I'm very happy to be back with another short fic, which is a birthday present for AZGirl and inspired by her prompts. AZGirl, I wish you all the best on your special day and hope you had an absolutely incredible birthday. Many happy returns, my friend!
Leather, he'd quickly learned, was a terrible insulator in the winter, taking on the properties of whatever it touched and, when that was frigid air, his doublet turned into a stiff outer layer that had little give and provided even less warmth. It was his first winter away from Gascony and they'd been sent away soon after gaining his commission, leaving him little time to recover financially from his earlier troubles which meant that the warmer clothes he'd had on order had remained in Paris, not having had sufficient time to pay them off before they were ordered to head north. The other thing he'd learned about leather is that once it became damp, it stayed that way, for days on end it seemed, until allowed sufficient time in warm, dry surroundings to leach every drop of moisture from it and become of some use. Not only did the leather get damp, but then everything underneath it did as well and d'Artagnan shivered against the growing wetness at his back as the melting snow seeped into clothes and onto his skin.
The mission had been a mixed blessing, taking him away from the heartache that Paris represented after Constance had reiterated her wish to stay with her husband, but the Gascon had lamented the fact that he'd be spending his first birthday since his father's passing away from the garrison, which represented his new home. He hadn't shared with anyone the importance of the quickly approaching date, their mission perilous in nature and each man dealing with his own misery that came from the long treks they were forced to complete in the icy conditions. He'd finally resolved to share the significance of the day with his three closest friends, rationalizing that he'd at least have someone to tip a glass with, even if the person he wanted most was already gone. Now, as he shivered more violently in the pressing snow, he looked up again at the white ceiling above that trapped him, surprised that the birthday he'd dreaded so would be his last.
Earlier that day...
They had left as soon as the first weak rays of sun had appeared. It was a later start than what they were used to, but there was no choice with the conditions they now faced. The area through which they travelled was a collage of grays, the white of the snow on the ground darkening as one's eye moved upwards toward the horizon, only to be met with a deeper shade of dirty white when gazing at the sky.
The gloom was broken only by the occasional glimpse of sunlight that managed to break through, causing the men to squint against the harshness of the light when it reflected from the bright snow. Regardless of how weak or strong the sun's rays, the cold was never-ending, cutting through their clothes as if they wore nothing at all, leaving them miserable as they cowered within their cloaks and leathers and progressed determinedly forward in silent despair.
The item they carried sat snugly within a small bag, which was tucked into Athos' doublet and nestled against his chest, just to the left of his heart, in a hidden inner pocket he'd had added for just such a purpose. The others had all offered to take responsibility of the item numerous times in the week they'd been travelling but the older man could not bear to put his brothers in harm's way, understanding that the person acting as courier also bore the greatest risk. They'd been given nothing more but the barest of details regarding their mission, Treville stressing the importance of their success and giving them a look that broached no discussion about the contents of the leather pouch he'd gingerly handed over to his lieutenant.
Athos recognized the look in his Captain's eyes and had worn a solemn expression as he placed the bag into its hiding spot, Treville giving a short nod of appreciation for Athos' recognition of the gravity of the mission they were being asked to undertake. As they'd ridden out of the city and then gradually into bleaker and bleaker areas where even the trees became sparse, the older Musketeer often felt like the item he carried was burning against his chest, the feeling of it creating a painful counterpoint to the perpetual chill that permeated the rest of his body.
Normally, they would find some enjoyment in missions such as these, their hours on horseback spent reminiscing, sharing stories of past adventures, but the bitter cold sapped their energy as well as their morale, with each successive day stretching already taut nerves and further darkening their moods. Today would finally bring an end to their misery with the day's ride placing them at a small northern village where they were to meet their contact and who would assume from them the responsibility that was attached to their package.
