He felt himself fall; felt Frédérique's frantic heartbeat—the Dauphin; where's the Dauphin?—as she soared up, only to shoot straight back down again. She was in pain. He was in pain. Where's the Dauphin; is he safe?—his dæmon landed roughly on his lap. He reached for her, Frédérique bowing her head at his touch.
'We're dying, Jean,' she murmured.
There was chaos all around them, and yet neither of them could feel it. All they felt was the peace of this moment; they were together, so calmly—the Dauphin's safe, says d'Artagnan—and nothing could disturb them. He felt her relaxing under his fingers, her feathers soft to the touch. He let out a staggered breath. It was strange, to be so relaxed when such a tragedy was occurring. He was dying.
God, he was dying.
And yet, it felt so right; so normal. It was almost as if he was ready.
The pain was dulling now, almost as if he was used to it. Someone was holding him steady—d'Artagnan perhaps, or Porthos—and his fingers stilled on Frédérique's feathers.
He said, or thought, 'None of this should've happened. It shouldn't have come to this, not now, not ever.'
Then he heard her loud and clear, 'We did it, Jean. We held them off. We're protecting the King, like true Musketeers.'
She huddled her beak into his chest, and he could feel himself fading. He couldn't protest; he didn't want to. Darkness was engulfing him, faster and faster, and, without the slightest hesitation, he let go.