Athos shudders, thoughts of that demon still mingling with memories of his brother, the day he died, the knife in Anne’s hand dripping blood. Now that blood is on his sword; he shudders again, and coughs, and struggles to focus on the soothing sound of Aramis’ and Porthos’ words.

Thank God they are so close to home. Athos longs for a shower long enough to clean away the blood, and muck, and fear of the last two weeks off his skin; he longs for warm sheets and a familiar bed. Slowly he raises his head and wipes a hand over his eyes to clear away the wetness there. “I need a drink,” he manages to rasp. “And then you, Aramis, need to get Porthos patched up."