A/N: Laureleaf made a comment wondering how Constance and Athos met since it's mentioned that they knew each other pre-series. And my muse turned it into a nice little chapter fic.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!
Chapter 1
Constance drew her cloak tighter about herself as she made her way through the streets of Paris after dark. She hadn't meant to stay so late at Mabella's, but the elderly woman had asked if she could take care of a few chores around the house and it had taken Constance longer than expected. She didn't begrudge Mabella though. The widow had been sickly lately and her son was serving a week's sentence in the Chatelet for some drunken offense, leaving no one to check in on her except friends. Constance had brought some bread and fruit to make sure the old woman stayed fed and she planned to do so again the next day, but she'd have to try to go earlier so she wouldn't be caught out at night. Paris wasn't exactly safe after sunset.
She quickened her pace, flinching at every noise that echoed ominously in the darkness—a dull thud, the rattle of a wheel, the creak of a door. It was like a world removed from the familiar streets she'd traversed countless times during the day.
She was still several blocks away from home when a shadow detached from an alley to her left and stepped into her path. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled up short, pulse fluttering in alarm.
"Excuse me," she said and tried to move around the large figure. He sidestepped to block her.
"What's a pretty thing like you doin' all the way out 'ere?" he asked, voice rough like gravel.
Constance drew her shoulders back and affected a bravado she didn't feel. "Let me pass."
"You got any coins under them skirts?"
Her face flushed hot and her heart beat faster. "No. Leave me alone."
He seized her arm roughly and she had to swallow a gasp of pain.
"You've got other stuff under them skirts," he said, leaning close with a leer.
Constance slapped him hard, the sound loud in the empty street. But instead of stunning him into releasing her so she could run, the blow only enraged him. His grip on her arm tightened and he swung her around, slamming her back against the alley wall. Constance yelped as pain shot down her spine. She took another breath to scream, but he slapped a hand over her mouth, his thumb digging into one cheek.
"I could let you scream," he sneered, putrid breath wafting over her face. "No one would come."
Constance let out a muffled cry into the meat of his palm.
"Release her," a new voice spoke, low yet commanding in the darkness. Both Constance and her assailant flicked their gazes to the side where a shadowed figure stood at the mouth of the alley, the wide brim of a hat completely concealing his features.
"Mind yer own business," the first man snarled.
"Attacking a woman on the street is my business," the stranger replied, and there was the sound of grating metal unsheathing from a scabbard. "Now release her. I will not ask again."
Constance was shoved against the wall and her attacker stepped away. She saw him draw a dagger from his belt, a curved ugly thing that made her heart skip a beat. The other man seemed unperturbed and merely stood his ground waiting for the assailant to lunge first. When he did, a sword swiftly arced up to catch the dagger's blade and with a twist sent it flying. Then the stranger deftly flicked his wrist and thrust his sword forward, piercing the other man's jerkin. A startled gasp escaped the thug's lips before he slipped from the edge of the blade and dropped to the ground.
Constance clutched at the folds of her cloak and looked with trepidation upon her would-be rescuer. His features were barely discernible in the guttering light from a street torch, and the hat upon his head hid his eyes further.
"Are you all right?" he asked in an unaffected, almost bored tone.
"Fine. Thank you," she replied in an equally stilted manner, casting harried glances down at the slain man near her feet.
"You shouldn't be on the streets this late. It's dangerous." He paused and canted his head at her dress, perhaps evaluating whether he thought she looked like a prostitute. He sheathed his sword. "Are you headed home?"
She was, but she didn't want to tell this stranger where she lived; her husband was out of town on business and she was alone at the Bonacieux house. Just because this man saved her from one ruffian didn't mean he wasn't also one.
"Mademoiselle?" he prompted.
"Madame," she corrected stiffly. "And yes, I'm on my way to my husband's house."
"Is it far?" the man asked in the same bland tone. "It would be a shame were you to be accosted again on your way there."
Constance stiffened. "Is that what you saved me for? To have your way yourself?"
He finally blinked, looking somewhat taken aback. "No, I saved you because I'm a musketeer."
She paused at that. Constance had heard of the Musketeers, the King's royal guard. They were supposed to be honorable men of the highest regard, and now she felt slightly foolish for her suspicion. "Oh, well, thank you."
"I am Athos," he said. "And if you do not object, I would see you safely returned home, Madame."
"Bonacieux," she added. "Constance."
He inclined his head in greeting. Constance supposed it couldn't hurt, so she nodded her assent and quickly sidestepped around the body to escape the alley. It seemed wrong to leave him there, but he likely would have done the same to her, after doing much worse first. The streets really weren't safe at night and poor fools were often found the next morning, throats slit and purses liberated. She worried about what would happen the next time she had to come down this way to Mabella's house. If only she could defend herself like a man.
Her companion was silent, which was understandable at first, but after several blocks it became awkwardly uncomfortable and was beginning to make Constance feel nervous.
"I'm not usually out this late," she blurted just to break the silence. "I was taking supper to an ill friend. Tomorrow I'll make sure to leave earlier."
Athos didn't say anything. Constance couldn't tell if his taciturnity was because he was annoyed at having to go out of his way to walk her home out of some begrudging sense of duty. In fact, she couldn't get a sense of him at all. He wore his silence like a mantle as snugly fitted as his coat and the shadows that clung to the folds.
They finally arrived at her home and Athos frowned at the darkened windows.
"My husband is away on business," Constance found herself saying, though she immediately chastised herself for it. She hadn't planned to admit she was completely alone at the moment.
"That's why he didn't accompany you to see your sick friend," Athos said with only a slight lilt of a question in the tone.
