A/N—This is a late late late submission to the "Dictionary Challenge" on the only Dumas forum on FF. (By the way, great forum.) I used a Word of the Day function on my dictionary app, and I got the word solatium, which is a recompense. So this piece was not fun. But here it is.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Three Musketeers, or any part of The D'Artagnan Romances. It's public domain now, but I still don't own it.
Summary: "It's the same as paying the king twenty louis for every duel you fight…"
Solatium
"Does Death have bloody hands?"
The shadow on the wall had bloody hands. D'Artagnan could see the sticky scarlet liquid shimmering with every movement, as it shifted uneasily in sync with the flame's flickering dance.
"No." Aramis left a smear of blood across his temple as he pushed his blood-caked hair from his eyes. The liquid made his dark hair shine, as if he'd coated it in some sort of oil. The shadow on the wall had left the blood there, when its shadowy fingers last glanced over Aramis' bowed head and gentle hands. "No, D'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to blot out the frightful shadow. "How do you know?"
"Because Death takes many people. Not all of them bleed. Not all of them leave this world with blood on their skin. How can Death have taken them away spotlessly clean if he has bloody hands?" Aramis tightened the white bandages, pressing them against Porthos' wound. His bloodstained hands left scarlet smears on the pristine fabric, painting them red before they even touched the wounded musketeer's side.
Death leered at the musketeers from the wall. He paced up and down, still swaying. The candle guttered briefly beside them before the flame spiraled upward—D'Artagnan's hatred did the same, and he stood, his shaking hand knocking the candle to the floor. The wax hissed and sizzled at his feet. They looked like teardrops.
"Why? Why do we have to bleed?" The tears in his chest and throat made his insides burn, and his voice hoarse.
"Because we have to pay our solatium, D'Artagnan." When he looked up at D'Artagnan, the Gascon remembered that he was but two years older. Aramis' dark eyes glittered with tears, and the bloody streaks on his face emphasized his pale skin, making him look young, afraid…vulnerable. "Our duty, our bloodshed—it's like paying a fine. It's the same as paying the king twenty louis for every duel your fight. Those twenty louis smooth down his hackles, recompense him for the disturbance you made. It keeps you safe, keeps you free. France has to do the same. Every country who duels her demands its twenty louis. To be safe, to be free, France has to pay her fine, her solatium, for the wrongs the country has perceived. Our blood is the twenty louis. Once we pay the fine, France is safe and free until her next duel, when we've got to give the solatium again.
D'Artagnan lowered himself back to his seat, and Aramis sat back, leaning away from Porthos' still form. They both stared at the bandages.
The red droplets on the white fabric looked like little fleur-de-lis, stamped there with a bloody brand.
Sorry it's so short...:( Please read/review!
~Will