This series of oneshots was inspired by a brilliant Tumblr post about female representation in The Musketeers written by Nettlestonenell. (If you want to read the actual post, and you SHOULD, PM me and I'll send you the link). She gave me the go to let my imagination run wild with her ideas.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. These versions of the Musketeers belong to the BBC. I do own the original female characters.
Prompt for this story: Sisters, aunties who write you letters from home
Biscuits
It's around midday when d'Artagnan stumbles into the sunny courtyard of the Garrison, sleep still hanging on his eyelids. Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all out of town on a mission. There is no reason to hurry. Today is not the day things will change and he will become a Musketeer. The best he can do is hang around Captain Tréville while the others are absent and show that he is indeed serious about his future.
Younger recruits are practicing sword moves against a handful of seasoned soldiers. Faces d'Artagnan has learned to know in the last couple of months. Too many names to remember them all, yet always smiling. He is becoming a feature in the place, albeit without a pauldron to stand at attention. He is welcome to practice nonetheless.
Musketeers are always busy, loud, boisterous and it gives him comfort. It feels like a home of sort : brothers jesting, shouting crude comments while one of them is being trashed in the hay, compelled to yield under the pressure of a sword tip to his throat. A round of drinks on him later tonight.
« Are you harmed ? » his fellow Musketeer asks, helping him to his feet, a sly grin on his face.
« You've only wounded my pride. »
« Shall you give it another try ? »
« I'd rather not. My purse would not be able to handle it. I'll pass. »
« Athos ridiculed me in much the same way one of the first times we sparred, » d'Artagnan confesses once the young soldier has reached the bench where his friends are sitting. Pierre is sprawled on the floor, his rapier forgotten to the side, a piece of paper in his hand. Lucas shakes his head, sheathes his own weapon, rubs the back of his neck, then collapses next to d'Artagnan.
« Perhaps one day we'll repay them the favour but I doubt it. »
« Never doubt yourself, that's what my mother always says, » Pierre advises, craning his head toward the two others.
« Mine said that only an idiot would engage in a fight he knew he would lose. »
« Nonsense. I've engaged plenty of fights I lost, » d'Artagnan replies, the vivid memory of his first encounter with Athos, Porthos and Aramis coming back to the forth.
« My point exactly. »
« Hey ! Watch your mouth ! » He shoves Pierre's side, annoyed at the joke, yet smiling in spite of himself.
« Watch yours. Here, have some biscuit. »
The banter is interrupted as a basket of sweet goods is thrust in his direction, Lucas beating him at a handful. D'Artagnan has not eaten breakfast. He woke up late, and sharing the table with his landlord while he boasted about fabrics and dress patterns was not his idea of a pleasant meal. The biscuit he accepts from Pierre is divine, butter and a hint of sugar.
« I had no idea you were quite the baker, » he exclaims around a moutful. Crumbs fall on his shirt and he picks them all carefully, licks his fingers then helps himself to more.
«I'm not. My sister sent them. »
« I wish I had a sister who could make such deliciousness. »
« I've got three, » Pierre explains. Perhaps offering the treats to his two friends is a bad idea. There may be none left soon.
It was raining yesterday and I was missing you. It is too quiet since you've been gone. Then I remembered how much you liked these biscuits when we were younger. It warmed my heart to bake them. I hope it will warm yours to eat them.
« Can they make some other cakes ? Because my brother will certainly not indulge me so. »
« I suppose. It was a nice surprise to receive them actually. » He waves the letter he has been holding. Leaving his home, his region to come to Paris and join a regiment of unknown men was a big leap for the young man. Not frightening, exhilirating. He had found at the Garrison as much as d'Artagnan had, even more. At night, the cold walls, the impersonal rooms, it sometimes closed in on him. The Musketeers were home, yet it was nice when a piece of his first home reached him.
Harvest season is hard without you. Father has had to ask some of the neighbours' boys to come to help. He would never complain about it though. I have never seen him grumbled less than since you've been away. He spends most of the night sleeping. Mother says it's a relief and she ought to send some money to thank you for the respite. (She enclosed two coins in the package but we are not to tell anyone about this.)
He folds the piece of paper before Lucas can snatch it from his hand. He has already read it once, a comfort while waiting to engage in sparring, a reassurance that nobody is forgetting him, a support as Emilie professes how proud they all are of him.
You should have seen Father's face last Sunday after church. He was delighted to tell everyone who would listen that you had been commissioned into the Musketeers. You have shadowed any other major event in the village so far !
« Is she pretty, your sister ? »
« Why would you care ? »
« Well, if she can bake so amazingly, I'm more than interested. »
D'Artagnan sniggers as Pierre stares at their friend, as if seeing him for the first time. His eyebrows come together, his eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. He could almost pass for an angry Porthos.
Do you remember André ? I think you went to Sunday school with him ? He's been staying at the farm to help with the crops. Mathieu has taken a great liking in him, even though I believe he lingers more for Marie's sake than for our little brother !
« My sister isn't marrying the pity excuse of a soldier that you are, Lucas. »
« Who said anything about marriage ? » Lucas' jest is answered by a low growl. Pierre would lash out on him at once if he was not holding the precious biscuits. But before he can consider asking d'Artagnan to keep an eye on them -a request which would most certainly lead to the other eating every one of them-, Lucas shoves his shoulder roughly.
« Have you seen his face ? He thought he could scare me ! »
« I could do more than scare you if I wanted to, idiot. »
Lucas is smirking, reaching for another treat, stuffing his face. His smile is so big, so innocent, so unlike the ones of experienced soldiers. They have hardly seen any battle. Joking, messing with one another, recreating the sibling complicity they have left at home, the complicity some of them never had before : those are the things which hardly make the Garrison sound like military barracks.
Pierre shakes his head at his friend's stupidity and his own gullibility. Emilie would say he takes matters too heartily.
There was a stray cat looming around the house and Mother would have sent it away because she said we did not need another one, but Mathieu started crying and shouting that it was lonely without you and that he needed someone to sleep in the room with him. So we have another cat. You have been replaced by a cat !
« Next time, tell your sister to make a double batch of these marvels, » d'Artagnan requests, stealing another one before it is time for him to prove his value and engage an older Musketeer in a duel. His stomach is full of biscuits. His mouth tastes of wonderful butter and he feels heavier than he should before sparring.
He loses this fight, glaring as Lucas and Pierre shout at him that he is worthless and he will not be allowed sweet treats until his game improves. Nevertheless, there is a sheepish smile on his face as he returns to their side to nurse his pride.
There may be no one left at home to send him letters, no one to provide comfort and praise, no one to send goods. It does not matter to him, as long as he can find the same things at the Garrison. And who knows, perhaps next time Pierre's sister will come in person to visit and they will see whether Lucas is unworthy of her affection.
Mathieu named the cat Musketeer. It still is better than Pierre, is it not ? Yes, it was his first idea. He misses you. We miss you. We love you.