The final two chapters. Thank you all for your wonderful comments, I really enjoy reading them (and on days like this, I needed something to take my mind off of work!)

On with the "show."


They sat at their regular table in the Wren, just like they had months prior. All four shared another bottle of wine — their fourth — and watched the surrounding activity. The tavern wench, Young Mademoiselle Cerise, swayed her hips, poured wine and ale, and slapped at hands that reached for her buttocks. She flirted with customers more accustomed to drudgery than flattery. She had tucked the edge of her skirt into her belt and exposed her left slender leg. Long brown hair hung past her shoulders and was tied at the back of her head with a long piece of soft leather. Her corset hugged her waist and pushed her bosoms upward.

Laughter echoed, goblets and glasses changed hands and were moved across tables, and wine and ale were spilled.

The Wren smelled of leather, piss, alcohol and sweat. The stench wafted each time the door opened and closed. Mud and small pebbles littered the rough cut plank flooring, and small wooden buckets could be seen in each corner of the room. A cat slept on a brown cloak that had been dropped and abandoned near the back exit. The old yellow tabby — a frequent visitor and avid drinker — stretched his long front legs and exposed sharp claws as he yawned and watched the activity around him. Remnants of a mouse could be seen near the seam where the wall met the floor.

Porthos scratched the tip of his nose and watched the card game two tables to his left. The younger of the two men playing was cheating, and Porthos knew a fight was about to occur. It was a feeling he had. He had an unnatural knack for sensing a fight and a way of smiling that warned the others when the game was about to end and the excitement was about to begin. He took a deep breath, leaned back, and kicked his right leg forward.

Aramis chuckled, looked over his shoulder at the table, and then shook his head. He was back for less than a day and already things were returning to normal.

Athos glanced from Aramis to Porthos and then at the table in the distance. He grabbed his wine glass, finished the contents and then pushed it aside. "Wouldn't want it to go to waste," he said and then lowered his hands to his lap.

D'Artagnan smiled, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. "Just the two of them?"

Porthos tilted his head toward the table. "The others are just watchin'." His smile increased in size and he tightened his fists. "Should make for a good fight." He cracked his knuckles.

It was a moment of clarity when their past met their future and the four looked across the table at one another. They knew without a doubt that they were exactly where they were supposed to be. It was a feeling of comfort, familiarity, and contentment.

The tavern owner, Monsieur Ports, suddenly stopped chatting with a customer at the counter and immediately moved certain items he didn't want broken, those things that were too expensive to replace. He had been the owner of the Wren for years, and was familiar with customers' nuances when the room was about to come alive with activity.

Porthos stuck his hand out onto the center of the table, palm downward, followed by Aramis, d'Artagnan and then Athos. "All for one," he said.

"One for all," came the reply in harmony.

And, as if a bomb had been set to go off, the room erupted. The two men playing cards stood and shoved the table aside. Cards fluttered to the ground, coins chimed and scattered across the floor. An old man with a large bulbous nose and wild gray hair fell to his knees and reached for the coins between the legs of those watching. Mademoiselle Cerise tucked herself behind the counter and grabbed the neck of a bottle of wine while the two players threw punches. The younger of the two stumbled backward, tipped over a table and spilled ale on another guest. The man stood, towering above the others in the room. He growled and then quickly tossed the young man into the crowd of spectators that would soon join the melee.

Porthos stood as someone fell backward, and he shoved the man aside. Porthos grabbed another man by his shirt and doublet and lifted him from the floor and then hooked him by his collar to a hook that hung from a ceiling rafter. The man kicked his legs and swung his arms as he dangled.

"Let me down!" He screamed and struggled.

"It's the safest place for you, short man," Porthos said, and rejoined the fight.

Aramis laughed and then quickly ducked as a half-full bottle of wine was thrown at him. Athos grabbed the bottle midair, before it could be smashed against the wall. He tossed it to his other hand and took a drink as he wiped the wine that had spilled on his hand onto the shirt of the man dangling from the rafter.

D'Artagnan jumped back and then suddenly sent a right hook into the jaw of the man who stumbled toward him. D'Artagnan suddenly walked backward and craned his neck upward as the man inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders. "Oh, shit," he muttered. He exhaled and then did what he did best.

He charged.

D'Artagnan wrapped his arms around the bigger man's midriff and then suddenly felt himself lifted and tossed like a cloth doll to the floor.

It was a sea of hands, legs, arms, and feet as the fighting continued. A boot was arched across the room. Glass shattered, wood snapped, tables crumbled, and chairs broke. The tavern wench smashed her bottle against the side of a man's head and then watched him crumble to the floor. She smiled in satisfaction and then suddenly jumped backward when two men tumbled toward her.

Porthos spread his arms wide and tackled a group of men who gathered near the door. They stumbled backward and crashed into the walls, fell over the steps, and a few tumbled out of the doors that burst open and two men stumbled through, fell to the muddy ground, and continued to fight.

Aramis blocked a punch and then sent a right hook into his assailant's jaw. The man stumbled backward and finally fell. Aramis then wiped away the blood that dripped from his nose. He took a deep breath, skirted around two men who continued to fight, and then quickly threw a punch at a man who turned glaring brown eyes at him.

