Paris
February 1633
Change was a part of life. It always had been and it always would be. But there were certain aspects of life that were not meant to change, and for the four musketeers that included their friendship, their brotherhood, and their companionship. They had promised each other during those long nights of uncertainty when lives were about to be cut short, that their children and their children's children would one day have the pleasure of knowing each other and hopefully their children would understand what it meant to belong to something special, to something that had meaning and honor. Life was simply too short not to see that part of themselves come to fruition. They had been through too much together, and their brotherhood was worth fighting for.
They were all aware that time made changes. Time was cruel, unforgiving, and endless. But then, at that moment, they chose family above all else. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan were the sole representatives of bloodlines that were fading, but together they formed something special that had crossed the boundary of blood. It was a devotion, a responsibility, and most importantly, it was the love of each other and those they held most dear: Constance, Treville, the musketeers, and their duty.
But suddenly, that had all changed. It changed the moment Aramis had left. The moment he walked away for reasons only he understood. It was painful, disappointing, and difficult to accept, but they honored his wishes and allowed him to go. They held their grief and each dealt with it differently, but the changes had been noticeable, and not just to each other, but to the entire regiment and those that knew them best.
Athos had seen to his duties as captain. He had buried himself within the workload, and as the threat of war persisted, so did his late nights and early mornings as he worked, studied, and researched military history. Athos learned what would be expected of him, of his men, and of France. He learned from Treville, attended meetings with the king and his court, and supervised the regiment. While he spent less time on daily activities, he too had stepped away — in part — separated himself from the others in such a way that his absence was felt and noticed.
D'Artagnan, newly married, had spent much more time with Constance. Late nights at the Wren were no longer. But even Constance had noticed a change. It was subtle at first, but as the months passed, it became more clear. All three of the men, all three musketeers, were grieving not for a loss of one of their own, but for a loss of how things had been, losing their companionship and friendships. Aramis was still alive, he still breathed, he was just… gone. D'Artagnan had never been subdued. He had never followed the regimental monotony of regular activities — not since Constance had known him — but now the spring in his step was a little less high, and simply a little less than what it used to be.
Porthos had hidden himself away. His duties had not changed, his love life was nonexistent, and he had even turned a blind eye to gambling and eating. A sure sign something was wrong. He moved through his days with a smile, a few words to Athos as he raced from the palace to the garrison, and managed the young recruits that the musketeers sorely needed. On the inside, Porthos' heart ached, and for those who knew him best, they saw the change.
His heart ached a lot.
Porthos missed his friends… he missed his brothers. He missed exploring challenging feats of skill with Aramis, he missed watching d'Artagnan run into the fray of whatever incident they were ordered to defeat. He missed Athos' calm and quiet nature as he stood by and watched and pulled them out of trouble when those moments of excitement became too much.
Then things changed again. Treville announced that the threat of war was coming upon France. All three — without prior discussion — without knowledge of knowing who would say what. They had all asked about finding Aramis and bringing him home to rejoin the efforts. A collection of three men with one mission: bringing home their brother.
Minister Treville had agreed.
With the threat of war upon France, they all hoped he would return.
Despite the fears that lingered in the air like that of a lightning strike, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan could not imagine fighting without Aramis. He fought with his heart, loved everyone — women to the extreme — and his dry humor always brought a moment of relief when life grew too intense. His compassion ruled his motivations, and for better or worse, it was a part of who he was. He was a part of them.
Athos understood why Aramis needed to walk away. Why he needed to keep his promise. But Athos questioned Aramis' timing. Uncertain of what might have happened that changed Aramis' mind, and how much influence Milady de Winter had in his decision, Athos was unconvinced that the choice to walk away had been his. He was as much a Musketeer as the rest of them. He had loved it, been successful at it, and he earned the respect of the king and the king's court — despite the rumors that surrounded him. Granted, Rochefort had been a thorn in their side for nearly a year. He had manipulated the king, assaulted the queen, and he had weakened France when she needed to be strong. Whatever the Spanish had done to Rochefort during his imprisonment had changed him, caused a madness in him that could never be repaired. In the end, he died because of it.
For Porthos, Aramis' departure had been difficult to understand. Of the four of them, they had known each other the longest. They had fought battles together, pulled each other out of harm's way, and they had promised each other that no matter what, they would grow old together… bicker like old men, drink bad wine, and insist their children become best of friends. Porthos knew Aramis better than anyone and he also understood that Aramis sometimes made rash decisions that cost him more than he ever expected. Porthos hoped that was the case now. That Aramis had simply walked away to a commitment that even he did not fully understand. He was much too good a fighter, too good a soldier, and too good a brother to walk away from everything they had helped each other build.
