The Spaniard

by Greenlips24

Athos encounters his nemesis. This is an amalgamation of three separate chapters of my "Infirmary Talks" verse, each written over the last few years, which detail his first encounter, reunion and finally, their end game.

A/N: This is not a new story. It is an amalgamation of Chapters 1, 37 and 53 of "Infirmary Talks," each written over a few years, but forming a trilogy. I have wanted to put it together in one place for a long time, as, if I say so myself, it's one of my favourites.

oOo

THE SPANIARD

Part I

Athos and Aramis:

Pain.

Cloying heat, sweat and the smell of blood.

Questions and screams.

Darkness and shadows.

More pain.

Oblivion.

oOo

Movement - arms that encircle him; the sway of a wagon.

Pain.

Silence and soft murmurings.

The smell of tincture and salve and candle wax.

Gentle hands and hands that tear at his skin.

Heat.

Oblivion.

oOo

Fingers trace the symbol on his forehead. He does not believe in such ceremony and turns his head away.

It persists.

When he opens his eyes, he finds he is staring at his arm, which lies next to his face on the pillow. He curls his hand into a tight fist; unable yet to distinguish between anger and relief.

Lying on his side with his other arm resting on his hip seems to be the most comfortable position.

Lying on his back is definitely not an option.

"You must stay awake now, Athos," a voice insists. "It has been too long."

The voice seems far away and he ignores it.

Awake ... when all he has prayed for, for days, is sleep.

A hand takes hold of his jaw and fingers squeeze painfully; making him gasp. His eyes spring open, expecting to see The Spaniard.

Surprisingly, it is not the man whose company he has kept for the past six days.

"Stay awake now," his new tormentor persists.

Awake ... when the man who now looks at him with kind eyes is obviously the one who has drugged him into sleep.

For his own good, no doubt; he remembers the pain. He had welcomed oblivion.

"Do you know me?" the voice returns. More gentle, now that he has gotten his attention.

"You are the medic," Athos replies through cracked, sore lips.

Aramis frowns; but then he sees the faint glint in his brother's eye; waiting for a reaction.

There he is.

Aramis shakes his head and smiles, leaning forward to gently drip water into the parched mouth.

"Drink."

oOo

"The medic," Aramis muses to himself as he continues the steady drip over the next half hour.

How had that happened?

Because there had been no alternative, he knew; and his once-idle interest had turned to stark necessity. It was a burden and it was a joy. It twisted his gut and it flipped his stomach. Sometimes brutal, occasionally gentle, but when he saw the trust in their eyes, it made his heart soar and his eyes water.

Medic. He would not pass that mantle over now unless he had no choice. Unless their lives hung by a thread too thin for even his delicate fingers to hold. Fingers that would then wring themselves until the joints screamed. Until their screaming stopped; and they lived on.

There has been no time to pass the mantle this time, but Athos lives on.

Despite the Spaniard.

oOo

"Now, tell me what hurts. The Captain wants a full report."

Athos cracked an eye open and looked at him.

"I see you are considering my request. Don't be stubborn. He was with us when we found you. He is not a fool."

Later:

"How did you find me?"

"He gave you up," Aramis replied, tightly. "We were close. He made sure we saw him and then he rode off. It was the only building and he left it open."

"I don't understand it," Aramis continued, watching Athos carefully.

Athos did not answer; offering no enlightenment.

Aramis usually knew when not to pursue, but he could not help himself. It had been ... curious.

He tried a different question.

"How did you find yourself in his company?" he ventured, wringing out the cloth.

"I fell into his trap. It was most ingenious."

"You admired him?"

"No."

"What then? He obviously made an impact; in more ways than one."

Athos huffed, acknowledging the attempt at humour without a smile.

"I do not know. I will think on it."

oOo

"Do you want soup, or something to chew?"

Athos knows the tone. All business - not to be deterred.

For a long moment, he thinks and then realises an answer is required.

"I do not think my stomach would welcome either."

"When did you last eat?"

Athos considers; staring at the wall.

"I remember a full moon through a very small window."

Aramis knew the window he spoke of; the only light in the black hellhole they finally found him in.

"That was four days ago, Athos," Aramis says; his voice trailing off.

The statement hung in the air between them; one of them concerned, the other not so; all things considered.

"So," Aramis says a few moments later, when he has composed himself. "Soup or chew?"

Athos closes his eyes, wanting to be left in peace.

He lays in this enforced position with his hand over his eyes, either because of the unaccustomed light or to shut out any unwelcome presence. This morning, in wakefulness, his hand has unconsciously pushed its way up, revealing a bruise that Aramis had not seen yesterday. He puts his own hand there, pushing the swordsman's hand gently aside, to take a closer look. New bruises seem to darken his pale skin by the hour though, so he shouldn't have been surprised.

"I'll bring you that soup."

"I did not make my preference known."

"Something with vegetables!" Aramis continues brightly, realising he is still holding his friend's hair back from his forehead.

"Not onion," Aramis hears, bringing him out of his ruminations. He looks down.

"What?"

"I do not care for onion soup."

"I remember."

He removes his hand and smiles softly; turning to go.

"Shallot, then," Aramis says wickedly; escaping quickly through the door - followed by an angry growl.

As Aramis makes his way down the short corridor, his shoulders slowly straighten and his recent heavy footsteps become lighter as his heart lifts. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face and as he steps outside into the sunshine, the medic greets everyone he meets.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he is Aramis again.

oOo

"Are you in pain?" a familiar voice asks, drifting in; bringing him back through the haze and to more pain.

Everything hurts.

"No."

"Good. Can you sit up a little?"

Athos groans inwardly. He had asked for that.

"If you help, I will endeavour to do so."

By necessity, he has to open his eyes and his tormentor swims into view; stirring soup.

Putting the bowl down, he offers an arm, which Athos is obliged to grasp. He is gently levered up and a pillow is tossed behind him. It is excruciating, but technically it works remarkably well and the window opposite comes into view, though the shutters are closed; the light still being too much to deal with.

"Soup, with Serge's compliments," came the overly cheerful voice that grates and he grudgingly opens his mouth; immensely irritated that he lacks the strength to even hold the damned spoon on his own.

Oh, but that first spoonful! He knows he will never forget the taste. It floods his senses; the flavour enhanced by starvation.

He manages three spoonfuls.

"It's onion." Aramis sighs regretfully. "I know it's not your preference, but it's all Serge had. He's making you something else for later."

"I have changed my mind on it. It is ... commendable."

That seems to please Aramis and his playful mood continues.

"Did you have servants who did this for you?" he asks idly, stirring the cooling soup.

That earns him a glare, as intended. And no response, as expected.

His tormentor persists.

"You must have had help with all your finery, though? All those buttons and frills?"

Silence.

"The shoes," Athos murmurs, surprising Aramis, who nearly drops the spoon. "Mustn't forget the damned buckled shoes."

Aramis laughs.

Athos watches him, before deciding to offer more.

"When I first put on the Musketeer jacket and felt it mould to my body, I thought it the most wonderful garment I had ever worn."

"More than the brocades?" his medic taunts.

"And the velvet," Athos replies, sleepily.

"He was very patient," he suddenly says, catching Aramis unawares and darkening the mood somewhat.

"The Spaniard?"

"Hmm. I think I infuriated him."

Aramis snorts; and receives a raised eyebrow in response.

Aramis composes himself and raises the spoon once more.

"Eat."

oOo

"Sleep."

Once he was allowed to sleep, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion; allowing himself to be manhandled and manoeuvred. Only then did some semblance of calm permeate his thoughts as he was left to his own devices; waiting for that which he had so longed for.

Aramis had cleared his path, leaving him warm, his thirst quenched and his stomach full.

The creak of the chair told him he was not alone. Other sounds that reached his ears were equally familiar and comforting as life went on around him and he began to feel a part of it once more. The smell of lavender on his pillow and the light touch on his cheek were all he needed, and he finally gave himself permission to sleep.

oOo

"He was a strange type of soldier."

"Why do you say that?" Aramis responded.

"He knew his wine."

"He taunted you?"

"Somewhat."

"And the whipping?" Aramis asked gently.

"I taunted him."

oOo

"Your hands are too cold," Athos complained.

"And you are too hot."

"What a pair we are."

"You challenge me, brother," Aramis whispered, the threaded needle sinking into flayed flesh; some of his previous endeavours broken free.

"You like to learn," a whispered response, ground out through clenched jaws.