Someone retched in the back corner of the room.

D'Artagnan fell backward when he tripped over someone's leg. He shifted to his right and then watched Athos jump onto the back of the giant who had tackled him earlier. Athos wrapped his right arm around the man's neck and grimaced when the man shoved him backward into the support beam. Athos held strong while d'Artagnan suddenly fell forward when someone hit him across the back with a chair.

Athos continued his chokehold and the man stumbled forward and then collapsed. Athos rolled off him, onto the floor, and lay on his back as he took a deep breath. He slowly got to his feet, and suddenly ducked, when another man charged him.

Portos grabbed at two men and slammed them against one another. He chuckled as they fell. He then grabbed another by the back of his collar and britches and then tossed him like a sack of grain toward the door.

Aramis fell against the wall and suddenly pushed himself to the left, as his assailant sent a right hook in his direction. The man hit the wall with his fist and screamed when bones snapped. Aramis shrugged, danced to his left, and ducked when a tumbler was thrown at his head.

Blood dripped from split lips, bloodied noses, scraped and bruised knuckles. Aramis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and blinked away the blood that seeped into his right eye from the cut across his brow. Bodies lay strewn about, people groaned, moved slowly and a few drank wine from the bottles that had fallen but not broken. Mademoiselle Cerise stood with her hand on her hip and a club in the other while Monsieur Ports poured himself an ale and looked at the chaos and devastation around him. Wine poured from the broken tap of a barrel. Glass cracked and snapped as Porthos walked across the floor. He smiled and exposed bloodied teeth, a swollen nose, and a black left eye.

Aramis chuckled, wiped at his eyes, and watched Athos upright a chair and sit down. He grabbed the bottle of wine from the drunkard next to him and took a long pull and relaxed against the back of the chair with his leg extended. He took a deep breath, rested the bottle on his thigh, and then wiped at his forehead and smeared blood across it.

D'Artagnan stood on shaky legs and leaned against a support beam. He chuckled, glanced at his brothers and turned his back to the beam and leaned heavily against it. "Just like old times." He ducked when Athos threw the now empty bottle at him. It shattered against the wall.

"Old times?" Aramis asked with a frown, and wishing he had a bottle to throw at him. "We did this five months ago."

"OUT!" Monsieur Ports yelled. "OUT!" He watched several patrons push themselves to their feet and stumble to the door. Others groaned and slapped their hands on their chests, the floor and their heads. They looked like ants exiting a tunnel rather than men leaving a tavern.

Porthos draped a heavy arm over Aramis' shoulder and said, "We could always stop at the Blue Iris on our way back… maybe get some bread from 'enri?"

Aramis laughed, wiped again at his eye, and then reached for Athos' hand and pulled him to his feet. "Are you alright?" He looked at the monster of a man who remained face down on the floor thanks to Athos' chokehold.

"Never better," Athos said, and braced his hands on his thighs. He took a deep breath, pressed his right hand to his chest and pushed himself up just as D'Artagnan tripped on an abandoned boot.

Porthos grunted, grabbed the back of d'Artagnan's doublet and helped him to his feet. "We should go," he said, "before the Red Guards show up." He looked over his shoulder as the tavern wench shifted herself onto the bar. Her legs dangled toward the floor, and she drank from a bottle of wine. Hair frayed from the tie behind her head, her right sleeve was torn, and her right shoe was missing.

Monsieur Ports walked to the center of the room, grumbled and swore beneath his breath, and then pushed a table upright. He threw his hands into the air when the right front leg snapped and the table toppled.

Athos held the door as they exited into the frosty night air. A couple of drunks were singing poorly as they stumbled and supported each other while walking down the street. Someone else leaned against the building and vomited, while someone else relieved themselves.

D'Artagnan touched this left eye and felt the tissue swelling. "Constance is going to kill me," he said, and then pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He felt a headache coming on and noticed the collar of his doublet was torn. He winced and looked at the loose threads and then mumbled something about excuses.

They all turned suddenly when they heard the clip-clops of horses trotting. Quickly, they stepped aside and into the shadows between two buildings and watched several Red Guards pull their horses to a stop and dismount.

"Shit," Athos muttered, "I think I just lost my commission." He chuckled.

Aramis frowned and said, "As captain?"

"As a Musketeer," he touched at the cut along his hairline.

"Oh, come now, Athos, it was a healthy fight — and we didn't even start it," Aramis said, and then followed the others as they crept slowly down the street.

"Maybe not, but we finished it," Porthos said and clapped his hands against his thighs.

"Who is going to know?" D'Artagnan said. He kept his hand on the side of the building as he walked.

Athos frowned and looked at each of them as though they had grown two heads. "We meet with Minister Treville in a few hours, gentlemen."

"He'll never know."

Athos cocked an eyebrow. His first real duty as captain had been to return with Aramis, and while he had succeeded, he also failed to remove them from a fight that was not worth having.

Porthos winced. "He's goin' to know."

"I heard they're hiring workers on the ships at the dock," Aramis said, and grasped Athos' shoulder. "You like the water, Athos… How do you feel about ships?"