Athos walked back to camp. Grimaud and Raboin's words played through his mind. Not only what they had said, but how they had said it. The general was not a fool — despite what some believed — but he had had betrayed his country and his king. The reasons? Athos could only guess, but nothing in his mind was worth the cost of betrayal.

He nodded toward several men who waved at him. A few offered him the chance to warm his hands by their fires. While he declined most invitations, he stopped once and listened to the men talk about their time as children and the trouble they found while unsupervised. They spoke fondly of their wives and lovers, and even the quiet moments of solitude while at the palace. He nodded to each of them, thanked them for their kindness, and continued his journey. He slowly passed a tent with several men in line who stood blowing into their hands to warm them, and rubbing the backs of their arms. Three others sat in chairs, having their hair cut and beards trimmed by refuges who did what they could to offer their thanks for safe harbor. A fire blazed behind them, kept them warm as they worked, and the men enjoyed a moment that not only reminded them of home, but what it felt like to be human. Athos quirked a sad smile, nodded, and continued his journey.

"Captain," Musketeer Labarr said and stroked his cheeks. "I finally had a beard long enough to have trimmed." He smiled and then laughed when someone threw a pinecone at him. "You should have Monsieur Oris give you a haircut — you'll feel like a new man." He ran his fingers over his bright red hair and chuckled when his friends continued to tease him.

"Perhaps another time," Athos said with a warm smile. "It's good to know your beard is finally growing. We may win the war because of it."

The group of men laughed.

"At least he's now lookin' like a man an' not a boy!" Raybon said and clapped his hands together while he stood next in line. "We were all beginin' to wonder."

Labarr chuckled, grabbed a pinecone and threw it back at those in line. He turned and walked backward a few steps. "My mother always said —" he tripped over a branch and fell backward with a humph.

Athos chuckled.

Labarr's friends laughed and clapped their hands as he slowly got to his feet and wiped mud from his backside. He cursed a few times and then wiped his muddy handprint on the bark of a tree. "My mother always said," he continued, "it's the eyes of a man that depicts his age."

"Horseshit!" someone yelled.

"Nobody asked you, William!"

Athos raised his eyebrows and with a chuckle continued to walk to his tent. The sky was clear, stars shone brightly, and the moon was almost full. Its glow reflected off the standing water, dead leaves that refused to fall, and stones that had been exposed after years of being covered in dirt. Athos could see the Spanish fires burning in the distance. They too were suffering the loss of men, the wintry days and colder nights, and the threat of battle that continued to curse them.

Athos rubbed his face, pushed open his tent, and entered. He immediately extended the wick of his lantern, and with the flint and steel he carried, he lit it and the flames slowly flickered and glowed in the small but comfortable space. It wasn't much. He had never needed the lavish accessories that accompanied nobility when they went to war. He unhooked his weapons belt, draped it over his cot, and then carefully and awkwardly removed the armor that protected his stomach and chest. The heavy leather not only offered protection but warmth. The space was chilly, but not cold, and he slipped off his doublet and pulled his blouse away from his skin as he looked at his desk and the notes he needed to write. Letters to families of those who lost their lives, messages to Treville regarding the list of deceased, inventory that needed to be updated, and duty rotations for his men.

His night was just beginning. After two days of fighting, he was feeling every fall, push, and punch he had received on the battlefield. Mud was still smeared within his hair and across his face. Blood marred his left temple and had dried along his cheek. He thought about his men, his miscalculation of the Spanish regiment… He thought about Raboin and the maps on his desk and floor of the library. Athos rubbed his temple as he thought about the letter that had been folded and placed beneath the book… He thought about the young man who was assigned to carry it to Paris, his fate, and those who had brought him harm.

Athos sat at his desk, pulled a sheet of parchment from its pile, and glanced at the list of names on the list from Aramis. Names of men he had fought beside for years, those he had trained, and those too young to suffer the fate of war. He stared blindly at the empty sheet of parchment that lay before him. The off-white color reflected the movement of the lantern light. His quill, ready to scribe, rested in the curve of his right hand and dripped black ink onto the surface. The sides of his tent, even after repairs, fluttered but stood strong against the cold winter wind.

General Raboin was a traitor.

The evidence Athos had seen ran through his mind and caused his stomach to tighten and his heart to race. His men were suffering because of the general's actions: thefts of supplies, intercepted messages to Treville, and consorting with the enemy. Athos dropped his quill, rested his elbow on the desk, and cupped his forehead in the curve of his hand.

King Louis' fears were a reality.

