Rage And Serenity
BLACKJACK!
(This is a post I've recently written in response to a fellow writer's starter in another forum, in which we've moved Athos & Co. into the time of the French Revolution, with a great deal of historical liberties taken. I'm sharing it here in case anyone wishes to know my writing style before playing with my version of Athos, whether in his canon timeline or moved elsewhere in history as I've done here):
His Royal Majesty had spoken. Captain Treville, his release from service as Captain of the King's Musketeers having been postponed yet again, rode back to the garrison armed with a royal order for immediate implementation. The country's financial woes and pressing budgetary concerns consuming the Crown had previously prompted Louis XVI to announce a planned dissolution of the musketeer regiments in his service. Such arrangements to disband the specialized fighting units had now been postponed, however, in response to the worsening political climate and increasing threat of social unrest. And of vital concern to the king at present was the necessity to quell little rebellions and certain crimes committed by individuals who may yet influence the idea of rebellion.
The threat of revolution was thick in the air, no longer blanketed in shadow through whispers and easily dismissed rumor. No, the whispers had risen in volume, almost to a roar. The expectation that the Musketeers would soon lose their posts and be forced to either return to their lands leased to peasants simmering with chat of revolt, or join those same dissatisfied masses, had greatly depleted morale among the ranks. Treville, and the seasoned warriors under his command, were only beginning to understand other unprecedented dangers they faced either way. Taking up arms in battle against a foreign enemy was expected; the very idea of France herself being torn to pieces through bloody civil strife was quite another reality, entirely. Treville didn't relish the thought, and he knew how three of his best were likely to share a similar sentiment, even if civil war meant the Musketeers were to remain employed indefinitely. Their sworn duty was to protect the King and loyalist claim, and Treville would be hard pressed to name any Musketeer harboring enthusiasm in the maiming of fellow French suffering more injustices of which even he yet knew.
Upon his arrival at the garrison, Treville sent for those same three souls whose skills he believed to be best suited to the King's latest directive. Porthos and Aramis were soon enough present in his office.
"Where's Athos?" Treville eyed the two casually leathered men, their official blue tunics having been foresaken for another afternoon, with a questioning brow. His voiced inquiry of the absent musketeer's whereabouts was moreso a formality than any true admission of ignorance. He knew as well as Porthos and Aramis where their comrade was most likely to be found. Such certainty was mirrored in the other men's expressions as they glanced knowingly at one another before facing their captain again. "Oh, he's surely ...," Aramis chimed in, shrugging nonchalantly with a nod to his fellow Musketeer. "Close by," Porthos finished the thought. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.
"Well, then, fetch him immediately," Treville ordered with a weary nod. Athos was surely to be, if recent history proved any guide, brooding alone with a fistful of spirits at the garrison's tavern, accompanied by a litany of regrets and demons from a past that remained mostly a mystery even to those souls closest to him in his present incarnation. The suspicion of Athos presently numbing his wits with drink hardly troubled the seasoned captain, however. Even despite the tendency to drown his undisclosed sorrows in drink, Athos ranked amongst Treville's most capable Musketeers, a courageous, distinguished warrior, mentor and natural leader. A mind inclined toward moodiness and even melancholy did little to lessen the otherwise noble soldier's finer traits as a man of action and commitment to upholding the law. Should Treville ever have the honour of choosing his own successor to lead the Musketeers of the Guard, he would not hesitate recommending Athos for His Majesty's consideration, regardless of how Athos would have believed himself, for deeply personal reasons, unworthy of such esteem.
"Then, the three of you report to me immediately. I've an order from the king, and a most important assignment for you gents."
*****
Athos was not thoroughly in his cups when Porthos and Aramis found him slumped over a table in a far corner of the tavern. No, he wasn't completely three sheets to the wind, although he'd at least managed to gulp down a sizeable enough quantity of wine and spiced brandy to dull the pounding in his head from the previous evening's epic bender. Narrow bars of sunlight attempted to stream through the scant windows into the tavern's dark haze, but Athos kept to the comfort of shadow and muted lantern light, content with his solitude and the permission to embrace the silence so often characterizing his manner even when in the company of fellows he loved as brothers.
He recalled very little about the night before. Only a lingering certainty remained, that he had been overly distraught - without actually vocalizing to anyone his closely guarded fears on the subject - about the pending dissolution of his regiment. The idea of losing his identity as a Musketeer - one he had chosen not, as others believed, out of any quest toward heroics or noble sense of lawfulness, but secretly as a means to outrun his own past and escape a stifling tower of regret - was rapidly sending Athos into a tailspin.
