Once again, everyone, thank you! If you're still with me on this journey, congratulations, we're nearing the end (we have a few more chapters to go yet). If you're new and just starting this journey... hopefully, it will keep you entertained! This was a challenging one for me to explore but it's turned out to be one of my favorites. Thank you everyone who has dropped me a line, I really to appreciate the feedback!

Onward we go...

Chapter 50

The fire blazed. Wood crumbled, split, and hot coals tumbled from the pile as it was consumed. Porthos continued to feed its wrath and watched pieces of ash fly upward and disappear within the branches of the tree. The fire's glow reflected off the surroundings and highlighted the coarse texture of bark, stones and the weeds that were slowly coming back to life after the heavy rains. The winds had settled, and the night had turned peaceful, and even the moon had appeared briefly before once again disappearing behind the cover of clouds.

Aramis sat with his forearms on spread knees. He twisted a broken twig and despite the frail wood beneath the outer layer; it held tight and stretched with each twist and turn. He looked at Athos while he slept, laying on his side with his head propped upon a blanket. Aramis then looked at Porthos who remained vigilant and refused to rest. He wouldn't, not until he knew things would return to normal, until things returned to how they were before.

Change was a part of life. They all knew that one day they might part ways as their lives took different roads. Whether it was due to war, to family, or to the king's whims. Life would eventually force them to shift from young soldiers to whatever God had planned. Aramis hated thinking about it, but he had seen and watched good friends fade away when paths changed.

Shadows danced with the movement of the flames and caused each of their features to exaggerate, soften, and then suddenly become harsh. They hadn't eaten, and what little water they had, they saved for Athos, just in case it was needed. He was fortunate, Aramis surmised, the beating could have been much worse. Though he wouldn't call himself a skilled physician, he knew enough, and from what he had just spent days recovering from, he knew Athos would need more time to recover. Aramis knew and sympathized with sore muscles, and physical exhaustion that hit him harder than he'd ever experienced before. And his desperate need and want for rest still plagued him, but he fought through it, and he would continue to until they returned to Paris. Then he would rest, but until then, he would do his best to fulfill the king's request and protect his brothers.

Not only was Athos recovering from the poison, he was also healing from the wound to his head and the beating delivered by the young, heartless, fool of a man out of his head with anger and frustration. Who else would beat on a man already down? Lucas was a fool, a disgrace, and a child in a man's body. Thankfully, Athos bore no broken ribs. He just needed rest, good food, and plenty of water. His body would do the rest — as long as he allowed it. There was little Aramis could do for him, other than wait.

Porthos wanted to return to the farm. He wanted access to a cot — not for him, but for Athos — he wanted lanterns and candles, food, and the warmth of a fire beneath the cover of a roof. He ran his thumb over his knuckles and felt his leather-tough skin. His hands were more suited for fighting. He then looked at his palm and picked at a callus on the thick pads below his fingers, and along the curve of his thumb. Sparring, horseback riding, firing and cleaning weapons, and working long hours had built his body into what he needed it to be. His hands had changed over time, and those areas that were at one time sensitive could now protect the areas most sensitive. He suddenly pulled on a loose cuticle and pulled it from his thumbnail. He tossed it aside and looked at Athos before he looked at Aramis.

"Have you ever thought about your life beyond the musketeers?" Porthos asked. He clenched his jaw and then tossed a twig into the fire. He watched it slowly heat, and then curl and twist before it was consumed. "About marryin' a good woman… maybe even havin' a few children."

Aramis swallowed. What could he say? He loved a woman he could not have and bore with her a son he could not claim. "I think about it all the time," he said sadly. He shifted, leaned back, and kicked his feet out before him. His chest hurt as he spoke, but in his usual fashion, he spoke around his situation, never acknowledging it. It was a habit they all shared, a masculine trait they would never acknowledge, but embraced. "I'd make a good father… perhaps not such a good husband," he said. Raising an eyebrow, he quirked his mouth into a sly grin. "I'd teach my boys to defend their sisters and my daughters how to find good husbands… Husbands who will treat them like queens."

