Well, I sliced my finger and typing is a bit challenging at the moment. Here I was about to bake an apple/pear pie. So, the crust is done, and I finally finished slicing the pears and apples... even if it did take me an extra day. Sorry I left you in a cliffhanger the other day... but get ready, I leave you with another one today. However, the chapter is long. Thank you all for your wonderful comments... I do love reading them!

Here we go...

Chapter 24

Porthos looked in the direction of Allier and then at the surrounding lands. To his left was a steep, tree covered decline that led to the river, and to his right was vast open prairie filled with dried grasses and briars. He dismounted, held his left arm close to his chest, and placed his right hand on Roger's mane next to the pommel of the saddle. Porthos watched Athos tilt his head downward and flex and stretch the fingers of his right hand.

Athos looked up, clenched his jaw, and swallowed several times. The blood that marred his features caused Porthos to wince. It was smeared across Athos' eyelids, his right cheek, nose, coated his nostrils, and into his mustache and beard.

"You've just got blood in your eyes, Athos. We'll find someplace and we'll wash them out," Porthos said. He flared his nostrils, looked closely at Athos, and watched the looks of terror and uncertainty cross his features. "Athos… it's just blood in your eyes."

"Everything's black, Porthos," Athos said and pressed his fingers to his eyes once more. "I've had blood in my eyes before," he muttered and then gripped the reins and rested the heel of his right hand against the pommel. He shifted when Roger sidestepped and craned his neck to look behind them.

"We need to get off this road," Porthos said. "Let loose the reins, Athos… you can't direct 'im if you can see. We'll get down to the river an' wash out your eyes — you'll be fine — it's just blood."

There was an unfamiliar tone in Porthos' voice, it was firm but followed with a hint of fear, that caused Athos to flex his jaw muscles. He tightened and then reluctantly released the leather reins and pressed his hand to his head once again. He could breathe through his left nostril, but not his right. Sharp pains stabbed at his temples and behind his eyes, and he hissed when he suddenly felt his stomach protest when Roger took several steps forward.

Porthos remounted his horse and gently tugged Roger's reins while guiding his own mount along the road. He looked over his shoulder when Athos leaned to his right, coughed several times, and surrendered to his body's need and vomited saliva and stomach acids. He leaned over the pommel and rested his forearms on Roger's neck.

Porthos stopped suddenly and turned in his saddle after hearing horses in the distance. He tightened his reins, looked over his shoulder toward Athos and said, "Hold on." He nudged his mount's left side and urged him to the right. The overgrowth of trees made it difficult to navigate, but Porthos pushed onward.

Both horses lowered their heads, tucked their tails, and walked forward with exaggerated, disjointed steps. The severe rocking from left to right had Athos struggling to stay mounted. He tightened his calves, his thighs, and relaxed his seat and tried to anticipate the ground he could not see. They continued to weave through the trees, the overgrown bush, and the saplings that grew in clusters. Athos raised his hand when a tree branch slapped his neck, and he increased his grip on the pommel. He could hear stones tumblin', the shifting of hooves through sand and stone, and the water as it rushed over large rocks and boulders and slapped the sides of the bank.

As soon as they reached the sandy beach, Porthos dismounted. He looked along the ridge and then spotted an alcove created by two massive, old trees. Their roots jutted upward and arched toward the steep incline. A generation of dirt, flooding, and time had caused grasses and weeds to cover the roots that had tangled and now lay broken and weather-worn along the sandy beach. The hollowed trees remained structurally strong.

"Athos," Porthos said and grasped his forearm. "Dismount. There's a place we can 'ide temporarily… we need to wait out that 'orde. I don't know who they are or what they're lookin' for, but I don't want to be in the middle of it an' they're not in a frame of mind to listen to reason."

Athos nodded, gripped the pommel, and swung his right leg over Roger's rump and dismounted. He leaned against his horse, kept a tight grip on the cantle, and then reached for Porthos' arm.

Porthos grabbed Athos' hand and placed it on the pauldron. "Feel that?"

Athos nodded with a wince.