Where would he go, then, once the Musketeers were ended? Returning to the lands he owned, still tended to by peasants he'd abandoned just before seeking solace through a new life with Captain Treville's forces, well, that was hardly an option he welcomed. He would have to confront that past all over again, face the results of his decisions, relive the nobleman's existence he had intentionally left behind and never revealed. And a ghost - HER ghost - would be everywhere, around every corner, beckoning him to follow her fate, dancing like a phantom seductress in the very fields where they had made love so often. The tree from which she had hanged, by his order.
The Comte de la Fère, once known in intimate company as Olivier, had been a happy man in those days, always smiling, always laughing, keeping few servants but dedicated to those who toiled the lands of his inheritance. But darker days had tainted the short-lived bliss. Horrific accusations had been made, the love of his life had stood accused of such treachery that Athos had lost faith in happiness itself. He had proven to be a coward in the end, and was still running. Now he still smiled during lighter times, but never laughed, never allowed himself to retrace the steps required for a life of genuine contentment. Athos was a man willingly consumed by his own regrets, carrying with him the ghosts of life and love wherever he went.
His life was about to change drastically yet again, on this fateful day, in ways he never could have expected.
"Well, there's a sight I'd never expected to behold with my own eyes, Porthos!" Booming sarcasm erupted from the lips of Aramis as he and his companion towered in the doorway. Gradually, they closed distance between themselves and where Athos was draining the contents of his cup, the latter staring downward under the guise of studying patterns of cracks in the table.
"Right. Who would've guessed he'd be here, of all places?" Porthos was attempting to remain deadpan, but a smirk was destroying the act. Both men halted their steps beside the table, leaving Athos to let his eyes slowly drift upward into an intentionally disinterested glare from under the brim of his Cavalier. It was almost comical, that moment, or would have been, if not for his mildly depressive state.
"And who might've guessed, the hulk of a man who bellows like a wounded bull when he's slighted, has the voice of a thousand angels when he's a mind to it?" It was Athos who was completely deadpan in his teasing, delivered in his precise, softly spoken manner, absolute proof that he had not completely blocked out all the previous night's happenings. Aramis chuckled as his glances roamed between his friends, nudging a perplexed Porthos in the side with his elbow.
"How can you possibly recall that, Athos, drunk as you were, eh?" Porthos lifted his brows before eyes narrowed at Athos. "You couldn't even stand up straight, you rascal. Had to carry you myself."
"Mmm. So it's true. You did sing to me?" Athos offered the ghost of a smile while Aramis smirked away, enjoying the good-natured ribbing being directed away from his own exploits for a change. Porthos leaned forward, knuckles heavy on the table's surface.
"It seemed to calm you well enough after I hoisted you over my shoulders, didn't it? Who'm I to deny I've got the voice of a thousand angels?" Porthos attempted to pretend being caught singing to soothe his ailing friend was not any cause for embarrassment.
"And it's true, you did believe you'd been delivered. Well, at least long enough to stop taking swings at Porthos when he was getting you to your feet." Aramis sided with Porthos, giving a friendly shrug.
"Indeed. Delivered from heaving out your insides on the street," Porthos grunted, only too ready to have the topic removed from his singing voice.
"And Madame Bourdillon's mutton stew," Aramis offered, helpfully.
"If it brings any comfort at all, Porthos, I don't actually recall much of anything other than your most generous assistance." Athos lifted his cup, offering his fellows a mock toast before drinking down the remaining droplets clinging to the inside. "And of course, the lovely melody of your impromptu serenade. Saved by a mountain, a singing mountain, no less, and delivered to the safety of my room. How could one possible find fault with such?" Athos did smile this time, without laughter as was his way, but the action managed to erase some of the despair set into the lines around his eyes. "A pity it is,indeed, then. We not the opportunity to realize a new regiment, that of the singing Musketeers."Yes
"Well, if I might interrupt the odd journey through such fond memory, gentlemen, there's the matter of why we're here." Aramis was suddenly quite serious, which immediately garnered the bleary-eyed scrutiny of Athos. "We three are to report to the captain presently. Something about an important order of the king."
