Chapter Text
Athos has been in the stables since supper, walking Roger in circles. Porthos is glad he was not there for the moment of discovery, to see the look on Athos’s face when he would have entered to see the stricken horse covered in hay and exhausted from rolling, sweating, shaking from the colic; to see Athos press his ear to his side and hear nothing. It might, as so much does about Athos, have driven him to tears.
By midnight, Athos has discarded his doublet, tossing it over the stall door as they pace round and round; when Porthos stumbles yawning out of the barracks into the courtyard the next morning the doublet remains but man and beast are gone, and, from the look on Aramis’s face, he knows that he, too, fears the worst.
They have to ask around for nearly an hour before they find their way out of the city gates, and see Roger ambling through a farmer’s fallow field, clearly tired but upright and swishing his tail nonchalantly at flies, his twisted insides cleared by the fresh grass and constant movement. Athos is curled up asleep in the meadow, hat over his face, and for a long time, Porthos and Aramis are content to just sit and keep watch. Treville may not appreciate their absence, but he will, they know, understand.