Le Sang Sur Le Rose
D'Artagnan is deployed to Nîmes for six weeks to find a corrupt ex-scribe. Upon his return, he discovers dark, hidden operations which threaten the lives of those closest to him.
Chapter One: Women and Poison
Waking up in yet another dewy forest, D'Artagnan rose from his makeshift bed and cleared his eyes from the drowsiness he suffered from every morning. His brown eyes astutely sought the sunlight out from the heavy cover of dense spring leaves above him, allowing him to make a quick estimate at the time. His guess was usually shaky, but at best, it would be three hours until he reached Paris.
His horse, Victoire, was tethered ten feet away. D'Artagnan smiled as the animal practically swallowed an apple from a low-stooping tree whole - his penchant for the fruit often provided many moments of comedy. Enjoying the warmth of dawn, the musketeer stopped to admire his setting. It was a lot more aesthetically-pleasing than Nîmes, where the slums were only just being modernised; alas, it was no Paris.
Maybe that's because, in Paris, there is an indispensable beauty that I cannot help but seek out.
His mind floated as he boarded Victoire, absent-mindedly watching the pastel blue sky above him. It reminded him of her; the entire set up of the day did. The way the birds seemed to glide, instead of fly. The freshness of the grass. The distant echo of water running across smooth rocks. It all seemed too much like the fables D'Artagnan remembered his mother reciting from memory to him, when he was young and brimming with innocence. It all seemed too perfect.
It all seemed too much like Constance.
She would love it here. Maybe, if I ever found myself presented with the chance, I'd bring her here. We'd spend days roaming the fields and picking flowers. We'd laugh and exchange a variety of inappropriate insults and jibes. Then I'd make her watch the stars with me, in a hopelessly-romantic way of trying to show my love.
D'Artagnan could fly for hours thinking of her. Usually, any affections for a pretty female would make him float, at best. He remembered Lilianne, his first love. She came from a rich background and judged his every move. With her, he was never even able to spread his wings, let alone move. Then there was Vivette; pale, intriguing, but disappointing. There wasn't that traditionally wonderful spark that D'Artagnan's romantic side adored to endure. With Constance, his mind would soar. He was lifted to a place of infidelity and intimacy, where excitement lay around every single clichéd corner. Sardonically, he smiled. He'd missed her.
Arriving to the downtown setting of Paris, D'Artagnan managed to not-so-gracefully leap from his saddle, directly into a mud-filled cavity in the grass. He briefly cursed, but realised that he should really focus on the beautiful lack of the other (jibing) musketeers, who would probably end up also covered in mud from rolling around laughing. He would now face Constance looking like an unkempt hermit; the prospect loomed unattractively.
"So, he returns."
Treville, the Captain, emerged from behind an unknown's wooden house. He was a simple-looking man, with a hidden web of grey secrets lurking in his shadow. The man was not one of D'Artagnan's favourite people he'd met upon moving to Paris, alas, he kept up a relatively so-so relationship with him, in order to stay with the Musketeers and train.
"Captain," the protegée bowed slightly, swiftly removing his sword and flourishing it with expertise, "I bring you the blood of the King's ex-scribe."
"Impressive. The sword, D'Artagnan." Holding his hand out with little patience, Treville's face remained emotionless. The sword was placed in the open, leather-gloved hand of the man; the musketeer felt slightly unbalanced without it by his side. The rapier was lifted to the captain's nose, where he inhaled it and finally allowed a small, dangerous smile to settle on his lips. The moment was unnerving, but suddenly it was over and Treville was handing him back the sword in an efficient I-am-your-captain-and-you-obey-me manner. Confused, the younger of the two re-sheathed his sword.
"I expect Athos, Aramis, and Porthos will be awaiting you in one of the upper town's many taverns. Your success has been already rewarded to you." There was a slightly calculating edge to Treville's voice that D'Artagnan felt the urgent need to question.
"What reward? I didn't ask for payment. You know I have substantial coin."
