Thank you again everyone for your continued support on this journey. A few more chapters to go before the next story...

Chapter 7

The halls echoed with footsteps, and sunlight shone brightly through the windows. Its appearance of warmth was only brief as the cold air entered through the windowpanes, and through the cracks of the frames. Dust particles danced despite the chill. Even the paintings that hung from the walls were void of life. Raboin had taken a home and turned it into a prison, not for just Athos, but for all of them, himself included.

The doors to the library were opened, and Athos followed Polo through the doors. The guards took up their positions around the room, shoulders back, feet apart, and chins raised. The Spanish were just as formidable as the French, and they were just as proud.

General Raboin poured himself a cup of wine, and set the port on the credenza below the window that overlooked the stables, the cattle barn, and the open fields beyond the forest. The tents of Comtois and Athos' regiments were barely visible. Raboin swirled his glass, allowed the wine to run up the sides, and then he looked at Athos.

"Leave us," Raboin said in a commanding tone that caused the men to frown and shift uncomfortably. "I won't make the request again."

The doors were opened once again, and in pairs, the men departed.

Polo paused and said, "We'll be right outside."

"I would hope so," Raboin said, quirked an eyebrow, and then took a long drink of his wine.

Polo nodded once and closed the doors as he left.

The library was warm; the fire glowed and flames danced as sparks flew upward. A freshly cut supply of wood was neatly stacked against the wall. Athos felt the heat and allowed himself a moment to appreciate it. He kept quiet, but looked at the books that had been replaced, the maps were gone, and Raboin's desk was cleared of all documents. His quill rested in its holder. The broad fan of the feather glimmered from shades of blues to greens as the clouds moved and the sun's rays changed their positioning. Athos noticed his doublet that had been draped over the back of a chair and his pauldron stared back at him.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Raboin said.

Athos frowned and said, "About leaving and escaping with your family."

"About being a man without a country," Raboin said and turned to look at Athos as he stood in the center of the room looking like half the man he was just days before. He was disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes and matched the darkness of his soul. He licked his lips, looked out the window, and then looked back at Athos. "I have a country… I dedicated my life to fighting for her, and I'll continue to do so. France can no longer offer me what I need, and what I need is lands, my family, and recognition for what I have done."

"When?"

"When what?" Raboin asked.

"When did you decide you would rather fight for Spain than for France?"

Raboin paused for a long moment as he contemplated the question. "I wish I could say it was the moment I met my wife," he said and looked at Athos, "but I think… when I really think about it, it was when King Louis banished his mother from Paris." He shrugged, looked at the wine, and then gently ran a finger across the lip of the glass. "I knew he was cold… I just didn't realize how cold he was until that moment."

Athos remained quiet and listened.

"Had I been King Henri's son," Raboin looked up and raised his eyebrows, "Louis would never have survived long enough to sit upon the throne."

"You would only be the king's bastard — nothing more."

"He had several," Raboin said sadly. He shifted, looked once more out the window and watched the men in the fields as they prepared for the day. "Henri loved me..." His voice tailed off, grew distant as he frowned and thought about his past. "I often thought about what it might be like to have a father like him," he looked at Athos, "and I can only assume he was a proud one."

"And now?"

"And now — now," Raboin said with emphasis, "now I have come to the realization that King Henri died and with him died my idea of what Paris and France could be." He quickly finished his wine and placed the glass on the credenza, turned his back to the window, and looked at Athos. The glow of the sun surrounded him, highlighted the hairs on his head, his doublet, and his weapons. He had always been an imposing figure, but now he looked more sinister and devoid of honor and mercy.

"Spain has given me everything and had it not been for you," Raboin continued. "I might very well be home with my children, with my wife, and preparing to plant my fields." He stepped forward and kept his eyes on Athos. "Because of that, Captain Athos of the King's Musketeers, I want to see you beg for mercy… I want to see you on your knees pleading for the lives of your men… I want to see you broken and defeated.

"How dare you defy my orders? How dare you take it upon yourself to lead my men?" He clenched his jaw and wrapped his hand around the grip of his dagger that was still tucked into his belt. "How dare you attempt to take away everything I have worked for?"

Athos clinched his jaw and tightened his shackled hands into fists.

"Your men will watch you die and then one by one they will each meet their fate. Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan… Lieutenants Marc and Levi will soon follow, and then the rest of the King's Musketeers until only a few remain to tell the sad story of your fate… of your failure… the demise of King Louis' greatest achievement."

"You underestimate them," Athos said, and held his stare.

Raboin huffed and shook his head. "You overestimate them — friendship will do that… brothers are always bound to disappoint." He glanced at the door and shouted, "Guards!" He chuckled, relaxed his stance, and released his hand on the dagger.

The doors opened and Polo and his men reentered the room. Raboin turned, walked to the chair where Athos' doublet lay, and grabbed it. He turned suddenly, pulled his dagger, and cut the pauldron free of the leather straps. In a swift motion, he tossed it into the fire, where it landed on the burning log. It only took a few moments before the old leather, covered in years of oil, blood, and sweat, ignited.

Athos swallowed, but kept his gaze on Raboin.

"Take him back to the undercroft — he'll hang at noon." Rabion turned and walked to his desk.

Athos frowned, was quickly grabbed by his upper arms by two guards and then pulled from the room. His feet felt heavy, his heart clinched, and his throat constricted. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was, however, fearful for his men, for those who put their trust in him.

The halls closed in on him as he walked. The chuckles of those beside him echoed and grated on his nerves. The paintings had suddenly come alive and mocked him. The air entering through the cracks in the windows seemed colder, and the distance from the library to the undercroft stretched farther than before. Time had a way of exaggerating the truth, of providing humility and shame that had been denied.

Athos knew his fate, but as he walked and felt his strength return; his steps became stronger, and his heart finally relaxed. He took a deep breath and caught the scent of freshly baked bread, and heard the sounds of laughter come from the kitchens. The world was a conjurer's game and Athos frowned as he contemplated Raboin's words: suddenly he felt like the pea hidden beneath one of the general's cups as he shifted them from one position to the next.