"You give me plenty of practise ..."

"I am pleased to be of service."

"Lie still."

oOo

"How did you pass the time?"

"He was very inventive. It focussed my mind."

Aramis had washed his face when they first laid him on the table. He had seen the tear tracks that traced down from the corner of his eyes into his beard.

He had washed them quickly away; feeling his own eyes sting.

oOo

"I have often wondered, what is the purpose of the rat?"

Aramis paused, caught unawares by the sudden question.

"All God's creatures have a purpose, mon ami."

"Perhaps you could ask Him the next time you converse."

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I have had occasion to study them of late and the answer eludes me."

Athos did not look at him, having strayed into territory he regretted and not wishing to invite further comment.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, which nearly undid him.

oOo

"Stop you're damned fussing."

"You don't mean that."

"You can be incredibly annoying."

"Then I will leave you in your bed with your mood and find a more congenial companion."

"You said everyone was out."

"Treville is in his office. And I believe His Eminence is in residence today.

There was a brief silence.

"Sit," Athos growled.

Aramis smiled to himself and did as he was told.

oOo

Later, when the sun had set and the shadows lengthened.

"He was persistent," Athos said, quietly, watching as the candle was lit and the flame leapt to attention.

"He realised you would give him nothing," Aramis said; firm in his belief in his dear friend.

"In the end, perhaps," Athos replied, remembering when he could no longer look up at the small window; when he could only see the floor.

Until he could see that no longer.

The rope around his neck was so short his forehead was only inches from the stone floor. Caught unaware while he was still on his knees, he had been forced down into that position and now his legs were numb and the unnatural position made his once-honed muscles scream. His bare feet scraped as he was pulled and pushed. His bound hands were now jammed against his chest, making breathing difficult.

When he felt the remnants of his shirt torn from him and the first lash across his back, he was almost relieved; fearing he would be left in this painful, impossible position. But it was for another purpose, it seemed.

As the punishment continued, he kept his forehead pressed to the floor. Any sudden movement would have led to his strangulation. The occasional crack of his head against the iron ring securing the rope only served as a welcomed distraction.

When it was over, he became aware that he was gasping in the stale air he was trying to push from his lungs; his face now pushed against the cold, wet floor. Wet from sweat and tears and the blood from the lip he appeared to have bitten through.

Boots drummed slowly past his ear and he caught a glimpse of well-kept black leather.

Again fearing he would be left in this position, he shifted back to ease his aching hips, only to feel the rope bite against the skin of his throat.

Sometime later, the rope was pulled free of its tether. The boot rested briefly, caressing his shoulder, until he was kicked sharply, sending him onto his side, still curled in on himself; his bound, numb hands tight against his chest.

He was almost grateful.

oOo

Finally, the question Aramis knew would come.

"Where is Porthos?"

Aramis paused from folding linens, holding them to his chest.

"The short answer is - he's out."

"And the long answer?"

Aramis sighed and sat heavily on the bed, smoothing the linen now lying neatly across his lap.

"He waited until you showed signs of waking, and then he set out to track your Spaniard down."

The moment stretched, as Aramis watched his friend process his words; unsure of his response. His relationship with his tormentor had been complex and Porthos was their cherished friend.

Finally, Athos spoke one word.

"Good."

Aramis relaxed and made to stand.

"And he is not my Spaniard."

oOo

"He let you live," Aramis said, but did not fully understand.

"He gave me a choice; to live or to die."

"What? What did he see in you to offer you that?"

"Something in himself, perhaps."

"A noble end for him? When your rescue was in sight?" Aramis said in disgust, pulling the blanket tighter; his head down so that Athos could not see his face.

"I did not know you were so close," Athos said quietly. "And the choice was for both of us."

"A pact?" Aramis whispered, incredulously; his voice having left him.

But Athos just stared past him.

"And you believe he would have honoured your choice, if you chose death? Would we have found two corpses, Athos!"

Athos turned his eyes on him and Aramis saw his question answered.

"You did admire him," Aramis said then.

Athos sighed.

"As one admires a predator. There is a skill in it."

Aramis shivered; seeing in his mind's eye The Spaniard watching them from the hill and then riding away.

"He did not win, Aramis," Athos murmured.

He spoke with his eyes closed, so Aramis could not read him.

"How so? You chose to live," Aramis said quietly. "And in doing so, you allowed him to live."

Athos opened his eyes and looked at him.

"And I had brought out the worst in him. He will have to live with that."

Aramis held his gaze and finally he nodded, some semblance of understanding settling on him.

"Then let us hope Porthos doesn't find him," he said quietly.

"Indeed."

Aramis took his hand.

"Too close, brother," he said, softly. "It was much too close."

"I knew you would come," Athos answered. "I just did not know what you would find."

oOo

"We should lift you up; you cannot lay on your side forever. I'll open the shutters and you can stare at the rooftops of Paris."

"We are on the ground floor and a wall encircles us."

"Use your imagination."

"You are always telling me I have none."

"Then I will teach you."

Sitting next to Athos, his legs stretched out on the blankets, Aramis leaned in close; indicating the window in front of them and waving his arm expansively.

"The rooftop there on the right, with the red tiles, is the home of Madame Beauchene. She maintains it well, as she maintains herself," he winked.

"The one to the left with the small chimney; there resides the beautiful Madame Charbonneau. Those tiles are very slippery; you have to hook your fingers underneath to get a good grip," he whispered conspiratorially, demonstrating the action in intricate detail.

"Ah, that one in the distance ..."

He chatted on happily; Athos side-glancing him occasionally and rolling his eyes when Aramis looked down at him.

The view of the blank wall would never be the same again.

oOo

Part II

REUNION

Athos knew how to compartmentalise.

He had turned it into an art. Everything he had experienced was stored in its own mental compartment. Every joy, every pain, every hurt, every hope; stored away tightly.

One of them was about to break open and threaten his careful construction, and perhaps the peace of France itself.

oOo

"His name is Morales," Treville said. "He says he has a proposition for the King from the Spanish Ambassador in Madrid."

"So why did he seek you out?" Athos enquired, as he stood before Treville's overcrowded desk.

Treville sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. He looked exhausted.

"He says he once made the acquaintance of a Musketeer, and trusts that we are honourable men. And he is sporting an injury. Aramis will treat him here and then they will to to the Palace in the morning."

"Do you believe him?" Athos said, as they moved onto the balcony, to watch their comrades spar.

"Do I have a choice?" Treville replied. "This is the first expression of a possible peace resolution for a long time. The King has agreed to hear him out and we are tasked with getting him to the Palace safely."

"Which means treating his wound."

"Yes, he and his travelling companion were set upon as they crossed into France. Morales survived with a wound to his upper arm. It is a testament to his strength of will that he was able to make his way to the nearest church, where he sent word of his mission. It is not a life-threatening wound, but needs treating."

Porthos and Aramis had set out and were currently escorting the man back.

"They are due within the hour," Treville said. "We'll keep him in one of the rooms in the infirmary, rather than the lock-up."

"That is a more honourable option," Athos smiled. "But we should put a guard on the door," he added.

"I had Poulard in mind for that duty," Treville said, looking at his Lieutenant.

Athos nodded. "I will see to it," he said quietly, as he took his leave and headed to the barracks.

oOo

Athos put the key in the lock and turned it forward and back. Assured that it worked, he passed it to Poulard, who was standing at his side.

"The Captain will want to talk to this man but first we will transfer him to this room. In the morning, he will be escorted to the Palace. Your duty is here, from the moment he enters, until the moment he leaves. Send word to me personally when you need to be relieved. Otherwise, your meals will be brought here to you."

"Aye, Sir," Poulard replied, curling his fist around the iron key.

He was a stout fellow and could be relied upon. Athos dismissed him until he was needed, took a last look around the room and strode out into the courtyard to await the man's arrival. They would show him common courtesy and ensure his safety until such time as he was handed over to the Palace Guards the following day.

A short while later, the guard on the wall let it be known that incoming riders were approaching.

To the sound of horses hooves on cobblestones, the small party made their way through the archway and into the yard. Athos removed his hat and wiped his face, as Porthos dismounted almost before his horse had stopped, taking hold of their guest's horse's reins.

"The Musketeer Garrison, Señor Morales," Aramis said as he too dismounted and waited for the man to do the same.

Athos was standing at the foot of the stairs, ready to show their guest to his room.

