A Different Perspective

A/N - my undying gratitude to Annejackdanny, a dear friend dating from our days writing in the Stargate fandom, who listened to my whining and brainstormed with me when I wrote myself into a corner, and who did a beautiful job betaing for me. Also to Barbara69, a new(ish) author in the TM fandom, who very quickly went from reader to friend (and author) and was so kind as to read the story as a WIP. Both Anne and Barbara, as they read the manuscript, asked pertinent questions that helped to shape the overarching plot and the resolution. It would not be the story it is without their valuable insight and comments. Heartfelt thanks to both of you for your gifts of time - this was not a short story to beta. This also means all remaining grammatical errors, run on sentences and misplaced commas, as well as any unplugged holes in the plot are solely my responsibility. This story has been nearly a year in the writing, so I'm really excited to start sharing it finally. Thank you for taking this journey with me!

This story is set between S1:E2 Sleight of Hand & S1:E3 Commodities and continues on, in my TM universe, from my episode tag (A Good Son) to S1:E1 Friends and Enemies. It's rated K+ due to oblique mention of sexual situations further along in the story. I've checked the *complete* button because the story is 19/20ths finished and in the final editing stages as I write the last chapter and epilogue.

Translations

chapeau - hat

pièce de résistance - the best or most important thing

Venner - Venner was a military-political position in medieval Switzerland. In Bern, the Venner was very powerful and important to the operations of the city. Because fiction does not always follow truth, for the purposes of this story, Herr Joos is retired from the military, but has retained the title of Venner and oversees the negotiating of Berne's capitulations.

Capitulation - Swiss contracts for military service

Monsieur vie du parti - Mr. Life of the Party

Rathaus - Berne's medieval state house - which may or may not have housed guests in 1630. For the purposes of this story, the attached wing does provide

Platz - plaza or square

Brunnen - fountain

Mademoiselle la Chatte - Miss Cat

Monsieur le Chien - Mr. Dog

Messieurs - gentlemen

Prologue

Sunday, May 5, 1630

The eyes beneath the cant of the hat brim were the color of a frozen Caribbean sea, chips of ice set in the composed features, though it was unlikely his foe caught even a glimpse of them as the lantern he carried dropped from suddenly lax fingers, replaced by a primed and ready pistol. The naked rapier instantly in his right hand flexed infinitesimally as he raised the gun and shot the first one charging him. The second, rapidly closing in on his right, dropped with a broken neck from a savagely whipped pistol butt before the now useless weapon was abandoned. He jammed his parrying dagger into a third, yanked it out and whirling, sent it spinning toward the jugular of a fourth who had no time to dodge as he engaged the fifth in a silent, deadly duel that lasted approximately three minutes before Athos disengaged from a bind, rocked back on his left heel and drove the point of his rapier between the left fourth and fifth ribs.

His sword made sucking sounds as he pulled it out very slowly and watched his opponent keel over like a straw dummy.

"Last man standing." The rasp was barely a whisper. It took a great deal of effort not to kick the body as Athos stepped over it, moving to disengage a massive key ring from the belt of the man whose neck was sporting his blade. He collected the parrying dagger as well, stuck it hilt-deep in the dirt to rid it of the blood and stowed it in its sheath behind his back before rising, rapier quietly quiescent in his rock steady hand.

"Are they here?" d'Artagnan, grabbing a gatepost to stop his sliding entrance into the courtyard, asked breathlessly.

Chapter One

Seven days earlier ...

"Hold still," Aramis commanded, "your neck cloth is crooked."

Athos scowled but stood still, allowing Aramis to undo and then retie the long band of cloth.

"You lie like a rug," the comte growled, attempting to glance down when Aramis let him go. "It was not crooked and now I look like a court jester." The starched material had been completely rearranged from his simple knotted style, into an elaborate waterfall.

"You look like a Huguenot, or perhaps an English Puritan." Aramis elbowed Porthos - admiring his velvet puce attire, topped by a small mauve-tinted ruff - out from in front of the mirror, dragging Athos to stand before it. "A dash of class is not going to kill you." He reached around the eye-rolling Musketeer to adjust his efforts with the neck cloth. "You took the potion?" he asked quietly.

"I would not be standing here otherwise." Athos made a face in the mirror. "I am merely over warm from the exertions of turning myself into a court jester." And he was over warm. Even Aramis thought the fever should have run its course by now, though he had remarked that perhaps it would have if their fearless leader had taken it to bed instead of to the Rathaus negotiating table on their arrival.

