still sat beside the bed, and while d'Artagnan's restless sleep had settled, his fever had lowered, though not broken. Porthos stood next to Athos' desk, arms crossed, and he waited for the moment when Aramis would say all was well. The moment the fever broke, and the young man who entered their lives willing to fight them all, was once again willing to fight alongside them.

The moments of waiting were painfully slow. The deep fluid filled coughs echoed and filled the tent with dread. D'Artagnan's quiet, yet persistence murmurs for things of his past, for Constance, and for his friends continued.

"How is he?" Athos asked. He gripped the leather handle of the bag, tightened his fists around it until his knuckles turned white.

"No change," Aramis said with a heavy sigh. He leaned back, rubbed his face, and then dropped his hands to his lap. "Five days of this." He turned to look at Athos.

"Josse just arrived back. He brought your trunk from the garrison —"

Before Athos could finish, Aramis stood and grabbed his doublet. "Where is it?"

"Medical tent," Athos said. He stepped aside and watched him leave the tent in a hurry. He took a seat on the chair Aramis had vacated and opened the bag of letters. He dumped most onto his lap, sorted a few and grabbed a bundle and then handed it to Porthos. "From Alice," he said, and then grasped the stack written to d'Artagnan from Constance.

Porthos looked at the letters, ran the fat of his thumb across his name and the fine script of Alice's handwriting. His heart clenched, and he held them tighter for just a moment, wishing it were her he was holding instead. Slowly, he pulled out the small package she had sent with him. The ribbon was gone, but the binding of the fabric struggled to maintain its integrity. He had wanted to open it, but there was a piece of himself that held back.

Athos turned, looked at him, and then quietly said, "No matter how long you wait, Porthos, it will not change the meaning of the gift."

Porthos swallowed. He looked at Athos, felt his heart clench, and then said, "I never thought about anyone but myself when I was on the battlefields — when we were fightin' some unknown foe — I just jumped in."

"That's what soldiers do."

"I think about 'er, Athos," Porthos confessed. "When everythin' started a few days ago… I thought about 'er… I think about what it would mean to leave her behind if somethin' were to 'appen to me. I…" He paused as he tried to find the words. "I'm never goin' to change who I am — I'll always be a soldier — but…" he winced as he struggled to articulate his feelings, "I've never loved anyone like I love 'er."

Athos smiled genuinely. "That's what's going to keep you alive." His smile fell, and he looked hard at Porthos. "I have watched you carry that gift around and stare at it and as small as Alice is, Porthos, she's not inside that box."

Porthos hitched his breath, took a seat on the short stool across from Athos, near the bed, and nodded. "I know," he said. He rubbed the corner of the package and watched the fabric continue to fray. "She told me to think of 'er when I opened this — that," he paused, "is the moment I want to 'old onto."

"What about the moments to come?"

Porthos frowned, clenched his jaw, and then looked again at the small package. He again ran his fingers across her script on the letters, and then suddenly, with his mind made up, he opened the package as though the moment he held onto was over and he welcomed the next one. The fabric fell to the floor between his boots. The ornate wooden box had been carved, painted, and stained with vines and nondescript flowers and was carefully latched at the front. The hinges on the back were delicate and he carefully slipped the pronged latch from the confines, and exposed the gold timepiece. The carving on the cover of the fleur-de-lis surrounded with leaves and flowers had been intricately designed by a well versed craftsman. He opened the cover and frowned as he looked at the piece.

"Why would she give me a timepiece?"

Athos chuckled, looked at the confusion on Porthos' face, and then reached for it. "She's an amazing woman," he said. Carefully, he wound the clock and listened as the mechanism inside started to tic. "It's a statement," he said as he estimated the time, set the clock, and then handed it back. "Time is what she missed most." He smiled warmly. "Which is what I'm assuming."

Porthos' face fell as the realization hit. He held the piece carefully, and watched it until the minute hand moved and he looked at Athos with a hint of amusement. "Two years," he said, "is a long time to wait."

Athos nodded. "But it was worth it, was it not?"

Porthos smiled, slipped the letters into the breast pocket of his doublet, and continued to hold the timepiece. "I think I'll go read these alone," he said as he stood with a hint of a groan as sore muscles continued to remind him of his long hours with little time for recovery. "Are you okay to stay with 'im?" He looked at d'Artagnan and then at Athos.

"Go," Athos said. "Spend some time with Alice, even if it is through her words and not her."

Porthos nodded, gripped the timepiece, and left the confines of the tent.

