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Follow-up ficlet to that musketeer pastiche. Originally, d'Artagnan was supposed to have a Meaningful conversation, and there would have eventually been slash. But then I made the mistake of starting out in Athos's pov.
The children were asleep. They would bristle to know that he thought of them thus, but that was what they still were, in so many ways. Children, still full of hope and bravado and the surety that being brave and doing one’s duty was enough to keep them from harm.
They would learn, eventually. D’Artagnan was learning already, faster than he would have liked, but there was nothing to be done to protect a friend from the consequences of his own rash decisions.
Athos poured himself another cup of wine—red, tonight, since the champagne was gone and Anjou wine had lost its appeal—and surveyed his slumbering friends.
The four of them had gathered in Porthos and Aramis’s room — the two of them were sharing lodgings for reasons of economy — to eat a late dinner and plot their next course of action. Aramis, fatigue and bloodloss finally catching up to him, had fallen asleep at the table before finishing so much as half a glass of wine, and Porthos had begun yawning only minutes later. The two of them were now sound asleep in the room’s only bed, Porthos’s long arms and legs occupying most of it. Aramis was curled up on his side in the miniscule amount of remaining space, huddled around his wounded shoulder with only his dark hair visible above the blanket. It made it look disconcertingly as if Porthos were in bed with a woman.
D’Artagnan was dozing in a chair, too excited over the events of the day to go to bed, but too tired to stay awake. He’d woken up twice just to check that Aramis and Porthos were still there, as if a part of him still hadn’t realized that they were safely back from their ill-fated mission.
They were all luckier than they deserved to be, Athos mused. Once again, they had sprung “Milady de Winter’s” trap and lived to walk away. How much longer could they continue to do so successfully? All luck eventually ran out.
Milady de Winter, Anne de Breuil… whatever her real name was, she was sure to catch up with them eventually. D’Artagnan was twitchy with nerves at the very thought of her, as if she could fly across the channel from England and walk through the walls of the inn like a ghost. Athos was not entirely sure she could not.
He’d been so certain she was dead—how could she be otherwise, when he’d seen her hanged himself?—and somehow, even after hearing d’Artagnan’s description of the unmistakable fleur-de-lys on “Milady de Winter’s” shoulder, part of him had still clung to the knowledge of her death.
She was dead, and with her had died the Comte de la Fere. The arrogant young nobleman had vanished—burned away in the fires of guilt and despair, the way “Milady’s” body should have been burned, to ashes that would never rise again until Resurrection day—and “Athos” had been born. No family name, no title, only a plain and simple musketeer, with no purpose in life but to serve the king, and, by serving another, leave behind the Comte de la Fere’s tangled motives of rage, pride, and guilt.
Aramis was not the only member of their confraternity who knew something of vocations.
His initial determination to be solitary had not held out long against the efforts of his fellow musketeers—first Porthos and then Aramis had attached themselves to him, blithely unconcerned with the fact that they were spoiling his penance, and then d’Artagnan had appeared in their lives, all naiveté, provincial pride, and brash courage, impossible to ignore, and impossible to resist. For a brief time, at least, his existence as a musketeer had stopped being a penance and become something altogether different.
But then had come d’Artagnan’s shattering story of his encounter with Milady, with the brand on her shoulder that was the only identifying mark he needed, and suddenly, a woman who had previously been nothing but his friend’s youthful folly became something much more terrible and sinister.
She had not died, but lived, to return again even more terrible than she had been.
Part of Athos had still clung to the belief that she was dead, that “Lady Clarice de Winter” was some other woman, equally depraved and dangerous, but nothing to do with his long dead wife. But that last shred of hope had been destroyed that night in the Red Dovecot, when the sound of her voice—Her voice, Anne’s voice—rang through the inn’s common room, weaving her schemes with Cardinal Richelieu like some terrible evil genius. She did not even know of his existence, and yet still, she plotted against all Athos held dear. Not being content with devastating every part of his old life, she had risen from the grave to lay siege to his new life as well.