Morales dismounted carefully, favouring his left arm, and Aramis steadied him as his feet touched the yard. He was tall in stature, dressed entirely in black, with ornate lace at collar and cuff. His black hair was flecked with grey, but his beard was neat and devoid of any signs of age. His nose was long and thin, and his eyes hooded, giving him an imperious appearance. His recent trial was evident by the tear in his cloak and the mud on his boots, notwithstanding the gash on his upper arm, tied with a makeshift bandage that Athos recognised as Aramis's doing.

The black stallion he rode rivalled Roger in his beauty and power.

"Gracias, Musketeer," the man said, "Paris is a handsome city, it seems. I will look forward to meeting your King in the morning."

Athos suddenly tensed and the air left his lungs.

It could not be...

This could not be happening.

oOo

Athos looked up at Treville, who was still on the balcony. His Captain had no love for the Spanish, and he would see the man when he had been settled. Until then, he had tasked Athos with escorting him to his allotted room in the infirmary.

Treville nodded, and then signalled for Aramis to come to his office for his report.

Athos realised he needed to move, but his feet were suddenly numb. Aramis directed Morales over to him, but before he could introduce them, Athos turned on his heel.

"This way, Señor," he said curtly, leaving Aramis bemused by his friend's unusual lack of manners. He looked across at Porthos, who shrugged and turned the horses to lead them into the stable, as Aramis bolted up the stairs to join Treville.

oOo

Across the yard, Musketeer Poulard had seen their arrival and hurriedly fell into step behind Athos.

Also following behind Athos, Morales looked toward the building he was being led toward.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Athos did not turn. "To the infirmary, where your wound will be treated."

Athos strode on, his face set in a mask. Once inside, he led Morales to the allotted room, opened the door and waved him inside.

"Please wait in here."

Morales stepped inside, seeming glad to see a bed, where untied his cloak and sat down, drawing it around him; his back straight.

Athos stared at him for a few moments, before handing Poulard the key.

Poulard nodded and pulled the door shut.

Athos let out a breath as the man disappeared behind the locked door.

"You know your duty," he said to Poulard, before turning and walking out without a backward glance.

How he got out of that building, he had no idea. Unable to trust himself to speak, he was grateful to see that Porthos and Aramis were nowhere to be seen, as he found his way to the stable, where he sank onto a bale of hay. Holding out his hand, he saw the fine tremor coursing through it, before putting his head in his hands.

He felt trapped. This was his cross to bear. He knew that if Aramis or Porthos realised who the man was, any semblance of courtesy and honour would be lost, as would any hope of the man reaching the Palace. He found himself in the unenviable situation of protecting the man from his friends, when he did not know if he could yet protect him from himself.

The sun was shining, but the world had suddenly gone very dark.

oOo

Inside the stable, Athos was losing his battle.

The man he had thrust into the dark crevices of his mind, who only emerged when Athos was at his lowest, was a mere few feet away. Expecting courtesy and treatment.

Athos could feel his blood coursing hot in his veins. His chest heaved with the struggle to breathe, his mind screamed at the injustice of this day. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword, and he slowly raised his head; his eyes staring the white infirmary building that housed the devil of his dreams.

oOo

A little later:

On his way to see Morales and deal with his wound, Aramis was surprised when he passed Poulard in the corridor. He stopped and spun around.

"Wait. Why have you left your post?"

Poulard shifted under Aramis's stern look.

"The Lieutenant dismissed me."

"When?"

"A few moments ago."

"Your keys," Aramis said, holding out his hand.

"He took them."

Aramis turned and ran the length of the corridor and slammed into the room.

It was empty.

One of the doors at the end of the infirmary stood open; empty too.

The other was shut. There was no key in the lock.

Aramis groaned softly.

It had been locked from the inside.

Athos must have slipped into the room and locked himself in with its occupant and Aramis's fears were confirmed

He had considered Athos's demeanour since they have brought the man into the Garrison.

Now, he knew.

Morales was The Spaniard. The man who had captured and tortured Athos in a dark hell-hole of a dungeon for six days, two years ago.

Athos's nemesis.

oOo

There was no sign of Athos's weapons belt. This should have been a consolation. Morales was, of course, unarmed, save for the documents he held on his person that they had not felt inclined to remove from him. Any such action may have jeopardised his supposed offer of a treaty. Such matters were delicate. Morales had indicated he believed the Musketeers to be honourable men, and so his document remained with him.

There was the matter of his injury. He would need treatment. What was Athos's intentions? His mind flew back two years to the words spoken between them in the very room he had now locked himself in.

"He was a strange type of soldier."

"Why do you say that," Aramis had responded.

"He knew his wine."

"He taunted you?"

"Somewhat."

"And the whipping?" Aramis had asked gently.

"I taunted him."

Athos had had such acomplex relationship with the Spaniard whilst in captivity. He almost admitted admiring him. But as a predator, he later qualified. He had obviously been deeply affected by him. For all the Spaniard's intellect, the man was cruel in the extreme and Athos's back was a testament to that; and so, it seemed, his mind was, after all this time. Athos could be awkward and stubborn and had admitted goading the man. He could now only question the state of his friend's mind, confronted by him once more.

"Oh, Athos, don't do anything foolish," he whispered, looking at the closed door. "It will be the death of you; from a King you have sworn to protect."

Louis would not tolerate such an act, despite the circumstances. This was an official visit. Morale's proposal was for the King's ears only. He would be heard.

oOo

Aramis found Porthos in the stables and asked him quietly to accompany him back to the infirmary.

There, and sure they could not be overheard, he appraised him of his fears. Porthos was all for breaking down the door, but Aramis pulled him away.

"As much as I want to do that, we cannot," Aramis declared, as he began to pace. "Athos would not forgive us. We have to buy him time!"

"How do we do that?" Porthos growled.

"I'll talk to the Captain."

"What? He'll 'ave Athos dragged out and flogged!"

"You're right," Aramis said, as he stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair. "Even Treville has his limits. Stay here."

"Where are you goin'?"

"Stay here, and stay quiet. No distracting Athos into acting hastily?"

"And when has he ever done that!"

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder soberly. "There's always a first time," he said grimly, before hurrying out.

"Well, have you treated him?" Treville asked, gruffly, a few minutes later as Aramis appeared in his office, his attention half on the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

"No, not yet," Aramis replied and Treville's head snapped up, pinning him with a steely gaze.

"He was exhausted from the journey. He's asleep. I saw no reason to wake him."

Treville considered and then looked back at his paperwork.

"Alright, if you think his injury does not require immediate attention."

Aramis breathed out carefully, maintaining his nonchalant demeanour.

"I believe not, Captain. He shows no signs otherwise."

Treville nodded and reached for his pen, effectively dismissing him.

Aramis gave a small tilt of his head and turned to leave.

His hand was on the door handle when Treville spoke again.

"Send Athos up here, we have plans to make for tomorrow."

oOo

Earlier, in the infirmary, Morales had looked up as the door was unlocked.

"Are you the Musketeer medic? I was told to expect him," he asked, eyebrow arched imperiously.

When Athos did not reply, the Spaniard planted his feet in a firm stance. Suspicious when he received no response, he spoke again, his tone level.

"Then, you are here to interrogate me," he said. "I understand. I am told Musketeers are honourable, not stupid. You want to ensure I am here in good faith."

It would suffice to allow him to think that, Athos thought to himself as he took the man in.

Back then, he had not seen the Spaniard's face clearly. The dungeon was dark and his tormentor was careful. But the boots were the same finely tooled leather; the same distinctive shape. It was his voice that had confirmed it. The precise pronunciation, the tilt of the words, the taper of the sentences. Now he was certain and his world suddenly tilted, throwing him once again into the lonely void that had enveloped him two years ago.

He had not known his name, just as the man had not know his. Athos gave him nothing, apart from the knowledge he was one of the King's elite guards, gleaned from his uniform and pauldron.

He had a name now for the Spaniard he had kept company with for six agonising days.

His mental and physical abuser now stood arrogantly before him.

Athos carefully closed and locked the door.

oOo

Athos slowly removed his weapons belt and placed it on the end of the bed.

"Have you met many Musketeers, Señor Morales?" he asked finally, his voice low.

Morales removed his cloak and threw it on a nearby chair, before he replied.

"Some," he replied.

"And do any of those men," Athos said, carefully, "remain in your mind?"

Morales watched him.

"No, not in particular."

That was not what Athos wanted to hear.

"Although," Morales added, considering him, "Now that I think of it, one stays with me."

Athos did not reply, as they contemplated each other.