Athos paused with the letters to his men still within the satchel at his feet, and the small stack that Constance had written rested on his thigh. He had never been well versed in the skill of bedside assistance. He was fine when the patient could talk and care — for the most part — for themselves. Athos wasn't sure why, but the sight of those in need had always made him uncomfortable. It was — in a way — that he didn't know how to help when the moment arrived. Aramis was much better skilled at assisting and caring for the sick and injured. Even Porthos had a much more accommodating temperament, kind, patient, and he offered a strength that few others could manage. Athos saw himself as awkward, cold at times, and extremely impatient. He was used to the sight of blood, but during medical ministrations he would rather be elsewhere. Even during those times when it had been himself lying in bed, he felt burdensome, and he had learned to hate the feeling even as a boy.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who continued to sleep. It was the first time in as many hours that he wasn't restless. He was quiet, comfortable, and rested without hindrance. Athos cleared his throat, shifted closer to the table, and adjusted the lantern light. He would never presume to open anyone's letters, or assume he had the right because of his position as the men's leader, but for reasons he didn't understand, he felt the need to read to d'Artagnan the words Constance had written. Her words were not meant for Athos' ears, but he chose to read for d'Artagnan who could not.

Athos cracked the seal of the first letter and unfolded the note. Her handwriting was skilled, delicate, and fluid. The black ink against the ivory parchment looked artistic in the lantern light. Athos cleared his throat and read. Her words were heartfelt, adoring, and at times blunt, which caused Athos to chuckle quietly as he continued. She spoke of the monotony of her days, the grief she bore as she missed him, and the sounds of the garrison with so many men gone. Even Paris was different, less lively, and much more quiet.

"I spoke with Monsieur Petron the other day," Athos said as he continued to read, "he has sent his wife and eight daughters to the coast at Le Havre — I believe he is in need of some time alone — or at least some time with his male friends…" He paused for a long moment as the gnawing in his gut continued and worsened. He reread the passage silently, as though it were a hint of the unease he had been feeling since his meeting with the general.

"Constance… has a more commanding voice," d'Artagnan said gruffly as he looked at Athos with his eyes half closed. He didn't move, but the moment of awareness was a welcomed sight.

"Don't tell her that," Athos said. He glanced to his left as Aramis entered with a cup of hot tea and a cauldron of steaming water that smelled of eucalyptus, lavender, and cloves.

"Are you going to read all of her letters?" Aramis asked as he set the cauldron down next to the bed. "Ah, look who's finally joined the living."

Athos stood and allowed Aramis access next to the bed. "If there is anyone who can get him up and moving, it's Constance."

"You lack her tone and her pitch, brother," Aramis said, and took a seat in the chair Athos vacated.

"And apparently her vocal command," Athos said.

D'Artagnan shifted, rolled to his left side, and rubbed his brow. He grimaced when Aramis placed his hand on his forehead.

"You're still feverish."

"It must be Athos' voice," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis chuckled. "Perhaps we should ask Isabeau to read them?" He turned and looked at Athos, who took a seat on the short step stool.

"She's done enough," Athos said, and rested his elbows on his knees. "And I doubt her tone could carry the same command as Constance's."

"Your lungs aren't as congested," Aramis said, and listened to d'Artagnan breathe. "Perhaps the letters are working."

Athos huffed and said, "Or he's been through the worst of it."

"Regardless," Aramis said, and then took a deep breath of relief, "you need to drink this tea and rest… It will be days before you're back on your feet."

Aramis leaned back and stretched his long legs out before him. "You," he looked at Athos, "have been walking around the camp as though you lost something." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Athos clenched his jaw, folded the letter he had been reading and placed it with the others Constance had written. "No," he said and stood. He placed the stack of letters on the small table next to the bed and motioned to them. "If he gets worse — read one." He quirked a smile. "Constance always has a way of setting him straight."

"I am awake," d'Artagnan said, "and I can read my wife's letters."

"I think the young man is delirious," Aramis said, and then chuckled. "First, he accuses you of not having a commanding voice," he shook his head and with his eyebrows raised said, "I've heard your voice when you're rather," he shrugged, "angry, and as much as I love Constance, her voice cannot compete." He held up two fingers before d'Artagnan and asked, "How many?"

D'Artagnan frowned. "How many what?"

Athos chuckled and turned toward the exit.

Aramis lowered his hand and shook his head. "My point exactly."

"When you're done here," Athos said over his shoulder, "and he's resting, find the others… I need to see you all… Meet me in the barn near the refugee camp."

"I should be there," d'Artagnan shifted as though trying to sit up, but weakly fell back to the bed.

"You're on medical leave until medically cleared, Lieutenant," Athos said. "And that's an order." He looked at Aramis, nodded once, and then left the tent.

Aramis smiled and looked at d'Artagnan. "Was that commanding enough for you?"