"No, it's nothing to do with coin. Your own establishment, provided for you in order for you to escape that damned hotel that the Bonacieux duo run. We have provided something small but," the captain placed his arm around his protegé's shoulders, "manageable. I trust you'll not pull an Aramis and single-handedly invite every female in Paris to your new humble abode every night."
D'Artagnan's heart dropped. His hopes were dashed; in pieces, lost in the mud below him.
The camaraderie and solidarity of the three musketeers was soon returned to D'Artagnan - a curling smirk of appreciation from Athos, a firm but jovial arm clasp from Porthos, and Aramis' usual overly-friendly, jest-filled interaction.
"I am surprised, my friend," the latter spoke with an underlying sarcasm, "that there is not a twenty strong line of beautiful girls trailing behind you with growing abdomens."
"You forget, Aramis," D'Artagnan shook his head with a sigh, "I am not you, and I do not have forty heirs from forty different women of forty different villages."
Porthos laughed heartily.
"It has been strange without your cutting humour. Athos was almost forced to take a turn at being funny."
"That cannot be!" the eyebrows of D'Artagnan rose, "It must have been more dire without my presence than anticipated."
A short pause followed. Suddenly, the air grew awkward.
"My good friend," Athos stated, his face showing no emotion, "you will learn of the darkness that is plaguing us very quickly."
D'Artagnan's eyes flew from man to man. Even Aramis seemed to be biting his lip, stopping himself from giving any explanation for the sharp turn of events. However, Porthos indicated they should walk, and began speaking quietly.
"It is true. Your arrival signified the only good we have experienced in weeks. Your success in Nimes was undermined by betrayal and treachery following us."
"Betrayal? Treachery?"
"Someone is killing off The Musketeers. One by one. Every other night, one of us is killed. It started three weeks ago. We've lost 10 men," Aramis sounded ever so hopeless, which turned the listener's stomach. Aramis was never hopeless.
"How is this possible?"
"Lukaz was dead first. Stabbed and bled to death asleep. Vernase came next, where he received a fatal blow to the head. Frances, hung in his own home. Jean-Paul, burnt. By this point, we took action. It wasn't just coincidences. We stuck together. Some of us didn't sleep. Yet it continued. Poison seems to be the killer's main weapon, if they can't attack us individually. They seem to have a long-lasting poison, so the person doesn't die until they are relaxed or sleeping." Athos gave a very serious explanation. His voice, only for moments, held notes of sadness, before returning to a business-like manner.
Lukaz. Frances. All of these people were close, true friends of D'Artagnan.
"And you left me in Nimes without knowing any of this?"
"We couldn't risk you journeying back prematurely. It would have been a tell-tale sign."
"So. We're being killed off. My friends are dead. Nothing is happening about it. Why don't I just write 'READY TO ACCEPT FATE' on my arms and leave it at that?"
"With this attitude, I might just enjoy doing that," Athos murmured, increasing in volume as his emotions rose, "we need to be vigilant. There's little we can do without risking our lives. Of course, the Cardinal won't let us be deployed in order to regain safety so -"
"Of course, he would never let anything happen that might actually benefit us!"
"Silence, D'Artagnan. Believe me, we've shouted enough. There are two things we know which are confirmed." Porthos' input was welcomed after Athos' sarcasm.
"Which are?"
"The killer is a woman. We saw a silhouette two nights ago. Long hair."
"That narrows it down."
"We cannot stay around any women anymore, D'Artagnan. We must avoid all. Even Constance." The frank, definite tone in Porthos' voice hit a chord with D'Artagnan, who naturally blew up into rage.
"Yes, because a humble woman in a terrible marriage is clearly the murderer type! This all makes perfect sense!"
"You'd be surprised." Athos stated, bluntly.
"Exactly what is that supposed to mean? The girl is generous and has been the most amicable to me out of everyone in Paris."
"People change. Now," shrugging off D'Artagnan's anger, Athos began trekking up to the white pillars of the castle, "your new residency is shared with us. We stay together and we watch out for women and poison."