CHAPTER 14

D'Artagnan was wearing a groove in the stone floor of the Abbey, in front of the windows overlooking the fields surrounding the stone structure. He originally had been pacing in front of a window that overlooked the inner courtyard and had gotten all excited when the snow seemed to cease coming down. He'd run to find Porthos, insisting the storm was over and they could ride forth.

Considering he could still hear the ungodly roaring of the wind, his fellow musketeer found this hard to believe, but he followed the lad to a window. Sure enough, the snow in the courtyard seemed significantly lighter. "Well, pup, it appears you are right. I guess we can depart."

"Depart?" the Abbott who'd once again silently glided into their presence. "I could never allow that in good conscience.'

"Beggin' your pardon, Father, but the storm has let up and we have to go search for our brothers." D'Artagnan hoped he sounded more diplomatic then he felt.

"Follow me, please," the Abbott requested as he glided smoothly away.

"He got wheels under there?" Porthos whispered to d'Artagnan as they trailed after the priest.

"Classes, as I said before. And practice," the man humbly stated as they moved down a long stone corridor. They finally turned right into a small room, with two windows, two cots, a table, chairs and a fireplace. "I will have a fire drawn for you in here while you wait."

"Again, begging your pardon, but a fire would be a waste for we are departing, very soon," d'Artagnan insisted once more.

As if the musketeer hadn't spoken, the Abbott continued on. "I shall have food brought and some extra blankets. It's going to be a cold night."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest once more, but the Abbott cut him off. "If you please, gentlemen, let us look out the window together."

An exasperated glance passed between them, but the musketeers went over to the windows with the man-of-God.

"If you'd be so kind as to gaze out the windows and tell me what you perceive."

Two sets of brown eyes peered out the window and observed the whiteout conditions of a blizzard. "Damn!" Porthos swore once more before giving the Abbott a sheepish look.

"God forgives you my son."

D'Artagnan, who was still staring out the window, was mystified. "But at the other window it had slowed, almost stopped snowing. Here it is worse than ever."

"A shift in the wind. My fault for leaving you in a room of false hopes. Those windows face the inner courtyard, which is protected by tall stone walls, as you saw when you rode in. The wind only blows in the courtyard from the East. When the wind shifted, it appeared that the storm had ended. But it has not and in actuality, I believe it has gotten worse. But, the monks are still praying for your friends as God wills."

"Well God better will they live," Porthos grumbled. "They are my brothers. I don't know how I'd be able to go on if they…" The streetfighter voice trailed off, choked once more with emotion.

"God doesn't give us more than we can bear," the Abbott quietly stated.

"That ain't fully reassuring, Father."

"God's ways are mysterious."

Porthos had enough of the priest's brand of comfort, which he was finding distinctly uncomfortable. So he changed the discussion. "Did you say something about food?"

"Yes. Of course." The Abbot stepped into the hallway and called after the monk who had just lit the fire in the chamber. After instructing him to bring food and drink, he stepped back into the room in time to see Artagnan pick up his pacing again in front of the two new windows.

"Perhaps," the Abbott suggested as he moved to sit in one of the chairs by the newly lit fire, "you could tell me about these brothers of yours. Surely they are not family for your skin tones indicate otherwise."

"They are family in every way that counts," d'Artagnan declared as he moved away from the window and perched in a chair by the fire. "I owe my life to them many times over."

"We are brothers of blood, of battle," Porthos added, taking the final chair. "We have each other's backs through thick and thin. A bond that can't be broken."

"A slight to one is slight to all," d'Artagnan declared before growing quiet. It made him think upon their personal motto, the sparingly few times they had used it, the power in it and behind it. To not ever say it again while clasping his brothers' hands was impossible to conceive.

Porthos knew exactly what path the lad's mind had turned down, for he had traveled on the same one. It wasn't a motto, a simple battle call. It was who they were, who they were supposed to be. It was their life's code.

Nature chose that moment to blast pellets of ice against the window and rattle them with gale force winds. The men in the room suddenly found it hard to believe that anyone could survive such a storm. The Abbott sent another swift prayer to his boss for he sensed the bond they spoke of in these two and if it was as strong in the other two, well Porthos was right, the death of one could well be the death of all.

His many years of experience had taught him brooding wasn't the answer to anything and that faith and trust in the Lord was the answer to all. So, he circled back to his original tactic of distraction by asking them to tell some stories of their adventures.

And so, went by many hours, filled with eating, drinking and the two musketeers regaling him with their tales of adventure. Finally, sensing the two men might be close enough to the edge of exhaustion to sleep, the Abbott took his leave, suggesting they take to the cots and try to catch a few hours of sleep before the morning vespers.

After taking one last look out the window, and finding no change from what it had been the last two dozen times he checked, d'Artagnan gave in to sleep, falling on the nearest cot and going out like a flame in the wind. Porthos lay on the other bed, thinking he wouldn't be able to sleep for his worry, but surprisingly he too soon nodded off.

Back in his own bed chambers, the Abbott knelt on his prie-dieu and settled in to beseech his God to watch over the two missing musketeers.