****
"Plainly speaking, gentlemen," Treville further explained, once his three chosen musketeers stood together in their captain's office. "There remains, thankfully, a need for His Majesty's Musketeers to remain in service. This order of the king, directing us to assume responsibilities previously reserved only for the Bastille guards, will further ensure your positions, and those of the entire regiments, will be secured. At least for longer than expected."
Theirs was a seemingly simple task, Treville clarified. A man standing accused for the murder of his noble father was now secured in the Bastille as an enemy of the Crown. It was suspected that the condemned prisoner had numerous connections to organized parties actively hostile to Loyalist interests but friendly to the masses of violent peasantry and lower class academics alike; thus, his safety during expected interrogations and the importance of squashing all probability of escape had become a high priority. Louie intended for the man's imprisonment and scheduled execution to serve as a warning to anyone stirring further talk of rebellion. An example would be made of him. The skill and loyalty of the Musketeers could best be utilized to subdue the threat of revolution in this manner.
Or so the King and his advisors believed.
Treville and his Musketeers believed it best to do what they could to avoid a bloody civil war.
"And what is the name of this seemingly dangerous man, with such influence threatening the King and indeed, all of France?" It would be the last time Athos would feel so personally removed from this particular situation.
Treville leaned forward and handed Athos the King's written order. "Arno Victor Dorian. The dead man was the Marquis Francois de la Serre, an associate of Dorian's late father before he adopted the accused as a child. It is believed some of the origins to the rebel factions may be traced back to de la Serre himself. We are hoping to learn more of Dorian's connections here in Paris or beyond, and if de la Serre's murder is in any way related to some sort of power struggle between himself and Dorian within those factions."
No. It couldn't be. That name. THOSE names.
Athos felt as though a fist had punched into his belly, rendering him unable to properly breathe. They were names from another lifetime, one of two lifetimes he had taken great pains to forget.
"So that is why his execution for such a crime isn't more...immediate." Aramis nodded his understanding, before noting how curiously Treville was regarding Athos' reaction upon reading the order.
"Someone you know?" Porthos had noticed also, the manner in which Athos' shoulders tensed, the shadow darkening his brow, how Athos seemed to be re-reading the relatively brief instructions scrawled on the page with greater attention than might otherwise be necessary.
"I should think not." Athos quietly handed the missive back to his captain, without further elaboration.
***
Athos' bootsteps echoed dully through the dank corridors of the Bastille's more unpleasant cell blocks. Elsewhere in the formidable structure, far more luxurious quarters were available for the incarceration of high profile prisoners whose lives were spared from the gallows or guillotine. Such comforts, however, had not been reserved for the likes of Arno Dorian. This block was intended to inspire fear and destroy all hopes of merciful deliverance for those so condemned to a bleak end.
It was, then, only fitting how the hopeless ambience of those current surroundings should find kinship with the current mood of the Comte de la Fere, a man once known to Arno Victor Dorian as a boy called Olivier. A stifling sense of dread coated Athos' tongue as he strode behind the guard leading him to the cell in question, while Porthos and Aramis secured his back. Despite an overwhelming desire to disappear and thus avoid confronting another facet of a long buried past, Athos had instead charged on ahead, a duty to uphold the law prevailing over his heart's need to avoid such a meeting altogether.
Arriving at their destination, the heavily armed musketeers halted their steps outside the three layered iron gate as the guard cautiously slid a massive key into what appeared to be an impenetrable lock. The prisoner had been manhandled enough, by the looks of it, to offer little resistance even if the doorway remained vacant for but a few seconds, but the guard took advantage of Arno's misery all the same. A swift kick was sent into Arno's side from the guard's boot, followed by a "Get up, you wretched scum. King's musketeers afoot!"
Athos knew it, then. The truth he'd been praying was a lie. It was Arno, a name - and a face- from another lifetime.
"ENOUGH!" Athos calmly approached with the aire of indisputable authority. Porthos and Aramis were only too glad to assist, rushing in so Porthos could effectively disarm the offending guard with a shove of mighty hands against the bars before tossing the guard out of the cell completely and securing the gate.
"By order of Louis XIV, the remainder of this man's imprisonment is to be hereby overseen by His Majesty's Musketeers." Athos unfurled the written order and held it in front of the guard, who was by then struggling to his
knees. "It is most unfortunate that there was not the time to inform you of such a transition before now, else such a display would not have been necessary. That said, I suggest you find some other means of occupying your time."
The guard soon leaving with a stream of colorful metaphors on muttered on his tongue, the musketeers stood outside the bars to observe their new charge. Athos kept his struggle carefully concealed, his voice steady.
