Chapter 61

Resting on one knee, Porthos tossed a log into the fire and felt the heat against his face. He leaned back when sparks billowed in combination with smoke and he waved his hand in front of his face. He looked through the flames at Athos, who continued to sit with his back to a boulder and the blanket of his bedroll wrapped around his shoulders.

"Are you sure you're feelin' all right?" Porthos asked and shifted himself to his haunches. He glanced at Aramis, who looked at Athos, who nodded.

"I'm fine," Athos said and raised his eyebrows.

Aramis nodded, recognizing Athos' exhaustion, and chewed on a piece of hard bread. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, "It will get better… You just need to rest and get your strength back."

Athos stared at the flames.

Porthos looked down, pulled back the sleeve of his blouse, and tightened his fist. It was still tender, but the black and blue bruising had started to morph into colors of greens and yellows. He stood, grabbed his saddlebag, and removed his water-bag. He handed it to Athos and said, "Eve was kind enough to send us with some wine." He smiled and then chuckled when Athos' eyes lit up.

Athos tossed the water from his cup and then removed the cap and poured himself a healthy amount. He handed the bag back to Porthos and then watched him take a drink.

"It's not bad," Porthos said. "Honey an'…" he frowned and smacked his lips together, "grapes — sour grapes." He handed the bag to Aramis. He watched the fire burn and then searched for a large, flat stone.

The water of the Allier River gently slapped the bank. The sun had set, and the water glistened beneath the moon's glow. The horses grazed on the grass near the bank. All three swished their tails at flies and snorted when sprigs of grass tickled their muzzles. The fire warmed Athos' legs, and he shifted back against the boulder. He sipped, tested the flavor of the wine, and then took a healthy drink.

"I'm hungry an' dried bread an' fruit will not be enough," Porthos said as he cleaned a large stone, wiped away the dirt, moss, and sand and then rinsed it in the river. He placed it next to the heat of the fire and then wiped wet hands on his thighs. He wasn't nearly as good a forager d'Artagnan. The young man's years on the farm had given him the gift of finding food when none was available. Porthos wasn't nearly the angler that Aramis was, he simply didn't have the patience, and Aramis didn't have the stamina, not yet. He too, was still healing. Instead, Porthos grabbed his musket, loaded it, and then looked at Athos, who looked at him curiously.

Porthos was, however, an excellent hunter.

"I saw some roe deer crossin' the path earlier… I'm goin' to see if I can," he raised his weapon, "find one. I'm hungry… an' bread an' fruit isn't goin' to get me back to Paris." He turned to walk away. "I need some meat!"

Aramis curled the right side of his mouth into a half-smile. "I'll keep the fire going."

Porthos nodded, adjusted his grip on his weapon, and turned to walk along the river.

Athos watched him go, took another sip of wine, and then rested his head against the boulder. The subtle pain behind his eyes lingered, his muscles still ached, but the cramping and tremors had stopped. His hands still shook, but he only noticed it when he grew overly tired. It was frustrating, his lack of energy, tiring easily, and feeling weak when he needed to be strong. He had moments of strength, but then slowly, the exhaustion crept in.

Athos ran his fingers through his hair, felt the strands that clung together, and looked toward the water. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, abandoned his cup of wine and allowed the blanket to fall onto his bedroll.

"Where are you going?" Aramis asked.

"To bathe," Athos replied. He unbuttoned his doublet, placed it beside his weapons belt, and then kicked off his boots. Athos pulled off his socks, removed his britches, and then walked to the water. Despite the warmth, he still felt chilled as sand slipped between his toes. He looked across the water, the wavy surface that reflected the light of the moon. Athos pulled off his blouse, slipped out of his braies, and tossed them onto a boulder and then entered the water. He allowed himself a moment to feel the chill against his skin, and then he disappeared below the surface. He held his breath, allowed himself a moment of solitude, and then stood. He ran his fingers through his hair, felt the scabbing near his temple, and then rinsed the dried blood from the strands. He rubbed his face, focused on his eyes, his nose and mouth, and then scratched at his beard and mustache. Athos allowed the water to slap against him, roll over his shoulders, around his neck, and relax abused muscles.

A flock of birds flew from the trees behind him. Squirrels chattered and scampered across branches, causing them to bounce and the leaves to flutter. He ran his hands over his arms, scrubbed beneath his armpits, his thighs, and sank beneath the surface once more and held his breath. He could hear his heart beating, felt his blood through his veins, and the dulled sounds of the water moving. Athos exhaled as he broke the surface. He wrung as much water as he could from his hair and felt the chill in his bones that forced him to return to the bank. He slipped back into his braies, his blouse, and then walk toward the fire where he dressed.

Aramis chuckled and said, "Do you feel better? Because you look better."

Athos pushed his arms through the sleeves of his doublet, heard the subtle pats of water droplets land on his shoulders, and then stood next to the fire and allowed it to warm him. "I do."

Aramis raised his eyebrows and nodded.

They both looked up when they heard the firing of the musket. The horses raised their heads, perked their ears forward, and craned their necks in the direction Porthos had walked. Athos grabbed another log and placed it on the fire. He dusted his hands, ran his fingers through his wet hair once more, and then retook his seat. He placed his forearms on raised knees and watched the flames dance and consume the wood while smoke filtered in the direction of the breeze. The heat felt good across his face, his arms, and his legs.

"Why allow us to live?" Athos asked. With a sigh of frustration, he rubbed his forehead.

Aramis stood, dusted his backside, and then walked to Athos. With his eyebrows raised, a look of concern, and his hand held outward, he said, "Let me check." When Athos nodded, Aramis placed his palm on his forehead, and nodded. "The fever hasn't returned."

"I could have told you that."

Aramis cleared his throat and then retook his seat. "You think they allowed us to survive?"

