Chapter 40

Standing puddles rippled with the subtle drops of rain. Narrow streams continued to deepen paths in the trenches where carts had scarred the earth. The winds had died down and the branches of trees continued to gently sway and leaves fluttered. The dark black clouds had shifted and continued their journey south, while gray puffed clouds followed slowly behind. Water dripped from roofs, leaves, and fencing rails.

The dog remained on the porch, looking toward the road as the early morning sun worked its way through the breaks in the clouds. Both girls were seated on the porch and continued to snap beans and toss them into the basins on their laps. Their cinnamon curls were braided and bound at the top of their heads. They giggled, spoke in code, and hid their sisterly secrets from their parents. The door opened and Eve stepped out and tossed a basin of dirty water into the yard.

Dust, pollen, and dander had settled, and the fresh scent of pine wafted through the air with each subtle gust of a breeze. The chickens had ventured outside and pecked at the worms that had surfaced. The hens clucked and waddled and fluttered their wings when startled.

Smoke billowed from the chimney.

Eve looked toward the barn, took a deep breath, and then turned to her girls. She said something, and they both stood and entered the house.

It was quiet except for the birds that were singing.

Athos slept. He heard the subtle tapping of steel that sang rhythmically. The slice of a blade through the air, the crunching and scuffing of sand and gravel beneath booted feet, and the heavy breathing of swordsmen. Birds continued to chirp and flutter their wings as they looked on. Horses snorted. Stall doors banged and the subtle clapping of hands echoed. A familiar chuckle followed.

It was a mixture of old and new. Memories and dreams, pieces of history intertwined with the perceptions of a child.

"Face your enemy, Oliver," came the deep voice of his father. He sheathed his sword, and walked toward his young son. "No matter who or what it is… you must face it."

Oliver looked at his father, a tall man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and vibrant green eyes. His dark, heavy beard blended into the strands of his mustache and accentuated the strength of his jaw. The boy held his weapon, the long blade he had trouble controlling looked large in the palm of his small hand.

"It's too long," Oliver said. "I cannot control it." He tried to lift it, but his hands shook and the blade swayed.

"You can, and you will," his father said with a raise of his eyebrow. He gently grasped his son's arm, straightened the limb, and helped him point the weapon forward. "Think of it as an extension of your arm. Allow your hand to mold around the grip." He squatted, placed his hand on his son's back, and encouraged him to try again. This time he supported Oliver's elbow.

"Henri, he's only seven, barely able to lift the sword. You cannot expect Oliver to wield it… not yet," his mother said from her garden. A basket hung from her elbow filled with cut flowers. She was beautiful with long dark hair that hung loose around her shoulders. She was tall, slender, with porcelain skin.

Oliver looked at his father, who looked at him, and gently tapped his chest.

"What do you say, son?"

Oliver furrowed his brow and gripped his hand tighter around the blade. Unwilling to disappoint his father, he said, "I can do it."

Henri smiled and said, "There will be times in your life when the impossible is placed before you." He looked in his son's eyes. "It's in those moments that you'll find your greatest strength."

Oliver swallowed, adjusted his arm, and moved his elbow out of his father's grip. He didn't understand the words, the meaning behind them, but the tone of his father's voice caused him to swallow his fear and dig deep for strength. He pointed the weapon, turned his hand, and held it straight and steady. It was heavy, and the longer he held the position, the more difficult it became. He felt his father place a hand on his lower back, gently move him into a fighting stance, and then said quietly, "Never let anyone see your weakness… not your mother, your brother… not even me."

"Yes, papa," Oliver said. He stopped suddenly, retreated his form and as gracefully as a child could he slipped the sword into the scabbard. "When do I get to fight?"

Henry stood and laughed. He placed his hand on Oliver's shoulder and guided him toward his mother and Thomas, who flipped through the pages of a book. "There is no rush, son… there is plenty of time for fighting — just make sure you're ready when the time comes."

The birds continued to sing, and then a rooster crowed. Like before, the dream faded, and Athos slowly opened his eyes. He blinked several times, and then sighed when his vision had not improved. He lay on his side, still covered, but the call of his bladder had him forcing himself into a seated position. Booted feet hit the floor, and he sighed. Every muscle pained him, and he groaned in response. He could feel the heat of the fire, but he couldn't see the flames, and the more aware he became, the more frustrated he grew. He could smell dirt, animals, and old, weathered wood. A cool breeze caught his chin, and he looked upward, heard the scuffs of boots on the ground, and then listened as a stool was moved and then followed with a subtle grunt.

Emry rested his elbows on his knees and looked at Athos. "Given how you were looking last night… I thought for sure I was going to spend my morning digging a grave." He looked at Athos and took several deep breaths. "I know you can't see me, but you can hear just fine."

Athos swallowed and turned his head in Emry's direction. He still trembled, but the cramping of his muscles had lessened.

"Your friend Porthos left here yesterday morning… I figure he either didn't find your friends or he's still looking for them — either way — it isn't good." Emry scratched the tip of his nose with the fat of his thumb and said, "I didn't want either of you here… not with the problems we're facing…" He cleared his throat. "There's a group of criminals making their way across the valley. They're forcing farmers, business owners, and even a few of the nobles to pay a price for protection or," he shrugged, "they burning us out, stealing, and taking what doesn't belong to them."