They were here in Berne on a diplomatic mission, negotiating for Swiss backing should it eventually come to war with Spain. Five days into their journey Athos had come down with a wicked chill that had sized head, throat and chest . He'd sneezed, coughed and wheezed his way through another sennight, arriving in Berne exhausted and out of sorts Tuesday night, only to be up and at the negotiating table bright and early Wednesday morning.

Several heated negotiating sessions, one outdoor picnic and a welcome ball later, the Swiss were throwing yet another party in honor of the Musketeer contingent. A masquerade, to which the entire city had been invited. It was Saturday night and tomorrow was officially a day of rest.

Athos just wanted to go to bed. He had taken Aramis' potion, mostly because he was too worn down to make even a token protest anymore. Those damn potions and plasters were the only thing binding body and soul together.

He met Aramis' concerned gaze in the mirror again. "I will rest tomorrow."

Aramis' mouth twitched in a moue of regret, but he said nothing. Much as he would have liked to order Athos to bed, the circumstances were delicate enough without adding fuel to the fire. They'd been treated with respect, feted daily, offered every hospitable courtesy, and yet at the negotiating table, the Swiss - who for centuries had supplied mercenaries to the French kings - were being truculent. The French contingent could not afford to allow their leader the leisure of lying abed.

Aramis squeezed the tense shoulders briefly. Athos would blacken his eye if he attempted overt sympathy. "Tomorrow is not so far away as it seems," he said quietly. "We don't have to stay long this evening."

Athos picked up his hat from the elaborately scrolled and gilded side board beneath the mirror. It matched his customary black coat perfectly, though this coat - knee-length, open down the front and adorned with large, embossed silver buttons from neck to waist - was of superfine, with matching buttons ornamenting the wide, turned-back cuffs as well as the pocket flaps. Black breeches molded the long, lean length of thigh on display when the coat opened, tucking into just-over-the-knee black boots polished to a high sheen.

Aramis had made him change out of the loose black shirt Athos had donned beneath this outfit, into a more tailored shirt of fine, white cotton lawn and produced the pristine white neck cloth.

"If you look like a court jester, I look like the jongleur at the faire." d'Artagnan appeared in the doorway of the room he shared with Athos, tugging at the wide lace collar draping over his shoulders.

The Inseparables turned as a unit to inspect their newest addition.

"Well ain't you a sight for sore eyes," Porthos proclaimed heartily, moving to clap the boy on the back. "I was worried you'd be too skinny to fill out the suit properly."

"Madam Bonacieux made some alterations. It's hot," d'Artagnan complained. "And way too tight for plying a sword." He wore a flattering velvet doublet the color of old copper, close cut with decorative flaps of coffee-colored suede sewn at a slant along the hips and coming to a point just below the last suede button affixed at the waist. He flexed an elbow broodingly as his companions watched in amusement. "No range of motion at all!"

"Fortunately your range of motion will be taxed only in so far as the need to extend your arms as the dancing requires," Aramis threw over his shoulder as he disappeared into the second bed chamber.

Porthos threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I'm tellin' ya, ya look a sight, youngling. You'll have trouble beatin' off the ladies tonight."

The sleeves of d'Artagnan's doublet were slashed on the inside of the arms and inset with the same cream-colored material as the Brussels lace embroidered around the edges in a pattern of fleur de lis at collar and cuffs. The britches were of the same thin suede as the coat flaps and fit like they had been tailored especially for d'Artagnan. Madam Bonacieux either had a very good eye, or her boarder had been especially cooperative.

d'Artagnan had flatly refused to consider dancing shoes, insisting he would wear his own boots or go barefoot when Porthos had taken him to the market stall of an old friend from the Court who dealt in used clothing.

Porthos, after much argument, had finally agreed that the boots were workable. Now he brandished his own addition to d'Artagnan's evening wear, a pair of ribbons elaborately tied and knotted to resemble something like a golden chrysanthemum, that he knelt and began to affix to the outside of d'Artagnan's right boot.

"What? NO!" d'Artagnan smacked Porthos' bent head. "I'm not wearing flowers on my knees!"

At the youth's beseeching look, Athos, watching in the mirror, shrugged his incompetence in dealing with Porthos or Aramis when it came to matters of fashion.