"We should be dead, Aramis," Athos said with more conviction than he planned. "It felt like I was dying."

Aramis swallowed, shifted uncomfortably, and then grabbed a twig and rolled it between his thumb and finger. "I wanted to," he admitted. "I've never felt pain like that." He looked Athos in the eyes. "I never want to again."

Athos heard the rustling of twigs, branches, and leaves crunching beneath Porthos' feet. He returned to camp with a deer slung over his right shoulder. He smiled in satisfaction, tossed the carcass from his shoulder, and then rested his musket against the trunk of a tree.

"We're 'avin' more 'an bread tonight," Porthos said with a hearty chuckle. "He's a small one, but enough to feed us tonight an' in the mornin'." He smiled and said, "Me at least."

His actions of cleaning, skinning, and prepping the meat were familiar, calculated, and expertly done. What wasn't used was tossed aside and left for scavengers. The meat was cut, speared, and then roasted over the fire. Several thin slices were placed on the flat stone to cook and dry. Porthos used his old, hammered cup to mix the seasoning with wine and then basted the meat while it sizzled and dripped.

Athos watched, despite heavy eyelids, and muscles that craved sleep. He leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest, and asked, "Who taught you to cook?" He watched Porthos tend the meat, carefully season it, and take pride in his ability. It was a question Athos had never thought to ask. He had seen Porthos perform the task for several years and had enjoyed his skill, but now, while the world around him slowed, he thought about the more mundane tasks of daily life. He thought about the way they worked together, each bringing their own strengths to their partnerships for the greater good. It was a privilege, Athos looked at both Porthos and Aramis, working alongside and sometimes leading these men… these brothers. Brothers that he nearly lost.

Porthos scratched the back of his neck. Cooking had been a passion, rarely performed except for nights when they weren't in a hurry, when they had time to enjoy each other's company, and talk over an open flame. Nights when they weren't being chased by the enemy, or chasing someone, or completing duties that took their time. Porthos swallowed, looked at Athos, glanced at Aramis, and then looked toward the dark horizon. He took a long sip of wine, tossed the bag toward Athos, and said, "Have another drink."

Athos quirked an eyebrow, poured himself more wine, and tossed the bag to Aramis, who reached for it. Porthos' past was as dark and hidden as Athos' own, if not darker. But he watched Porthos find a comfortable position near the fire that would allow him to tend the meat while not overheating. Porthos took another drink, listened to the sounds of the water hit the bank. The leaves on the trees fluttered as the squirrels and birds moved within the branches, and then he cleared his throat.

"You remember a few days ago…" Porthos said and looked through the flames at Athos. "I was tellin' you about a man who was known to get what 'e wanted by usin' the weak… the poor," he paused, "the vulnerable."

Athos nodded. He kept quiet, allowing Porthos the time he needed to tell his story. Giving him the grace he needed to share a part of his past.

Porthos took another sip of wine, applied more seasoning to the meat, and said, "His mother was a woman we called Loddy… she wasn't any bigger 'an my finger," he said fondly. He rubbed unconsciously at his thumb and then returned to basting the meat. "Loddy was that man's mother… I think she knew what 'e was doin', an' I think she tried to stop 'im, but," he winced and looked toward a hot coal that fell from the log and landed next to the stones encasing the fire, "she couldn't. Some of us kids would look to 'er for 'elp… she'd darn our clothes, cook for us when food was to be had… she showed us 'ow to survive." He frowned, rubbed his temple, and then rested his elbows on his knees as he sat before the fire. He watched the heat of the flames cook the meat, tighten the flesh, and moisture dripped into the fire. Porthos once again wiped more seasoned wine over the venison. "She showed us 'ow to care for ourselves… said it was just as important for the boys to learn as it was for the girls."

Memories stung like a bee sting. For a moment that was all he could think about, flashes of his history that entwined, overlapped, and folded together. Some were painful, others were joyous.

"Her son…" Porthos rubbed his face, "her son liked to use us kids to do 'is dirty work. He taught some of us 'ow to snatch coin purses… 'ow to cheat," he looked at Athos in the eyes, and raised his eyebrows with a shrug, "he even taught a few of us 'ow to do things I'd rather not think on." He watched Athos shift uncomfortably, and said quickly, "I was too big. Hell," he paused and took a deep breath, "I was bigger 'an most of the older kids. I was meaner an' I wasn't afraid of fightin' anyone — 'e used me for that." Porthos wiped his lips with the flat of his thumb and rubbed the back of his neck. He stopped talking and just listened to the crackling of the fire, the shifting of coals, and the sizzling of meat as it cooked. Then, unexpectedly, he said, "When Loddy found out about it… found out I was fightin' she went to 'er son an' told 'im to stop."

Porthos stopped suddenly, as though the memories were just too much, too raw, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and just listened the sounds around him. Aramis sat quietly, understanding the complexity of Porthos' story, and knowing he just needed time to speak as memories flooded.

"After my mother died…" Porthos took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, "I didn't 'ave anyone else… not until Loddy." There was a faraway look in his eyes, a moment of reflection and grief that was still raw as he spoke and shared a piece of himself with the men he loved like brothers. "He killed 'er for defendin' us." He looked up quickly, and then busied himself with the seasoning. "Then I killed 'im."

Athos relaxed his jaw, exhaled slowly, and watched Porthos shift, tend his cooking and contemplate his next words. It was a piece of his past that helped define the man he had become. A piece that forced him to look up instead of down.

"I left the Court after that… I wasn't goin' to spend my life 'idin' in the shadows. I joined an army regiment, learned 'ow to ride, 'ow to fight proper… met Aramis," he smiled, "an' 'ere I sit."

"A musketeer," Athos said.

Porthos raised the bag of wine. "A musketeer."