I don't own the musketeers
His dirt covered, calloused hands griped limply at the once polished sword that hung from his waist. His blue cloak swept the floor as he walked the dusty cobbled streets of 17th century Paris. Under the well-worn leather hat his once smooth and brown hair lay now matted and drenched in sweat from the mission he had just completed. His emotionless face never betraying the pain he was experiencing from his battered and bruised body. The only thing portraying any emotion was his eyes. Where they were once bright and full of emotion they now grew dark and showed only the torment he felt inside due to her.