They'd managed to find a farmhouse the previous night and had been grateful for the opportunity to sleep inside the barn, the layers of thick, clean hay providing welcome insulation against the frigid temperatures outside. Their outer layers had been removed and left to dry out before donning the still damp items the following day. It hadn't taken long for the cold to settle in again, cutting swiftly through their leathers which had stiffened once more with the low temperatures and made their inner layers woefully inefficient at keeping the icy winds at bay. Athos had traded worried looks with Aramis, who now rode on the boy's right, the self-appointed medic having positioned himself there on their second day after realizing how inadequate the Gascon's clothes were against such temperatures.
The marksman was well aware that all of them were suffering, but the young man's torment seemed deeper than his friends', the others at least better acclimated to the colder winters and outfitted with thicker layers to better insulate themselves. Aramis cringed momentarily as he reminded himself that the latter was more a matter of circumstance, and that d'Artagnan would have had warmer items if they'd been deployed a few days later; or if he'd won his commission earlier; or if Labarge hadn't burned his family farm leaving him with debts that had to be paid off. The string of ifs seemed to go on forever and the marksman shook his head at the foolish line of thought. They did not deal in what ifs and there was nothing to be done about the past – they would need to do what they could with what they had and pray they all survived.
To that end, Aramis had surreptitiously been redistributing the extra items they carried to the Gascon. On the first day it had been an extra scarf from Athos, which d'Artagnan had been encouraged to wrap around his head, making up for the fact that he still did not wear a hat. Next came a pair of thick woolen socks from Porthos and an extra shirt from Aramis, each additional layer further protecting the boy from the unrelenting cold. Each item had been handed over casually, its owner dismissing it as unimportant and unnecessary, asking d'Artagnan if he would please help them out by putting the item to good use. It was little enough but it seemed to help, if only slightly, and the medic continued to keep an eye on the Gascon to ensure he didn't topple from his horse, half-frozen from the cold.
While Aramis watched their youngest, Athos led the way, doing his best to pick out the safest route to their destination. Porthos was at their rear, acting as a secondary navigator to Athos' checks of the map he carried, as well as observing their surroundings and staying alert for any signs of trouble. That was one of the well-known challenges of travelling in such conditions – the cold sapped one's energy and attention, making it easy to miss the subtle signs that might indicate danger ahead. From his position, the larger man spared a moment to examine his friends' conditions, noting the rigidity of Athos' back as he determinedly plodded forward. Aramis seemed fine as well, or at least no worse than any of them considering the freezing temperatures, and Porthos was pleased that the marksman hadn't displayed any signs of distress from his experience in Savoy. d'Artagnan was doing his best to appear unaffected but he could tell that the boy's back was bowed with misery, hunched over as he tried to gather all his limbs closer in a vain attempt to retain some of his meagre body heat. Porthos knew that the young man was both at the greatest risk and their biggest weakness should an attack appear.
As though fate had read his mind, the large man was startled by the sound of a lone shot, the noise of it echoing around them. Porthos' head moved immediately to scan their surroundings, taking note of the hill on their right that rose sharply, becoming rockier the further his eyes travelled and disappearing against the gray sky. They'd been steadily climbing the past couple of days and he knew that the floor of the valley lay several hundred metres below. To their left were a few pine trees, the only thing hardy enough to thrive in the higher altitude and less fertile ground, until the snow melted in the spring to give way to the multitudes of mountain flowers that would cover the landscape like a thick, colorful rug. The route they travelled bisected the space between mountains and trees and left them completely exposed to whoever was targeting them.
A glance at Athos showed that their leader also recognized the precariousness of their situation and was already beginning to spur his horse forward, gambling that they might be able to outdistance their attackers and find a defensible position ahead. Another shot rent the air, Porthos momentarily ducking closer to his horse, his head still up as he kept watch over his friends ahead who had reacted similarly. He gritted his teeth in frustration as he scanned the trees again, searching for a target that he could point out to Aramis who, he knew, was ready to discharge his harquebus as soon as he was given an objective to aim at. Seconds passed in silence, with only the harsh breaths of men and horses indicating the drama that was unfolding. Moments later they were being pursued, two men on horseback emerging from a small grouping of trees to tuck in behind them.
