The partnership between a soldier and his horse on the battlefield was the difference between life and death. If trust wasn't there, then no matter the mission, it would fail. War horses needed to be strong, sure-footed, and fast. They needed to understand their rider's commands, and they were expected to respond instantly — when heels tapped sides, when calves were squeezed, and when riders leaned forward, backward, or to the side, and when the shifting of hands meant right or left with a quick tug or pull of the reins. Soldiers had to be just as responsive to their horses changing gaits, the flickering of their ears, the swatting of their tails, and the understanding the subtle movements of their heads.

Roger had spent years getting to know Athos' expectations. The big black knew by his rider's seat when to look attentive, when to relax, and he knew when things weren't quite right. Their relationship had started rough and usually ended with Athos tumbling from the saddle from an unexpected buck, spook, or sudden rear. The horse had been a gift to Athos on this 12th birthday with the expectation that the boy learn to manage, not only himself, but his horse as well. He learned the importance of patience, quiet solitude, companionship, and fearlessness. He learned that anger manifested in ways that his horse recognized and he did not. And he learned that forgiveness, within the companionship of loyal friends, was as easy to accept as it was to bestow.

Athos sat in the grass behind the garrison. With his elbows resting on raised knees and the long tether attached to Roger's halter as he grazed on the early April grass. Athos watched his horse swat his tail, shake his head, and pull grass from the ground. There was something soothing about the sounds of a heavy mane and leather against Roger's coat when he shook his head. His large hooves that echoed with a hollow clop against the dried ground. Or the click of steel against stone when a shod hoof struck rock.

Roger was getting old. Still young at heart, the big stallion had survived Athos' insolent of adolescence, the battlefields of war, and nearly seven years with the musketeers. His back left hock had swelled after their last mission, and after several mud packs and weeks of rest, his limping had lessened, but had not disappeared as arthritis continued to hinder his joint.

It was career ending.

Athos knew it. He had seen it before. It wasn't unusual, but time was just as cruel as the injury itself. He squinted when the wind picked up and the dead grass entwined with fresh growth and shifted and quivered against the strong breeze. His blouse fluttered around his lean frame and the hairs on his arm stood on end with the hint of a storm in the hours to come. Spring was proving to be a challenge as the weather changed from cold to warm and back again. Roger's mane quivered around his head and his tail around his back legs while he continued to eat undisturbed.

Athos flicked the long tether and watched it arch upward and land within the strands of grass. The sun was slowly descending, and it filled the evening sky with bright orange and red brush strokes with puffs of white clouds as the sky morphed into darker shades of blue.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked. He took a seat on the ground next to Athos, kicked his legs out before him, and rested back on his elbows.

"Old," Athos said, and scratched his head above his right ear.

"He's not that old." D'Artagnan shrugged. He leaned forward, grabbed a twig, and twisted it between his fingers. "I've seen many horses work into their twenties —"

"Farm horses?"

"Work horses," d'Artagnan corrected. He placed a sprig of grass between his lips and chewed. "He might not perform long missions, but maybe short ones — at least for a while."

"Is that your farmer's opinion or your vast years of experience?" Athos turned skeptical eyes toward him and raised his left eyebrow.

D'Artagnan shrugged and then winced. "Hopeful thinking?" He watched a flock of birds fly from the oak tree in the distance and then move out of eyesight. "Minister Treville wants to see you," he smiled and shook his head, "I'm still getting used to calling him that."

Athos nodded. "We all are."

D'Artagnan shifted and leaned forward. "You want me to take him for you?"

Athos paused a moment, nodded once, and then handed d'Artagnan the lead. "I'll be back." He pushed himself to his feet, dusted off his backside, and returned to the garrison.

Roger lifted his head, grass pressed between his lips, and twisted his ears back and forth as he watched Athos walk away. He looked toward d'Artagnan, looked again at Athos, and then resumed his grazing.

Athos grabbed his doublet, which he had left hanging on the wall in Roger's stall. He buttoned it, slipped his weapons belt into place, and then walked to the stairs leading to the captain's office. His office. Athos paused a long moment, tapped the handrail and turned toward Jacques, the young stable hand. "Saddle a remount for me." He nodded toward the young man, who would immediately select a horse for him.

Athos ignored several musketeers as they spoke amongst themselves while they walked to the commissary. He could smell Gentry's cooking as the aroma filled the courtyard when they opened the door. He looked up at the closed door to his office and swallowed. It was taking him longer than expected to accept his new role, and the role of his former captain after years of dedicated service, good advice, and friendship.

Athos took a deep breath, entered his office, and closed the door behind him. He grabbed his cloak, his hat, and then paused and looked at the desk and the chair that sat vacant behind it. Treville was not gone, but he was not as available as he once had been. And Athos found himself desperate for sound council and quite possibly a strong word or two about expectations. He chuckled to himself as he adjusted his hat on his head and then left his office.

The young stable hand had picked the finest horse he could, a tall black with a full mane and tail. A kind head and wise eyes. Athos nodded, grabbed the reins, and mounted. He nudged the horse's sides and trotted through the archway of the garrison and rode to the palace.