With a smile that turned Athos's stomach, Morales leaned forward. "I am toying with you. I remembered you the moment I saw you outside. We made a pact, you and I, as I remember," Morales said softly, standing and walking toward Athos.

"You offered me life or death,"Athos replied, his eyes never leaving Morales's face. "I chose to live."

"And by that choice, I lived too," Morales replied. "But that was your intention, was it not, Musketeer?" he added tilting his head. "For me to live with my debasement, brought about by your hand."

"I am Athos."

Morales laughed. "You seek to humanise this "relationship?" he sneered. "It is a little late for that, Señor!"

Morales patted his doublet. His hands were small, Athos saw, the nails neat and square.

"I have here, the first steps to a compromise between our two countries. I warn you now, be careful."

His meaning was clear. Kill me, kill the possible peace solution.

"You think I want to kill you?" Athos asked quietly, his eyes moving from Morales's hands to his face.

"Why would you not? Plenty do." Morales stared at him with black soulless eyes, devoid of emotion.

Athos bore his gaze.

"Ah, you wish to understand me," the Spaniard sneered. "You think that that dungeon was my world. You think me devoid of art, and culture. And love."

"I have no desire to understand you, Señor," Athos replied tersely.

"Oh, but of course you do, Musketeer. Why else would you be here!" Morales laughed.

Athos had not moved, his back pressed to the door, but now the Spaniard walked toward him and the sound of his boots echoing on the stone flagstones brought a wave of nausea to his stomach. It was one of the memories he had attempted to bury. Sometimes, those black leather boots had been the very limit of his vision.

"You are a soldier, Musketeer," Morales continued. "No doubt you bear many scars," he said, each word precisely and slowly enunciated, as Athos remembered. "I too bear scars," he continued. "One of them stands before me," he waved his hand loosely at Athos.

"I remember every man I tortured. I recognised you the moment I saw you outside. It took you a little longer. Now, you want to meet the monster once more. Perhaps I wanted to as well."

"You think me a monster because I survived?"

"Many survived. Many defied me, initially," Morales said. "But no-one willed me on. No-one infuriated me to such a degree; inspired me to debase myself. Until you."

He was too close now, but Athos had nowhere to go. Thankfully, Morales spun around and walked away, but his next words were brutal.

"I wonder still, Musketeer, did some part of you relish the whip? Perhaps that is the monster in you."

"It was my duty to survive."

"Of course it was. And what of my duty?"

"Your duty was to torment."

"It was," Morales agreed. "And you carry my scars on your back. But I carry your mark too. That was your intention, was it not? To torment your tormentor?

"You and I," he added, "Are one and the same."

"No, Sir," Athos's voice was deadly, "We are not."

"Both of noble birth. You think I do not recognise it? Both bound to our King. Both trained in our particular brutal field? Both suppressing our true emotions and willing to risk limb, life and sanity for, what, I wonder? The vanity of our rulers?"

"You speak treason," Athos growled.

"If you like."

"And did you relish delivering your punishments?" Athos asked, before he could stop himself.

"Oh, sometimes, I confess, I did.

"I have great experience in taking men apart," Morales said, watching him. "Fortunately, I do not have to put them back together," he smiled, before leaning forward.

"War makes monster of men, Musketeer, despite their intentions. I enjoyed the ingenuity my work afforded me. I was able to hone my skills on you, my friend. Do you remember how I took my time with you? How careful I was?

"Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly," he said, conspiratorially.

"Plato," Athos replied, quietly.

Morales raised his eyebrow before giving Athos a flamboyant bow in acknowledgement.

"The measure of a man is what he does with power," Athos replied, pointedly staring at him.

"Plato again," Morales smiled. "Touché, as you French say."

"We are not all savages, Morales," Athos growled in answer to the slight.

"Oh, I have met many fine savages, Señor," Morales laughed. "I doubt that your dark-skinned friend is over-burdened with finesse."

"I believe," Athos ground out, "that Porthos would think it was you who lacked finesse, however much your "ingenuity" comforts you."

It was Morales' turn to stiffen; the insult hitting its mark.

"You are no philosopher, Morales," Athos stated.

Morales, though, was not finished.

"Who put you back together?" he asked, amiably. "The one who put this bandage on?"

Athos did not respond, but his hand curled into a tight fist, the blood pounding in his ears.

"I had the dark-skinned Musketeer in my sights," Morales added suddenly.

Athos remained perfectly still, though he struggled to maintain his composure. During his recovery, Athos was aware that Porthos had ridden out after the man, his desire to kill too strong to ignore, and that he had returned unfulfilled in his wish. At the time, Athos did not care, satisfied he had left his own mark on the Spaniard's psyche and too exhausted to consider it further. Relieved that Porthos had returned unharmed.

The Spaniard saw the change in Athos's breathing.

He could see that that had struck a chord. Versed in the art of reading people, he was beginning to get the measure of this Musketeer, here on his own territory.

"I can see now that would have been an added punishment for you," he whispered viciously. "A missed opportunity on my part."

Athos had heard enough. He was aching to kick the man into oblivion.

"And you expect us to believe that now you seek peace!" Athos responded, keeping his antagonist under close observation.

Morales shrugged, turning to look through the window.

"Perhaps I am tired," he sighed.

"Of what?"

The Spaniard turned and put his hands behind his back.

"Of peering into men's souls."

He observed Athos for a long moment; scrutinizing him;

"Perhaps," he whispered, "You are tired of peering into yours, hmm? Time to move on."

Athos looked at his weapons belt, lying on the bed. He had intended an equal footing for this encounter, but now he was suddenly aware of the blade in his boot.

Morales moved his arm and grimaced.

"You wish to withhold treatment and allow my wound to fester?"

Athos did not know what he wanted, but he knew that was not something he had considered. Aramis would not tolerate that. Perhaps if he knew who this man was, he may think differently.

Right now, he was not sure he cared.

oOo

Treville's Office:

"Where is Athos?" Treville asked when Aramis returned to continue his deception.

"Morales wanted to visit the Cathedral tomorrow after he sees the King," he replied, the lie slipping easily from his lips. "Athos has ridden to make the arrangements. My apologies, he had gone before I could tell him you wanted to see him."

Treville rubbed his forehead. He looked exhausted.

"And you have treated Morales now?"

"Yes," Aramis replied - another lie – he would need to spend some time in the Confessional for this, he thought to himself.

"He is resting again," he added, looking his Captain in the eye.

"Very well," Treville sighed. "I have some paperwork to do, so I will see him later. Let me know when Athos returns.

"Yes, Captain," Aramis almost saluted him, before he caught himself, so relieved that Treville had believed his fabrication. He would have to ensure Morales was treated before he was presented to Treville. He headed back to the infirmary, where Porthos was still standing guard outside the room.

Aramis nodded to him and pressed his ear to the locked door. No sound could be heard.

"What is he doing in there?" he breathed, looking at Porthos in despair.

"Whatever it is, he's bein' quiet about it. You think he's gone out the window?"

"No," Aramis replied. "If Athos has despatched him, he will walk out here and hand himself in. Are you sure Morales is unarmed?"

"Searched 'im myself," Porthos grunted.

"Time is running out," Aramis whispered.

Inside the room, Athos was also aware that time was running out. He was still unsure as to how it would end. No doubt his friends were out there and they had both probably figured out who the man was. The thought did not cheer him.

oOo

"You are right, I am no philosopher," Morales was saying, picking up on Athos's earlier remark. "My pursuits have been more physical then cerebral, I agree," he added. "Though I think you will agree, I was inventive and that can be mentally taxing. You are twenty years too late to reform me," he smiled. "Though I may have welcomed your intervention once."

"That is my tragedy," Athos said, as he turned away.

Morales was picking up on Athos's small movements; fingernails biting into his palm; pupils dilating; changes in his breathing, in his colouration.

"You helped create this monster," Morales said, tapping himself on the chest. "Surely you know that?"

Athos turned back. The Spaniard tilted his head back, as he drew a breath, before explaining;

"Your actions may have only served to make me more cruel. Less ... patient. More inventive? More determined to succeed. Did you think of that?" he said, quietly.

Athos's blood ran cold. Surely to God no ...

"No," he gasped, his voice betraying him.

"You will never know will you?" Morales said.

He took a step forward.

"Of course, you can kill me," Morales said, in a matter-of-fact way, "but then your King will kill you too. Your friends can kill me; but they will then die as well."