Emry looked at the fire and then bit the inside of his bottom lip. "I took the money you had in your coin-purse." He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not proud of it, but if it's enough to cover what they're asking for —"

"Are… they here now?" Athos asked. He coughed once to clear his dry throat, but winced, and swallowed. He gripped the edge of the mattress and grimaced at his discomfort. His hair was a mess, heavy and thick. Blood was still caked within a few strands, and his right temple continued to pound.

"No… but I expect them any time — they said as much when they visited a few days ago — before you and your friend arrived."

Athos tentatively raised a hand to his brow and cupped his forehead. "Who is the landowner?"

"I am," Emry said. "I earned this land outright."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Emry cleared his throat, looked at the door, and then at the fire before he said, "I'm going to do everything I can to protect my family. Everything… I told my wife last night that I'll give them all the money I've got, every piece of jewelry I own… and if they want a musketeer…" he looked at Athos, "I'll give them that too." His voice grew shaky, but held strong. "Whoever these… these men are," he paused, "they're getting more violent, more destructive, and a lot more bold. I don't want to believe they'll hurt us, but," he took a deep breath and sighed slowly, "with you here… they might. Given your…" he paused, "current condition, I know you can't ride out of here… but I can't protect my family and you —"

"I would never expect you to," Athos said abruptly.

"I'm glad you see it that way, but like I said… if they find you here —"

"Why haven't you left with your family?" Athos turned toward him.

Emry paused and thought about the discussions with his wife. The challenges they would face if they left, the challenges they would face if they stayed. "Where would we go? What would we do? Everything we have is here… this is our land, our farm… it's the only legacy my children have. I will not depart this world not having left them something." He rubbed his hands and felt the calluses along his fingers from working his fields. "It might be different for someone like yourself… but we can't walk away. It's better to die a man than live as a coward."

Athos nodded. "You're a good man, Emry." He wouldn't challenge a father's beliefs, not when everything he had was under threat. He tentatively reached for the wall as he leaned to his right. Once his fingers touched the surface of the rough wood, he slowly pushed himself to his feet and used the wall to steady himself. He stood on legs that trembled and shook as he felt along the cracks, the seams, and the knots in the wood.

"Where are you going?" Emry asked.

"To piss, if you must know," Athos said, and stopped suddenly when he felt the leather of his doublet, the firm structure of the pauldron, and the steel of his blade within his belt.

Emry nodded, and then rubbed his thighs as he stood. He then walked to stand beside Athos. "I'll take you to a tree." He grasped Athos' arm and then guided his hand toward his shoulder. "Hold steady."

Athos increased his grip and slowly followed Emry from the barn. His steps were slow, unbalanced, and uncertain. He stumbled once when he struck a stone with the toe of his boot. Despite being chilled, the fresh air felt cold against him, and goosebumps were quick to form along his skin. He could smell the pine trees and the subtle hint of onions.

Emry stopped when out of sight of the house. He grasped Athos' hand from his shoulder and guided it to the tree. "Let me know when you're done."

Athos said, "Thank you."

Emry turned, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked toward the land he was clearing. The logs that had been piled and would eventually be used for firewood and an extension to his home. The ground was still rough, covered with stumps, stones, weeds, and mounds of uneven dirt. "I hope you can understand my position, but my family comes first. My girls are all I have left — twins, they look," he chuckled, "identical to one another. Now that they're old enough," he quirked a knowing and understanding smile when Athos sighed in relief, "they like to tease us, me and Eve… The only way we can tell them apart is that Hope is quieter than her sister…"

Athos buttoned his britches, leaned against the tree, and rested his forehead against the rough bark. He heard the words Emry spoke, but he was having a difficult time comprehending them. His body and mind fought through the confusion, the exhaustion, and the overly familiar aches that cursed him. Athos felt a hand on his shoulder, and he slowly pushed himself away from the tree and nodded.

"Let's get you back," Emry said and felt Athos run his fingers up his arm and then gently grasp his shoulder.

They walked back to the barn. Emry watched for stones, broken branches, and holes, while Athos slowly followed.

"Monsieur Athos," Eve said. A look of relief on her face. "It's good to see you up and walking." She looked at Emry and quirked a smile. She held a tray of food covered with a linen cloth. "I've brought you something to eat." She said and then followed them both.

Athos heard the oilskin pushed aside, and then he followed Emry into the room. He placed his hand against the wall and brushed it past his doublet, which he grabbed and carried with him to the cot. He stumbled forward, when he hit the edge of the mattress with his shins, and then awkwardly seated himself.

It was an unusual feeling, using his hands to guide him while surrounded in darkness. He had — at times — stumbled to his quarters, too drunk to see, but it wasn't the same. And he hadn't focused on what he couldn't see, but instead on what he couldn't forget, no matter the amount of wine consumed. This was different. He could hear, feel, and while his sense of smell was still off as the congestion continued, there was a loss of self that he struggled to manage. Having spent the past few days consumed with pain so severe, he couldn't bring himself to move, and now, while the severity has lessened, it still hung like a dark shadow that threatened to consume him. He held strong, clenched his jaw and focused on the next few minutes, not the next few days. At the moment, he couldn't bear the thought of thinking that far ahead. There were too many risks, too many unknowns, and there was too much at stake.

