Chapter 21

The stack of letters continued to grow. Athos looked at the list of names of those they had lost. Men, young and old, and musketeers who had given their lives in service to their king and to France. Men who deserved to be honored, their families informed, and their belongings returned. After two days, Athos remained in bed, but continued to write. Black ink stained his fingers. He poured wax over the folds of the parchment, pressed his seal onto it, and then expertly released it. He added another letter to the pile and took a deep, grateful breath. There was one name without a letter… He would inform Billy's grandmother in person. She would not hear about the death of her grandson from anyone else.

A subtle knock at the door echoed, and then slowly it was pushed open. Athos looked up and curled his lips into a gentle smile as Ninon entered. She looked beautiful, relaxed, and much like the woman he had met just two years prior.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Ninon said as she left the door open. "I do not have much of a reputation left, but what I do have I want to keep." She smiled and walked toward the bed. "You look much improves since the last time I saw you."

Athos frowned, confused, and said, "I… I don't remember."

"The night they found you," she shrugged and tilted her head slightly to the right, "you wouldn't remember, Athos. You were nearly dead."

He nodded once and looked at her with a frown. "You're leaving?"

Ninon nodded. "I've been offered a teaching position in Meánoc… it's a small community, but it's closer to Paris." She shrugged and said, "Are you familiar?"

Athos raised his eyebrows, nodded, and smiled gently. "I have an old friend who lives there."

Ninon bit her bottom lip and looked at the floor. "Perhaps," she titled her head to the right, and said, "you might visit one day."

"I look forward to it."

Ninon turned toward the door, paused, turned back toward Athos, and walked to the bed. He looked up at her with a frown. Ninon leaned forward, pressed her cheek to his, and whispered, "Until next time." She kissed his cheek, felt him grasp her hand, and then she turned and left the room.

Athos watched her walk away and then rolled his eyes when Aramis and Porthos entered the room with grins.

"She is beautiful," Aramis said.

"She's…" Porthos said with a shrug, "refined."

Aramis tilted his head and looked at Porthos in question. "More cultured."

Porthos huffed, "Sophisticated."

Athos pressed his hand to his side and then shifted. "How about you both shut up and help me to my feet?"

"You can piss in a chamber pot, Athos," Aramis said as Porthos tossed another log onto the fire.

"You can either help me, or watch me," Athos said and with a wince, slipped bare feet from the confines of the bed and onto the floor. He shifted the stack of letters, the inkwell, and the quill to not spill them, and then carefully moved himself forward. He took a moment to breathe, as his heart raced, and the effort was more than he expected. "Its been six days—"

"Five," Aramis corrected. "You lost a lot of blood… I've seen men faint after standing too soon after an injury." He stepped forward with a frown and a shake of his head as Athos ignored him.

Athos pressed his arm against his side, and with his right hand, he gripped the mattress.

"Porthos," Aramis said, and slipped a hand beneath Athos' right arm and supported his back.

"The men need to get home—"

"The men will wait while you heal," Aramis said, and watched Porthos stand on the other side of Athos and support his back.

Athos shifted forward, hissed, and then slowly stood. He closed his eyes, felt strong arms at his back and around his upper arms. There was a pregnant paused when he finally opened his eyes. His mouth was dry and his heart raced. He could feel it slamming against his chest, the frantic beat of a muscle working too hard with too little fuel. Sweat beaded his brow and a sudden cold chill ran through him. "Shit," he muttered.

Aramis chuckled, looked at Porthos and said, "Sit down, Athos, you're still too weak to be up."

They lowered him to the bed, and Athos closed his eyes, pressed his arm against his side, and grasped his thigh to keep himself steady while seated. He took several slow breaths and listened to Porthos and Aramis move around the room. The chair legs scraped the floor, and the window was cracked open and allowed a cool breeze to enter the room.

All three suddenly looked toward the door as it was pushed open, and General Thorell looked toward them.

"Can you walk?" Thorell said and looked at Athos. "I need you to join me. The Prince of Orange has decided to grace us with his presence and will be here shortly." He looked at Aramis and Porthos. "Get him dressed." His face was stern as he glanced between the three of them and then suddenly turned and walked away.

D'Artagnan stopped in the doorway, looked toward the retreating general, and then looked at the others. "What happened?"

"Go to Athos' tent," Porthos said. "Get 'im some britches, his doublet, an' find 'im a weapons belt to use until we find 'is."

D'Artagnan frowned, but nodded and then turned and left.

"Are you going to make it?" Aramis looked critically at Athos, who reluctantly nodded. "We'll stand beside you." He looked at Porthos. "See if Madame Ruth has any soup."

Porthos gently slapped the back of Athos shoulder. "It never ends."

Athos huffed and then winced. "No," he said, "it doesn't."