"And," he added, patting his doublet smugly, "the treaty will be forfeit. It will be France's loss. What a responsibility."

Athos had not known what he wanted from this man. To see him in the light of day? To see if he had changed. Now he thought how misguided of him to think he could change this Spaniard. He had given him pause for thought two years ago, but if what Morales said was true; because he had not broken him, that had only spurred him on. What a terrible thought.

"You are wondering if what I said was true."

Athos's head shot up, unnerved by how close Morales was to the truth of this current thoughts

"You want answers?" the man said. "I have none for you. Suffice to say, everything bad you thought of me, is no doubt true. You were my toy for a while. And now, you are my protector. You do not win today, Athos, whichever way you look at it."

Athos could feel the hot blood in he veins. He could feel his hands wanting to crush the life out of this Spaniard, who stood in front of him. He was a loathsome man. Any doubts he had otherwise had been banished within these four walls.

"Checkmate, Señor," Morales said in a low deadly voice, before turning away.

Athos wanted to thrust his blade through the man's neck, to splatter his blood across the walls, to see the light die in his eyes and hear the death rattle in his throat. But he could not. Morales was right. The game had turned from him and he was in check.

"Is that enough for you?" Morales was saying, as the red mist began to fade from Athos's eyes.

"If I am telling the truth, that your actions made me more cruel, you condemned many of your countrymen to indescribable pain at my hands. If not, you saved them."

Athos stared at him, breathing hard, his chest constricted.

"You will never know, will you? That, Musketeer, is my legacy to you.

"Oh, and let us not speak of this encounter, Monsieur. It would serve no purpose for my former reputation to precede my discussions with your Captain and your King. The same goes for your friends. From what I have seen of them, they would most likely act on your behalf if my identity were to be discovered. And let us be correct, I have done nothing wrong, save serve my country. The only casualties would be yourself and your friends."

He patted his doublet once more, his threat clear.

"It is my duty to deliver this document safely on behalf of my country. Whether it is my wish," he murmured, "That is another matter."

"You planned all of this," Athos seethed.

"Let us just say, an opportunity arose. Do not be too hard on yourself. I have enjoyed both of our encounters immensely."

He sighed, peering at his hands, before cracking his knuckles.

"I trust I will see you in the morning, when you escort me safely to your King.

"Now," he hissed, his calm demeanour vanishing and a cold anger rising, "Send me your medic, I have waited long enough."

There was nothing Athos could say. He was in an impossible position.

All he could do was protect his friends and protect France … and in order to do that, he had to protect Morales.

His duty and his honour demanded it.

He strode to the bed and picked up his sword belt. Controlling his anger, he buckled it on slowly, before turning back to Morales. For a moment, the Spaniard's demeanour faltered.

"Do not think," Athos ground out, taking hold of the handle of the door, "That this is over."

oOo

The door was flung open and Athos emerged. Aramis leapt to his feet and came over to him, his eyes questioning. Athos looked from him to Porthos, who was standing by the window; his face a mask of anger. He knew that Porthos would tear Morales to pieces at a single word.

Athos pulled his gloves from his belt.

Duty and honour.

Aramis could see behind him that Morales was indeed, still alive and he breathed a sigh of relief as Athos handed him the key.

"Athos?" he asked, as he watched his friend pulling his gloves slowly onto his hands, pushing the soft leather down between each finger. With each movement, Aramis watched his friend closing off.

Moments ticked by.

Athos raised his eyes and looked steadily at him.

"It's not him," he said, before turning and walking away.

oOo

END GAME:

Athos quickened his pace as he strode from the Infirmary, head down.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned slowly.

Aramis and Porthos were some paces back, but they stopped too; the three staring at each other.

No understanding passed between them this time, for whatever raw emotion was pouring from Athos, they could not interpret what had cut him so deeply that he would look at them that way.

There was no acceptance of their companionship to wherever Athos was heading; just a look that froze them to the spot. Then, one gloved hand was slowly raised. One finger pointing at them; a barrier stronger than any fortress wall.

And then, a swift turn and he was gone.

"What the 'ell's goin' on," Porthos growled, remembering to breathe.

Aramis did not speak for a moment, staring after their friend.

"I have no idea, but if we follow him, I have a feeling our friendship will be no more," he said quietly, turning to Porthos. "And that, I do not want."

Reluctantly turning away, they both walked slowly back to the Garrison with heavy hearts, feeling as if the world had suddenly shifted, but they had not been privy as to why.

oOo

It was not a time to get lost in drink. Athos had to think, and so he walked down to the river and sat under the bridge.

The city was asleep, save for a few roamers. The moon shone brightly above, tossing its pearlescent reflection across the gentle ripples of the water, black now and brooding; reflecting his dark mood. It was cold, but he did not feel it. What seeped into his bones was far more lethal than that.

Seeing Morales again had shaken him to the core. Any doubts he had harboured about the man since their first meeting had been banished tonight during their verbal battering.

Athos did not like to lose, but tonight, he had.

Admittedly, it had been a strategic withdrawal on his part, but however he looked at this, Morales had won. He had pushed him into a corner, from which Athos had no room to manoeuvre. Further, he had threatened everything Athos held dear.

Leaning his head back against the damp brickwork, he ran their encounter through his mind; every word etched on his brain. Every move and counter-move, and finally Morales' coup de grace;

"Let us not speak of this encounter. It would serve no purpose for my former reputation to precede my discussions with your Captain and your King. The same goes for your friends. From what I have seen of them, they would most likely act on your behalf if my identity were to be discovered."

And finally,

"I have done nothing wrong, committed no crime, save serve my country! The only casualties would be your friends. And your beloved country."

Morales had a peace proposal for the King and any disruption to his delivery of it would in itself court disaster; for Louis knew of it and awaited his arrival at court in the morning.

For the first time since gaining his commission and becoming part of a brotherhood, Athos felt alone; torn between what he believed and what he suspected.

There was only one man he could turn to now.

Pushing himself up, he stared once more at the moon, before turning and making his way back through the empty streets to the Garrison.

oOo

The Garrison:

"If you are wrong, Athos, this could create a diplomatic incident," Treville sighed, standing over his desk, arms braced over the papers he had been working on late into the night when Athos had knocked quietly on his door.

"I have nothing to offer you except what little I know of him and a gut feeling. It is not peace he seeks," Athos said, his eyes locked on Treville's.

Treville held his gaze, before moving to his cupboard and taking out his last bottle of cognac. He had drunk more on these long nights lately, himself troubled by the arrival of the Spaniard seeking an audience with the King. It was arranged for later this new day, but he would hear what Athos had to say, before the sun came up.

"You know more than most," Treville said quietly, acknowledging the harm the Spaniard had done to his best soldier but unaware of the intricacies of their meeting, earlier in the day. He could get nothing out of Aramis or Porthos, understanding they were concerned for their friend, but unwilling to voice it. He suspected they were equally ignorant of the reasons why Athos had taken himself off by himself; but he was not drunk. Indeed, there was a strange calmness to him and he had obviously spent several hours thrashing his thoughts into submission.

And so, over the bottle of cognac, Athos told his Captain of the conclusion to his ruminations.

The two fell into silence then and Athos carefully watched his Captain's face. If Treville disagreed, he had an idea what he would do but it would be the end of his career, for he would take matters into his own hands. Everything depended on the response of the hardened soldier now staring at him with steel grey eyes.

"Very well," Treville finally responded and Athos felt his muscles slacken, his heart slow and his breathing return slowly to near-normal.

"I will delay his audience with the King. I will make enquiries around the court and with our agents; and see if I can find out if the Spanish Ambassador has any particular leanings towards this proposed peace treaty that Morales carries on his behalf."

oOo

When Morales was told his audience would be delayed by several days, he was angry and Treville saw a different side to him. Suggesting an excellent boarding house where he could rest until the summons came, Treville ended his conversation and ensured he was kept under surveillance.

After several days, Treville sent word to Athos to come to the small house he owned behind the Rue Ferou.

Once there, he imparted the intelligence he had gathered.

"The Spanish Ambassador has no knowledge of a proposed treaty. Equally, Morales has no support. He has in fact, been dismissed. Too erratic. Too dangerous. In his time, he has been their best interrogator. He has served Spain well. But along the way, something happened. He lost focus. He had become distracted; introspective.

There was even talk of a Musketeer who had bettered him."

Treville smiled briefly at his last statement, as he poured wine into two cups. Athos caught his eye but did not respond; still lost in thought.