D'Artagnan hated the idea that a man he had grown to love as a brother had walked away with nothing more than a statement of, "I made a promise." Seeing him walk down the road without his weapons was an image he never wanted to see again. He wasn't willing to stand by and lose another member of his family. After two and a half years, the death of father still lingered, and there wasn't a night that went by that he didn't think of what he could have done to stop his murder. There was a piece of d'Artagnan that harbored anger, bitterness, and frustration. This time… this time d'Artagnan was going to fight harder to keep his family. No matter the cost.
The horses galloped. Their hooves struck the ground, and the sound echoed around them. Their manes fluttered in the breeze, ears perked forward, and nostrils flared as their long strides increased. Even the horses felt a change. A change in their riders that demanded attention and devotion. Though hands were soft, legs squeezed, heels tapped, and weight shifted in their saddles. The mission was just beginning.
Once Treville had given his blessing to bring him back, the three of them never wasted a moment. They saddled their horses, supplies were readied, and off they rode. Treville had stood near the steps leading to his former office and watched them ride away, knowing their brotherhood would be the very foundation they would need in order to survive what was coming… without it, he feared for their safety and for France. It was a foolish to think four men could make a difference, but Treville knew Athos, who had the potential to be an outstanding leader and would need them to follow as much as they needed him to lead.
They galloped along the river. Porthos in the lead, d'Artagnan right behind, and Athos following at a distance. The horses' breath could be seen as they breathed hard and the chill of the February weather caused cheeks and noses to turn red. The clouds slowly morphed from puffed white to gray and the hint of snowfall was upon them.
Athos pulled Roger up and allowed the big horse to slow to a gentle walk. There was an uncomfortable change in his gait, a slight hitch where there had not been, and while the big horse chewed his bit and tossed his head in frustration, Athos knew the arthritis in his back leg would continue to hinder his movements. It had been a slow deterioration, slow enough that Roger had never hitched his gait to accommodate it, until now. He watched Porthos and d'Artagnan slow their mounts and turn toward him. He waved them on.
"I'll find you!" Athos shouted.
"We'll wait!" Porthos replied. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pommel of his saddle. He looked at d'Artagnan. "He's goin' to need a new mount."
"Are you going to tell him?"
Porthos pressed his lips into a fine line and shook his head. "He knows."
D'Artagnan nodded, but turned to watch Athos approach. There was a lack of energy in Roger's normally high steps. While he still carried his head high with his ears perked forward, the big black lacked his normal vibrancy.
Despite the cold air, d'Artagnan could smell a hint of pine. The refreshing scent permeated his nostrils and tickled his nose hairs. "Is he doing alright?" He nudged his mount's right side and turned to him as they continued their journey.
"Fine," Athos said. He tried to sound confident, but failed. It wasn't a discussion he was ready to have… not yet. They needed to find Aramis, get back to the garrison, and Athos needed to meet with the Treville and the king to discuss the plans for the musketeers. Roger would need to wait.
"There's a quiet inn up ahead. We could rest there and ride the rest of the way tomorrow," d'Artagnan said.
"Good food?" Porthos asked.
D'Artagnan chuckled. "Very." He paused for a long moment and looked toward the sky as the clouds parted and the blue afternoon appeared. The skeletal tree branches bowed and bent beneath the force of the breeze. Dried grasses not covered with snow or mud swayed, and mud puddles glistened and reflected the light of the sun as rays peered through the gaps in the clouds that continued to gather and collect as the weather threatened to change.
It wasn't just the weather that was changing.
D'Artagnan looked to his left at Porthos, who rode confidently, shoulders back, hips relaxed, and his reins held loosely in his hands. He was a big man with a bigger heart, but he knew and understood the challenges they were facing. Not just with Aramis, but the war ahead and their place within it. D'Artagnan raised his hands to his mouth and blew warm air into the cuffs of his gloves to warm his palms. He looked to his right at Athos, who looked comfortable, content, but there was an air about him that was anything but. Of all of them, Athos had a way of remaining calm even in the most dire of situations. D'Artagnan had heard about Athos' outrage during Ninon's trial, but he hadn't experienced it. Outrage was a sign of weakness. Losing control of one's sensibilities was unacceptable, and Athos, despite the surrounding chaos, had always appeared calm, composed, and collected. He reacted when he needed to, not a moment before. He understood the art of war, and he knew the enemy needed to expose their hand before he drew his sword. It was a skill he had learned over the course of his years, and one that d'Artagnan continued to struggle to accept.
While Porthos and Athos had fought in battle, fought alongside brothers, seen men fall at their feet only to continue forward as commands echoed across the battlefield, they also understood the need for compassion, empathy, and council. Aramis was the same way. He cared for his brothers, and his decision to leave had not been made lightly. All the same, he had walked away… and Athos had been right: Aramis had let them go.
