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There is a certain kind of silence in the falling snow. A flavor, if you will. Something that makes the world just stop with its annoying rumor and stay still for at least a little while.
Rochefort snorts at his own thoughts and decides that he has been kept prisoner for way too long if he is just a step away from writing poetry about snowfall. Not that there is a lot to do in captivity, it is not like the Spaniards give him books or discuss philosophy with him. He reaches to his pants but after a while stills his hand. No, it's not a good time for this kind of activity either, he's just too restless. He is in no state of mind to reminiscence his little affairs with various women and men, pleasurable as they were, the touch of his own hand does little more than just annoy him.
With a sigh Rochefort jumps off from the bench that serves him for a bed, equipped with shabby blankets, and moves towards the window, barred of course. He sees a thin layer of white powder covering the ground and for a moment toys with an idea of what would happen if snow was flammable. He chuckles and thinks that he's most probably going mad. Prisoner sighs again and returns to his bench with a firm resolution to stop thinking about foolish things. And poetry. Yes, especially poetry.
Then he hears a key in the lock of his cell and then door opens, revealing a Spanish ambassador whom he met briefly when his sweet Anne was crowned the queen of France. He had through the man to be a rat and a weasel and his opinion of the ambassador has not changed a bit.
"Comte de Rochefort," says the politician with a small smile. "We have a proposition for you, if you will be so kind to listen to it."
"Yeah, most definitely going mad," answers Rochefort with his characteristic smirk and shakes his head. "I am listening."
*
It feels good to be free. In fact, it feels so good that Rochefort feels an urge to go to a tavern, get drunk, sleep with someone and maybe kill a person or two. Former and latter may be connected, he never said he was a good man. And, after all, he is terrible at resisting urges so does exactly that - goes to a tavern, drinks a bottle of horrifyingly bad wine, fucks the stable boy and kills the inn keeper for wanting unreasonably high amount of coin for a bed in his dirty little inn. How could he know that the damn village was full of veterans from the last war?
"So much for freedom," Rochefort mutters to himself when they tie him up and put a hood on his head. He lets them lead him, where to he knows not - but has his ideas.
And then he gets saved by bloody Musketeers. He knows the names of the three - that huge brute, Porthos, Spaniard-looking Aramis and Athos, the man he would gladly fuck or kill, whichever opportunity comes first. From how Athos looks at him, Rochefort resigns himself to killing. Yes, that will do too. The fourth one is the youngest but he quickly learns his name and decides d'Artagnan looks like a puppy. And he is not interested in corrupting children - he is evil but by God, not that evil.
They send him strange looks when in the middle of their journey to Paris, Rochefort bursts out laughing.
"Mad as a March hare, I tell you," mutters Porthos to the company.
*
"Came to punch me again?" Rochefort asks, not turning away from the window. He has heard the steps for a while now and recognizes them well enough to know who came to his new quarters. He needs to redecorate them, though. The Cardinal was a good man but God forgive him his taste or, more precisely, lack of it. And that infernal chair! "Have to warn you, though, I will not go down so easily this time."
"I do not know why you killed that Spaniard but I assure you, I will not rest until I do," is the answer and Rochefort smiles wolfishly. He turns to his quest, glad to finally be rid of the long hair and tarnished clothes. Athos takes the sight in and king's new right hand man notices with curiosity the sudden flash of something in Musketeer's eyes. So, maybe killing is not the only option on the table after all.
"I just cannot wait," he coos, coming uncomfortably close to the man he knows to be Comte de la Fère. "Maybe after you are done, we will become friends and braid each other's hair?"
Musketeer huffs and turns away to leave, Rochefort's mad laugh following him until Athos is back on the always crowded streets of Paris and even then not leaving him, ringing quietly in his head.