CHAPTER 3

For the next few hours, Athos and Porthos worked together to ferry the deceased from the scene of the battle to a mass grave site that was being excavated. When Athos went to help lift the first body, the sword gash on his side let it be known it was not pleased and he barely contained the moan that tried to escape his clamped lips. He turned his back on his companions for a moment while he fought back the black dots dancing on the edge of his vision and schooled his face into what he prayed was a neutral expression. When the swordsman turned back around, he saw Porthos looking at him sympathetically.

"It's tough," he commiserated, thinking Athos was finding the work distasteful. "But it's the right thing to do. I don't wish those disgusting buzzards feeding on anyone. Not even the Spanish."

Athos nodded, not letting on that it wasn't burying the dead that was upsetting him, but rather his throbbing side. Surreptitiously glancing down at his left side, he discovered the advantage of wearing black leathers; not only did they hide dirt well, but also blood. He could feel the warm blood occasionally trickling down his skin from the wound, but there was no visible sign on his doublet. And though he knew there must be a rent from the sword, the dark material made it hard to detect, especially given the fact he also wore a dark shirt under the jacket. His injury was safely camouflaged and would remain that way until this job was done. He wouldn't have it said he didn't pull his weight. Many of the musketeers were skeptical that Treville had been correct in inducting him into the regiment. His drinking, coupled with his reticent nature, made the other men distrustful, not that he blamed them. He, too, often wondered if he was fit to be a musketeer.

By the time all the bodies were relocated, Athos and the rest of the musketeers were sweaty and tired. The light was nearly gone, so they would wait for the morning to proceed with the burial. The men began to wander off towards the cooking fires, hungry and thirsty. Porthos followed along with the group, though Athos did not, which caused the streetfighter to halt and walk back over to where his friend still stood.

"Coming?" he inquired politely of the swordsman.

Athos was feeling overwhelmed by everything that had occurred today; his side was aching, and he had almost a panicking need to be alone, if only for a few moments. He had grown up a rather secluded child, without many friends, in a large house with only one sibling, and had become accustom to a certain level of solitude. He needed some private time to regroup, afraid that his tremulous feelings were painted all over his normally stoic facade.

"During the fighting, I think Roger's fetlock may have been nicked. I am going to go assure he is unharmed," the Comte smoothly lied, one of his rather strange talents, considering his strict upbringing as a member of the nobility.

The streetfighter, who had spent a considerable amount of time with Athos on their near disastrous trip to Dieppe where they had been enslaved, understood his friend's occasional need for solitude, so he didn't try to persuade him otherwise. He merely nodded, adding "Don't be long or I might eat your rations too. I'm starving."

Again, the corner of Athos' lips quirked at the musketeer's comment. Porthos was always hungry and never missed an opportunity for a meal. Growing up on the streets of Paris, the streetfighter had been hungry more often than not and, as an adult, it seemed he was trying to make up for all those lost meals.

As Athos headed off to where the horses had been picketed, Porthos strode over to where the food was being set out for the troops. As he was passing by the make-shift infirmary, he saw Aramis emerging from the tent that had been set up to shield the wounded. The marksman looked exhausted, but perked up when he saw Porthos.

"Burial duty?" Aramis asked as he fell into step alongside his friend.

Sighing, Porthos nodded. "Not always an advantage being the strongest musketeer."

Aramis gave him a knowing glance. "Nor the one with medical knowledge."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough. LeRue will probably lose his leg. And Durand's days as a swordsman are over too. Too much damage to his shoulder to ever recover full mobility." Aramis scrubbed a weary hand over his face. "And we lost, Camus, and Hune." He stopped rubbing his face letting his weary brown eyes scan the horizon. His eyes lit upon the lifeless mounds of Spanish soldiers awaiting burial in the morning. "Though it could have been worse. A lot worse."

Tracking where his friend's gaze was lingering, Porthos nodded in agreement. "We were fortunate. Captain Treville is a good commander."

"That he is," Aramis agreed as he slung an arm over Porthos' shoulder. "Let's go grab some food. I'm famished." After giving a hearty slap to the streetfighter's leather clad shoulder, he dropped his hand and headed off towards where the food was being prepared. "It's amazing that after all that I have seen in that tent, that I'm hungry."

"I'm always hungry." Porthos thought for a moment. "I don't think much would make me want to miss a meal."

"And speaking of missing, where's Athos?"

"Food first," Porthos declared, heading to the end of the line of soldiers waiting for their rations.

Grabbing two bowls and spoons, he handed one to Aramis, then joined the line of men waiting to have what appeared to be a stew ladled into their bowls. Nourishing, but nothing like what ole Serge could prepare in the garrison. Still, it was hot food which was better than cold trail rations and there was freshly baked flat bread.

After getting their stew, Porthos snagged a few of the flat breads the cooks had prepared, then he and Aramis headed over to an empty log that they used as a bench. Settling themselves on the bark-covered surface, they dug into their meal and ate in silence for a few minutes.

When Aramis' bowl was half-empty, and Porthos' completely gone, the marksman restated his inquiry. "Athos?"

Porthos looked up from his empty bowl, which he was swabbing out with a piece of bread. "Off to see his horse." Rising, the streetfighter rejoined the dwindling line of soldiers to get a second helping of stew. Bringing the nearly overflowing bowl back to the log, he sat again and began eating, though at a little more sedate pace.

Aramis sopped up some of his stew's juices with his bread, but before stuffing it in his mouth he asked, "Did Roger get hurt?"

Answering around a mouthful of food, the dark-skinned musketeer mumbled, "Doubt it. Think it was an excuse. To get away. Be alone for a bit."

Silence reigned for a few more moments before Aramis spoke. "We still don't know much about Athos' past, but I'd wager a sizable amount this was his first major battle."

"Oi. Think you're right."

"Don't get me wrong. Athos acquitted himself well today. But he made a few tactical errors that speak of needing some seasoning. Small things…"

"Small things get you killed," Porthos empathetically stated.

"… matter, which is why," Aramis said with an easy smile, "he has us to guard his back and show him the ropes. We'll grant him his solitude, for a bit. If he doesn't show up in a reasonable amount of time, we'll drag his melancholy soul back to the fold."