Chapter 54

Aramis pulled Athos' boots off, dropped them near the end of the bed, and then tossed the blanket over him. Aramis rubbed his face and took a deep breath. He leaned against the wall and exhaustedly slid to the floor. With his elbows on his knees, he rested his head back and looked to the window and the fading light of the sun. He could hear birds in the rafters, the fire cracking, and the subtle sounds of chickens pecking at grubs on the ground outside the room.

Farming was supposed to be a quiet life. It was an honest life. But it was also a life full of risk. Farmers depended on the weather, their own health, and the health of their animals. They put their faith in God and tilled the ground, knowing that the seeds they sowed would sprout and produce. Their lives were at risk behind the horse and oxen pulled plows, digging wells and trenches for watering their animals and their fields, and scything hay for harvest. There was something about it that was appealing, a sense of faith and devotion, a sense of honor and contentment. The life of a musketeer was honorable for Aramis. He looked at the pauldron on his shoulder and then ran his fingers over the leather, the scars, and the detailed and delicate embossing. He didn't have to rely on the weather, the seasons, or his animals. Aramis looked toward the bed. He did, however, rely on his brothers, his duty, his captain, and his skills.

At the moment, he felt inadequate. His skills were better suited for musket ball injuries and knife wounds. He couldn't fix what he couldn't see, and it terrified him that what was happening inside Athos' head was not repairable.

With his elbows on his knees, Aramis rubbed his face and took a deep breath, and then cupped his forehead in the palm of his hand. He wanted to sleep and for a moment he did. He simply allowed his body to relax, his mind to stop and simply listen to the sounds happening around him, and the slow beating of his heart. They needed rest, a decent meal, and be on their way back to Paris. Treville would be conflicted. His best musketeers were late, and the king would be frantic knowing that the necklace and lace had not arrived on time. Aramis hoped d'Artagnan returned quickly and unharmed.

He let his mind wonder, and he thought about Adele. Her loss was still fresh in his mind, and he silently dealt with his grief. He had loved her, to the best of his ability, but his mind drifted to Anne… He wasn't sure if he wanted her because he couldn't have her, or if he truly had feelings for her. Anne was out of reach, and Porthos had been correct in stating she wasn't a woman… she was the queen. But what Porthos didn't know was that they had a child… a child that would never call him father, a child he could never claim as his own, a child he would have to watch grow up from a distance. He knew there was a possibility that the child wasn't his, but he chose to believe he was… he wanted to believe he was. He chose to believe that Anne wanted him as much as he wanted her, despite their duties and obligations to something bigger than their affection… the crown.

Aramis jumped when the entry drape was pulled back, and a woman entered. He pushed himself to his feet, felt muscles protest, and paused when she nodded to him and then walked to the bed and placed a hand on Athos' forehead. "Madame —"

"Clorette," she said. "I'm the one who stitched the gold lace for the king." She dusted the front of her gown, tucked her skirts, and then took a seat on the edge of the bed. She reached for the bowl, tested the water's warmth, and then wrung it. "It's amazing, isn't it?" she said as she pressed the cloth to Athos' cheek. She was taken aback by his appearance, so different from when she first met him. Her motherly instincts took over. It was a piece of herself that she missed.

"Madame?"

"One minute you're upright and ready to face the world, and the next you're flat on you back fighting for your life." She looked at Aramis and cocked an eyebrow. "You must be Aramis?" Her features softened, and she quirked a knowing smile. "Young d'Artagnan shared with us who you are. The king certainly has a fine collection of guards."

Aramis smirked and then squatted and toss another log onto the fire. "He has certain expectations."

"Attractive?"

Aramis smiled. "More along the lines of," he shrugged, "running without getting winded, well versed in the skills of fighting, and knowing when to act and when to stand down."

"Ah," Clorette said, "vigor and intelligence — quite the combination."

"If you say so."

"Say so?" Clorette said and then wrung the cloth again. "I'm old enough to know so, and I'm old enough that I can say as much." She grasped Athos' left hand and gently ran the cloth over his fingers. "You get to a point in your life when you realize everything you had worked so hard for… respect, a home, a family… is just a fraction of what it is that you needed."

Aramis turned on the balls of his feet while still squatting and looked at her. "What do you need?"

Clorette sighed, wrung the cloth once more, and then looked at the low flames of the fire. "Friends… To make it in this world, you need friends who will stand beside you, pull you out of trouble, share their opinions — even if you don't want to hear them — you need to know there are people around you who are willing to fight just as hard as you are."

Aramis watched her press the back of her fingers to Athos' cheek and click her tongue.

"We didn't have that… We were strangers living in the same town. Strangers that needed a reminder of what it's like facing the world on your own." She paused and tucked Athos' hand beneath the covers. "That's why we were almost undone by a group of fools… fools who wanted to take what we had and picked us off one by one… people died because of it." She exhaled, slapped her thighs, and looked at Aramis. "Thank you… for reminding us." She stood. "Now." She raised her eyebrows and looked at him in seriousness. "It's our turn to help you. What do you need?"

Aramis frowned, and then looked at the entry when Porthos stepped inside.

"Madame Clorette," Porthos said. "It's—"

"A pleasure to see me?" She smiled, quirked an eyebrow, and then exhaled through puffed cheeks, and said, "Vigor and intelligence."

"Beets," Aramis said. "Might you find out if Emry and Eve have beets in their garden?"

"You like beets?" Clorette asked with a look of surprise.

Porthos mouthed, "Why?" with a frown.

"They feed the blood — they would be good for Athos."

Clorette nodded and said, "I'll find out." She looked again at Porthos, winked, and then left the room.

Aramis and Porthos watched her go.

"I think she likes you," Aramis said.

Porthos nodded and said, "I know she does." He shrugged and looked at Athos. "How is he?"

"Same," Aramis said. "We can only wait."

"I 'ate waitin'."