"You are...Monsieur Dorian, I presume." Spoken more like a statement rather than any sort of inquiry.
His Royal Majesty had spoken. Captain Treville, his release from service as Captain of the King's Musketeers having been postponed yet again, rode back to the garrison armed with a royal order for immediate implementation. The country's financial woes and pressing budgetary concerns consuming the Crown had previously prompted Louis XVI to announce a planned dissolution of the musketeer regiments in his service. Such arrangements to disband the specialized fighting units had now been postponed, however, in response to the worsening political climate and increasing threat of social unrest. And of vital concern to the king at present was the necessity to quell little rebellions and certain crimes committed by individuals who may yet influence the idea of rebellion.
The threat of revolution was thick in the air, no longer blanketed in shadow through whispers and easily dismissed rumor. No, the whispers had risen in volume, almost to a roar. The expectation that the Musketeers would soon lose their posts and be forced to either return to their lands leased to peasants simmering with chat of revolt, or join those same dissatisfied masses, had greatly depleted morale among the ranks. Treville, and the seasoned warriors under his command, were only beginning to understand other unprecedented dangers they faced either way. Taking up arms in battle against a foreign enemy was expected; the very idea of France herself being torn to pieces through bloody civil strife was quite another reality, entirely. Treville didn't relish the thought, and he knew how three of his best were likely to share a similar sentiment, even if civil war meant the Musketeers were to remain employed indefinitely. Their sworn duty was to protect the King and loyalist claim, and Treville would be hard pressed to name any Musketeer harboring enthusiasm in the maiming of fellow French suffering more injustices of which even he yet knew.
Upon his arrival at the garrison, Treville sent for those same three souls whose skills he believed to be best suited to the King's latest directive. Porthos and Aramis were soon enough present in his office.
"Where's Athos?" Treville eyed the two casually leathered men, their official blue tunics having been foresaken for another afternoon, with a questioning brow. His voiced inquiry of the absent musketeer's whereabouts was moreso a formality than any true admission of ignorance. He knew as well as Porthos and Aramis where their comrade was most likely to be found. Such certainty was mirrored in the other men's expressions as they glanced knowingly at one another before facing their captain again. "Oh, he's surely ...," Aramis chimed in, shrugging nonchalantly with a nod to his fellow Musketeer. "Close by," Porthos finished the thought. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.
"Well, then, fetch him immediately," Treville ordered with a weary nod. Athos was surely to be, if recent history proved any guide, brooding alone with a fistful of spirits at the garrison's tavern, accompanied by a litany of regrets and demons from a past that remained mostly a mystery even to those souls closest to him in his present incarnation. The suspicion of Athos presently numbing his wits with drink hardly troubled the seasoned captain, however. Even despite the tendency to drown his undisclosed sorrows in drink, Athos ranked amongst Treville's most capable Musketeers, a courageous, distinguished warrior, mentor and natural leader. A mind inclined toward moodiness and even melancholy did little to lessen the otherwise noble soldier's finer traits as a man of action and commitment to upholding the law. Should Treville ever have the honour of choosing his own successor to lead the Musketeers of the Guard, he would not hesitate recommending Athos for His Majesty's consideration, regardless of how Athos would have believed himself, for deeply personal reasons, unworthy of such esteem.
"Then, the three of you report to me immediately. I've an order from the king, and a most important assignment for you gents."
*****
Athos was not thoroughly in his cups when Porthos and Aramis found him slumped over a table in a far corner of the tavern. No, he wasn't completely three sheets to the wind, although he'd at least managed to gulp down a sizeable enough quantity of wine and spiced brandy to dull the pounding in his head from the previous evening's epic bender. Narrow bars of sunlight attempted to stream through the scant windows into the tavern's dark haze, but Athos kept to the comfort of shadow and muted lantern light, content with his solitude and the permission to embrace the silence so often characterizing his manner even when in the company of fellows he loved as brothers.
He recalled very little about the night before. Only a lingering certainty remained, that he had been overly distraught - without actually vocalizing to anyone his closely guarded fears on the subject - about the pending dissolution of his regiment. The idea of losing his identity as a Musketeer - one he had chosen not, as others believed, out of any quest toward heroics or noble sense of lawfulness, but secretly as a means to outrun his own past and escape a stifling tower of regret - was rapidly sending Athos into a tailspin.