Porthos stabbed the Gascon with the large needle he was using to attach the flourishing bows. "Less'n you wanna be stabbed again, hold still. You're not gonna put the rest of us to shame with yer barnyard boots."

"They are not-"

Aramis, in a flowing white silk shirt and small clothes still, having attended to the dressing of his companions like a lady's maid, reappeared in the doorway. "You've been whining incessantly about a hat," he interrupted, producing a chapeau from behind his back.

This had the happy corollary of shutting down the current line of whining with alacrity; d'Artagnan was instantly entranced.

The hat was the same dark brown suede as the pocket flaps and breeches, it's brim canted fore and aft, the left side curving up slightly, a long, metallic green peacock feather curling from the left front around to the back of the brim.

Athos, hard pressed to keep the amusement dancing in his eyes off his face, and grateful to have attention diverted from himself, stepped back from the mirror as Aramis set the hat on the puppy's head, adjusted the brim, and shoved d'Artagnan in the front of the looking glass.

Aramis and Porthos flanked Athos' position, watching a kind of dazed, worshipful gratitude settle over the youthful features. d'Artagnan meet each gaze in the mirror, his grin a blinding flash of white in the tawny face. "Really? It's mine?"

"Yours." Porthos flashed a matching grin. "A gift from all of us."

The grin broadened impossibly as d'Artagnan reached up to run a finger over the brim shadowing his face.

"All properly dressed gentlemen must have a hat to complete their ensemble." Aramis laughed, pleased with their little coup.

"An now you got to pay up, Athos!" Porthos cackled, smacking his fellow Musketeer on the back.

Their lieutenant had come upon Aramis and Porthos crowing over their find and bet them they could not keep it a secret. Athos, without the slightest protest, produced the requisite gold coins, flipping them dexterously at his companions.

Aramis snatched his out of the air, declaring, "And now I must finish dressing, else we'll be late for the party!"

Porthos caught his as well, jingling it as it joined its cohorts in his pocket. He was never without betting money, since one never knew when the stars might align and make a lucky man a rich one, too.

"Thank you all," d'Artagnan offered shyly, reluctantly removing the new accouterment; a gentleman did not wear his hat indoors. Being ready to go, he moved to lean against the wall, the hat under his arm, his gaze caressing the extraordinary feather though he refrained from running his hand over it.

Porthos resumed his primping before the mirror, reshaping his oiled beard and adjusting the small starched ruff yet again. He wore satin knee britches of a light purple, the voluminous material gathered at the fitted waist and knee, and over these, a coat of dark purple velvet trimmed with ermine sprinkled with brilliants. His dancing shoes were of black leather, tied with purple ribbons that matched the color of the fleur de lis fancifully worked into the silk of his white stockings. But the pièce de résistance of this ensemble was the floor-length mantle of ermine clasped at the neck by a chain of gold .

His purse fat from a successful night of plucking newly recruited Red Guards, Porthos had been unable to resist the siren song of the rig. He silently congratulated himself yet again on his find, as he watched Athos retreat to one of the chairs situated by the wide picture window. "You gonna be okay?" he asked the reflection in the mirror.

Athos, having turned his gaze out the window overlooking the courtyard of the Berner Rathaus, none-the-less knew the question was directed at him. "Needs must when the devil drives," he murmured, momentarily drawing d'Artagnan's attention from his gift.

"Aramis?" the youth lifted his voice, and in the next instant lost it for a moment as he stared at the picture the sharp shooter made, once more framed in the doorway. This time for effect. There was not an effeminate bone in either of the Musketeer's, but Aramis' enjoyment of fashion rivaled Porthos'.

Porthos had just moved on to using his oiled fingers on his eyebrows when Aramis reappeared. He was not overly impressed with the suit itself, though he did admire the waterfall of lace his compatriot wore.

A collar of it poured over Aramis' shoulders, it fountained from his throat, over his wrists and even fell gracefully from the tops of his boots. He rustled like the wind as he strode into the room, wafting the spicy scent of bergamot and cedar.

d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open, though he shut it quickly. He had thought the garments black initially, until Aramis moved to the center of the room to buckle on his dress sword. The material caught the light of the fire and the Gascon saw it was a deep, shimmering blue, the color of the ocean under a starlit night.

"You called?" Aramis glanced over at their wide-eyed baby Musketeer.

"I did?" d'Artagnan blinked. He had never seen anything so exquisite. "Oh - I did."

