Two chapters tonight and then I start the last story tomorrow. I can't believe we're here already. If you're still with me on this journey, thank you!

Let's get to it...


Chapter 22

Athos lacked his normally determined and lengthy strides as he walked down the hallway. He held strong, but was admittedly weaker than he expected. His shoulder felt bare without the pauldron. While d'Artagnan had offered to loan his own, Athos had refused. He could hear the sounds of men talking, smell the scent of freshly made bread and roasting meat, and he could see the Fontaine's home slowly emerge after Raboin's harsh influence. He could feel Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan at his sides and his back and he knew should he fall, they would catch him.

The doors to the library opened, and for a moment, Athos' heart slammed against his chest and he caught his breath in his throat. Images of Raboin and Grimaud flooded his mind. The unexpected clash of swords and the scent of gunpowder after Raboin pulled the trigger.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked in concern.

Athos hesitantly nodded. "Wait here," he said and swallowed. "I'm not sure how long this will take."

All three watched Athos enter the library like a decrepit old man. His left arm braced against his side, a slight limp, and a grimace that he tried to hide. The doors closed behind him.

Frederick Henry's guards stood at attention on either side of the entry, and were well armed. The room had been cleaned, the desk polished, and the paintings had been restored to their original locations. The drapes were open and allowed the sun to cast its light across the surface of the floor, and the blazing fire kept the warm room. Thorell turned, looked at Athos, and nodded. Frederick Henry smiled, raised his glass of wine, and chuckled.

"The man of the hour," Henry said with a smile. He quickly frowned when he looked at Athos and then motioned toward the chairs before the fireplace. "Perhaps we should sit."

General Thorell stepped beside Athos and said, "You look like you're going to collapse, Captain."

Athos swallowed and clinched his jaw. He nodded when Thorell slipped a hand beneath his right arm and guided him toward a chair. With a hitch in his breathing, Athos took a seat and exhaled slowly. He shifted his right elbow onto the armrest and rubbed his brow and then looked up when Thorell handed him a glass of wine.

"For medicinal purposes," Thorell said, and then took a seat next to Henry.

The small table between them was covered with an old map of the French and Spanish occupied Dutch Republic. Athos looked at it, then took a sip of his wine, before he leaned slightly to the right to ease the pressure on his left side.

"My general was supposed to arrive here," Henry said and pointed to the map, east of the French border near Verdun. "However, he came across a regiment of Spanish moving south which prevented his timely arrival." He looked at Thorell and then at Athos. "While his delay hindered a quick resolution to General Sanchez's advance — had I not redirected my general," he looked at Athos, "because of your message, the Spanish would have advanced a portion if their forces southeast and compromised my position." He shifted forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. "Your timing, Captain, has been exceptional."

Athos rubbed his brow and then lowered his arm to the armrest. "Not exceptional enough."

Henry laughed and reached for his wine. "I suppose you're right." He leaned back and looked at the man before him. "The war is far from over, Captain."

Athos frowned and glanced from Henry to Thorell.

"You have…" Henry shrugged and shifted in his seat. "Let's just say the king listens to you. He listens to Minister Treville, who thinks highly of you."

Athos flexed his jaw several times and shifted uncomfortably, both with the subject and the pain in his side.

"France has proven to be an important ally… with your help, the help of the King's Musketeers, the Dutch Republic may regain our lands from the Spanish. We all know King Philip has extended his financial means for quite some time. Perhaps with your influence — you could help me negotiate with King Louis the Musketeers' involvement for the duration of the war."

General Thorell kept quiet but looked at Athos.

Athos took a deep breath and shook his head. He looked at the wine in his glass and carefully swirled it until it climbed up the sides and then finally stilled. "I am not in a position to negotiate those terms, Your Highness. Even if I were, I would not encourage the king to pursue such an action. The musketeers are reduced in number, far below half, and most — if not all — need time to recover. My men may not know in detail the extent of General Raboin's treachery, but they know the results of them, and battling the enemy within, while battling the enemy at bay, has caused exhaustion throughout my ranks—"

"Why didn't you just kill him?" Henry asked, and pulled his eyebrows together in question. "You had suspicions of what he was… yet you waited."

"Suspicions are not evidence."

Henry huffed and raised a hand in dismissal. "You could have saved how many lives by taking one?"

Athos clenched his jaw and swallowed. "Had General Raboin been killed — the plans he put into motion would have continued. We would not have learned the Spanish were focusing their attention on Paris. I would not have sent messengers to you or General Thorell's camp… your general would not have encountered the Spanish front, and the men protecting Verdun may have been overrun." He winced and rubbed his thumb along the glass. "If I were to assign guilt without evidence… then the very accusation of guilt could influence my men and impact the prestige of the Musketeers. Honorable men do not pass judgment without proof of evidence, Highness."

Henry tapped his palm on the armrest off is chair several times and nodded. "And what of your men?"