"The Ambassador agrees, based on what I told him, and his final dealings with Morales before he left Spain, that he may be a threat to the King.

"There is more," Treville offered, leaning back and tapping the table with restless fingers.

"The brother of the man who was killed when they crossed the border into France has spoken to his mistress of his fears that it was Morales who killed him. She, in turn, is sister to one of the Queen's Spanish ladies in waiting."

Athos took a moment to process it.

"Court machinations continue to run deep."

"Everyone knows everyone Athos, you know that. And if they don't they make it their business to find someone who does."

Athos smiled, he had seen it in action when he accompanied his late father to court, but had only begun to get the measure of the depth of intrigue that could exist at a moments notice.

"The seat of power is always attractive to those who would gain," he murmured.

"Yes, but that does not solve our current problem," Treville admitted. "Morales is a high ranking officer, Athos, who has served his country well. We have no proof of his intentions. And Spain does not want a diplomatic incident, nor to be implicated if Morales is planning more than a peace between our countries."

"It is not peace he seeks!" Athos said, suddenly angry.

"I share your fears, believe me, Athos," Treville sighed. "The King's life may be in danger, I have no doubt about it."

Athos was exasperated and stood up abruptly, needing to dispel some of the adrenaline that had begun to course through his veins. He had had personal experience of Morale's service to Spain. The man was intelligent, a skilled politician, and had depth that Athos had only seen the surface of. The last thing he wanted was to engage with him again, bearing in mind his threats against Aramis and Porthos. However, he was duty bound to the Monarchs and he had the benefit of trusting Treville completely.

"If we are wrong, no one would know," he finally said.

"But, if we are right," Treville countered, "The lives of the King and Queen of France depend on the response of the Musketeers."

oOo

Some days later:

Treville had doubled the King's Musketeer guard at the Palace. The time of Morales's arrival was close and Athos broke away to survey the corridors leading to the King's chambers.

Rerouted last minute to another heavily guarded entrance, dignitaries were arriving with their own petitions. The King would be the last to enter, where he would be relatively safe amid the extra guards and number of vetted petitioners.

Up to that point, however, there were many places for an accomplished assassin to hide. Athos, hoping that Morales was ignorant of their discovery of his dismissal, intended to intercept the Spaniard before he reached the public chamber, for he may still come that way in light of having a granted genuine audience. The man's intentions could then be made clear.

Walking the length of the silent corridors, Athos tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Glancing through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see Aramis and Porthos in the courtyard beyond the Reception room, checking the line of oncoming visitors.

The Red Guard lined the courtyard on all sides.

Athos's eyes flicked to the many windows overlooking the square, and he frowned at the task of finding one man. Especially a man such as Morales.

Hearing a noise behind him, he tensed.

"Impressive," the familiar low voice said quietly.

Athos slowly turned; and came face to face with Morales, who stood passively in front of him.

"Did you honestly think you could kill our King?" Athos said, as they stared at each other. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

Morales sighed.

An ugly sneer suddenly curled his lip.

"Perhaps that was not my intention."

Athos frowned, narrowing his eyes.

"Explain."

"I have a very different option for your King," the Spaniard replied.

"The Spanish Ambassador agrees that you are a threat to France," Athos said calmly.

Morales laughed.

"The Spanish Ambassador only knows what I want him to know."

"Your King is not a threat to my country, Athos. It is Richelieu who is the threat."

"The Cardinal?" Athos replied, in surprise.

"Of course," Morales murmured, tilting his head to stare at the Musketeer.

"He is France's strategist, with ambitions for France to become the rulers of Europe. He broke the Siege of La Rochelle, did he not? Louis is merely his puppet."

"Louis is a weak King with no heir," he continued. "Richelieu's ambitions to dominate Europe will die with him. Louis will be lost without his First Minister. He will turn to his Spanish Queen and she will in turn seek her brother's support. Spain would ultimately rule. My country will dominate Europe.

"You Musketeers, So focussed on your King," Morales tutted.

With that, he attacked.

oOo

Athos just had time to draw his main gauche as Morales came at him with a dagger.

Pushed back against an ornate door, it gave and they both almost fell through into the empty antechamber.

It was over in minutes, much to Athos's disgust.

The dagger sliced across Athos's hand and he twisted out of the way, but not before slashing Morales across his bicep, seeing the blade cut through the leather of his jacket with some satisfaction.

Morales, though, picked up a gold statuette and threw it at Athos. It struck him on the shoulder, sending him to his knees. By the time he had risen, Morales was gone, the door slammed and locked behind him.

Athos roared in frustration and ran at the door.

Bursting through, all he was was a thin trail of blood.

oOo

Wrapping his scarf around his hand, Athos ran to the courtyard to find Aramis and Porthos.

"Tell Treville," he yelled as he pulled them aside.

"Morales is here; it is Richelieu he wants to kill."

Aramis and Porthos were both stunned as they had not been privy to Treville and Athos's fears.

"I have no time to explain, just tell Treville. And go to the Cardinal's apartments and keep him there!" he shouted, grabbing Porthos's arm.

"So we are going to save Richelieu's life?" Porthos grunted.

"Richelieu is France, Porthos," Athos said, calmer now in their presence. "Whether we like it or not."

"Where are you going?" Aramis hissed, aware of being overheard by the people waiting to enter the Reception room.

"To find Morales."

"Wait, we will come with you!" Aramis cried, knowing the man's capabilities.

But Athos held up his hand.

"Stay here and protect the King and his Eminence. He may still be here!"

"Athos," Porthos said warily, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

But Athos shook himself free, and the anger returned once more.

"Morales is mine," he said, his voice charged, and Porthos took a step back, knowing when he had lost the argument.

"Do your duty," he yelled as he turned and ran from the courtyard and back into the corridor to follow a trail of blood.

It led to the stables of course. To the fine black stallion that Morales had arrived on. The stable boy pointed out the exit the man had taken, unaware of how dangerous the man who had pushed him aside was.

Athos mounted his horse and set off in pursuit.

The streets around the Louvre were congested, making progress slow.

Athos was not far behind, but the man could have taken the bridge across the Seine and made his escape. He could be anywhere.

On a hunch, he made his way back to the rooms Morales had been occupying. There may be a clue to his onward journey somewhere in those rooms.

It seemed that Morales had not known they were aware of his duplicity, as the maid explained he had indeed presented himself earlier, bleeding, and angry; wanting his belongings.

"Are you the Musketeer Athos, sir?" she said from the doorway.

She came forward and looked around the room.

"Said he had an appointment at the Garrison, sir," she said.

"The Garrison?" Athos said, confused.

"Aye. With you, sir. Said you'd know why."

"Thank you," Athos murmured.

It seemed they were not yet done.

He made his way cautiously to the Garrison, mostly empty now, the men on duty still at the Palace would not be making their way back for some hours.

Morale's horse stood abandoned in the street outside the Garrison gates. Athos carefully dismounted, and took up its reins. He walked both horses through the archway, tying both animals to a post, before making his way around the inside perimeter.

All was quiet.

Including their two look-outs, who he found dead. One from a crossbow bolt and one from a knife wound to the throat.

Eyes flicking around him, Athos made his way to the kitchen, where he found Serge and his boy, oblivious to what had happened outside.

"Stay here, do not make a sound," he cautioned and Serge stared at him, before taking his meaning and nodding; pointing for the boy to sit.

"Lock the door," Athos ordered, as he turned and headed back outside.

He peered up at Treville's office, but the man was still at the Palace.

He went to the stable next and told the two lads to lay low, and close and bar the wooden doors.

The laundry, thankfully, was closed, the women having completed their morning's work. They would return later, but for now, the room was secured.

All other doors were locked, save for one.

The door to the Infirmary.

oOo

Pushing the door open, Athos unwound his scarf from his injured hand and dropped it to the floor. The cut was still sluggishly bleeding, but he would need the freedom of an unbound hand if he was to fight for his life in the next few moments.

For that would be the business of this morning, he had no doubt.

There was a faint trail of blood leading along the narrow corridor to the inner infirmary door, which he followed, stopping on the threshold to look cautiously inside.

Morales was standing in the middle of the room, flanked by a row of cots on each side.

Athos quickly weighed up the space in the room, position of the beds, cupboards, chairs and where the light played, before he took a step inside.

He quietly closed the door, his eyes never leaving the Spaniard.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked quietly.

Morales raised cold black eyes, hooded beneath dark brows.

His arm was bleeding, but he paid no mind to it.

