Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

There’s a dinginess that lays over Paris: part soot, part dust, part mealy air, and Athos is certain that it is already settling into his skin. He welcomes the anonymity it provides, the fact that a comte can disappear under that layer of grime as easily as a peasant. Only Captain Treville knows of Athos’ origins, and the man is both polite enough and practical enough not to ask what one with lands and titles is doing in a regiment of the king’s guard. It’s enough that he has worn a uniform before, that he can fight, and follow orders. Though frankly, even Treville lacked the clout to say no to the Comte de la Fere, whatever the circumstances might have been. It is a fact that does not sit well with Athos, and yet another reason he intends to leave his past behind him, burying it under Parisian grime.

In the yard outside the barracks, Athos cuts an unwelcoming figure, balanced on a bench and slicing an apple with his penknife, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Earlier, some of his new comrades had tried to greet him, only to be met with a cold stare, and now, most of them have learned to steer clear. Better that way, or so he tells himself. He isn’t here to find glory or fraternity, after all.

But what he is here for, he hasn’t the slightest idea.