Athos walked.

Noises blended together, children, horses, carts, dogs, and the daily activities that accompanied family and laborers. He felt the cool air against his skin and through his hair as he walked along the river. Homes, buildings, merchants, boats, and docks filled the area, and the ports were busy as merchandise was unloaded. The fabrics of the restrained heavy sails flapped and shifted as the winds caught the masts. The braided and tied ropes of the shrouds grew taunt and caused the metal rings on the ships' ports to clang. Water slapped the sides of the banks, the ports, and the ships' hulls. The light of the moon, despite being covered with clouds, highlighted the gentle waves of the water and shimmered with each shift.

Sailors stood on the docks and spoke about their travels, their next destinations, and the changes in Paris as the city continued to grow. Members of the red guards walked in pairs down the streets. Prostitutes whistled and called to those interested in what they offered.

Athos continued his mindless journey as he weaved between those too busy to notice him and those who simply didn't bother. When he stopped at the mortuary, he kept his eyes on the road that led to the garrison. He clenched his gloved hands into fists at his sides. He looked at the ground and felt his heart and stomach conflict. He could smell the stench of death as it wafted out the doors and into the street. A lantern still glowed behind the glass, the shimmering light reflected off the wavy and bubbled panes.

It was a feeling of dread, grief, anger, betrayal, and remorse that hit his senses all at once and he wanted to run. He wanted to escape the barrage of emotions that tackled his feet, his knees, his gut, and his body. Athos wanted to ride out and find another life beyond the one in which he currently found himself confined to. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and entered the building.

"Captain Athos," the mortician, Monsieur Trottier, said. He covered the body of the man he was working on and wiped his hands on his dirty apron. "Are you looking into the mysterious death by the docks?"

Athos frowned, shook his head, and nodded toward the body on the other table. "The woman that was shot at the gallows."

Monsieur Trottier nodded and placed his hands on his hips. "Ah, yes, the mercy killing," he said and walked toward the table. His years working with death had calloused him, and he spoke about the bodies as though they were merchandise in a shop filled with herbs, shoes, or pistols. His robust nose, short spiked gray hair, and bulbous belly contrasted — in many cases — with those who found themselves within his care. "I've only worked on one other who was fortunate to suffer the fate of poisoning before the fateful day… a young man," he said as he stood beside the table and reached for the coarse blanket that covered her face, "not more than a boy, really." He looked at Athos and shrugged. "I believe it had been his mother who refused to let him hang." He gently pulled back the blanket and exposed her face.

Even in death she was beautiful. Her pale features were flawless, her normally vibrant green eyes looked dimmed in the lantern's light, and her dark hair seemed dull.

Athos looked away and took a sharp inhale of breath through his nose.

"Unless she's claimed, she'll be buried in a mass grave outside the main gates of the Bastille." He curled his lips downward and shrugged in disapointment. "A shame really… one so young and so beautiful."

Athos reached into his coin purse and handed Trottier several livres. "Make sure she has her own plot." He placed the coins in the man's hand.

Monsieur Trottier pursed his lips. "There's enough here, Captain, for a grave marker, and a nice one at that."

"Please," Athos said, "keep it simple."

"The inscription?"

Athos thought for a long moment and finally said, "Anne." He turned toward the door. "Just Anne."

Monsieur Trottier nodded and squeezed the coins in his hand. "I'll see to it myself."

Athos nodded, grabbed the handle of the door, and looked back toward the table one last time as Trottier covered her face once again with the cloth. Athos opened the door and left. He suddenly stopped, braced his left hand against a wall, and felt the overwhelming burdon of grief. Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and recognized the sudden urge to vomit. He swallowed several times, focused his attention on breatheing, and slowly felt his stomach settle. Athos spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at the firelights of Paris, caught a whiff of the varying aromas, and listened to the noises that in combination caused his eyes to water and his ears to ring. It was all too much. He pushed himself from the wall, turned to the left, and continued his travels to the garrison. The night fires burned and provided those still abroad with warmth as the chill of the night grew colder.

The garrison's archway appeared. Lanterns hung on either side of its arched entry.

"Captain," Francois said as he shifted his stance to attention. "Minister Treville is waiting for you in your office."

Athos paused, inhaled deeply, and clapped the young soldier on the shoulder. "Thank you."

Francois smile quickly turned to a frown as he watched Athos walk toward the stairs and pause at the first step. "Are you alright, Captain?"

"Fine," came the curt reply. Athos grabbed the handrail and while he stepped upward, he listened to the leather of his glove snag on the splintered wood. The garrison was quiet, unusually so, and he paused at the door and looked toward the courtyard below. He opened the door and felt the warmth of the fire on his chilled skin. "It's yours if you want it back," he said as Treville sat in the chair behind the desk. He faced the fire, his left arm on the desk's surface and his legs kicked out before him.

Treville scratched at his chin, pulled his feet beneath the front of the chair, and leaned forward. He watched Athos grab the back of a chair and place it near the fire, and take a seat with a heavy sigh. He rubbed his face, slipped his right foot beneath the chair with the heel resting against the leg, and he kicked his left foot before him. He looked tired, exhausted really, and understandably mournful.

"Are you alright?"

Athos watched the flames and appreciated the heat against his left side. "I'll speak with the king in the morning —"

"King Louis sends his regards, Athos," Treville said. He stood, moved his chair closer to the fire, and then took a seat. He leaned forward, rested his right elbow on the table, looked at the flames and then at Athos. "Though he does not condone the actions you took, he understands and grieves with you in your decision and your actions." He paused, tried to read Athos' expression, and continued. "Death, no matter its delivery, is unwelcome and cruel, but you saved her the humiliation of death by hanging. King Louis thanks you for that — His decision to order her death did not come easy regardless of her actions —"

"He could have exiled her," Athos said in a tone of frustration. He stood, unbuckled his weapons belt, and laid it on the desk. "He could have banished her from France instead of sentencing her to death." He cupped his chin in the curve of his thumb and scratched his jaw.