"Athos," Porthos called, his voice strong and calm, belying the anxiety he felt. Two men could be dealt with by their force, but it left the question of whether more men waited ahead of them. The older man glanced backwards for a moment, giving Porthos a quick nod even as he checked on d'Artagnan and Aramis, both of whom were keeping pace and seemed fully aware of the danger behind them. One of their pursuers got off a shot, obviously having had time to reload before mounting, and Porthos let out a vile curse as he saw Aramis momentarily sway in his saddle, righting himself almost immediately. d'Artagnan reached an arm out toward the marksman, the latter giving a quick shake of his head and the Gascon's hand withdrew, Porthos concluding that the ball's strike must not have been overly serious. Despite that, the larger man's hands tightened on the reins as he felt his anger and worry rise over his injured friend.
Athos had spared another look back and caught Aramis' momentary waver, deciding in that moment that it would be better to stand and fight. Pulling up hard on his horse's lead, he brought the animal to a jerky stop, the beast tossing its head to communicate its distress at being so suddenly brought to a halt. Aramis and d'Artagnan were already beginning to slow, but Athos gave a curt shake of his head as he bellowed, "No, keep going. Porthos and I will deal with these two and catch up." He saw the matching expressions of hesitation on his friends' faces and hardened his expression in return, letting the men know that he would brook no argument. The two kicked their heels into their horses' flanks and sped up once more, easily pulling away from Athos as Porthos stopped at the older man's side.
"Stand and fight?" the large man confirmed, one hand already reaching for his pistol.
"We deal with them quickly and then catch up to the others," Athos agreed, his pistol already primed and aimed at the approaching men.
Surprisingly, their targets didn't even flinch and continued at the same breakneck speed toward them, hunching close to their horses' backs to make themselves smaller targets. Had it been anyone other than Porthos and Athos, the shots would have been impossible, the difficulty compounded by the fact that they were aiming at moving targets. But not everyone had Aramis as a teacher and his years of patient coaching had honed the men's skills to the point where both had become among the finest marksmen in the regiment; not as good as Aramis himself, but far better than the majority of their brothers-in-arms.
The men's pistols discharged within a heartbeat of one another, the sound once more echoing strangely across the empty space, their would-be-attackers seeming to fall from their horses in slow motion while the beasts themselves startled and faltered, eventually coming to a gradual stop. The Musketeers moved forward slowly, impatient to be reunited with their two friends but needing to know that the fallen men posed no further threat.
Athos dismounted several feet away and approached on foot, sword now extended in front of him as he checked first one man and then the other, confirming that neither lived. Indicating his findings to Porthos with a shake of his head, the larger man breathed a sigh of relief as he sheathed his own sword, nudging his horse towards one of the riderless ones and leaning over to take its lead. Athos did the same with the second horse before mounting again, neither man heartless enough to leave the ownerless animals to freeze or starve.
They turned their mounts back in the direction they'd previously been travelling, eager to catch up to their friends, when a deep rumbling sound appeared. It began like far away thunder, building to a gentle crescendo until neither man could hear anything else. The Musketeers looked at each other in confusion, having no idea where the ominous sound was coming from as their horses danced beneath them, their anxiety clear in their whinnies. "Bloody hell, what is that?" Porthos finally asked, nearly shouting to be heard and completely at a loss, but concerned nonetheless as the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease.
Athos remained quiet, wordlessly scanning their surroundings, his face serious as he looked for the source of the roaring noise. Seconds later it became apparent as they watched a cascade of white rush down the side of the hill in front of them, wiping out everything in its path. Moments later, the sound receded, leaving a terrible silence in its wake as they struggled to understand what they'd just witnessed. Finally regaining his ability to speak, Porthos turned a stricken expression to Athos as he said, "My God, Aramis and d'Artagnan."
to be continued...