Where would he go, then, once the Musketeers were ended? Returning to the lands he owned, still tended to by peasants he'd abandoned just before seeking solace through a new life with Captain Treville's forces, well, that was hardly an option he welcomed. He would have to confront that past all over again, face the results of his decisions, relive the nobleman's existence he had intentionally left behind and never revealed. And a ghost - HER ghost - would be everywhere, around every corner, beckoning him to follow her fate, dancing like a phantom seductress in the very fields where they had made love so often. The tree from which she had hanged, by his order.
The Comte de la Fère, once known in intimate company as Olivier, had been a happy man in those days, always smiling, always laughing, keeping few servants but dedicated to those who toiled the lands of his inheritance. But darker days had tainted the short-lived bliss. Horrific accusations had been made, the love of his life had stood accused of such treachery that Athos had lost faith in happiness itself. He had proven to be a coward in the end, and was still running. Now he still smiled during lighter times, but never laughed, never allowed himself to retrace the steps required for a life of genuine contentment. Athos was a man willingly consumed by his own regrets, carrying with him the ghosts of life and love wherever he went.
His life was about to change drastically yet again, on this fateful day, in ways he never could have expected.
"Well, there's a sight I'd never expected to behold with my own eyes, Porthos!" Booming sarcasm erupted from the lips of Aramis as he and his companion towered in the doorway. Gradually, they closed distance between themselves and where Athos was draining the contents of his cup, the latter staring downward under the guise of studying patterns of cracks in the table.
"Right. Who would've guessed he'd be here, of all places?" Porthos was attempting to remain deadpan, but a smirk was destroying the act. Both men halted their steps beside the table, leaving Athos to let his eyes slowly drift upward into an intentionally disinterested glare from under the brim of his Cavalier. It was almost comical, that moment, or would have been, if not for his mildly depressive state.
"And who might've guessed, the hulk of a man who bellows like a wounded bull when he's slighted, has the voice of a thousand angels when he's a mind to it?" It was Athos who was completely deadpan in his teasing, delivered in his precise, softly spoken manner, absolute proof that he had not completely blocked out all the previous night's happenings. Aramis chuckled as his glances roamed between his friends, nudging a perplexed Porthos in the side with his elbow.
"How can you possibly recall that, Athos, drunk as you were, eh?" Porthos lifted his brows before eyes narrowed at Athos. "You couldn't even stand up straight, you rascal. Had to carry you myself."
"Mmm. So it's true. You did sing to me?" Athos offered the ghost of a smile while Aramis smirked away, enjoying the good-natured ribbing being directed away from his own exploits for a change. Porthos leaned forward, knuckles heavy on the table's surface.
"It seemed to calm you well enough after I hoisted you over my shoulders, didn't it? Who'm I to deny I've got the voice of a thousand angels?" Porthos attempted to pretend being caught singing to soothe his ailing friend was not any cause for embarrassment.
"And it's true, you did believe you'd been delivered. Well, at least long enough to stop taking swings at Porthos when he was getting you to your feet." Aramis sided with Porthos, giving a friendly shrug.
"Indeed. Delivered from heaving out your insides on the street," Porthos grunted, only too ready to have the topic removed from his singing voice.
"And Madame Bourdillon's mutton stew," Aramis offered, helpfully.
"If it brings any comfort at all, Porthos, I don't actually recall much of anything other than your most generous assistance." Athos lifted his cup, offering his fellows a mock toast before drinking down the remaining droplets clinging to the inside. "And of course, the lovely melody of your impromptu serenade. Saved by a mountain, a singing mountain, no less, and delivered to the safety of my room. How could one possible find fault with such?" Athos did smile this time, without laughter as was his way, but the action managed to erase some of the despair set into the lines around his eyes. "A pity it is,indeed, then. We not the opportunity to realize a new regiment, that of the singing Musketeers."Yes
"Well, if I might interrupt the odd journey through such fond memory, gentlemen, there's the matter of why we're here." Aramis was suddenly quite serious, which immediately garnered the bleary-eyed scrutiny of Athos. "We three are to report to the captain presently. Something about an important order of the king."
****
"Plainly speaking, gentlemen," Treville further explained, once his three chosen musketeers stood together in their captain's office. "There remains, thankfully, a need for His Majesty's Musketeers to remain in service. This order of the king, directing us to assume responsibilities previously reserved only for the Bastille guards, will further ensure your positions, and those of the entire regiments, will be secured. At least for longer than expected."
