Chapter 14

Grief stole breath, it clenched at hearts, and made blood freeze. It was a moment of truth that none were ready to face. Losing of one of their own, a brother — not by blood — but by life, love, and duty. They had known each other for years. Aramis and Porthos had seen something in Athos that he hadn't seen in himself when they first met him. They had stood beside him as he discovered it, as he healed from a wounded spirit, and became stronger because of it. For so long, it had been the three of them. Grating on Treville's nerves, but building a partnership that helped form what the Musketeer Regiment could be.

Aramis hitched his breath, sank to the ground, and allowed his musket to fall to his lap. He sat motionless, as though a piece of himself had suddenly been ripped from his chest. He didn't notice the sun peek through the clouds, and he didn't hear his men shout and grow violent as they collected themselves and fired their weapons toward the chateau. Instead, every muscle felt drained, and he barely had the strength to breathe.

He questioned whether he wanted to.

He glanced toward the bridge and saw Porthos, and then he looked at d'Artagnan, who remained on his knees, head bowed, defeated.

Porthos covered his head and ducked as he hid behind the stone support that anchored the archway. He fell to his knees and clutched at the hilt of his sword. He held himself in check, but his emotions ran wild.

Porthos wanted to stand.

He wanted to fight.

Most of all, he wanted to storm the chateau, hunt Raboin down, and make him suffer. Porthos hitched his breath and then slowly inhaled and exhaled through his mouth. Everything they had worked for, everything they believed in, stood before him. His friends, his family, his brothers… and now one of them was gone. Porthos slowly shifted into a seated position and ignored the musket balls that were fired above his head. He simply didn't have the energy to care. Comtois and Fain sat beside him while they ducked from the onslaught of musket fire. They understood his grief.

"I'm sorry," Comtois said. "He was a good man."

Porthos felt his nose burn, his eyes water, and his chest ache. "He was my friend," he said. "My brother." He rested his elbows on his raised knees and looked at the formations of the men as they fired. He needed to stop them. They needed to preserve their ammunition. But at the moment, they too were grieving. Silently, Porthos hoped the shots would find their marks.

There wasn't a man in the regiment who had not spent time with Athos. Whether he had spoken to them during trainings, assigned them tasks at the palace or the garrison, or even shared stories over fires and during drinks. Athos, had known his men better than his men knew him. He made a point of learning their names, their families, their children, and sometimes even their lovers. He knew what skills they had, what they could offer the regiment, and what talents they could share. It's what made Athos who he was.

Porthos thought about the stack of condolence letters that still lay on Athos' desk. The messages to mothers, fathers, wives, and children of those they had lost. It wasn't just a routine note of appreciation, but instead, it was a letter of regret, grief, and sympathy. Athos wanted his men's families to know what happened, that their sons would not be coming home, but that they had fought gallantly for their country and their king and served him proudly.

Porthos swallowed, and then frowned when he watched his men stop their firing and turn toward the southern lines. Porthos stood, took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes.

D'Artagnan rested stunned on his haunches. He looked at the ground before him. The mud that continued to dry, the cracks in the ground, and the small pebbles that were lost within its embrace. He ignored the burning of his thighs, the ache of his neck, and the shaking of his hands. He ignored the sounds of musket fire, the cries of men who were angry and ready to fight, and even those that simply stood stunned and waited for someone stronger than themselves to stand and guide them back to camp. D'Artagnan didn't have the grit needed to make it happen. Not yet. Not when everything was still so fresh. Tears streamed down his face, and he did not hide it. Instead, he allowed them to fall. His chin quivered, his heart ached, and his lungs were starved for a long breath of air.

Athos had been a brother to him, the brother that d'Artagnan never had. He had walked Constance down the aisle. He had helped him earn his commission. D'Artagnan hitched his breath and tried to breathe slowly as the pain continued to surface. It would fade, over time. But for now it was nearly unbearable.

D'Artagnan saw boots first, and then looked up as Porthos stepped before him with a hand reached out. No words were spoken, and d'Artagnan grabbed it and allowed Porthos to help him to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Porthos said and embraced him.

D'Artagnan nodded wiped his nose, and said, "Me too." He wiped his eyes and parted his lips as he attempted to exhale slowly. "What now?" He glanced over Porthos' shoulder as Athos' body continued to hang and quickly glanced away. He couldn't stomach it… and he turned away with his eyes tightly closed.

"We find Aramis, we remember Athos, an' we fight because that is what 'e'd want us to do."

"They're just going to leave him," d'Artagnan said. He rubbed his eyes again, and then pressed his fingers hard against them as he worked to catch this breath and regain his composure.

"He's gone, d'Artagnan," Porthos said and then suddenly went quiet as though the admission made it a reality. He closed his eyes, wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, and looked toward the tree where Aramis had fallen. He gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder and pushed him forward.

Aramis looked up, shook his head, and then, with a mournful cry, said, "I couldn't do it." He looked up with tear filled-eyes, hitched his breath, and said again, "I couldn't do it." Tears fell down his cheeks and into his beard. He closed his eyes, rested his head back against the tree, as his nostrils flared and his chin quivered. He hurt. From the inside out, he hurt.

"Lieutenant!" Musketeer Alexander shouted and pointed toward the southern route.

Porthos turned, as did d'Artagnan. Aramis slowly pushed himself to his feet, wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, and watched General Thorell lead his military regiments into camp.

Horses, men, and wagons arrived in an orderly fashion. General Thorell rode beside two guards as they led the regiment across the fields. The imposing display caused the musketeers and the other regiments to get to their feet, shoulder their weapons, and watch as the men, in unison, pull their horses to a stop.

General Thorell rode his horse forward. He dismounted, handed the reins to his guard, and then looked around before looking at Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. "Where is Captain Athos?"

Aramis looked away.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes.

Porthos simply said, "Dead." He clinched his jaw and looked Thorell in the eyes.

Thorell frowned and then looked around. "What in the hell has happened here?"

Coming Next: Shadows of War