“Sit down!” Athos barks the words with every ounce of command within him, and almost immediately deflates. Setting down his wineglass upon the floor, he clasps his hands together, as though that might somehow hide the way he trembles. It’s Porthos’ indictment of his actions at La Fere that has finally cracked through that carefully crafted stoicism. Athos has committed his share of shameful acts, but that day ranks high, when he allowed himself to waver for the sake of his own vanity, and risked Porthos’ life in the process.

With jealousy as well as hurt, he wonders how Porthos and Aramis have done it, so easily turned a corner to a new life, where none of the rules to which they were born apply. They are both better men than he, and surely that has something to do with it. Athos detests himself for the selfish gnawing in his stomach that makes him wish his dearest friends had not changed so much. At first, yes, he had turned that pain onto them in anger, but once he saw their contentment and their warmth in this new life, he could do so no longer, could only sit with the selfish disappointment inside himself, and do his best to bury it.

“I am sorry,” Athos says, quiet again, and halting, “that I cannot be the man you wish me to be. And that you surely deserve.” He looks at Porthos and manages to hold his gaze for a moment, eyes full of pain.

Then he is pushing himself up from the chaise. “Don’t get up. You can holler if you need me.” Taking the half-drunk bottle, he heads for the stair.