Confronting her had been a mistake. He knew that now, had known it even as he strode into the Red Dovecot’s common room, filled with a cold rage the likes of which he had not known since… since the last time he had confronted her, years younger and decades more innocent.
The fact that she surely thought him as dead as he’d thought her had been a tactical advantage, perhaps the only advantage he had against her, and he had squandered it in a moment of rage, had revealed himself to her in order to warn her away from d’Artagnan.
In hindsight, he could see that disclosing any connection between the young musketeer and the erstwhile Comte de la Fere was sure to do nothing but spur her on to further attempts at vengeance, knowing as she now did that striking out at d’Artagnan would see her doubly avenged.
She was even more beautiful now than she had been then. More beautiful, and yet harder and colder, too, the sweet innocence she had counterfeited so well once upon a time turned to a ripe sensuality that was equal parts seductive and repellant. He should have blown her brains out with his pistol right then and there, and taken whatever consequences followed, but something in her face—some remnant of the Anne he had known, the Anne some part of him still wished had been real—had stayed his hand.
He had already had cause to regret that moment of sentiment, and had no doubts that he would soon have more. The assassination attempt this morning was but one more in a long string of attempts on d’Artagnan’s life, and now, thanks to his actions, the rest of them had been added to Milady and the Cardinal’s list of foes, as well.
By sending a warning to Buckingham, they had in effect committed treason, and if their enemies chose to make it an official matter instead of a private one, even M. de Tréville would be hard-pressed to help them. The next attack on them might not come in the form of a nighttime ambush or a dagger in the back, but simply as a few words spoken from Cardinal Richelieu to his Majesty.
Athos did not think his friends had fully grasped that possibility yet, not even Aramis, subtle as he was. It was to be hoped that the never had to.
D’Artagnan stirred in his chair, but did not awaken. Across the room, Porthos snored away peacefully, one arm slung across Aramis’s chest. Children.
Athos poured himself another glass of wine.
I eventually had to cut the emo brooding short, or it could have gone on forever.
The children were asleep. They would bristle to know that he thought of them thus, but that was what they still were, in so many ways. Children, still full of hope and bravado and the surety that being brave and doing one’s duty was enough to keep them from harm.
They would learn, eventually. D’Artagnan was learning already, faster than he would have liked, but there was nothing to be done to protect a friend from the consequences of his own rash decisions.
Athos poured himself another cup of wine—red, tonight, since the champagne was gone and Anjou wine had lost its appeal—and surveyed his slumbering friends.
The four of them had gathered in Porthos and Aramis’s room — the two of them were sharing lodgings for reasons of economy — to eat a late dinner and plot their next course of action. Aramis, fatigue and bloodloss finally catching up to him, had fallen asleep at the table before finishing so much as half a glass of wine, and Porthos had begun yawning only minutes later. The two of them were now sound asleep in the room’s only bed, Porthos’s long arms and legs occupying most of it. Aramis was curled up on his side in the miniscule amount of remaining space, huddled around his wounded shoulder with only his dark hair visible above the blanket. It made it look disconcertingly as if Porthos were in bed with a woman.
D’Artagnan was dozing in a chair, too excited over the events of the day to go to bed, but too tired to stay awake. He’d woken up twice just to check that Aramis and Porthos were still there, as if a part of him still hadn’t realized that they were safely back from their ill-fated mission.
They were all luckier than they deserved to be, Athos mused. Once again, they had sprung “Milady de Winter’s” trap and lived to walk away. How much longer could they continue to do so successfully? All luck eventually ran out.
Milady de Winter, Anne de Breuil… whatever her real name was, she was sure to catch up with them eventually. D’Artagnan was twitchy with nerves at the very thought of her, as if she could fly across the channel from England and walk through the walls of the inn like a ghost. Athos was not entirely sure she could not.
