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It was not the grand, sweeping architecture of the hotel that disturbed him nor the apparent technological feats to which he would have to become accustomed. He had, after all, lived in Paris, where all the latest and most important inventions made their way. The bright lights, the motorized devices, the moving doors...Those were things that he could come to an understanding, regarding their use.

No, it was the stillness. The quiet way in which people gathered for meals but didn’t really talk and then wandered the gardens in the same quiet. No threat hung over them, no call to action. D’Artagnan sat useless, feeling as if he might fly apart from inaction and it was only his first days yet. If he was bound here as long as some people suggested, he thought he might go mad.

There was, at least, one distraction that had apparently--blessedly--not changed in the intervening centuries. It was how d’Artagnan found himself at the stables, befriending and saddling up an energetic gelding. He had regarded the young Musketeer imperiously until bribed with an apple and now d’Artagnan could lead the horse out to the surrounding hotel grounds.

D’Artagnan mounted and kicked the horse into a trot and then a canter. It didn’t take long before they gave into their spirits and moved up to a gallop, ranging about the grounds.

At last, if only for a moment, he felt himself again. Caught up in the energy, the sheer joy of riding, d’Artagnan no longer felt quite like he was about to explode out of his skin. Instead he felt alive, raising a fist and shouting his joy.

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D'Artagnan stares into his red wine, filling up the glass higher than is typical for him. He doesn't drink to appreciate the wine, but to numb what is still raw at the surface. "Eventually," he says at last. "We fought the Red Guard for him, ended up causing the matter to be decided as a tournament. The good Cardinal hired Labarge and made him a Red Guard to ensure he had someone to beat a Musketeer."

He takes a long pull of wine, thinking he sees what Athos does in this wine. "Treville made me champion for the Musketeers. I killed him."

Athos does not scowl at the mention of the Cardinal's sins, but it is a close thing. He holds little affection or respect for the man, but there are times when even the Cardinal can surprise him with how far he takes his actions. "I am sorry you had to take his life, but glad that you found retribution." Athos knows that both things can weigh heavily upon a man. If he were Aramis or Porthos, perhaps he might ask if d'Artagnan is all right.

"Drink," he says instead. "It sounds as if you need it."

It is not the first life he's had to take, though certainly it was the first time it had happened so publicly. D'Artagnan lifts his glance in an exhausted toast, nodding.

"I can see why you take respite in this."