Aramis cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Ahhhmm ..." d'Artagnan turned his gaze on Athos, who had turned from the window and was eyeing the Gascon with disfavor.

"Leave off your fretting," Athos said more sharply than he had intended. "It does not help in the least." His headache was escalating with each sidelong glance and measuring look. "There is sufficient strength yet to pummel the next to suggest I am too feeble to be on my feet."

Aramis bowed with ingratiating charm, the firelight rippling coyly over his deceptively simple doublet. "Beware Athos' ill favor, especially when he's sober." The coat was fitted at the shoulders, wide at the thigh-length hem, the sleeves slashed thrice from shoulder to wrist to show intricately pleated lace insets. The britches of the same shimmering blue were not quite so fitted as either d'Artagnan's nor Athos', but neither were they as fulsome as Porthos'. They disappeared into a pair of boots dyed the exact blue of the suit, the rolled boot cuffs all but covered by the same Venetian lace as graced shoulders, throat and wrists.

"My we are a resplendent lot," Athos remarked, ignoring the accurate assessment of his mood as he eyed the pair of peacocks vying for space before the looking glass. "Madam Joos' carriage awaits, though I do not believe it's large enough to bear all our sartorial splendor un-creased to our destination. d'Artagnan and I will ride escort."

Neither Aramis nor Porthos were dressed to ride and Athos had no intention of stuffing himself into the hot, stifling confines of a closed carriage.

Tonight's festivities were in honor of old alliances revisited, though why the Swiss were flaunting this in the face of their current dithering, Athos could not quite grasp. The king's palace guard was Swiss, as had been his father's before him. Louis had decided in his usual arbitrary way, that should it come to war with Spain, he desired that the core of his army be Swiss mercenaries. He'd heard stories of their prowess in battle from all his father's aides, and remembered stories from his father, Henry IV, as well.

To that end, he had gone around the cardinal, who believed the sons of France perfectly capable of defending their own territory, enlisting Treville's aid in sending Musketeers on this diplomatic mission.

This was not the first time their unit had seen diplomatic service. Athos could be silver-tongued when he chose to use his vast store of knowledge, Aramis was a born courtier, and Porthos' menacing bulk bore silent testimony to France's ability to field an army of vigorous, strapping young men of its own. They were a fair contingent; intelligent, self-disciplined and shrewd bargainers. If the Inseparables were available, they were always Tréville's first choice for diplomatic missions.

Athos headed for the door of their suite.

"Wait," Aramis commanded, producing, apparently by sleight of hand, several layers of what appeared to be black cloth. "When in Rome ..." he said, when Athos drew back. "It's a masquerade, we must at least start out masked."

"Aramis -"

"As the guests of honor we can hardly fail to participate. It would be an insult to our hosts."

Athos took the strip of black silk with a low growl, despite the fact Aramis was right.

"We must enter from different directions too," Aramis admonished, ushering his companions through the door and closing it softly behind their quartet. "Else we will be instantly recognizable and where's the fun in that?"

"No," Athos said flatly. "We go together or not all."

Aramis scowled over his shoulder. "It is a party, Monsieur le Comte."

"We are in a foreign country, on a mission, Monsieur Vie du Parti," Athos returned with finality.

" Mr. Life of the Party," Porthos hooted, as they turned right toward the stairs that would take them to the Rathaus vestibule and thence down to the Rathausplatz and the carriage Madam Joos had sent for them. "A tidy comeback, Athos. You know he's right, so stop yer poutin'," he said, poking Aramis, "we'll be the belles of the ball anyway, since it's in our honor."

d'Artagnan made a face as well. "Is there no masculine form for that expression? Aramis may desire the distinction, but I will leave it to him."

For this piece of sass, he was smacked upside the head by Aramis, striding along in his wake. "You've a bit of the saucebox in you, youngling. As your elder, you're required to treat me with respect."

d'Artagnan, laughing, slowed to greet his new friends as they passed through the foyer. "Mademoiselle la Chatte, Monsieur le Chien, you do not participate in the masquerade this evening?" The cat immediately took advantage, rising up on her hind feet to rest a paw against d'Artagnan's boot in order to thoroughly investigate the rosettes, then batted playfully at the dangling ribbons. The dog, sitting attentively by the massive front doors, raised its big head to be petted too.

