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Chapter 35

Porthos leaned forward, kept his left arm tucked against his side, and urged his mount into an easy canter. His big bay extended his stride, his long legs stretched, the hollowed clip-clops of hooves struck the dampened ground. The rain had brought with it life. Grasses and weeds that had wilted in the heat for the past few weeks stretched upward toward the sun, and the leaves on the trees shined as droplets of rain took with it the dust that had coated each leaf. The sound of the river water hitting the bank was muted by the abundance of trees. Birds chirped and flew in flocks from one location to the next, positioning themselves within the branches of trees and briar bushes before fluttering and rejoining their groups as their travels continued.

A wagon had left fresh tracks on the dampened ground. The shod markings of a single horse were positioned between the wheels. The cart had not been heavy.

He had ridden for hours, moving from a full gallop to a slow jog, long canters, and trots, to an occasional stop near the breaks in the lake to allow his horse time to rest and drink. The pain along his hip and side continued to throb, a dull reminder of his fall, and his arm still ached but a few hours into his ride he noticed the swelling had reduced. Porthos wiped his brow, slowed his horse to a trot, and continued toward the meeting place.

If he rode hard enough, he could be there by nightfall. The sun felt good against his back, warming the doublet and the cloth around his head. He tried piecing the puzzle together in his mind. The men in the tavern, the sudden argument and the fight that followed. The way the group had targeted Athos and himself… How were they connected? Were they? And if they weren't, who was the group that started the fight? Were those the same men that had been terrorizing the village? What about the group that followed? And who was it that had orchestrated Athos' poisoning? Had they been waiting for them? Waiting for the opportunity to strike? And why? Why now?

Porthos slowed his horse to a walk and listened to the animal's harsh breathing. Sweat clung to the animal's neck, flanks, and chest. Foam dropped from the bit and collected along the breast collar and bridle. The food Eve had given him remained untouched. He couldn't think of eating, not when Athos was back there, fighting for his life, suffering the consequences of someone else's actions.

Porthos worried his brow, said several prayers, and then watched the shadows move as the sun started its afternoon descent. He was angry at himself. Angry for not having a better plan for getting Athos to safety. For failing a brother in need. For watching him suffer and not able to offer solutions to the problem.

And what of his blindness?

Porthos hitched his breath and looked wide-eyed at the lands that surrounded him. A sudden breeze caused the branches, stems of grasses, and weeds to sway. They moved in unison, shifting and flowing like waves on the water. Squirrels chirped, screeched, and called out warnings to one another as predators approached. Porthos swallowed. Athos was a brother. He had stood beside Porthos through thick and thin, and it didn't matter the fight, physical, emotional, or social. Athos stood beside him, along with Aramis, and now d'Artagnan.

They were good that way. Defending each other, fighting for one another, but not afraid to tell each other the truth when the moment came. They kept each other's secrets and shared those secrets when they had to. They could share a drink at a tavern, agree to disagree without hard feelings, and joke with each other when they needed a good laugh, as the weight of the world seemed to bear upon their shoulders.

But if Athos was blind, how would that change them? He would no longer be able to watch their backs from afar, protecting them when they didn't know they needed protecting. He would no longer be able to step in, resolve a situation with a few words of warning, or pull his blade and fight like the swordsman he had been trained to be. Would his vibrant green eyes simply dull over as he spent his days staring into space? And would Athos even allow himself the simple privilege of being a part of their lives despite his deformity?

It was gut wrenching.

Porthos felt his chest tighten as an unfamiliar fear crawled up his spine and settle at the base of his neck. The feeling of dread outweighed his sense of duty, logic, and honor. He cursed himself for leaving and he pulled his horse to a stop. He spun the animal around and looked into the distance.

Is that why Athos had sent him away? Porthos clenched his jaw, cursed himself for not taking Athos' blades or his pistol, for leaving him alone when he needed his brothers around him. Athos thought with his head when it wasn't about himself. But when it was about himself, he thought with his heart… the women he loved, his position within the musketeers, his brothers…

"Shit!" Porthos snapped. His horse shifted beneath him, felt the tension of his rider, and chewed on the bit. He spun the horse around again, kicked the animal's sides, and rode toward the meeting place.

He had to be strong. He needed to have faith that Athos would survive. He needed to get Athos the help he needed.