Athos locked the door, turned, and looked at the room: lush furnishings, warm colors, windows that overlooked the pastures. The clouds were slow to pass over the light of the moon, and the stars glimmered against the night sky. The lantern's flame flickered off the walls, caused shadows to dance and shift positions against furniture, drapes, and linens.
As soon as he entered the room, he locked the door, took a deep breath, and then washed the grime from his face. He dumped water from the basin over his head, ran his fingers through his hair, and felt the cool relief of tangles and mats being freed. He shaved, trimmed his beard, and tried to focus his mind on things outside the cells. He tried to find comfort in the normalcy of life and not the unnatural corruption of people.
Tomas was mad. Like the stems of straw that Aramis and d'Artagnan had twisted and snapped, Tomas' mind had simply succumbed to greed and revenge. While the baron saw what was happening around him, he could not stop it, but he recognized it. Tomas, like the center of a storm, was too far gone to recognize his own destruction. Evan blindly followed him, obeyed orders, did what he was told without question. Whether from commitment, or fear, Athos did not know, but it did not matter. Evan had made his choice, and his choice cost him his life.
Athos ran a hand over his face, kicked off his boots and belt, and lay back on the bed. He felt the comfort of the mattress beneath him. He wanted to sleep, allow his body time to heal, rest, and rejuvenate, but his mind ran wild with what he had not been able to control, and guilt for allowing it to happen.
Suddenly, Athos sat upright, pressed his hands to his knees and felt his heart race. Like the straw. At what point would he be twisted enough to break? He could hear the wails of a father as his son was murdered. Athos could still feel the pressure of hands along his back, head, and arms as he was helpless to stop it. The sounds of footsteps against cobblestones: Evan had lumbered with heavy steps with a slight hitch to his gate, Tomas' had been swift with the subtly of sand against worn leather, Urbain's were light…
Athos felt his stomach rebel, and he took several deep breaths to compose himself. Threats would forever be a part of soldiering, and musketeers were no different. Honor and duty were worthy of commitment and dedication. He ran a hand over his face, felt his breath hitch in his chest, and he quietly wondered if his body had simply had enough.
Athos stood and walked with haste toward the window. Suddenly, he found himself struggling to breathe. Breaths were short, quick, and his throat tightened. He pulled back the drapes to expose the latch. He fought with the lever for a moment until it released and he pushed it open. Athos could hear himself wheeze as lungs starved for air fought the chaos of his chest that held his lungs and heart in shackles. It took several minutes before he could inhale the cool night air. He braced his hands against the frame, and bowed his head. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. He extended his right leg, rested his left elbow on his left knee, and continued to watch the flames flicker.
Crickets chirped in the background. An owl screeched and hooted. Branches of trees rustled. He could hear the horses grazing: snorting as they cleared their nostrils, soft whinnies of mares calling their foals, and the deep nickers from the stallions in the barn.
The drape fluttered against a breeze. The hem waved along the floor. Athos rubbed his eyes. He would saddle the horses before dawn, and if they were fortunate, arrive in Paris in three days.
He needed answers to his questions. He needed to know there had been a purpose. Athos needed to know that those who suffered did not suffer in vain.