Theirs was a seemingly simple task, Treville clarified. A man standing accused for the murder of his noble father was now secured in the Bastille as an enemy of the Crown. It was suspected that the condemned prisoner had numerous connections to organized parties actively hostile to Loyalist interests but friendly to the masses of violent peasantry and lower class academics alike; thus, his safety during expected interrogations and the importance of squashing all probability of escape had become a high priority. Louie intended for the man's imprisonment and scheduled execution to serve as a warning to anyone stirring further talk of rebellion. An example would be made of him. The skill and loyalty of the Musketeers could best be utilized to subdue the threat of revolution in this manner.
Or so the King and his advisors believed.
Treville and his Musketeers believed it best to do what they could to avoid a bloody civil war.
"And what is the name of this seemingly dangerous man, with such influence threatening the King and indeed, all of France?" It would be the last time Athos would feel so personally removed from this particular situation.
Treville leaned forward and handed Athos the King's written order. "Arno Victor Dorian. The dead man was the Marquis Francois de la Serre, an associate of Dorian's late father before he adopted the accused as a child. It is believed some of the origins to the rebel factions may be traced back to de la Serre himself. We are hoping to learn more of Dorian's connections here in Paris or beyond, and if de la Serre's murder is in any way related to some sort of power struggle between himself and Dorian within those factions."
No. It couldn't be. That name. THOSE names.
Athos felt as though a fist had punched into his belly, rendering him unable to properly breathe. They were names from another lifetime, one of two lifetimes he had taken great pains to forget.
"So that is why his execution for such a crime isn't more...immediate." Aramis nodded his understanding, before noting how curiously Treville was regarding Athos' reaction upon reading the order.
"Someone you know?" Porthos had noticed also, the manner in which Athos' shoulders tensed, the shadow darkening his brow, how Athos seemed to be re-reading the relatively brief instructions scrawled on the page with greater attention than might otherwise be necessary.
"I should think not." Athos quietly handed the missive back to his captain, without further elaboration.
***
Athos' bootsteps echoed dully through the dank corridors of the Bastille's more unpleasant cell blocks. Elsewhere in the formidable structure, far more luxurious quarters were available for the incarceration of high profile prisoners whose lives were spared from the gallows or guillotine. Such comforts, however, had not been reserved for the likes of Arno Dorian. This block was intended to inspire fear and destroy all hopes of merciful deliverance for those so condemned to a bleak end.
It was, then, only fitting how the hopeless ambience of those current surroundings should find kinship with the current mood of the Comte de la Fere, a man once known to Arno Victor Dorian as a boy called Olivier. A stifling sense of dread coated Athos' tongue as he strode behind the guard leading him to the cell in question, while Porthos and Aramis secured his back. Despite an overwhelming desire to disappear and thus avoid confronting another facet of a long buried past, Athos had instead charged on ahead, a duty to uphold the law prevailing over his heart's need to avoid such a meeting altogether.
Arriving at their destination, the heavily armed musketeers halted their steps outside the three layered iron gate as the guard cautiously slid a massive key into what appeared to be an impenetrable lock. The prisoner had been manhandled enough, by the looks of it, to offer little resistance even if the doorway remained vacant for but a few seconds, but the guard took advantage of Arno's misery all the same. A swift kick was sent into Arno's side from the guard's boot, followed by a "Get up, you wretched scum. King's musketeers afoot!"
Athos knew it, then. The truth he'd been praying was a lie. It was Arno, a name - and a face- from another lifetime.
"ENOUGH!" Athos calmly approached with the aire of indisputable authority. Porthos and Aramis were only too glad to assist, rushing in so Porthos could effectively disarm the offending guard with a shove of mighty hands against the bars before tossing the guard out of the cell completely and securing the gate.
"By order of Louis XIV, the remainder of this man's imprisonment is to be hereby overseen by His Majesty's Musketeers." Athos unfurled the written order and held it in front of the guard, who was by then struggling to his
knees. "It is most unfortunate that there was not the time to inform you of such a transition before now, else such a display would not have been necessary. That said, I suggest you find some other means of occupying your time."
The guard soon leaving with a stream of colorful metaphors on muttered on his tongue, the musketeers stood outside the bars to observe their new charge. Athos kept his struggle carefully concealed, his voice steady.
"You are...Monsieur Dorian, I presume." Spoken more like a statement rather than any sort of inquiry.
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