The tent flap was slowly pulled open, and Athos looked up as Ninon stepped inside. She smiled warmly, walked toward the desk, and placed a small basket on the edge.

"You look exhausted," she said.

Athos nodded and leaned back. He rested his hands on his lap and looked at her. The glow of the flames flickered and moved across her refined features that reminded him of porcelain. The curls of her blonde hair were pulled away from her face, but delicate, even in the worst of conditions.

"Come," Ninon said. "Allow me to — what Aramis called — pamper you for a bit."

Athos cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. "You spoke with Aramis?"

Ninon smiled and nodded. "Don't worry," she said, "not that kind of pampering. Your men will not be able to separate you from a sheep that has been lost in the woods for years — much less days." She pulled back the cloth and carefully removed a blade and an ivory comb.

"You cut hair?"

Ninon opened her mouth to say something, but quickly paused, and then shrugged. "I've had to learn a great many things, Athos, that are not included in books these past couple of years. I trim hair, darn clothes, and I'm not a terrible cook — not a great cook — but," she smiled again, "I'm not terrible." She curled her lips into a humble smile. "I miss my old life… my life of comfort, but I'm much stronger in this life… much stronger than I ever thought I could be."

Athos looked at her and admired the woman she had left behind and, in turn, become: Beautiful, strong, independent, and yet there was a hint of something vulnerable that he found himself wanting to explore.

Athos, out of character, nodded and stood. He grabbed his chair, moved it to the front of his desk, and took a seat. He bowed his head and felt Ninon slip her fingers across his neck, across his scalp, and gently release the clumps of mud that had dried. Athos closed his eyes and listened as the sharp blade cut across his hair which fell to the ground near his feet and across his shoulders. She was gentle as she worked, and she smelled like freshly cut lavender with a hint of rose.

Ninon had been forward with him when they met, unabashed and unashamed. She had kissed him. As beautiful as she was when he saw her in the grand hall of her home surrounded with walls of books and women wanting to learn, she was more beautiful now. Dirt and mud caked at the hem of her dress, calluses marred her once pristine fingers, and fingernails that had been delicate and manicured were chipped, torn, and familiar with hard work. She continued to slip her fingers through his hair. She stepped first to his left, then his right, and then finally she moved to stand before him as she trimmed his beard.

Athos looked up at her as she slipped her comb through his hair. In a moment of weakness, he slipped his strong hands around her waist, leaned forward and rested his forehead beneath her chest and just held her. He needed — wanted — the comfort of a woman. He listed to her breathe and admired her as she slipped her hands across his head to his shoulders and gently squeezed. She was soft, comforting, and full of life. She was different than everything he had faced, the hardships of war, the battlefields, the loss of his men, the devastation of treason, and the feeling of loneliness while surrounded with soldiers and even friends and brothers.

Ninon paused, rubbed the back of Athos' neck, and allowed him the moment he needed. There was no aggression, no force, no unexpected reaction, just the simple movement of hands around her waist as he leaned against her. She never said a word, understanding that there were no words to be spoken. She waited and gave him the time he needed. She would never understand the effects of war on the men who fought it. Ninon couldn't, not while she and so many others stood back and watched from a distance. She could see the horrors of it, but had never experienced it — not like he had, not like those he commanded, or those he lost on the battlefield. She glanced at the list on his desk; the names written in black on a piece of parchment. The script was beautiful against the page. There was pride in the elegance of the owner's hand, that, for the last time, wrote the names of those lost. Men who had died for their king and their country. Men who left their wives and families. Men who would never see their children grow up, marry, and have children of their own. Ninon looked away, laced her fingers through his hair at the back of his head, and felt his fingers gently rub at the fabric of her dress.

When the tent flap opened, Ninon caught Aramis' eyes and shook her head, and he slowly and quietly backed away and allowed the canvas to fall closed.

Athos exhaled, released his hands, and leaned back. "Forgive my impropriety."

"There is nothing to forgive, Athos," Ninon said. She stepped back, replaced her tools in the small basket and recovered them with the cloth. "It was a surprise," she turned and humbly smiled at him, "but not a bad one." She gently touched his shoulder and then rubbed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "Now," she smiled, "with a bath, you'd be as handsome as you were the day you entered my home." She raised her eyebrows and lifted the basket from the desk.

Athos stood, grabbed the back of the chair, and replaced it behind his desk.

"Aramis needs to see you," Ninon said.

"I guess the bath will have to wait."

Ninon smiled genuinely and cleared her throat. "When you're ready," she said, "let me know." She turned and said over her shoulder, "I can help with that too." She left the tent.

Athos chuckled and watched the canvas fall closed.