Still
Title by way of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets, as this whole series is:
Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
These are mostly exercises in getting my head back into these characters after not writing them for a while, but they flesh out that verse as well. This first one takes place between the final two parts of Currents of Action, and will probably make no real sense if you've not read that. XD
12 December 1636 : Paris, France
Motier is scarcely fourteen, but he's the only one she dares trust with this task. He knows the region, he knows how to keep his wits about him, and he's an adept horseman despite his youth. That he's little more than a boy means nothing; she'll use him just as ruthlessly as she's used others before, because what's in this letter matters – because this news had to get into the right hands, and get there quickly, before anyone else hears of it. The most important weapon in her arsenal at this moment is speed.
He's curious; she can see that in his eyes though he says nothing, just waits while she slides the hastily-penned note into a message tube and seals it before extending the small leather case to him. "Put this into Athos' hands – Athos' alone," she instructs, holding his gaze. Only when he nods does she let go. "They were headed for Vielha at last report. How quickly can you get to the border?"
"Three days with the relay stations. It may take several more to find them once I'm acro –" Something must show on her face, because he straightens, swallows, nods crisply. "I'll manage, Milady."
He understands the import of what he carries, then, even without explanation or any knowledge of its contents. She would expect no less. "Good."
She does not bid him depart; he knows her well enough to hear the tacit dismissal in her words. She does not bid him be safe; they both know the dangers, and how to skim that razor's edge of necessary risk. All he does is tuck the case into his doublet, fastening it closed again before striding briskly out the door, and she watches him go and wonders how it's come that she pins so much on others willingly, unhesitatingly – wonders how much she's changed that she trusts him to make this delivery, trusts Athos to know how to respond, trusts whomever it is he sends in his stead (for she knows him well enough, as a man and as Tréville's protegé, to realise he won't return while any of the Musketeers remain at the front) to do what must be done here. These long months in Paris have changed her far more than she'd realised possible. But she does trust, and it matters now more than ever before, and so she just uncurls her fingers, rests them on the surface of her desk for a moment and draws in a slow, steadying breath.
She has work to do.
Still over on Tumblr as myalchod; still plugging away at the for-reals sequel for Never and Always (which is fully outlined! that's something, right?). My askbox is always open over there for chatter, and I'm open to suggestions or requests for what people might like to see here - but right now it's an exercise for me. XD