Porthos, in great good spirits, chortled, bending to swat the ribbons out of the cat's reach, though it was d'Artagnan he chastised. "I did not go to the trouble of fashioning those for the cat's amusement, monsieur." Straightening, he adjusted his cape so it flowed out behind him as he strode after Aramis. If any among them was to be the belle of the ball, his glittering costume would far outstrip his companions and he was quite fond of adulation and praise. He would happily accept the application of the term in all its glory.

Even Athos chuckled; despite his stress and fatigue his companions high spirits were infectious.

Madam Joos' carriage, awaiting their departure with majestic indifference, was a black lacquered affair with much silver gilt and a pair of greys between the traces that were almost an exact match for all the gilt. The driver wore a grey velvet suit that was easily the equivalent of any of their finery and the inside of the carriage was a silver cocoon inlaid with black velvet squabs, the silver lamps already lit against evening's dusk.

Herr Joos, the Venner heading up the negotiations, was descended from the oldest of the aristocratic Swiss families whose titles dated from feudal nobility. Much of the wealth of the Swiss confederacy was consolidated in the hands of these ruling families, which meant those same families also dictated the political alliances. And those had long leaned toward the French.

A groom held Athos and d'Artagnan's horses.

d'Artagnan, who did not mind riding at all, especially as it would provide a longer opportunity to sport his newly acquired head gear, still had to duck inside the door held open by an equally nattily attired tiger. Though his father had been as elevated as any of the local gentry in Lupiac, with no Madam d'Artagnan requiring equipage to convey her from place to place, young d'Artagnan had no memory of a time when they had owned something so grand.

Hat tucked under his arm again, the youth withdrew his head, whistling appreciatively as he stepped back and pompously extended a hand, palm up. "Messieurs, may I assist you in entering your vehicle?"

Aramis smacked the upturned palm and stooped to step into the carriage. Porthos turned his nose up at the offered hand but flicked an imperative gesture at his flowing mantle. d'Artagnan, in the spirit of the evening, gathered it up as Porthos bent nearly in half. The carriage step sagged under the Musketeer's weight; he had to turn sideways to maneuver himself inside and dispose his tall frame logistically on the backwards facing seat.

"You're going to roast in that getup," d'Artagnan laughed, stuffing the trailing train of velvet inside before slamming the door shut. He returned his hat to his head, then lifted it to salute the coachman. "We'll be right behind you," he said, turning to take the reins Athos handed down to him.

The hat, as he sprang with his usual enthusiasm into the saddle, not having been made for his head, sailed off to hang itself on an ornamental bush. Athos merely clucked his horse forward, scooped it up, and handed it back to its new owner.

d'Artagnan sheepishly readjusted it as he clicked his own mount to fall in beside the elder Musketeer. Athos, amusement fading quickly, resigned himself to a long evening and prayed the refreshments included something stronger than watered wine.

In their small company, Aramis ran their social obligations like the seasoned military campaigner he was. Had there been no Savoy, he might also have planned their actual military campaigns. That disastrous sortie, though, had broken something intrinsic in the then newly-minted Musketeer. If there was a battle, he was in the thick of it. If there was intrigue, he was planning it. If there was a job needed doing, Aramis was doing it, but he consistently refused command. Porthos, too, refused any attempt to move him up in the ranks, though both were as skilled as anyone, including Tréville, at running a garrison and commanding men.

Athos had neither desired nor sought leadership any more than the others; Tréville, however, hadn't bothered to argue. A word in the ear of Aramis or Porthos and the entire garrison looked to Athos in Tréville's absence. Eventually Athos had quit fighting. He did not love the burden of command, but he was good at it, and because he was still one of the troops, he had a finger on the pulse of the garrison and often knew even before the captain, when trouble was brewing.

The pair on horseback followed the carriage circling around the square and the Vennerbrunnen- a fountain featuring an individual who looked a lot like the Venner heading up the - fronting the Rathaus in order to go west on the Rathausgasse. They passed the Zähringerbrunnen, this one topped by a bear dressed in amour holding a shield, with a cub at its feet, memorializing the city's founder, Berchtold von Zähringer, then took a left turn south on the Kornhausbrücke, across the bridge and into the Kornhausplatz where the carriage pulled up along the edge of a stream of merry makers. The driver leaned over the side to tell them he would meet them here again at the end of the night and bade his occupants join the throng of jolly Bernese happily threading their way to the center of the city.

TBC 1/20