"I wanted a final word with you," the Spaniard finally said.

"What word would that be?"

A sly smile spread across the Spaniard's face. Athos was familiar with it.

"Despedida."

Athos frowned.

"I believe, you would say, "Adieu," Morales said, allowing the smile to fade, before turning away and removing his jacket; confident that Athos would not attack him until they were both ready.

"Although, I doubt it will be a fond farewell," he added.

"I would hope not," Athos murmured, watching him.

He felt strangely calm. This was territory he knew well. Sizing up an opponent, the quiet dance before the engagement, the careful study of stance and expression. Since his first meeting with this man, he had no doubt that this was to be the culmination of their relationship. He had seen enough and heard enough to know that this would be the final act in their play. Their end game.

"Uno de nosotros muere aqui," ("One of us dies here.") Morales said softly as he carefully folded his jacket, adjusted his lace cuffs and unsheathed the sword that was strapped to his hip.

Athos's fingers, resting lightly on the hilt of his own sword, closed around it and he slid the blade out of its scabbard. He whipped it deftly through the air a few times before walking to one of the empty cots across the room, unbuttoning his weapon belt and jacket with his free hand and throwing them down on the bed.

He then turned and dropped the point of his sword to the floor.

"I expected something a little less predictable from you," he said quietly, "but I accept that what you say is probably true."

"I am glad we had the opportunity to meet again, Musketeer," Morales said, softly.

"You arranged it," Athos replied, simply. "From the start."

"I did. I needed to see you were still here and so I asked to be brought here when we were attacked on the border. I may not have seemed pleased to see you, but believe me, I was."

"You were not attacked, Morales. We know it was you who killed your companion. And you have failed in your plan."

"Perhaps with Richelieu, but there is no hurry. I have had time to observe him while waiting for an audience with the King. Thank you for that, by the way."

"You, however," he continued, circling around the infirmary like a black carrion crow, "are here, now."

Athos pushed his hair from his face. He had to end this man, he was a threat to his friends, to the very fabric of France.

He would do it alone. It was his right now. This man had plagued his dreams and his waking thoughts. He bore the scars, mentally and physically. The man in front of him was no more the skilled interrogator, but a mad man.

"Surely you owe your country nothing," Athos said. "They have abandoned you."

"Misunderstandings can be rectified," Morales said, carefully enunciating every word.

Athos shook his head.

"Killing Richelieu would put your country on a war footing. Perhaps that is what you want."

"It may be inevitable," Morales replied. "But as I said, with Richelieu out of the way, Louis would flounder; his Spanish whore would gain in influence. She would not wage war on her brother. Spain would triumph, either way."

Neither had seen each other fight but for the first time in this man's presence, Athos felt on an even keel. Whether this would be an honourable fight remained to be seen.

"We are both gentlemen," Morales responded, as if reading his thoughts, "Whatever you think of me. This is for Spain, Musketeer."

"And this is for France, Señor," Athos responded. "And for everything I hold dear," he added quietly.

oOo

Both men slowly began to carefully circle, eyes locked.

They briefly touch swords, before taking up position and suddenly, the fight is on.

At first, it is furious, both men driving each other forward down the length of the Infirmary, the room filled with the sound of clashing steel and boots drumming on the flagstones.

Athos, the younger of the two, jumping onto a cot to escape an onslaught and crossing to another.

Morales, then driven back and falling against a cupboard, his sword sweeping the contents onto the floor.

Athos hisses as Morales's blade slashes across his already-injured hand; nearly dropping his blade, before neatly transferring it to his left. Morales sword dips to the floor and he gives an appreciative, though arrogant tilt of his head.

Morales strokes his beard as he circles; spinning his sword in slow circles.

Athos is aware of the Spaniard's damned boots on the flagstones, sending him back to memories of the dungeon, where they had filled his vision as blood ran into his eyes.

Athos breathes heavily, sweat on his forehead; tossing his head as he flings it aside.

A near miss, as the blade bites into the wooden post next to him; the cot creaking under the impact.

The sun is shining through the shutters, temporarily blinding him and he curses because he had judged the track of the sun, only to forget in the heat of battle. Working around the room, he slams the shutter closed as he passes.

They both taunt each other, grunting and hissing as they tire.

The clash of steel on steel rings around the room and sparks fly.

Boots skid on flagstones, backs are stretched to ease aching muscles.

Thrust and parry. A dance to the death.

The flat of a blade against a thigh, the point splitting flesh, blood beginning to spray and drip and pool on the floor.

Morales, bleeding but the full sight of it masked by his black shirt. Athos in his ruined cream shirt, stained with red.

A hit to his face and Morales spits out a Spanish curse, raising his hand and pulling back bloody fingers.

A finger nearly lost in their next onslaught.

They circle.

A low laugh. "You can do better I am sure, Musketeer."

"Less talk. Defend yourself"

"You have been well trained. But your classical discipline has a raw edge. Is that the influence of the common soldiers you now rub shoulders with?"

"We both have sought outside influences, Morales. I have taken on nothing I did not value and aspire to."

"Animal instincts are useful at times, I have found."

"I am sorry you will never know the best of men."

"I have only been interested in the worst. You know that."

"Fight, damn you!"

The pace increases, both men slashing, shifting, withdrawing, circling.

Athos goes down, skidding on a pool of blood and Morales is over him like The Reaper, only for Athos to roll aside and rise quickly, aided by grasping the end of a cot. Morales himself skids, and withdraws.

Both men move forward, reluctant to put themselves in such a position again.

They push each other to the end of the infirmary, where the door stands ajar. Morales slams into the wall beside the door as Athos comes in low, but the Spaniard grasps the edge of the door with his free hand and flings it open.

Both men are reaching their limits; exhausted and bleeding. Equally matched in height, they call on inner reserves, fuelled by hatred of each other and love of their countries.

Athos drives Morales forward, over the threshold and into the narrow corridor beyond.

Hurriedly brushing blood from his eyebrow that threatens to blind him, Athos spins the sword in his hand and crouches, going in low, stabbing Morales in the thigh. Reacting, Morales whips his blade sideways and catches Athos under the arm, hoping to immobilise him, but Athos hardly acknowledges it, driven now with a purpose, sensing the end of the fight as the walls close in around them and the light fades in the confines of the corridor.

Athos flicks his blade and takes off the point of Morales' beard.

"That is hardly the stroke of a gentleman," Morales hisses.

"Who said I was a gentleman," Athos murmurs, his voice cold and hard.

He raises his arm to hook under Morales raised sword and twists hard.

Morales takes a step backward and his back collides with a vertical wooden beam that runs from ceiling to floor. However, he does not release his sword, raising his other arm and grabbing Athos by the throat. Athos keeps his left arm firmly rammed into Morales's shoulder, preventing him bringing his sword down and presses forward into the hold on his throat, pulling his right arm back to give him room to line up his sword.

Suddenly -

"Athos! Stand Down!"

It is Treville, shouting from the outer doorway at the end of the corridor, as Athos and Morales fight their way through from the inner door.

Athos ignores him.

Eyes locked on Morales, Athos pushes his sword slowly into the Spaniard's torso. It pushes through leather and slides through flesh and muscle, before severing bone and finally striking the wooden beam behind him. Still it pushes forward until Morales is impaled, a look of sheer shock on his face. The buried sword holds him upright, his knees locked; his own sword slowly released now to ring sharply onto the floor.

"You were right," Morales hisses, black eyes glinting.

"About what?" Athos grunts, hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, buried deep now.

The Spaniard merely smiles a bloody smile.

"About what?" Athos yells in his face, the vestiges of composure gone.

"Figure it out yourself," Morales whispers, a hideous final smile spreading across his lips but not reaching his eyes.

Athos holds his stare of horror, his own breath ragged as the grip on his throat releases; until the light began to dim in dark eyes that had seen more horror than Athos could imagine. Until the hated face goes slack.

He dies with his eyes still open and locked onto Athos, who remains where he is, sword held firmly in his hand, his body weight pressed forward and blood pounding in his ears.

He is barely aware of a presence beside him, as Aramis and Porthos came forward with Treville behind them.

Porthos reaches out to extract the blade, but Athos's grip tightens.

"Leave it," he says, in a voice more deadly than Porthos has ever heard from him, and he raises his hand in acquiescence.

"Here is my sword, Captain," Athos says without taking his eyes from the dead man.

Treville, now motionless beside Aramis, takes in a shuddering breath.