Porthos chuckled, tossed another twig into the fire and said, "An' just 'ow many children are you plannin' to 'ave?"

"As many as God will allow," Aramis replied with a genuine smile. "How about you? How many children do you want crawling at your feet?"

"Ten," Porthos said confidently. "It's a solid number."

Aramis nodded. "Let me guess… five boys and five girls?"

Porthos shrugged, picked up another twig and snapped it in two before he replied, "I just want them healthy an' strong."

"Like their father?"

Porthos looked at Aramis and nodded, and then looked at Athos, who continued to sleep seemingly soundly. "My mother gave her life so I could have one," he said. "I won't let that legacy die with me." He tossed the twig into the fire. "Treville knows something about my past that he's not saying…"

"If he does… give him time," Aramis said. "You know Treville," he paused, "he has to over think even the most simple tasks."

"Like retrievin' gold lace an' sapphires?"

"I wish he had over thought this mission… Maybe he would have kept us all together."

Porthos shook his head and said, "If the poison was in the wine like you mentioned," he winced, and tilted his head toward Athos, "he would have out drank us all."

Aramis nodded, and then slowly got to his feet. He knelt on one knee beside Athos and pressed a hand to his forehead. "He's feverish," he said with a frown, and then leaned back onto his haunches.

Porthos rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. "I'll ready the horses," he said and stood. "We've got enough oiled jute to make at least one more torch." He looked toward the horizon. "An' it should be dawn soon."

Aramis, with his elbow on his knee, he cupped his chin and rubbed his cheek. He grasped Athos' arm and gently shook him. "Brother," he said and then cleared his throat. "We need to get you back to the farm."

Athos groaned, lazily rubbed his eyes, and then rolled onto his back. "Is it morning?"

Aramis winced. "No. Not yet. Is your head still causing you pain?"

Athos nodded, and then painfully sat up with Aramis' help. He paused, took several deep breaths, and swallowed several times as his mouth suddenly watered.

"Move slowly," Aramis said. He poured some water into his hammered cup and added more ginger. "Sip on this." He placed it into Athos' palm and then gripped his shoulder. "We'll get you back to the farm and into a bed. You need to be off this wet ground." He stood, packed up his supplies, and then tied them to the saddle.

Porthos wrapped the jute around a thick branch and then lowered it to the fire. It ignited and Porthos handed the torch to Aramis, kicked dirt over the fire, and then turned toward Athos. "Are you ready?"

Athos nodded once, and said, "Yes." His voice was low, gruff… defeated.

Porthos watched Athos finish the water, and then awkwardly try to stand. Porthos slipped a firm hand beneath Athos' arm and stood beside him as he regained his balance. He swallowed as Athos ran his fingers up Porthos' arm and grasped a handful of leather.

Porthos walked slowly. He looked Aramis in the eyes and ground his teeth when he looked away. Athos struggled, stumbled on several occasions, and relied on Porthos to guide him through the maze of broken branches, stones, and roots.

Aramis watched Athos struggle, the uncertainty of his steps, and the tension on his face. There was a twisting in Aramis' gut that forced his heart to clench and anger to fester. He had no one to blame, no one to focus his anger at, and there wasn't anyone willing to answer the multitude of questions he had. Aramis' healing ability was limited, and he was better skilled at battlefield injuries, musket balls, and wounds caused by blades. This was something different, unfamiliar, and puzzling. He heard Athos mention sitting behind the cantle, but Porthos argued by simply telling him no. It would be easier to catch him should he fall, and Athos was in no condition to argue.

With Porthos' help, Athos mounted and sat in the saddle and leaned forward. Porthos sat behind the cantle and grabbed the reins. Athos leaned forward, wiped his brow, and then spit as his stomach and head protested at the movement.

Aramis rode his horse beside Porthos and raised the torch higher to get a better view of Athos, who, despite the glow of the orange flame, looked to have paled. He looked at Porthos and said, "If he has trouble —"

"I'll let you know." Porthos nudged his horse onward. "Let's just get back to the farm."