Constance internally huffed. Bonacieux wouldn't have gone with her anyway, either too busy with work or afraid of mingling with the ill, but she wasn't going to speak badly of her husband to a complete stranger.
She reached the doorstep and inserted her key into the lock. Once the door was open, she turned around. "Thank you for saving me back there and seeing me home."
Athos tipped his hat at her. "It was my honor. Goodnight, Madame Bonacieux."
"Goodnight." She slipped inside and shut the door, alone once more in an empty house. With a lonely sigh, she hung up her cloak and embraced the shroud of silence that would be her only companion for the rest of the night.
o.0.o
"Why have we not arrived in Paris yet?"
Aramis held back a sigh at the plaintive question, to which the answer would only offend the one bleating about it. The fact of the matter was they could have been in Paris yesterday, but the German envoy had kept insisting they take breaks during the journey, first because he kept worrying there was something wrong with his horse or tack, then because he was sore from being in the saddle for hours, then the sun was bothering him. He also couldn't bear to maintain anything other than a walk. A horseman, the German was not. He'd had a carriage for the first part of his journey to the border where Aramis had met him to then escort into France, but it had then been caught in the mud and rendered unsalvageable. The envoy had been forced to leave it behind, much to his chagrin.
"We will be in Paris early tomorrow," Aramis replied.
"You said that yesterday."
Aramis bit his tongue. He caught the eye of the envoy's valet, whose expression was commiserative. Aramis felt bad for the young man, who would continue to be stuck with the envoy even after they arrived at the palace. Whereas Aramis could finally get some peace back at the garrison where Athos's surly moods were more preferable to escorting foreign officials. The mission was of minor importance, the envoy's business with the King of France regarding a contractual arrangement for some goods or other between countries, so Aramis had been sent alone. There weren't enough musketeers to spare on lesser assignments, but he still longed for Porthos's good humor during the tedious ride day in and day out. Soon, though. Soon his mission would be done and he'd demand someone else get the honor of the return escort.
It was getting late and Aramis was preparing himself to inform the Germans that they would have to make camp, something he was sure would not go over well. But there were no inns along this route; it would have been a shortcut if not for the frequent interruptions.
Four men suddenly stepped out from behind the trees ahead and moved into their path. They had pistols in hand though hadn't raised them. Aramis pulled back on the reins to stop his horse and regarded them warily.
"Off the horses, gentlemen," one of them spoke.
"We are on the King's business," Aramis replied. "You would do well to let us pass." His hand drifted toward one of his pistols.
The spokesperson whipped his attention to him. "Don't," he warned.
A twig snapped behind him and Aramis flicked a brief look over his shoulder to see two more men emerging, guns trained on their backs. He mentally cursed. Four against one was bad odds to begin with; six against one was near impossible.
Aramis slowly dismounted, the Germans following suit. At a gesture from the lead bandit, they moved away from the horses.
"Remove your clothes," the man ordered.
The envoy choked in indignation. "I beg your pardon."
"There's coin in the saddlebags," Aramis interjected. "You can take it and go."
The German representative spluttered his face into a puce shade at that as well, but Aramis didn't care. A few coins weren't worth their lives.
The bandit, however, merely waved his gun at them again. "Clothes."
Aramis narrowed his eyes but didn't comply. Why wouldn't they just take the money and go? What was their intention here?
When neither German moved to obey either, one of the bandits shoved the envoy to his knees and pointed a sword to the back of his neck.
"Careful," the leader snapped. "We don't want blood on the clothes."
The envoy reached up to start fumbling at undoing the buttons of his coat. "Please, just take the money," he now pleaded.
"That is not our intention here," the bandit replied.
If money wasn't their intention, what was? These men had obviously been lying in wait, but if not to rob any unsuspecting travelers then perhaps to accost the German envoy specifically? Which meant there could be a traitor either within France or Germany. Aramis urgently tried to put the pieces together. It could be a kidnapping for ransom. But surely a little blood on their garments would prove the sincerity of their captors. Unless it would be too difficult to convince the Crown there was proof of life. Still, that scenario didn't quite feel like it fit.
One of the bandits had been rifling through the envoy's saddlebags and now pulled out a set of papers with the representative's seal. The leader nodded in response.
"Hurry up," he told the German official. "And remove your signet ring." He turned to Aramis. "We're also going to need your pauldron."
With rising alarm, Aramis could now guess what these men intended, and he could not let it happen. He whipped his pistol from his weapons belt and shot the man holding the sword to the envoy's back. He then flipped the gun to grab the barrel and clobbered the man standing behind him with the grip. Dropping the spent pistol, he drew his sword and gauche as another bandit leaped forward. Their blades clashed midair with a discordant clang.
A second man darted in and Aramis blocked and parried the rapidly successive blows, even though keeping up with them meant he had to give ground. He couldn't let himself be driven too far away from the Germans he was tasked to protect though, so he feinted left, catching one opponent's blade and using the man's momentum to send him sprawling. Then he could focus his full attack on the other, and with one swift thrust, stabbed the man through the chest.
The first quickly leaped up again, and Aramis spun, throwing up his sword so their blades locked. He rammed the pommel of his main gauche against the man's head, knocking him back a step.
A shot cracked the air and something slammed into Aramis's shoulder with enough force that he twisted midair from the impact. He pitched over the crest of a steep slope and was suddenly sliding down wildly through loose leaves. He scrambled to stop his descent but couldn't before the ground abruptly dropped away and he was falling through open air. A few moments later he plunged into freezing water and was swallowed in its dark abyss.