Chapter 38

Exhaustion could change men. It shortened tempers, caused irrational decisions, it made some sick, and when the moment came, it forced those who suffered it to sleep. Porthos had grumbled, tossed his bedroll to the ground in a huff and then sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the fire. The war inside him battled. He knew they needed to wait and ride out at first light, but he wanted to get back. Athos was down, alone, and suffering. He had been left in the hands of strangers. Strangers Porthos knew nothing about. A simple family with two daughters who they loved. A farmer's wife who hummed and sang while she milked her cow. And a husband who would protect his family no matter the cost to himself. Porthos had ignored the looks from d'Artagnan and Aramis, both of whom promised to be ready to ride at the first sign of light.

The moment Porthos had lay back, extended his long legs and rested his hands on his chest, his eyes closed and his body — desperate for sleep and rest — forced him to do what needed to be done. He snored lightly, shifted into a comfortable position, and slept.

Aramis rubbed his brow and stared worriedly into the flames of the fire.

"Four days," d'Artagnan said quietly. He tossed a twig into the low flames and then laced his fingers through his hair and rested his elbow on his knee. "That's how long he said it would take for the poison to kill someone without treatment." He looked at Aramis. "You didn't drink the entire glass of wine."

Aramis, with a shaking hand, looked through his medical bag. The surgical instruments stared back at him: forceps, musket ball extractors, needles, crooked knives, boiled horsehair, unguents, and salves. He looked at the herbs, the bottle of laudanum that he rarely used, and the salt of hartshorn, burdock root, comfrey, and others. He mentally check his list of symptoms and wondered if Athos was suffering the same or something different.

"You should rest, Aramis," d'Artagnan said. "I can take watch... If we were being followed, they would have arrived by now."

Aramis yawned, covered his mouth, and then rubbed his eyes. He looked at Porthos and said, "He's going to be angry with himself come morning." He looked at d'Artagnan. "For falling asleep,"

"He wouldn't have made it back in the condition he was in." D'Artagnan shifted his legs, and with his arms on his knees, he grabbed his left wrist. "Tomorrow will be day three — if I've got Porthos' timeline right."

Aramis pulled a dried piece of grass from the ground and wrapped it around his finger. "I know." He tossed it aside and then closed his bag and shoved it off to the side. "Porthos mentioned many of the same symptoms." He rubbed his forehead and leaned back against the boulder. "I'm not sure about the blindness… Porthos said Athos was hit on the head, but," he shrugged, "I just don't know."

"Athos is going to need you at your best," d'Artagnan said. "You need to rest."

Aramis nodded, lay back, and then folded his fingers together over his chest. "As soon as the light appears on the horizon —"

D'Artagnan watched Aramis slowly drifted to sleep. He had punched at the saddle blanket he was using as a pillow and then lay on his right side. The night air was warm, not hot, but comfortable enough to forgo blankets or using their doublets as covers. Grasses rustled as nocturnal animals moved through the brush looking for food, mates, and bedding. An old owl with a deep throated hoot reminded d'Artagnan of the time when he sounded off every few minutes. Not visible in the darkness, the owl was hidden within the branches of the trees. The horses snorted and continued to rip grass from the ground while they grazed. And the water continued to slap the sides of the bank while the subtle breeze caused gentle waves to shift and roll beneath the light of the moon.

D'Artagnan thought about Athos… what it would be like to lose a brother, a brother gained after less than a year. He rolled his neck and listened to his spine crack, and then he stood and walked to the water. With his arms crossed over his chest, he looked across the surface and noticed a series of black clouds that were shadowed and drifted across the sky. Unlike the bright clouds that gently stroked the tips of the trees and glowed beneath the light of the moon, the storm would arrive in a few hours. They needed the rains, but not now, not yet, not when time was of the essence and a brother's life was on the line.

D'Artagnan rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled slowly. He turned, looked at Porthos and Aramis and realized he was the strongest, the healthiest, and the only one with enough strength to get them where they needed to go. These men — these brothers — had helped him find his father's murderer. They had given him hope when he had lost it, and allowed him to be a part of their bond. He knew they would fight, and they would fight until death if needed. They would stop at nothing to protect a brother and come morning, despite their continued exhaustion, their injuries and illnesses, they would ride out and find Athos and return home.

D'Artagnan looked again at the clouds in the distance. He would saddle the horses before the light of the early morning sun dared make an appearance. He would pack the camp, his bedroll, and cover the fire with sand from the shore. He would not hold them back, and despite being the strongest, they would outride him, out fight him, and outrun him if needed.

No, d'Artagnan would not stand in the way of brothers ready to fight for one of their own. He had seen it before. He had seen their determination, been a part of it, and watched as the pieces fell together. Athos had faced the firing squad once and whether it be musket ball, sword, or poison, his brothers would pull him from the brink once more.

This time, instead of being a stranger in the presence of legends, he found himself a part of them.