A/N: Hello, everyone! So before I begin, I'd like to apologize profusely to anyone here who might also be waiting for an update on Among Poets and Madmen. All I can say is that I had a definite idea starting it, and kind of how it would end. Working through the middle part is much harder than I anticipated. But, I digress.

If you don't ship d'Artagnan with Constance, this story may not be the best for you. I mean that in the kindest way possible, because most of this story will be based around the actions of our favorite Gascon in regards to Constance. If that's not your thing, that's perfectly fine. Rated T for suggestive themes and slight swearing. I tried to keep it minimal, but it's still present. Mentions to events of season 1, so I guess they can be labeled as spoilers.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to The Musketeers. Alexandre Dumas was a literary genius, and the BBC network took it a step further for us. I don't own anything in this story except for the OC bad guy. He's mine :).

Happy holidays, everyone!

"The sea will never run dry, my dear

Nor the rocks never melt with the sun.

But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love

'Til all these things be done, my dear

'Til all these things be done.

-English folk song.

Constance closed her eyes, feeling the cool sea breeze on her face. It lifted the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid and tickled the nape of her neck. It was a warm day, but the wind was surprisingly cold coming off the water. She kept her eyes closed, hearing his footsteps behind her. She smiled as his arms, strong and warm, encircled her tightly. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, and she felt his soft sigh of contentment on her hair.

"I told you you'd like it out here," d'Artagnan murmured playfully to her.

Constance smiled and pulled the arms around her tighter. "You were right. This is better than I ever could've imagined."

They were standing on the edge of a cliff in Calais, watching the waves crash over the rocks with careless abandon. The sun was just starting to slide into their view, signaling midday, and Constance found herself too entranced to look away. The cold sea foam and the granite cliff were in perfect harmony with each other. The icy spray could be felt from where they were standing, and the heavy crashing noise was all around them.

The landscape was somewhat harsh, but Constance could appreciate its stark beauty, which contrasted so sharply with the rolling green land she had grown up with, and later the bustling streets of Paris. Some clouds were gathering on the horizon, dark and forbidding. She thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder, but found she didn't mind. D'Artagnan's comforting arms were still around her, and the ocean kept its rhythmic time below them.

"I love you, Constance," he told her quietly.

She turned to face him, seeking his eyes. She found pure emotion shining from startling depths in his brown orbs: complete devotion, an all-consuming passion, and all-encompassing sincerity. She knew she could never doubt those words from her lover.

"I love you too, d'Artagnan," she said, saying it with all her heart and feeling the truth ring in the words.

He smiled at the heartfelt, simple words and gazed at her in undisguised adoration. She leaned forward impulsively and brought her mouth to his. His mouth was soft, but the passion was unmistakable. He leaned farther into the kiss. She felt his hands on her face. Soldier's hands, rough and worn but impossibly gentle, always gentle with her.

After what seemed like an eternity, he broke off the kiss, gazing earnestly into her face. He pulled her close, reveling in the warmth that came from her small, strong frame against his. She pressed her face to his chest, breathing him in and smelling the hay of the Garrison's barn, the oil for his musket, the clean linen he wore.

They were completely alone on the isolated cliff face, no one around for miles. They could finally touch and be held in the way they wanted, away from the prying eyes of Paris, the gossiping tongues of the Court and the disapproving looks of nearly everyone they met. D'Artagnan didn't even want to think about what Bonacieux would do if he ever discovered the musketeer had taken his wife to Calais to look at the sea.

It was a rare break in the musketeer's now-familiar routine of mission after mission. Treville had granted them all some leave time, and d'Artagnan had heard his land-lady talking with Aramis about how she had never seen the ocean. He had waited, until Bonacieux had left Paris for a fabric trading trip before he had asked Constance to go with him. After she had accepted, he invited the other musketeers. Athos had quickly agreed, stating that they would join them by the sea an hour or two after Constance and d'Artagnan got there because they had "musketeer business" to sort out.

Aramis had given him a suggestive eyebrow raise and Porthos had opened his mouth to tell him that they just wanted to give them some time alone when Athos had silenced Aramis with a murderous glare more threatening than any words could have been and a hard elbow to Porthos' side.

Now they could finally relax and just be. It still astonished d'Artagnan how quickly they had seemed to fit together, how comfortable and right it felt to be with her. As far as he was concerned, he was the luckiest man in all of Paris, and nothing could ever change how he felt about Constance. Not her husband, not the impending war, not being a musketeer and having to grapple with death on a regular basis.

She turned her eyes to the horizon, watching the time pass as the sun inched closer.

"Didn't they say they would meet us here?" she asked finally. "They should have been here by now."

"I know," d'Artagnan reassured her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. "We'll wait just a little while longer."

She didn't nod but knew that he understood. She was saying it from habit, not because she had any real desire to leave. The sea was even more majestic than she had imagined, and she wouldn't have traded this time with d'Artagnan for anything.