"Why would I want your sword, Athos?" he asks, quietly, as all is still now.

"I disobeyed your order to stand down," Athos says, still staring at Morales.

"I gave you no such order," Treville responds. "These men can vouch for that," he adds, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his man's shoulder.

Treville takes a step back and turns to Aramis.

"Take care of this," he orders, before turning and striding back down the corridor, ordering the group of Musketeers that have gathered in the outer doorway back to work.

Athos's fingers would have to be prised from his sword, buried to the hilt in Morales.

Porthos gently pulled him back and Aramis stepped between him and the impaled body; eyeing him cautiously.

Gently, he released his friend's hand, finger by finger and pulled him away.

Porthos left Morales where he was, not wanting to touch the bastard and together, they walked Athos back into the infirmary, toward the nearest cot. Blood trailed after them.

"Why did you take your jacket off," Aramis chided softly, as he eased his friend's shirt over his head.

Athos was battered and bruised and Aramis counted over ten cuts over his arms, shoulders, face, thighs and back. He would count the bruises later.

Porthos hissed when he saw the state he was in.

Athos looked down at himself, as if seeing himself for the first time.

"It seemed the sensible thing to do at the time," he sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

Suddenly, he grabbed Aramis's wrist.

"Is he dead?" he asked, eyes wide.

Aramis frowned.

"Yes, my friend, very dead," he assured him.

oOo

Later, when they finally released Morales from his impalement, Porthos came striding back into the room, sitting down on the chair on the opposite side of the bed, where he watched as Aramis sewed up the deeper of the cuts, before leaning forward with a smile;

"Eighteen cuts," he said with some satisfaction.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Is that all?"

"It's enough," Aramis said, grimly, his mouth held in a thin tight line.

"Still the best swordsman in France," Porthos said, looking very pleased with himself.

"Was his sword clean?" Aramis asked him as he swabbed some of the cuts on his friend's arms.

"I would imagine so," Athos replied absently. It had been an impressive sword, now lying in the corridor. "He was the type of man to look after his weapons of choice."

"You followed him here," Aramis said, rethreading his needle.

Athos sighed and closed his eyes but did not speak.

"Athos."

"Yes!" Athos said loudly, "Yes, I followed him. What did you expect?"

"That we would all follow him," Aramis replied. "That you would rally the Musketeers who were on duty in the Palace. That we would all, perhaps, work together to contain him?"

"He was mine, Aramis," Athos growled. "From the time he came here with his damned fake peace proposal."

"Why didn't you tell us of your suspicions?" Porthos joined in.

Athos did not reply.

"He was protecting you," Treville said as he stepped into the room. "Your lives were forfeit if Morales was not allowed his first meeting with the King."

"He would have found you," Athos said quietly.

"Athos brought his suspicions to me," their Captain continued. "If they were not proved, nothing was lost. If he was right, Morales was a loose cannon who needed to be contained. That is why we doubled the guard at the Palace."

"As it turned out, it was not the King he wanted dead, but Richelieu," Athos said. "He called Richelieu the Puppet-master. He wanted to cut his strings."

"So with Richelieu dead, the void created would give Spain the advantage," Treville said. "The King would flounder, and perhaps turn to the Queen's brother for support."

"Exactly," Athos replied.

"The Ambassador said nothing of his plan to kill Richelieu; only to destabilise France," Treville continued. "They suspected Morales was unstable and wanted nothing more to do with him."

"Spain knew nothing of his plan to kill Richelieu," Athos replied.

"No doubt they have their own long term plans," Aramis said quietly.

"Why did he come back 'ere, to the Garrison?" Porthos said. "He could have made his way straight to the border."

"Because he wanted revenge on you?" Aramis asked Athos. "You have been a thorn in his side for some time."

"No," Athos said quietly, lost in thought for a moment. "He did not say that. I believe he only returned here when his plan failed. I think it was the last straw."

"You think he wanted to die fightin'?"

"A final blaze of glory?" Aramis said.

"Perhaps," Athos replied, "Though that is not a word I would put to his actions."

"He was a complicated man," Treville sighed.

"He was evil," Porthos added angrily.

"He was a soldier," Aramis said, "Spain is full of men like him."

"Whatever he was, the world changed around him but his allegiance did seem to be with his country in an odd, twisted way," Athos said.

"You admired him?" Aramis asked.

"You asked me that once before," Athos replied.

"And you said you did not know. Are you any clearer now?"

Athos stared ahead.

"There were a few times where he had the advantage, but he kept fighting. I believe he chose me to kill him."

"This is way too complicated for me," Porthos growled. "I'm just glad he's dead and there's an end to it. If I'd 'ave caught up with 'im in the first place, none of this would have happened."

"Fate wanted it to play out, my friend," Aramis murmured.

"Bugger fate," Porthos growled.

Aramis detected a melancholy beginning in Athos and determined to ease it.

"It's over, Athos," Aramis replied, pausing in his work.

"For him, yes," Athos responded.

"When you've eaten an' rested, you will feel better," Porthos said, taking Athos's hand in his and studying the cut across the back of his hand.

Athos saw it for what it was; their attempt to offer solace, when the reasoning was beyond them. They would be celebrating, after Aramis offered a short prayer for the man's soul, black as it probably was. Only, Athos felt he was somewhere else; brooding, on what he did not know.

Just then, the rest of the Musketeer guard returned from the Palace; the noise in the courtyard growing.

"What are you broodin' on?" Porthos finally asked. "Explain it to me, Athos, for I can't see the reason."

Athos sighed.

"I would have more time with him," he replied. "To understand. He has left me with a question I cannot answer."

"In that, he's like you,"Aramis said.

"How so?"

"Do you not remember what you told me when we first rescued you from that fiend's clutches?"

Athos frowned, but then shook his head.

"You left him with questions of his own. You taunted him, and you brought out the worst in him. Perhaps he finally acknowledged that."

"Perhaps."

"Let's face it, brother," Porthos added. "He was just a callous bugger."

"Porthos is right," Aramis said. "He was a tormentor. He had perfected that skill. Don't let him torment you from the grave. If you do, he will win."

For a time, Athos did not speak. Perhaps it was as simple as they both believed.

His reverie was broken by Aramis rolling down has sleeves and gathering his equipment.

"Are you finished?" he asked Aramis, aware that Porthos was watching him closely.

"Just about, my friend. Rest now."

Aramis then helped him into a clean shirt and they both took up positions at the nearby table. They would not leave him alone this night.

oOo

In the days that followed, Athos pondered over Morale's final words.

"You were right."

Right that Athos had given him pause for thought? That he had brought out the worst in him after their first encounter and become more cruel? Or that he had gone gently on further prisoners – spoiled forever by the remembrance of the honour he used to have as a young man? He had tantalised Athos with both those scenarios.

But he had returned seeking blood. Seeking radical change for both his country and France.

Was it a peace treaty of sorts he proposed? With Richelieu dead, his ambitions to make France a leading light in Europe would die with him. Perhaps their two countries could have lived peacefully, or at least in tolerance.

Was that what Morales was alluding to?

Probably not.

He was a soldier.

He was a torturer.

He had so much blood on his hands.

Athos would never know, but the game was ended. Morales was dead. Richelieu was alive and the status quo remained. At least they knew that Spain had no stomach at present for assassination.

Richelieu though, was another matter. He was still ambitious; still a warrior. Still just as powerful; if not more determined by Morale's actions. There were mad men around every corner, after all.

"Where is his body?" Athos finally asked Aramis a week later as they sat in the Infirmary once more, as Aramis removed his stitches.

Athos had healed well, though his thoughts had been dark of late.

"Porthos took it to the City Morgue. He would not leave it here. He wanted to dump it in the Seine but I convinced him the water is polluted enough.."

"Where is his sword?"

"Well, that is in the Seine," Aramis said, a little guiltily.

"It was a good sword," Athos countered.

"No, my friend. It wasn't," Porthos growled, from the doorway.

Athos finally looked Porthos in the eye and smiled, "I am hungry and dinner is on me."

Porthos visibly relaxed and laughed, rubbing his hands together.

"Now you're talkin'" he growled happily.

Athos swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stood shakily. His friends both quickly took their places on either side of him.

Sometimes motives could not be fathomed. But, looking at Aramis and Porthos, this was real.

Perhaps, in the end, it was as simple as they both believed.

But, right now, he had good food and wine and good company to think about.

There was a simplicity in that too; one that he found he relished.

oOo

End