Here we are at episode 7 of season 3. (Just a quick reminder - I'm long winded. There are 13 stories/episodes total). I can't believe we're here already. Thank you for your support on this journey. Things really heat up from here on out. There will be a lot happening, battles, treason, and of course H/C. I always love reading your reviews, I never expect them, but they're wonderful motivators and fuel for the fingers.

For those just joining this journey, here is the list of stories so far.

S3E1: The Restoration of Brothers

S3E2: The Honor of Horses

S3E3: Sorrow

S3E4: Follow the Storm

S3E5: The Annihilation of Doubt

S3E6: The Parting Glass

Warnings ahead... we're headed to war and things move quickly!

The Road to Verdun

The road to Verdun was cursed with rain, thunder, lightning, and as they reached the higher elevations, snow. Athos had planned for the trip to take longer than expected given the weather. He had not expected the roads to be washed out and the bridges flooded and impassable. What should have been 11 or 12 days on the road, had suddenly turned into nearly a month as the regiment of Musketeers worked to avoid the main roads and traveled through rough terrain. Heavy wagons burdened with supplies, the abundance of horses, including the remounts, and the men had slowed the progress from traveling a full league per day to only half.

Athos had sent several small detachments ahead to provide guidance regarding the best routes, while the others cleared the paths enough for the wagons. The men were tired and miserable, but not a one of them complained. Instead, they picked themselves up and carried themselves with the pride expected of a musketeer. They worked hard, followed orders, and shared what they could with each other when the moments of cheer were needed.

The night fires burned, and the men warmed their hands, feet, and backsides. They had erected small tents beneath the cover of skeletal branches of oak, sycamore, and cypress trees. A few were lucky enough to find piles of old leaves to use as bedding, while others simply tossed their bedrolls to the ground and found comfort looking up at a night sky that, for once, held no promise of rain.

Aramis, with his elbows on his knees, watched the flames flicker and dance along the dried wood as sparks flew upward only to disappear in the darkness of night. The moon cast its bright light across the ground, and the subtle waves of the river glimmered and glistened as they continued their journey. He could hear the water slap the sides of the bank, even as the men told stories, shared jokes, and whispered amongst themselves. He looked up when d'Artagnan grasped his shoulder and took a seat next to him.

They both looked tired. Their hands were dry and skin cracked near thumbnails. Calluses had formed on their palms and fingers, and sweat stains had become permanent on their blouses. D'Artagnan spread his legs and placed his feet on the rocks that encircled the fire and leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs. He scratched his head, listened to the water along the creek, and then watched Aramis run his right hand through his hair.

"Athos said we should arrive by tomorrow… I hear cannons in the distance," d'Artagnan said and then took a deep breath. "We'll probably arrive in the middle of the fighting."

Aramis nodded and watched a duck land on the water. "You can smell the gunpowder — it's not strong, but it's there, just a hint on the wind." He exhaled, leaned back, and grasped his knees with his hands. He looked to his right when Porthos, with a large slice of bread in his hand, took a seat beside him. "Where did you find that?"

Porthos chuckled, looked at the butter and the honey that had been drizzled across it, and took a bite. He raised an eyebrow and said, "When the cook 'appens to be in your regiment, it pays to make sure 'e gets what 'e needs."

D'Artagnan chuckled and slapped Aramis' knee. "Gentry is serving bread and honey for the men. Athos thought they needed something more to sustain them until tomorrow."

Aramis stood, dusted his thighs, and turned. "Want one?" He said over his shoulder as he walked to the cook's wagon.

D'Artagnan shouted back, "Yes."

"Better 'ope 'e doesn't eat it on 'is way back," Porthos said and took another bite. He pulled the small package Alice had given him out of his pocket and looked again at the fabric that was now stained and covered in dirt from his hands. The ribbon had frayed, but still held strong while tied around the box.

"Are you going to open that or hope it opens itself?" d'Artagnan shifted and moved his feet away from the fire when they got too hot.

Porthos shrugged and looked at the package. He wanted to, more than anything he wanted to see what was inside, but he focused on the fabric, the way the flames glistened off the folds, and the way the ribbon reflected the moment he was in: worn, a bit damaged, but holding strong. The package, unlike himself, would not survive the war. He would open it eventually, but until the moment came, he would pull it out and think about the woman who gave it to him. The woman who changed her mind about marrying a soldier. Porthos smiled and shrugged. "Not yet," he said and tucked it back into his pocket.

D'Artagnan chuckled and looked up as Aramis took a seat and then handed him a piece of bread.

D'Artagnan smiled and savored the first bite. He wasn't hungry, but the flavor in combination with honey had him missing home. He looked at the flames as he chewed and watched the wood succumb to the heat as it crumbled and turned to ash. Hot coals glowed, flickered, and the red head slowly faded to shades of ashen gray.

A squirrel jumped from one branch to another above them and caused several dead leaves to flutter to the ground. It chirped several times and was quickly followed by a screech in the distance.

"Lover's quarrel?" Aramis asked, and shoved the remaining piece of bread into his mouth. Using his tongue, he shoved it to the right side of his cheek, extended it, and then said around it, "I've heard a thing or two about squirrels."

Porthos chuckled and tossed a twig into the fire. "You eat like one too," he said and cocked an eyebrow.

