Athos tightens his jaw and curls his fingers around his cup, summing every bit of strength to stop himself from hurling it to pieces against the wall. “Well fed and well appointed to what purpose?” he asks with quiet sharpness. He would expect Porthos to at least understand that, though his own pain goes deeper. He hasn’t met many men who quite understand the constant work it takes to keep the darkness at bay. Athos must have work, he must have purpose. Without it, what is he?

Deep in his heart, where he dares not linger, he fears that here, he might find out.