"Slip your fingers beneath the leather an' 'old tight." Porthos ground tied the horses and walked with Athos toward the covered alcove. Beyond the roots of the dead trees, the inside bark of the old oak was covered with watermarks. Some discolored waterlines were higher than others. Dried green, red, and brown river moss clung to the bark and along the surface of the boulders. Athos stumbled, cursed himself, and felt Porthos adjust his grip on his arm.

Porthos suddenly pulled Athos back. "Wait," he said, "I'm goin' to clear some space." He released his grip and shoved several roots out of the way and entered the shallow cavern that was deep enough to keep them hidden. Satisfied, he looked back toward Athos, who stood alone in the midst of the backdrop of water, trees, and the bank across the river. He looked isolated, confused, and alone. Athos raised his hands, struggling to feel for something to keep him balanced and grounded, and Porthos clenched his jaw. What good was a blind musketeer? He cursed himself for thinking it, and then he suddenly looked away, knowing Athos was thinking the same. It was expressed through the fear in his eyes, the creases of his brow, the subtle flaring of his nostrils, and the clenching of his jaw.

Porthos rubbed his jaw and looked at Athos once more and felt a sudden grief that nearly doubled him over. They had been friends for years, brothers bound by circumstance. Even the thought of losing one of them caused Porthos to hitch his breath. He knew time had a way of changing things, of separating, and dividing, but this… this was simply unfair. Porthos tightened his hands into fists and pushed the dangling roots aside. "Athos," he said, and then reached for his arm. "Follow me an' stay close."

Athos followed and found himself tightly gripping Porthos' pauldron. "The horses?"

"I'll see to them," Porthos said as he guided Athos to a cluster of boulders. "Sit 'ere an' wait for me." He gently grasped Athos' arm and waited for him to feel out the boulder before he took a seat.

In haste, Porthos walked to the horses and led them to a piece of flat land covered in grass near the water that was well hidden by the overgrowth of trees. The road above the steep slope was unseen, and Porthos hobbled both animals, removed their bridles, and then loosened their cinches. He paused when both animals raised their heads and perked their ears forward. A group of riders galloped by. Their shouts of anger and frustration echoed on the wind for promises of capture, punishment, and revenge. Porthos exhaled, musketeer or not, men crazed with anger and fear could not and would not see reason.

Porthos removed a cup and cloth and then jogged back to the tree and pushed the roots aside and found Athos still seated. He rested his right elbow on his knee and gently massaged his temple.

"It's just blood," Porthos said.

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Porthos swallowed, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. Unsure of what to say, he grabbed his old mug, and immediately added water to it. Porthos pulled an old rag from his bag and dipped it. He paused a moment, looked at Athos, and muttered a quick prayer before he wrung it out. He knelt on the stones that rested along the boulder and stared at the right side of Athos' face, the blood that matted his hair and ran along the cheek, and the blood from his nose that collected around his nostrils, his upper lip and ran through his beard. "We should pour some water in your eyes… clean some of the blood from your face."

"The riders?"

"Rode right by us," Porthos said and slipped his left hand behind Athos' neck. Porthos bit back a groan as his arm protested at the movement. "Lean back an' look up… try an' keep your eyes open."

Athos did as he was asked. He gripped his hands on his thighs and blinked several times as the cool water hit his face and landed in his eyes. "Stop," he said, and suddenly leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose when the pains in his head grew more intense. "Stop," he said and wiped at the water on his face. "It's not helping." He heard Porthos shift, the grounding of sand beneath booted feet, and the wisps of branches when brushed aside. "Porthos?"

"I'll be right back."

Porthos returned to the horses, he dug through his saddlebags, and searched for a larger cloth for cleaning and possibly bandaging Athos' wounds. He sighed in frustration, he was a man of few needs, and what he did carry pertained to a few tools for preparing food, rags for his weapons and ammunition. Aramis carried the bandages in that special bag of his. The bag with all the items needed for such an occasion. With a hint of regret, disappointment, and need, he pulled back the folds of the wrapping that held his new blouse. Porthos removed it, took a moment to admire the lace collar, cuffs, and the feeling of the soft cream fabric beneath his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he rewrapped the doublet, and then carried the blouse to the river. He kicked over a turtle shell and then washed it out. Taking a long deep breath he ripped the blouse, dumped a portion into the water and then refilled the turtleshell before he walked back to the alcove.

