The Wood Lark Inn was a boot shaped building with several windows along the first floor and only two on the second. Dark brown paneled siding helped camouflage the building within the shadows of the tall pines that surrounded it. The tall trees helped keep it cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Smoke filtered from both chimneys, one at each end of the building. A barn stood to the left and fencing, stabilized with rocks and poles, allowed horses and cattle room to roam. Chickens, guinea hens, and ducks pecked at the ground and around the clumps of packed snow that rested at the base of the barn, along the fence, and beneath the canopy of trees. Two wagons rested to the left of the barn, one with its left wheel off, and the other buckboard was covered with an oilskin canvas protecting whatever was in the back. A bell hung from a T-shaped post near the front entry, and a large hand-painted welcome sign hung slightly askew above the front door.
D'Artagnan dismounted. "I'll see if they have rooms available."
"Find out what they're servin' for the evenin' meal," Porthos said. He dismounted, grabbed d'Artagnan's reins and nodded to Athos, who had dismounted and was checking Roger's hind leg.
D'Artagnan rang the bell and then entered the establishment, while Porthos led both horses toward Athos.
"How 'is leg?"
Athos rubbed his eyes and leaned against the point of Roger's hip. "It's not just the leg," he said, and then turned and tossed his stirrup over the seat of the saddle and loosened the cinch.
Porthos took a deep breath and watched d'Artagnan exit the building and walk toward them with a young man who kept in stride. He was nearly as tall as d'Artagnan with wavy, long, blonde hair that hung loosely around his shoulders. With a firm jaw, broad nose, and deep set bright blue eyes, he looked the part of nobility without the pretension of knowing it.
"I'll see to your horses, Messieurs?" The young man stepped forward and with a nod took the reins from Porthos, who removed a few coins from the leather bag attached to his belt. "See that they're ready at first light — extra oats," he said with a smile and pointed toward his mount with his thumb, "he's earned it."
The young man's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Yes, Monsieur."
Porthos clapped the young man's shoulder as he stepped by him. He then watched Athos speak to him, relinquish the reins, and then shake his hand before walking toward them.
"I paid the young man to 'ave 'em ready by dawn," Porthos said, in stride with Athos as they walked to the inn. "Do you think Roger 'ill make it for the rest of the journey?"
The tone of Porthos' question carried no hint of accusation, but it caused the hairs on the back of Athos' neck to bristle. "Yes," was his simple and curt response. He ignored the side-eyed glance from d'Artagnan as he opened the door, and Athos walked past him.
Porthos slowed his pace and whispered, "It's probably not a good time to chat with 'im about a new mount." He winced and d'Artagnan nodded.
The eating area was small, with four tables. All but one was in use and all three musketeers took their seats near the fireplace. While the windows allowed for some light to enter, the shade from the trees and the clouds warranted the need for lanterns, candles, and the light from the fireplace to illuminate the room. The dark walls were covered and decorated with the hides of bears, and the skulls and tusks of wild boar, and above the fireplace hung the ribbed, curved horns of a mouflon. Within the arch of the curves rested an old musket that was dusty and cobwebs hung from the trigger.
Patrons ate quietly and spoke in hushed tones in order to not disturb the others in the room. Soft humming could be heard coming from the kitchen, and the scent of cooked chicken wafted throughout.
Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and watched Porthos look toward the kitchen. He smiled when a woman with brown hair that she had braided and then coiled at the back of her head walk toward them. Loose strands of hair fluttered around her face, chin, and along her long neck. Shaped like an hourglass, her hips swayed as she walked, and her face glowed with a genuine smile. She placed a cutting block of wood on the table topped with a loaf of bread, butter, and honey.
"We're servin' chicken soup for supper. Would you each like a bowl?" She wiped her hands on her apron and then placed her hands on her hips.
Porthos smiled and said, "How large are the bowls?"
D'Artagnan snickered and tilted his head to the left. "The bigger the better for Porthos," he said. "Regular bowls for us." He motioned with his hand between Athos and himself.
The woman nodded, brushed a stray hair from her face and said, "Big man, big appetite?"
Porthos ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf, slathered it in butter and honey and then took a healthy bite. "Bigger," he said, watched her nod, and then return to the kitchen. "How're we goin' to talk Aramis into returnin'?" he said as he chewed.
D'Artagnan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. He took a deep breath and watched the woman return with three bowls, an extra large one for Porthos, who smiled and nodded in appreciation.
"Let me know if you need more," she said with a wink, "there's plenty."
Porthos lifted the bowl, inhaled deeply, and chuckled when his stomach grumbled. "This smells," he waved his hand over the bowl toward his face, "like a warm night with a beautiful woman."
The young woman tried to hide her smile, but failed. "Like I said," she paused, "there's plenty more." She turned and walked toward another table.
Athos looked at Porthos with a cocked eyebrow and a look of skepticism. "If you could persuade Spain with your charm, Porthos, I dare say the war will be short."
Porthos chuckled and said, "Too bad King Philip isn't as pretty as that young woman or doesn't smell as good as this soup." He placed it on the table, dipped his spoon, and then filled it with chunks of chicken, dumplings, carrots, peas, and onions. He inhaled once more and then savored the bite.
