It's been a while since we've last had a Snack, hasn't it? I saw a prompt ("swords") and couldn't contain myself, so here we are.
For this one story, Athos's rooms are in the garrison barracks instead of Rue Férou.
"Touch that sword and I will cut off your arm."
The thief froze, kneeling on the mattress with one leg and reaching for the weapon mounted on the wall. Athos stood in the doorway, not wielding pistol or sword, but the look in his eyes alone could fell the man if he so desired.
The thief swallowed. He glanced sideways towards the window, but it was tightly shut. His fingers twitched, so close to the prize he'd sought.
"Go on," prompted the Musketeer, not moving from the doorway, "Do it."
The man paled.
"Problem?"
Porthos had materialized behind Athos and was looking in curiously. The thief suddenly noticed that he hadn't moved, knelt on the cot as he was and reaching for the sword. He slowly lowered his hand, watching the two men cautiously.
"No," Athos replied, not taking his eyes off of thief for a second, "only a nuisance."
"Burglary - seriously?" Porthos looked astounded. "In 'ere, in broad daylight?"
"If intelligence were distributed evenly, my dear Porthos, it'd be down to chance for us to catch thieves and nothing more."
"Chance? Honestly," Porthos said with a frown, suddenly turning to the thief, "'elp me understand this- were you tryin' to get caught?"
"I..." the man stammered, finally climbing down the cot, "I..uh.."
"He speaks," Athos noted in surprise. Porthos twirled a hand in the air impatiently.
"You got an explanation for what it looks like you were doin'?"
The thief didn't reply, but his throat worked convulsively. Athos canted his head.
"And he loses speech again."
"Righ'," Porthos mumbled as he walked into the room, "Didn' think he'd 'ave an explanation anyway. Come now, get down." He beckoned to the man. The thief did not move. Porthos surged forward with a growl and yanked him by the arm; the man yelped, but could not free himself from Porthos's iron grip. They stood in front of Athos.
"Who are you?" Athos asked. When he received no answer, he huffed impatiently, and the next moment, he had his main gauche in hand.
"I - please, I'm sorry! I'm called Gaspard, I work for Bouchon, the blacksmith!"
"Bouchon's been working for the garrison for years, I've never seen you with him."
"I'm new! It's only been a month! I- I've been makin' deliveries for the armoury!"
Eyes narrowing, Athos gave him a look over.
"So you have a professional interest in swords." He tilted his head towards the prized object on the wall. Despite his outwardly calm, Porthos glimpsed the fury lying underneath; he grabbed the man by the collar and gave him a shake.
"'ow did you know about that sword?"
"I've - I'd seen it from the window."
Porthos and Athos exchanged a look. The room was on the ground floor and the window overlooked the courtyard, so it was possible.
"An' why did you target it? It's not like you can tell what kind of sword it is from afar." Unable to help it, Porthos glanced over at Athos as he asked this.
"I don' know - 'cos the lieutenant never wears it?! It's got be valuable, isn't it, put up there instead of a cabinet or a trunk?"
"I was wrong about you," Athos declared, his eyes, if possible, narrowing even more, "It seems you have some modicum of intelligence. Why you chose not to exercise it in choosing the time of the deed is what escapes me at the moment."
"I'd thought you'd gone out," the man said with a hint of injured pride, "Aramis and the young one left with another man, I thought it was you."
"An' 'e does reconnaissance too," Porthos noted, looking impressed. Aramis and d'Artagnan had indeed left on an assignment accompanied by a new Musketeer called Flachat, who indeed had a similar height and built to the lieutenant.
"Was this your first attempt at burglary or have you robbed any other Musketeers of late?" Athos's tone was ice cold again. The man mutely shook his head.
"That's somethin' at least. Come on, I'm takin' you to the Cap'n-"
"A moment, Porthos, if you would."
Porthos paused. There was that dangerous glint in Athos's eyes again. "I think this hardly a matter that merits the Captain's attention. It seems to me this man simply needs a lesson." He suggestively raised an eyebrow.
Letting go of the man's collar, Porthos grinned.
"All yours."
The man gulped.
A moment later, Athos was pushing and dragging the man out of the room and into the courtyard, where the would-be thief stumbled with a cry and caught himself in the last moment to avoid a hard fall. Several heads turned as the men stopped in their tracks to see what was happening. Athos pushed the man to the center of the yard and pulled out his sword.
"Someone pass this man a blade," he said calmly over his shoulder, addressing no one in particular. A cadet moved eagerly to pass the man a rapier, but the thief recoiled, stumbling backwards in horror. Musketeers' hands pushed him forward again and the cadet seized the man's wrist to force the blade on him. The crowd drew back. Athos stood stoically in the middle of the yard, his face perfectly composed. A hush fell over the spectators.
"Raise your sword."
Athos lifted his own blade until the tip pointed at the man's heart.
"N-No - this isn't fair!" the man cried, "I can't fight you!"
Athos's eyes flashed.
"Fair? A rich word from a would-be thief. Come, man," he snapped, "since you are so interested in other people's swords, you might as well taste the sting of one!"
Then in a blur of movement he lunged, and in one, two, three strikes, he'd had the man splayed on his back in the dust, several superficial cuts on all limbs bleeding all over the place.
"Get him out of my sight."
Leaving the crowd buzzing with low-key delight, Athos turned and walked back inside.
Later that evening, he and Porthos were sitting in a quiet corner of one of their usual haunts, a bottle of wine and two cups before them.
"You got awfully angry over that blade," Porthos said by way of starting the conversation.
"It is not mine," Athos said, speaking towards the cup in his hand, "It is entrusted to me."
For Porthos, in a strange way, that explained Athos's reaction better than the wrath of a man whose own possession had almost been stolen. Athos led a truly Spartan life, but the sword on the wall had been an object of curiosity for years to both Aramis and Porthos. Neither of them had ever inquired about it, sensing that it would be a sensitive subject, but after that day's incident, Porthos could no longer contain himself.
"Entrusted by who?" he asked curiously. Athos slid him a glance conveying clearly that he wouldn't answer that.
In truth, the sword in question rightfully belonged to Athos, and no one else. It was a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation of the Comtes de le Fére, and Athos had worn it whilst he'd been the comte. But once he'd denounced the title and left that life behind, he'd felt he was no longer fit to carry it. And still, it was the one piece of connection to his family that he could not bear to forsake.
Perhaps, there was a sort of penance in keeping it always in sight, unmissable every time he walked into his room. Mounted on the wall above the bed, it was the sword that dangled constantly over his head, a reminder of his colossal failure as the sole heir of the Athos family - his shame.
He could no longer call the sword his, for he was no longer worthy of it. But he would guard it with his life if it were the last act of duty he could perform to his family.
And perhaps, there would be some penance in that, too.