Athos tentatively touched the right side of his head between his temple and ear and winced. He could feel the swelling, the heat from the injury, the long gash that was hidden within the thickness of his hair. He could feel the crusted blood that caused his hair to clump together and cling to his scalp. His headache continued with sharp pains behind his eyes and at his temples. Athos rubbed at the areas to ease his discomfort and then, when startled, shifted suddenly to his left.

"It's me, Athos," Porthos said.

"What is it?" Athos frowned, winced, and then rubbed his brow with two fingers. "I can hear it in your voice."

Porthos looked at his left arm, the bruising that was now exposed and slowly crawling toward his fingers. He could make a loose fist, but he couldn't clench it, and he could feel the swelling of his arm within the sleeve of his doublet. "It's nothin'," he said and dipped the cloth into the turtle shell. He squeezed as much water as he could from it and said, "I want to look more closely at your 'ead."

Athos rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his forehead with his left hand. He couldn't see, but a strange feeling crawled up his back, along his ribs, and toward his shoulders. It was followed with sharp pains that caused him to hitch his breath.

"Athos?"

The rustling of bushes had Porthos squinting and looking through the grasses and roots of the tree. Even against the sounds of the water rushing past the boulders and slapping the bank, he could hear the subtle shifts of twigs, leaves, and dries grasses. Porthos gently, and ever so slowly, pulled his knife from its sheath at his back. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw it.

"It's rabbit for dinner," Porthos said and then gently pressed the cloth to Athos' head. "I'll get a fire goin', then, at nightfall, we'll head out. Maybe we'll run into Aramis an' d'Artagnan."

Athos swallowed when the cloth was removed. He heard Porthos hiss when he tried to peel back Athos' hair to see better.

"I've got to get a fire started… I can't see. It's too dark in 'ere." He stood, dropped the cloth into the turtle shell, and then quickly ducked as he left the hollowed cave of the tree. "I'll need it to cook the rabbit."

Athos inhaled sharply, shifted his right leg forward, and pressed his hands to the sides of the boulder near his thighs. Something was wrong. The cold chill intensified and was followed by agonizing pains that tentacled from his spine. He rubbed his brow and winced at the tender flesh along his temple, the subtle pounding that continued near the swelling. He looked, but didn't see, and when he turned his head from left to right, he caught the scent of mildew, rotten wood, and composting grass.

Porthos dumped an armload of dried wood near the opening. He pulled back the roots to expose more light, and then looked across the river as the afternoon sun slowly moved and caused shadows to elongate across the sandy beach. He quickly dropped to his knees, created a fire-pit with several large stones, and then added kindling, dried leaves, and a few larger sticks. Using his flint and steel, it sparked, and with a few quick puffs the flames ignited. More wood was added. Porthos, satisfied, turned, and looked at Athos, who shifted toward the heat of the fire.

"Athos?" Porthos asked and shifted on his knees toward him. "Athos?"

Athos closed his eyes and felt his back and stomach muscles suddenly cramp. He swallowed, shivered, and paled even more. He leaned forward, arms tucked between his chest and thighs, and struggled to take a deep breath. He flashed unseeing eyes toward Porthos. "Something's wrong," he said in a tone unfamiliar with fear and weakness.

Porthos grasped Athos' arm, felt him shift forward, and then suddenly slump toward him. Porthos, on his knees, moved just in time to take Athos' weight and then slowly lowered him to the ground. "Athos?" He patted Athos' cheek. "Don't do this… don't do this, Athos," Porthos said. With a yelp of pain, he shifted both hands beneath Athos' shoulders and pulled him toward himself.

Athos' head fell to his right shoulder, his hands to his sides, and Porthos clutched at the leather of Athos' doublet as he watched the fire blaze.

"Don't do this, Athos…"