"My men will go where King Louis instructs them…" Athos looked at Henry. "As will I. I will not advise unless I am asked. King Louis is well aware of King Philip and his financial limitations. How he sees fit to assist the Dutch Republic at this time is up to him, his minister of war, and to his council."

Henry shifted and licked his bottom lip as he contemplated Athos' statement. "You sound like a man more concerned for his men than his king."

General Thorell closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but waited.

Athos curled his lips into a knowing smile and said, "I'm always concerned for my men, but my duty is to my king." He looked at Henry. "We will follow the king's orders… whatever they may be."

"There have been kings, Athos," Henry said, and leaned back into his seat with a heavy sigh, "who have turned on their people… slaughtered them because men like yourself were just following orders."

Athos shifted, placed the wineglass on the table next to his chair, and slipped his hand to his side. "In this moment, Highness, King Louis is protecting his people."

"And if that were to change?" Henry asked.

The room grew quiet and Athos looked at General Thorell and then Prince Henry and said in a low, but audible, voice. "To betray a people is to betray the king, but a king who betrays his people is no longer a king. That, Your Highness, is my stance."

Henry looked at Athos for a long moment and then nodded. He stood, and then suddenly said, "Remain seated." He waved his hand toward them and then walked across the room and opened a leather satchel. "I hope," he said as he walked back toward the chairs, "that should the musketeers once again be ordered to war, that you, Captain, will be leading them." He handed Athos the golden dagger. "I believe this is yours." He quirked his lips into a gentle smile as Athos took the blade.

"While this conversation did not end as I had hoped, I will say that my faith in the honor of men has been restored," Henry said. He leaned forward and raised his glass, and then looked at General Thorell, who joined him in gesture and nodded in agreement.

Athos watched them as they each took a sip of wine. He took a sip of his own and then placed the glass on the table next to the chair. "My apologies, but I should take my leave." He gripped the armrest of the chair with his right hand and shifted forward. He stopped suddenly, clinched his eyes shut and held his breath, as sweat beaded his brow. He tightened his fingers around the curve of the chair until his knuckles turned white. Slowly, he awkwardly tried to stand. Athos sighed in relief when Thorell grasped his upper arm and assisted.

"Has anyone ever told you, Captain," Thorell said, "that your level of stubbornness is quite impressive."

Athos hissed and then nodded. "I've been called a stubborn fool many times, but never has it accompanied the term impressive."

Henry chuckled. "When you call your men to muster, Captain." He looked at Athos, "Tell them that the Prince of Orange thanks them for their service… I owe them a debt of gratitude."

General Thorell walked with Athos to the door and tightened his grip on Athos' arm when he felt him tremble. "You and the men you lead are an honor to your king, Captain, and you have all served him well."

Athos nodded, but didn't say anything as the doors were opened.

"See to your captain, Gentlemen," Thorell said.

Aramis and Porthos stepped forward. Each took a stance on either side of Athos and slipped a supportive hand beneath his arms.

"General," Aramis said, and then walked with Athos back toward the room.

Thorell slowly turned, and the doors closed behind him.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked.

Athos felt weak, sick to his stomach, and his limbs had grown too heavy. "Suddenly tired," he admitted. He paused for a moment, looked toward the window as the sun shone through the glass windows. He swallowed, and then leaned to his right. He felt Porthos' increase his hold.

Porthos slipped a strong arm behind Athos' back and raised an arm over his shoulder. "Back to bed, Captain."

"Go get some soup, d'Artagnan," Aramis said. "He needs to get his strength back, and Ruth promised to keep a pot going for him."

D'Artagnan turned and left.

Athos nodded and shifted his feet forward as they slowly got him back to his room. Aramis helped him slip out of his doublet, and then pulled off his boots, but before they could slip him out of his britches, Athos lay back against the pillows.

"I need to organize the men… get them ready to travel back to Paris," Athos said. He draped his arm over his eyes and pressed his hand to his side.

Aramis chuckled, shifted Athos' stocking feet onto the bed, and then covered him with a blanket. "The men will be fine until you're healed, you stubborn fool."

"We need to get back to Paris." Athos swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbled several times as he tried to keep his stomach settled.

"Unless you plan on traveling in a cart with the injured men," Aramis said in jest, "your trip to Paris will need to wait." He looked at Porthos and rolled his eyes.

Porthos chuckled, closed the drapes to block out the sun, and then tossed another log onto the fire. "Let 'im sleep," he said and clapped a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "I heard our Scotsman was goin' to sing again tonight." He smiled and walked to the door. "An old Irish tune. Isabeau and Piers have offered to serve some brandy," he smiled broadly, exposing bright white teeth with a gleam in his eyes, "they let me taste it. It's good."

Aramis laughed, walked toward Porthos and clapped his shoulder. "I could stand a good cup of brandy and a sad Irish tune sung by an ornery Scotsman." He stepped from the room.

Porthos grasped the edge of the door, looked toward the bed where Athos slept. "We get to go 'home," he said, "all of us."

Aramis looked at Porthos clasped a strong hand on his shoulder and said, "I know."