Eve grabbed the stool, rested the tray atop it, and then grasped Athos' hand and guided it toward the bowl of hot soup, the bread, and the sliced apples. "I'll make you more tea… it seems to be helping."

Athos nodded and said quietly, "Thank you." He clutched at his doublet and ran his hand along the embossed leather pauldron.

"Of course," Eve said and walked to the exit.

Emry cleared his throat and said, "I'll keep an eye out for your friends — hopefully…" he paused, "they'll be here soon."

Athos forced his lips upward to appease them, and then listened when their feet scuffed the dirt floor and the cloth was again draped closed. A chicken squawked. He could hear their voices fade in the distance while they walked to the house. The horses stomped their hooves and snorted. They ate their hay and scraped their lips against the bottom of their grain buckets. The winds shifted and a few branches tapped the sides of the barn.

Athos focused his attention on the pauldron, the scared leather beneath his fingers, and he tried to remember the incidents that caused the damage. Seven years was a long time, but it seemed like yesterday when he joined the Musketeers. The desire to abandon everything he had, to become everything he had wanted. Athos rubbed his eyes, focused his attention, but failed to see the light of the fire, the shifting of shadows, and the light of the sun through the window. He still felt congested, and the headache behind his eyes continued to curse him. He caught the long scar on the edge of the pauldron with the edge of his thumbnail and paused. He allowed himself time to reflect, and then felt the heartache and fear that followed.

What good was a blind musketeer?

Athos leaned forward, rested his elbow on his knee and cupped his forehead. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and placed the palm of his other hand over the fleur-de-lis. He wasn't ready to face his life in the past tense. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to his brothers, his captain, his king. Athos wasn't ready for the images of their faces to fade; Porthos' look of embarrassment when caught cheating; Aramis' grin when he looked at a beautiful woman; D'Artagnan's look of question when plans were set in place and carried with them uncertain outcomes. Athos closed his eyes. He wasn't ready to hang up his sword forever.

He simply wasn't ready.

Athos swallowed, felt his heart ache and his chest tighten. He wouldn't be a burden to anyone. He wouldn't allow himself to be. Athos would simply be another casualty. Another soldier, unable to fulfill his duties, pushed aside for someone better fit. Perhaps his father had been right. His duty had been to his lands, his people, and his position. After all, a blind Comte was still a Comte. But a blind musketeer wasn't anything to anyone. Athos clutched tighter at the pauldron, felt the stiffness of the leather, and agonized over the life he had abandoned for the life he had wanted.

The life he had wanted and had the privilege of living was slipping between his fingers.

And he couldn't stop it.

The sudden hitch of his breath forced him to grimace, and he rubbed his eyes angrily. He felt an overwhelming sense of loss, of loneliness, and grief. And he couldn't share it with anyone. He wanted to drink… to lose himself in wine, brandy, and ale. He wanted to forget how much he loved being a musketeer, how much he loved the camaraderie of companionship with brothers, and how much he loved defending what he believed in. He had always been a soldier… even as a boy the passion and drive was obvious to those who knew him best. There was a part of him that believed his father knew… he hoped his father knew, and he hoped his father would have accepted him for the man he had become.

Athos reached for the tray and accidentally knocked it from the stool. The soup bowl hit the dirt and splattered its contents across the stone fireplace, and it sizzled where it landed. The bread lay on the dirt floor with the apples. Frustrated, Athos grabbed his doublet and tossed it against the wall at the foot of his cot. He wanted to blame someone, to shout at someone, to make someone else feel the loss he was feeling. Athos rested his elbows on his knees, and spreading his fingers wide, slipped them through his hair. He felt his back muscles protest when they stretched and protested at the abuse. He lowered his hands and then felt them shake and tremble. The pain had become a consistent, though not as severe as it had been, but the constant reminder and exhaustion continued to curse him.

The oiled canvas was pushed aside once more and Athos raised his head as Eve entered.

"You spilled your soup," she said softly. "I'll fetch you some more." She walked toward him, and then gently touched his hand and placed a cup within his curved fingers. "It's tea —"

"Will it make me sleep?" Athos asked.

Eve winced and said, "No, and I'm sorry about that, but you were in so much pain I thought it would be best for you — even if it was for a short time."

"I had dreams," Athos said and then heard Eve scuff her feet.

"Bad dreams?"

"Memories…" Athos said and then turned his head toward the floor. "Mostly memories."

"Belladonna can do that… it's a powerful herb and sometimes," she took a deep breath, "it can be unpredictable."

Athos nodded. He raised the cup to his nose and sniffed. "What is in it… the tea?"

"Burdock, comfrey, lavender, and honey," she said and then squatted to pick up the bowl, the spoon, and the bread. "My mother used roses… but I find the lavender isn't as pungent or as bitter."

Athos curled his lips and then sipped at the tea.

"I'll get you some more soup… you need to eat to get your strength back."