D'Artagnan laughed. He pulled a chunk of bread from the loaf and dipped it. He nodded as he chewed. The soup was excellent.
They ate in silence. Guests stood and left the room as their suppers were finished and sun slowly set. More lanterns were lit and eventually, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan sat alone in the room. The fire blazed, wood snapped and cracked as sparks disappeared up the chimney. The kitchen quieted, and the same woman who had served them provided them the key to a large room for the night.
"How are we goin' to talk 'im into returnin' with us?" Porthos asked again. He rested back against his chair, legs kicked out before him, and his hands rested lazily on his hips. He looked at the fire and watched the flames move and dance as the air from the chimney and beneath the door shifted.
"We could always tell him that Treville wants him to return," d'Artagnan said with an unconvincing shrug.
Athos huffed. "This is Aramis we're speaking of." He took a deep breath, rested his left elbow on the table, and hung his head as he rubbed his brow. "We just need to be honest —"
"And say what?" d'Artagnan folded his fingers together behind his head and leaned back against his chair.
It was an uncomfortable thought. The three of them fighting in a war without Aramis. He was not the glue that kept them all together, but instead, they all had components of it. It wouldn't matter who was missing. Without all four, the glue simply would not stick. Their lives were as interwoven as a silk scarf, just as delicate and just as strong. There was a moment of uncertainty when Aramis left, when he walked away and didn't look back. If he could leave, then anyone of them could. If they couldn't talk him into rejoining them, then perhaps their friendship, brotherhood, and companionship were also at an end.
Porthos shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't willing to let it end here. Aramis had been gone for four months. Four months of not knowing how he was doing, what he was thinking, who he was sleeping with — if anyone — and who he had allowed into his life. Porthos missed the late-night conversations. He missed chatting with his friend, seeking advice, and he even missed looking like the fool when things didn't go right. Aramis had been there for all of it and he had been there longer than anyone else. From the moment they met on the battlefield, their brotherhood had been born.
He missed his brother.
He missed his friend.
"We could tie him to a horse… drag 'im back," Porthos said with a shrug, "not unlike what we did with Rochefort." It was a suggestion he knew wouldn't work. None of them could be forced into anything. It just wasn't done, nor was it worth trying. They knew their limitations, but right now Porthos was willing to try anything.
Athos looked up and shook his head. "We need to be honest with him… he walked away from the Musketeers —"
"He walked away from us —"
Athos looked at Porthos. "His devotion to God is greater than his devotion to us," he said, "as it should be —"
Porthos shifted uncomfortably. "I don't believe that."
"I do," d'Artagnan said. He relaxed his shoulders and lowered his hands to his lap. "He's always been devoted, and he," he shrugged, "maybe he feels as though he's paying a debt."
"Debt," Porthos mocked, "what about us?" He leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the table. "We pay each other's debts." He looked at Athos and then at d'Artagnan. "We carry each other when we're too drunk to walk, we 'ide each other's secrets because we know the danger they possess, we encourage each other —" he pressed his finger to the table hard enough to bend it backward, "we protect each other." He stood and shoved his chair back. Porthos grabbed the key and clutched his fist around it. He turned toward the exit leading to their rooms and paused. He then said over his shoulder, "We protect one another." Porthos nodded once and then left the room.
D'Artagnan took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean —"
"Get some rest, d'Artagnan," Athos said. "Give Porthos some time. He's known Aramis longer than either of us." He looked at d'Artagnan, who suddenly appeared older than his youthful years. "Aramis must make up his own mind… with or without influence from us."
"Is that an order, Captain?" d'Artagnan said with a hint of teasing in his voice.
Athos quirked a smile. "Does it need to be?"
D'Artagnan stood, finished his wine, and then cleared his throat. "It's going to take me some time to get used to."
Athos looked up in question.
"Calling you captain."
Athos nodded and poured the rest of the wine into his cup. "It's not nearly as difficult to say as it is to hear."
D'Artagnan nodded and clapped Athos' shoulder. "Get some sleep… the real challenge starts tomorrow."
Athos nodded and watched him leave the room. Surrounded by the faint glow of the lanterns, he could only hear the subtle creaking of floorboards, the fire cracking, and the wick of the candle burning. The night sky was darker due to the clouds hiding the moon and stars. The light of the lanterns flickered off the walls and caused shadows to dance along the floor and the scent of horse manure, sweat, lingering food, and lantern oil filled his senses.
There was a piece of him that feared whatever reasoning Aramis would use for his purpose of staying. And who was Athos to ask him to leave? Who were any of them to ask Aramis to walk away from a commitment to God? Athos had never been a devoted believer. He struggled to understand a God that would let so much devastation happen, but he also understood the meaning of free will, and his choices may not have been God's choices for him. Athos shifted the glass on the table and watched the liquid move as the lights reflected off the surface. How could he ask Aramis to leave a position God had placed him in, knowing that his own selfish needs and wants would change Aramis' life's path, and perhaps for the worse?
Athos looked out the window and then finished his glass of wine. He looked again at the flame that flickered, the oil that fed it, and the wick that separated and joined the two. Perhaps that is what they were, flames embraced by glass, joined by wicks, and fed by oil. Incomplete when parted, but purposeful when joined.
