The Man Who Loved France
Feron's pale and sickly face was no act, his delusions were not what corrupted his appearance. Yet for all his monstrous affectations, he was the king's brother. For everything, he was loved by Louis. He was favored. He was needed by Treville's king during this time of crisis. Of war. Of dying.
In his remaining time, the king could not afford to lose such a confidence. The king could not afford distractions.
The king was very soon to be a six year old boy.
Feron had the right of it. A Spanish queen as regent? Their very capitol so unstable? What the king wanted and what the king needed so rarely aligned.
Breathe one word, he said. Just one.
Treville leaned towards the sickly man, not rising from his chair. "Too long ago now." His voice was quiet, nearly matching the hoarse sickness of the governor. "There was once a man who stood at the king's side, who loved France. Who loved his king."
Sweat dribbled down Feron's pain creased face. His threat had clearly not had the desired affect, but his response was still to curl his lip in a sneer. "Once? You think to tell me that you do not love your king?"
"I am not speaking of myself. I speak of a man who- God help me- I should have listened to more. For despite everything he did. He loved his king, and he loved France."
"So you have said." Feron's mockery faded. His eyes were rapt, and Treville saw his fingers tense where they curled on the arm of his chair. He was growing nervous.
"This man did things, things I disagreed with, things I still disagree with, but he did them because he loved his king. Because he loved France."
"If that is all you have to say." He tugged his fur lined cloak tighter around his body. "Then you can leave me in peace. I need my rest."
"That is not all I have to say." Treville leaned back in his chair, hands laying across the arms, and stared down at his hands. His fingers stretched out for his own examination, and he tried to recall the once familiar comfort of well worn leather gloves. Of ragged quills and simple pens for signing requisitions at the garrison. The feel of blood, and dirt, and gunpowder crushed between the creases of his skin. Soldier's hands, now resting against fine leather. Now clean, with calluses growing soft.
He moved suddenly, pulling himself up to go stand by the fire. It was too hot, in all his finery, to stay so close to the open hearth. The sick man behind him needed the heat for his ailing bones. Treville brought his hands close to the flames, fancying the flickering orange tongues belonged to the mouth of hell.
"That man did everything he could to make sure France survived."
"France will survive." Feron's words were clipped short as he struggled to take deeper breaths. "Do you think I wish to see her fall to Spain?"
Treville believed him, but that did not matter. "There were things I once believed France stood for. Things I believed the king stood for. Things that made my service to him mean something." Treville lowered his hands from the flames, and finally turned back to face the other man. He was hunched over from a coughing fit, cloak having slid down from around his shoulders.
"I realize now, that perhaps," and Treville could not help but smile, though the edges of his eyes remained creased with regret. "Perhaps it has taken me too long to realize, those ideas must be tempered. Forged. Maintained. Honed, cared for, like a fine blade."
"You- you-" Whatever Feron hoped to say, his lungs would not cooperate. His fear made his breathing too shallow, and it grated in the air.
"I love my king, Phillipe. I love my country, just as the man I spoke of did. And my love means, I will do whatever it takes to see France, and what she stands for, prevail." What France needed, and what he wanted to do, so rarely aligned.
"Guards-" He twisted in his chair, but it amounted to little more than flailing. His words would reach no one. The governor enjoyed his privacy, even in the company of those who were his enemies. Most of the Red Guard were busy with returning the prisoners anyway, and the palace guard with securing the grounds after queen had been returned.
The dagger Treville carried on his belt was a gift from Louis. Too ornate for any utilitarian purpose, it had still been intended as a reminder of the soldier he had once been. Louis' ostentatious way of saying he remembered the captain of the Musketeers who once stood by his side. He wore it because the king liked to see the gifts he gave.
When he took it from its sheath now, it was not with the hands of a soldiers, stained with battle. It was with the cleaned nails and softly perfumed wrists of a politician.
"Louis will be survived by his son, his queen. France will survive."
When he gripped the top of Feron's head, his hair seemed to crack like straw between his fingers. His eyes were watery, and bulged from his sallow face. He was an ill man, and it was not his infirmities that Treville saw. The primal, animalistic urge to survive had the sick man thrashing, but he was still weak from his earlier collapse. Treville could hold him easily enough, but dropped to his knees to bring them closer together. He pulled the governor to his chest, the ineffectual battering for freedom against his ribs like bird wings against iron bars.
"I will protect all that I love." His grip tightened on the man's hair as he forced him to look him in the eye. "Feron. Look at me, and know I will protect France."
Tangled his cloak, pulled to the floor, he still struggled until his scrambling gaze finally locked with Treville's eyes, then his body froze. He knew. He had known when his threat had not driven away his rival. He knew, but now Treville could see it reflected in his eyes. He could see himself in the dead man's eyes.
Treville trapped the dagger under Feron's chin and dragged it across his throat.