Auld Lang Syne
December 31st, 1630
"Are we done here?" d'Artagnan inquired as patiently as possible under the circumstances.
"Wot's the hurry?" Porthos glanced at Aramis with a wink and grin causing Aramis to suck in his cheeks in an unsuccessful attempt to hold in his laughter.
Across the table, Athos clamped a hand on d'Artagnan's bouncing knee with an exaggerated sigh. "We've time yet, relax youngling."
"They might start early."
"That would be a first for the palace." Aramis drained his tankard, banging it noisily on the table. "Nothing ever starts on time. And besides, we'll hear them should they inexplicably start early."
d'Artagnan, ignoring the marksman's declaration, shoved to his feet. "I'll just go ahead and secure us places."
"Frayne and Bastian are on duty, they will have secured places for anyone from the garrison wishing to attend this evening, no need to sit around in the cold waiting," Athos observed.
"Yeah, 'specially since it's cold 'nuff to freeze a witch's tit."
"I don't mind waiting."
"Fine then." Athos lifted a finger. "Go freeze your arse off, we'll be along after we've imbibed enough to keep the cold at bay." The barkeep hurried over with a new bottle of wine.
d'Artagnan's knee began to bounce again. This camaraderie, and his inclusion in the ranks of the Inseparables, was still new enough that he was loathe to part company with his friends, especially as just walking down the street they seemed to attract trouble and he did not want to miss anything. On the other hand, their collective pool of experience and consequent ennui often meant they were the last to arrive at events d'Artagnan was equally loathe to miss. He did not care that his palpable excitement amused his new teammates; he did care a great deal about missing any part of the evening's entertainment.
"How much longer is that going to take?"
"For Athos, all night, since he's pickled already. Takes a bit, now, to warm him up."
d'Artagnan shoved his empty tankard down the table so it slammed into Aramis', splashing the foam of his refill over the edge to slide down the side. Aramis only laughed again and picked up the tankard to lick off the spill.
It was Athos who put an end to the teasing finally, not twenty minutes later, though each minute had seemed like an hour to d'Artagnan. Athos poured the last half of his goblet down his throat before pushing back from the table. "Come along, gents, the puppy is going to wet himself if we do not get him to the party on time." Those expressive eyebrows rose theatrically at d'Artagnan's half-hearted glare. "However, if I must play ridiculous games because we arrive too early, beware; I will extract revenge."
"Games?" d'Artgagnan echoed curiously. "What kind of games?" While Lupiac was on the map, it would never be large enough to produce celebrations on the scale the Parisian aristocrats put on at holidays.
"Not chess." Athos stomped out the curiosity with the same efficiency he would have dealt with an errant spark of fire.
Porthos, however, perked up. "I forget about that; I'm always up for a bit slap and tickle!" His rising rocked the bench Aramis was still sitting on. "I'll take 'im if you two don't wanna go. We'll look for ya when midnight rolls around."
"Nah," Aramis rose as well, draining his tankard, "we'll go with you, but I need to visit the jakes first."
"An excellent idea," Athos stepped over the bench to follow Aramis' tall figure as he wove his way through the tables of drunken merrymakers.
Porthos ducked under the low lintel, emerging on the street crowded with more revelers, snatching at d'Artagnan's shoulder so they wouldn't be separated by the throng. "Let's collect the horses."
It was barely a two minute walk back to the garrison, so all four horses were saddled and waiting by the time Athos and Aramis joined them, though riding out through the arch it immediately became apparent it would have been quicker to walk than try to ride.
d'Artagnan was all for abandoning the animals half way to their destination as more and more people flowed into the sea of humanity making its way toward the Louvre. The streets were packed nearly wall to wall with laughing, shouting citizens intent on making the most of a night filled with drinking, carousing and free entertainment, for one could see the palace fireworks from most places in the city.
Athos clicked his horse forward, taking the lead. "Make way, King's Musketeers, make way," he commanded, prodding a few recalcitrant - or too drunk to notice - folk with his scabbarded sword. Miraculously, the way opened like the Red Sea parting before the Israelites and sealed behind them as quickly has it opened.
They did not make it in time to join the rousing game of Blind Man's Bluff that had taken place along the length of the Grand Galerie, much to Porthos' disappointment, but they were in time to draw up their mounts in the midst of their fellow Musketeers, just as Athos had promised, as the first explosions reverberated off the buildings beside them and the night bloomed with brilliants sprinkling the sky, glittering as they fell like raindrops upon the river.
Porthos grabbed a handful of cloak as d'Artagnan nearly slid off his horse craning his neck to catch the last twinkles of light before the next detonation lit up the darkness with a profusion of golden stars that disintegrated slowly into sparkling fireflies floating to earth.
d'Artagnan's breath plumed like pipe smoke with each artless articulation of awe. He forgot the cold, forgot his companions, forgot himself entirely as the brilliant patterns fountained against the black velvet backdrop of the midnight sky, ushering out the year of our Lord 1630 and welcoming in a brand new 1631.
Even Athos, whose studied indifference could be counted on in the most dire situations, caught his breath as a series of the stylized golden lilies of the royal fleur-de-lis formed in evenly spaced rows in the exact pattern of the Bourbon family flag within a gleaming field of blazing white. From the palace balcony, to the left of the Musketeers, and the entire citizenry of Paris behind them, a great whoosh of a sigh rose. The field of fleurs-de-lis held for perhaps ten breathless seconds before the individual components burst into showers of multicolored spewing stars and asterisks trailing rainbow-colored streamers, the repetitive boom, boom, boom of the explosions literally shaking the ground and causing the Seine to lap quietly at its banks.
Hardly had the reverberations of the fleurs-de-lis died away than the river mist and the sky flowed together as great Catherine wheels flamed to life on a line of barges up and down the river, while shiploads of purple and green and blue and red and silver starbursts joined fountains of white and gold pinwheels bursting one right after another above the stationary blazing wheels with such brilliance as to make the night appear as light as day.
The whole of the display lasted no more than the twenty minute wait back in the tavern, but it was twenty minutes of d'Artagnan's young life that flew by as if winged, though he would remember them to his dying day. The waning of the year in which he had been commissioned as a Musketeer and the waxing of his first full year as a member of that elite unit - even among the Musketeers - known as the Inseparables. And his first ever sight of manmade fire in the sky.
Whether the alcohol they'd consumed had done its job effectively, or d'Artagnan's pleasure in the event had spurred the other three to contemplate their jaded appetites, there was not one complaint about the bitter, biting cold as they rode home, their silence broken only as they parted to their separate abodes with good wishes for a happy and prosperous new year.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely youll buy your pint cup !
and surely Ill buy mine !
And we'll take a cup o kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
Did You know - that while wee Robbie Burns penned the words to the song many of us think of as traditional for bidding farewell to the old, outgoing year, Robert Ayton (1570 - 1638), another Scottish poet, is credited with a little poem, Old Long Syne, which probably suggested Robert Burns's famous Auld Lang Syne.
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself - such that it is - is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.