Chapter Text
Two days later, the garrison yard stood loud with preparation.
Horses stamped and snorted, voices rose and fell, steel rang against steel. Packs were checked and rechecked, orders barked and repeated. Laughter broke through in bursts as though the noise itself might keep unease at bay.
Athos swung into the saddle. The weight of his coat settled onto his shoulders; beneath it, in the inner pocket, the arrow hairpin rested safely against his chest.
Tréville approached and stopped before Athos. His gaze took him in with a frankness that needed no ornament.
“Captain,” he said simply. Then he turned toward the others beside him. “Gentlemen.”
Athos inclined his head. “Minister.”
“For France,” Tréville said with a short nod.
“For France,” Athos echoed.
Everything else that passed between them — four soldiers and their old Captain at a parting no one wanted — could not be put into words.
At last, Tréville stepped to the side, still watching them.
Porthos leaned across his saddle and grinned. “Well,” he said, loud enough for half the yard to hear, “if we’re riding to our deaths, I’m pleased to see we’re doing it with some dignity.”
Aramis adjusted his reins with care. “Do try not to disgrace yourself immediately,” he replied. “It would reflect poorly on the rest of us.”
D’Artagnan laughed. “I give him an hour in battle before he does something rash,” he said. “Two, if he’s really careful.”
Porthos scoffed. “You wound me.”
Athos glanced back once at the garrison: the stone walls, the open gates, the courtyard. The place that had held them together and was now releasing them to whatever world waited beyond.
Aramis followed his gaze and waited until it landed back on him. “All for one,” he simply said.
Athos tilted his head, his lips curving into a smile. He looked at each of them in turn. “And one for all.”
Then he set his shoulders and faced ahead.
“Forward,” he said.
The Musketeers rode to war.