The two were turned toward the cliff's edge, the gentle roar of the sea below them blocking the noise of the bandits creeping in from the edge of the trees behind them. Neither of them noticed the five men as they got closer. D'Artagnan seemed to sense something behind him and turned, just as a sword pommel met his temple.

He didn't fall unconscious, but dropped to his knees as his world went a watery gray color. He was dimly aware of the blood trickling down the side of his face, and Constance was screaming from somewhere far away. He tried to remember what he was doing, and his gaze came up.

One of the men grabbed her arms from behind, effectively immobilizing her. She fought and screamed, but he was much stronger. Another bandit was reaching for the necklace she wore, ripping it away. D'Artagnan heard her cry of pain as the metal chain cut sharply into her neck before breaking, leaving a thin line of red.

That vibrant color snapped him into action and the musketeer staggered to his feet with difficulty. He managed to draw his sword and began dueling with the two men nearest him. He fought with all his might, but he could feel his strength ebbing away. One of the men swung at him quickly, and he barely brought his sword up to deflect it. The other struck out, slicing a long gash down his side. He gasped in pain and tried to turn. His half-hearted swing was easily deflected with a hard downward swipe.

D'Artagnan's sword fell from numb fingers, clattering on the rocky ground. One of the bandits-was it the fourth man?—kicked him hard in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees again. It was all he could do to stay kneeling, swaying as he tried to focus his blurring vision.

Constance was screaming for him, and he desperately tried to listen to what she was saying. He closed his eyes, and suddenly there was a hard grasp on his face. It yanked his chin up, and d'Artagnan's eyes flew open to look the leader of the bandits in the eye.

He was a young man, maybe a few years older than Athos, with dark hair and black eyes that shone with fierce intelligence. He had a confident look, but there was a deep cruelty in his eyes. A long scar ran from his cheekbone to his jawline. D'Artagnan realized that the hand clenched firmly around his chin was missing a finger.

"Give us your guns, your sword, your gold, her jewels and pins. You'll be free to go. Well, maybe your companion will stay with us," he added afterward, voice darkened by the suggestion. "She is rather beautiful."

"Get away from her!" D'Artagnan snarled and lunged for the man. There were hands around him immediately, pushing him down into the dirt. He struggled vainly against their weight.

The leader smirked and stood up, moving to where Constance was still being restrained by the man. He reached out and stroked her cheek with a gentle finger. She shrunk away from his grasp, skin crawling with revulsion.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed at him, trying to hide her fear. The leader grinned and made a gesture towards the man to pull her closer to the cliff's edge. They were now very close to the precipice, and the bigger man let go of her and stepped back.

The leader of the bandits reached forward and caught her arms in an iron grip quickly. He tried to pull her close to him, and she struggled and clawed ineffectually in his grasp.

D'Artagnan tried to get up, but one of the men punched him hard in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air.

Constance managed to get a hand free and raked her fingernails across his face, leaving four bloody gashes. He yelped in pain and pushed her away instinctively.

D'Artagnan watched in horror as she teetered towards the edge, seemingly frozen in time. She couldn't get her balance and her normally graceful limbs flailed uselessly as she tried to stop her own motion.

She looked at him then, face turned alabaster with fear and eyes full of shock. She met her lover's gaze one final time, and d'Artagnan could only watch helplessly as she fell. He saw her mouth open, as if to utter a final word or scream, but the wind snatched her voice away.

The bandits looked shocked, and d'Artagnan managed to shove them off and charge towards the cliff's edge. He stopped before going over, skidding against the rough rocks at the last possible second. Still, he was unable to do anything except stare as his love plummeted silently towards the cold, watery grave below.

He watched her fall for an eternity until the bright cream color of her dress hit the gray of the water and disappeared under the rush of a wave. He tried to jump after her, unthinkingly, but was caught by the big bandit that had restrained Constance. He fought in the brute's grip, needing to jump after her, needing to save her.

The last thing he saw was the leader looking at him, blood dripping down his face from the gashes Constance had inflicted on him. Then a heavy blow landed against the side of his head and he slid bonelessly toward the rocky ground.

The lead bandit wiped his face, which immediately began dripping blood again. He opened his clenched fist and held Constance's necklace, stained red. They took d'Artagnan's sword and guns, and the small amount of gold he had been carrying.

In the end they left him lying where he had fallen, near the edge of the abyss. The keening wind in the rocks of the lonely cliffside were the only answer to the relentless pounding of the waves below.

A/N(2):Okay, before I lose a bunch of you right off the bat, let me clear something up. No, I don't hate Constance. No, I don't want her dead. No, I don't like death threats in my PM box XD. She's not actually dead. I could never bring myself to kill her, simply because I enjoy her character too much. The thing is, I need d'Artagnan to think she's dead, and this seemed like as good a way as any. All reviews are welcome, seriously! Loved it? Hated it? Not good enough to continue it? I appreciate any kind of feedback, because ultimately, I write for you guys :). Have a great holiday, and stay safe!

LookingBeyondTheEmbers