He’d been so certain she was dead—how could she be otherwise, when he’d seen her hanged himself?—and somehow, even after hearing d’Artagnan’s description of the unmistakable fleur-de-lys on “Milady de Winter’s” shoulder, part of him had still clung to the knowledge of her death.
She was dead, and with her had died the Comte de la Fere. The arrogant young nobleman had vanished—burned away in the fires of guilt and despair, the way “Milady’s” body should have been burned, to ashes that would never rise again until Resurrection day—and “Athos” had been born. No family name, no title, only a plain and simple musketeer, with no purpose in life but to serve the king, and, by serving another, leave behind the Comte de la Fere’s tangled motives of rage, pride, and guilt.
Aramis was not the only member of their confraternity who knew something of vocations.
His initial determination to be solitary had not held out long against the efforts of his fellow musketeers—first Porthos and then Aramis had attached themselves to him, blithely unconcerned with the fact that they were spoiling his penance, and then d’Artagnan had appeared in their lives, all naiveté, provincial pride, and brash courage, impossible to ignore, and impossible to resist. For a brief time, at least, his existence as a musketeer had stopped being a penance and become something altogether different.
But then had come d’Artagnan’s shattering story of his encounter with Milady, with the brand on her shoulder that was the only identifying mark he needed, and suddenly, a woman who had previously been nothing but his friend’s youthful folly became something much more terrible and sinister.
She had not died, but lived, to return again even more terrible than she had been.
Part of Athos had still clung to the belief that she was dead, that “Lady Clarice de Winter” was some other woman, equally depraved and dangerous, but nothing to do with his long dead wife. But that last shred of hope had been destroyed that night in the Red Dovecot, when the sound of her voice—Her voice, Anne’s voice—rang through the inn’s common room, weaving her schemes with Cardinal Richelieu like some terrible evil genius. She did not even know of his existence, and yet still, she plotted against all Athos held dear. Not being content with devastating every part of his old life, she had risen from the grave to lay siege to his new life as well.
Confronting her had been a mistake. He knew that now, had known it even as he strode into the Red Dovecot’s common room, filled with a cold rage the likes of which he had not known since… since the last time he had confronted her, years younger and decades more innocent.
The fact that she surely thought him as dead as he’d thought her had been a tactical advantage, perhaps the only advantage he had against her, and he had squandered it in a moment of rage, had revealed himself to her in order to warn her away from d’Artagnan.
In hindsight, he could see that disclosing any connection between the young musketeer and the erstwhile Comte de la Fere was sure to do nothing but spur her on to further attempts at vengeance, knowing as she now did that striking out at d’Artagnan would see her doubly avenged.
She was even more beautiful now than she had been then. More beautiful, and yet harder and colder, too, the sweet innocence she had counterfeited so well once upon a time turned to a ripe sensuality that was equal parts seductive and repellant. He should have blown her brains out with his pistol right then and there, and taken whatever consequences followed, but something in her face—some remnant of the Anne he had known, the Anne some part of him still wished had been real—had stayed his hand.
He had already had cause to regret that moment of sentiment, and had no doubts that he would soon have more. The assassination attempt this morning was but one more in a long string of attempts on d’Artagnan’s life, and now, thanks to his actions, the rest of them had been added to Milady and the Cardinal’s list of foes, as well.
By sending a warning to Buckingham, they had in effect committed treason, and if their enemies chose to make it an official matter instead of a private one, even M. de Tréville would be hard-pressed to help them. The next attack on them might not come in the form of a nighttime ambush or a dagger in the back, but simply as a few words spoken from Cardinal Richelieu to his Majesty.
Athos did not think his friends had fully grasped that possibility yet, not even Aramis, subtle as he was. It was to be hoped that the never had to.
D’Artagnan stirred in his chair, but did not awaken. Across the room, Porthos snored away peacefully, one arm slung across Aramis’s chest. Children.
Athos poured himself another glass of wine.
I eventually had to cut the emo brooding short, or it could have gone on forever.
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