AN/ Death Fic. Tissue warning. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers (BBC).
The snow fluttered down in flurries and swirls.
It truly was an odd thing to watch. Having grown up in the South, d'Artagnan had never really come across snow until he'd arrived in Paris. And even now, more than two years later, he couldn't quite get over the sight of it.
Nor could he get over the stubborn cold that accompanied it.
The cold had long since penetrated the Gascon's bones and settled deep within. The shivers that had racked his body had been practically unbearable and had set his chest on fire. The shivering had eventually… finally… subsided, but still his chest felt constricted and tight. He could barely take in a breath.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that the lack of shivering was not a good thing, but he couldn't get his mind to stay focused. Instead he found himself constantly distracted by the beautiful white flurries that pervaded his vision as they cascaded down towards him, settling on his skin and sticking to his eyelashes. Not that he could feel their coldness or dampness.
In fact… he couldn't feel much of anything.
He wheezed as he pulled in a ragged breath. The motion was stuttered and a cough caught in his throat. He hacked up what little air he'd managed to find and his lungs emptied, a cloud of breath and fine specks of bright red blood showering into the air. The red spittle caught on snow flurries and came to settle down upon d'Artagnan's skin and clothes as a fine pink powder.
D'Artagnan frowned at the colour of the blemished snow as he dragged back in a painful half-breath. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't find the strength to do anything. Beneath him, the red stained snow stretched further and further as his warmth continued to leave him.
What had happened?
He couldn't remember. He tried to focus… he tried to look back, but his thoughts got lost… got interrupted… by the snow… by the cold… the fact that he couldn't breathe. If only he could just take one decent breath.
He gasped for air, but he didn't have the strength. His body felt numb. He couldn't feel his fingers. His eyes felt heavy.
The snow was beautiful.
He watched it through half-closed lids and as he took in the flurries of sinister beauty he stopped thinking about breathing… he could no longer think of anything else but this cold and crystalline snow that tumbled forth towards him, and it was with this sight that his eye finally closed and his last breathe loosed.
And the snow cradled the body of the lost Musketeer, and held it safe until his brothers could find him and take him home.
THE END
AN/ I might do a companion piece with The Inseparables. Will depend on writing time/ what comes to me.