"Had she murdered anyone else," Treville said, "he might have. Louis was considering the Marquis for a position at the palace as both a personal council and commander of the Red Guards. Louis feared Milady may have aligned herself with the Spanish and murdered Marquis de Feron as a result of that alignment."

Athos rolled his eyes and huffed. "If that were the case," he placed his hands on his hips and walked back to the fire, "she would not have been caught." He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "She was supposed to be in England." He gazed at the fire. "She was supposed to build a new life there."

"She was never going to leave you, Athos. No matter where you went, who you loved, or who you defended, she would always be there… You were the one she could not have… You," Treville looked hard at him, eyebrows furrowed, brow wrinkled, "were the one she lost and no matter what she did or said, she knew she could not repair the damage she had done." He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and gripped his left bicep.

Athos leaned forward, rested his elbow on the mantle, and rubbed his forehead. "I never dreamed I'd have to…" he paused, looked at his thumbnail and ran his finger across the surface, "that it would come to this." He turned suddenly, paced across the room, and then stepped behind his chair as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Have you ever watched a woman be hanged?"

Athos looked at him and shook his head. He had sentenced only one, but he had not watched. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest and then grabbed the back of his chair. Athos leaned forward and gently rocked back and forth with his head between his arms. He had seen men hanged, and it made his stomach rebel as he thought about it. The horrors that followed, the cruelty, the dehumanization of it, and the horrific events that followed. He pressed his face to his shoulder and closed his eyes.

Treville scooted himself forward and placed his hands on his thighs. "What you did for her… was show her mercy at a moment she needed it most, Athos. You saved her from being mocked, put on display, and being reduced to nothing more than garbage."

Athos flexed his jaw muscles. "It doesn't feel like it," he said. He looked at the flames of the fire. He felt light-headed, dizzy, and then slowly he retook his seat and, with his fingers spread wide, ran them through his hair. "I never wanted to kill her." He held strong while he composed himself, but there was a piece of him that was as shattered and devastated as crystal against stone. Athos rested his left elbow on his knee and allowed his hand to drape toward the floor. "I couldn't stop her," he said quietly, "no matter what I did… she… just wouldn't stop." He glanced at Treville and then quickly looked back at the flames.

Treville folded his fingers together, looked at Athos, and recognized someone who would stop at nothing to save those he loved. The characteristic was the most honorable, but in the same breath, it was also the most devastating. "Her choices were her own… Her actions were her own."

Treville stood, returned his chair behind the desk, and then stepped beside Athos and placed a firm hand at the back of his neck. "Forgive yourself, Athos, and allow yourself time to grieve. Milady de Winter was going to die today no matter what, but that does not negate your loss of her." He relaxed his hold, watched Athos nod, and then Treville quietly left the office.

The cool night air hit his senses and looked toward the dark clouds in the distance, visible despite the darkness of night or the clouds that hid the light of the moon. He descended the stairs and listened to his footsteps echo, the horses as they ate and rested, and the chime of a metal pan being prepped for the morning's breakfast.

"How is 'e?" Porthos asked, while leaning against the support beam as Treville took the bottom step.

"I've never seen him so…" he paused, "so conflicted," he said. He looked again at the sky and took a deep breath of fresh air. "But he'll recover — just give him time."

"Is he drunk?"

Treville raised an eyebrow, shook his head, and said, "He hasn't had a drop of wine… which is reason enough to be concerned. He needs his brothers, Porthos. He needs patience, understanding, and he needs to know you'll all be there."

Porthos nodded and then asked, "Would you 'ave 'ad the strength to do it?"

Treville frowned, glanced toward his old office, and watched the lantern light flicker through the window. "We never know what strength we have until we're faced with the challenge." He paused and listened to the creaks of the old buildings, the breeze as it swept through the courtyard, and the horses as they snorted, stomped their hooves, and munched their oats. "Hopefully, we will never have to know." He grasped Porthos' arm, then mounted his horse, and rode toward the palace.

Porthos took a deep breath, inhaled the clean, fresh air, and then looked toward the commissary door as Gentry peered out.

"Pssst," Gentry said and then motioned with his head toward the kitchens.

Porthos twitched the corner of his mouth and followed. The door squeaked and then bounced once off the frame as he walked to the kitchen and was suddenly handed a plate filled with rolls stuffed with fruits, honey, and cinnamon.

"I ah," Gentry said, "found some notes left by ol' Serge… said somethin' about Athos havin' a sweet tooth." He shrugged and bit the corner of his lip. "Figure he's probably not eaten a meal since he retired ol' Roger… an' considerin' what happened today I figured I'd at least try an' make the captain somethin' he might eat."

Porthos smiled, gripped the plate tighter, and clapped Gentry's shoulder. "You're a good man."

Gentry nodded, and then quickly returned to his kitchen. Portos nodded to himself as he walked to the door and left the commissary. He looked up the steps to the captain's office and contemplated what he might say or do as he took each step. Some would consider Athos nothing more than a murderer for what he had done. For taking the life of a woman before her time. Before the king could have exonerated her. Others would argue Athos had denied the legal system its due course.

But none of those people knew Athos or understood his commitment, regardless of what others thought. It was the very thing that made him a good soldier and a good captain. His men, his family, his friends and brothers, and those who found themselves within his devotion would always take precedence.

Porthos swallowed, knocked on the door, and entered the room.