They all turned when Athos cleared his throat and joined them. He slipped off his gloves and then warmed his hands as he took a seat across from Porthos. He looked tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes. The delay in arrival at Verdun and treacherous roads had him working overtime as he navigated his way across unfamiliar territory, knowing he could potentially walk his men into a battle as soon as they arrived.

"A rider from one of the detachments arrived," Athos said. "We'll reach Verdun by tomorrow… early afternoon."

Aramis exhaled through puffed cheeks and nodded. "The fighting?"

"Raboin's military is holding the lines," Athos said and rubbed his face with his hand and then rested his elbow on his raised knee. "Frederick Henry has stationed himself across the Meuse River and is fighting the Spanish… I'll know more tomorrow after we arrive." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Raboin is fighting the Spanish — not the Dutch?" d'Artagnan asked with a shrug. "He's not daft… is he?"

Athos chuckled and rubbed his right temple. "He's not daft." He relaxed his shoulders and looked at the flames of the fire. "The fighting has been going on for a while and the Prince of Orange is closer to Lens."

"Which means we'll be in the middle of it when we arrive," Porthos said and tossed another twig into the fire. The leaned to his right when the smoke drifted toward him.

Athos grabbed a stick and cleared a spot of ground to his left for the others to see. "When we arrive," he said and drew a box and placed a small stone in the bottom center, "I want Porthos' company to my right, d'Artagnan to my left, Aramis front and center, with Levi and Marc on either side of you," he looked at Aramis. "I want the men to fight in box formations — keep your best musketeers protected… When," he stressed, "we have to fight hand to hand, rotate your musketeers for your swordsmen and your best horsemen." He quirked a knowing, but serious smile, "just make sure they don't shoot us in the back."

"You think it will come to that?" d'Artagnan said. "Raboin should have cannons —"

"Until they get too 'ot an' explode," Porthos said with a shake of his head. "The real problem is goin' to be the smoke from the cannons an' the muskets — it'll be thicker than a 'eavy fog. The men won't know their fronts from their backs."

Athos and Aramis both agreed.

"Then what do we do?" d'Artagnan asked. "If the smoke gets that thick, how are we going to keep fighting?"

"You're going to stop and let them kill each other," Athos said. "And then you'll wait for my orders."

D'Artagnan nodded and then rubbed his thighs. He looked at each of them and watched Aramis toss another log onto the fire.

"Be ready to leave at sunup — I want to arrive in Verdun early enough to meet with the general. Once we are in position, I'll know more about military advances. I don't want us unprepared."

Porthos raised his eyebrows and nodded. He rubbed his thighs as he stood and then stretched his back. With a mild groan, he shook his head, and clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "You'll know when you see it," he said with a shrug, "even those of us who 'ave seen it before will feel its bitter bite."

D'Artagnan winced, and then looked at Athos, who nodded once in reassurance. "I'll make sure the men are ready," d'Artagnan said and dusted his backside as he stood and followed Porthos from the site.

Aramis scratched the back of his head and then rubbed his face tiredly. He shifted and tightened his doublet around his shoulders as the chilly night air bit at his skin. "The men are ready," he said and looked at Athos, who continued to stare at the flames. "They'll fight like the Musketeers they are."

"I know," Athos said with a sentimental smile. "The younger men — those who have not seen battles before will need some pushing —"

"I've already got a plan," Aramis replied with a chuckle. "I'm promising good wine when this is over."

"It's going to take more than wine," Athos said. He took a deep breath to hide a yawn and then scratched his jaw.

Aramis was quiet for a long moment, and they both listened to the cracking and snapping of wood. The sparks that flew upward and disappeared into the barren branches. The slaps of water against the bank provided comfort, as did the murmured voices of the men sitting around their fires. There were a few sounds of snoring coming from tents and bedrolls as well as horses snorting, shaking their heads, and digging at the ground as they lay down to roll.

"She gave me a ring," Aramis said with a shrug. "I don't wear rings… why would she give me jewelry?" He frowned, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his wrist. "Other than this." He reached for his crucifix and held it for a moment before dropping it back to his chest. Aramis then reached into his doublet and removed it and looked at the stone that had been carefully encased on the top.

Athos snapped his finger and held out his hand. "Let me see it."

Aramis leaned forward and handed it to him. "It fits me," he shrugged, "but I've never worn one… why would she give me a ring?"

Athos looked at the casing, the gem, and then carefully popped the top. "It's a locket," he said and handed it back. "And, though the rendition is rough, I would imagine she wanted you to have it for this reason… not to wear."

Aramis examined the miniature portrait of his son. He tilted his hands slightly to capture the light of the flames. He smiled warmly at the image. Though sparse in detail, it was close enough to reflect the child he had left behind.

Athos stood, grasped Aramis' shoulder and looked at him. "Hide that," he said, "and never wear it at the palace."

Aramis nodded, but remained speechless as he stared at the image.

Athos clapped the back of Aramis' shoulder and walked away.

"Is that my captain's order?" Aramis asked over his shoulder, and looked at Athos.

Athos paused and with a remorseful grimace, said, "It's a request from a brother." He tucked his chin. "We almost lost you once, Aramis — don't make us go through that again." He pursed his lips, nodded, and then continued toward his tent.

Aramis hitched his breath and gently closed the locket cap. Carefully, he slipped it onto the chain around his neck and tucked it beneath his blouse, and returned his gaze to the fire.