Title: The King's Musket
Author: JenF
Chapters: 1 of 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
The sword is sharp and polished. The sun catches the flat of the blade and briefly blinds Aramis. It takes only seconds for the marksman to readjust and realise that his companion is not faring so well.
It had been such a simple assignment. The King's hunting party had left the day before, Athos and Porthos in attendance. Treville, suffering under a mountain of paperwork, had given Athos the authority to make any and every decision regarding the King's safety, much to the disparagement of Richelieu.
They had been gone only hours when it was discovered that Louis had left behind his favourite musket. Aramis was all for leaving the king to manage with one of the multitude of weapons accompanying the hunting party but Richelieu was insistent that the King would be unhappy and his happiness must be pandered to at all times.
And so Aramis and d'Artagnan found themselves leaving Paris at an ungodly hour the next morning in order to be with the hunting party before the King even realised his omission.
The attack had been surprising and Aramis is currently cursing himself for allowing them to fall into a false sense of security. The warmth of the early morning sun and the general contentment had washed over both musketeers and the ambush was incompatible with the day.
As Aramis neatly sidesteps another inexpert swipe of his assailant's blade, he hears the sound of another blade making contact with flesh. He hopes d'Artagnan is making progress but when he hears a stifled cry of pain he knows the younger musketeer is losing.
Unable to stop until his own attacker is dealt with, Aramis renews his efforts, pushing forward until the man before him is backed up against a tree, Aramis' sword resting gently under his chin.
"Aramis."
The word is spoken softly but Aramis is acutely tuned into his brothers' voices. In the depth of battle he can hear them from 50 yards. He knows every nuance of tone and he can hear in d'Artagnan's voice a weary resignation coupled with apology. The man beneath his sword looks up at him and smirks.
"Aramis," d'Artagnan repeats and this time Aramis turns his head, careful to leave his sword in place.
d'Artagnan is on his knees, hands raised in surrender as the pistol at his head offers up a promise of death.
"What's more important?" the behemoth of a man wielding the gun asks. "Your companion's life, or the contents of your packs?"
There is no question in Aramis' mind. His friends will always come first and, in truth, there is nothing in their packs of value.
He lowers his sword and steps back, allowing his captive to move away. He holds his arms out to the side, submissive but reluctant to forgo any protection.
d'Artagnan's attacker, however, isn't going to go for it. He briefly waves the gun at Aramis, silently ordering the man to drop his sword, before returning to his original stance.
Aramis complies, meeting d'Artagnan's eyes with his own apology. d'Artagnan merely offers a slight shrug as their packs are torn from the horses, startling the animals.
"What's in them?" the behemoth asks.
"Very little," offers d'Artagnan, receiving a callous shove with the pistol for his efforts.
The contents of their packs are thrown carelessly on the ground, revealing the truth in d'Artagnan's words. A little food, first aid supplies, surplus ammunition should they need it, a book of psalms and no small amount of dust.
"That's it?"
"I told you," d'Artagnan repeats. "We carry very little."
"Do you really expect me to believe that two of the King's musketeers have nothing of value between them?" d'Artagnan's captor nods to his companion. "What else is with the horses?" he demands.
Aramis watches with something akin to amusement as the lesser of their assailants tries to catch the skittish horses, divesting them of all remaining equipment. Eventually the man returns with a long object, wrapped in oilskins.
Aramis immediately recognises it as the King's favoured musket and his heart sinks as he wonders how they're going to explain this to the hunting party – and Treville.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees d'Artagnan tense – the boy has obviously realised what the object is too. Aramis hopes he's not going to do anything reckless like fight for the weapon. For the first time, he wonders where d'Artagnan's sword ended up; he hasn't seen it and if it's in reach he wouldn't put it past the Gascon to be courageously stupid.
He tries to signal to d'Artagnan but the other man's attention is fully on the man holding the King's musket. He's slowly unwrapping the weapon and Aramis can see the other man is totally absorbed in the reveal. Maybe, he thinks, they could make a break for it now.
But the moment is gone as soon as it arrives. The gun is unwrapped and gleaming in the sunshine, the royal insignia catching the light. d'Artagnan shifts forwards on his knees and leans his body over in readiness to leap to his feet.
Unfortunately his movements are not as subtle as Aramis would have hoped for. The gun against the boy's head hardly moves but the sound of the pistol being cocked is enough for both musketeers to freeze.
"The King's musket? Carried by the King's musketeers?" their attacker smiles. "Surely you must see the irony in you losing this. It will fetch a pretty penny for us."
The younger assailant hefts the gun into position and takes aim at Aramis.
"I could kill you from here," he laughs and his accomplice joins in.
"It's not loaded," the marksman comments dryly.
"But this one is," the man behind d'Artagnan retorts, giving d'Artagnan another little shove to emphasise his point.
"What shall we do with them?" the other man asks.
And this, Aramis thinks, is where it could go either way. Nobody could miss d'Artagnan from that position and he's too far away to be of any assistance. d'Artagnan is clearly aware of the situation and it seems to Aramis that the boy has become a statue, pale and motionless.
But then fate seems to smile on them, sort of, as the behemoth relaxes. "We've got what we want." He looks directly at Aramis and tilts his head sideways. "We're not barbarians. We're not killers. But we can't have you follow us either. I'm sure you understand."
He raises his arm and before Aramis can even shout a warning, the pistol comes down hard on d'Artagnan's head, the Gascon falling silently to the ground.
Aramis is on the move before he realises it. But the shock of seeing d'Artagnan so immobile and defenseless has dulled his wits and, when he tells this tale later, he will revel in the fact that he is the only musketeer to be laid out by the barrel of the King's musket.
TTM TTM TTM
When Aramis opens his eyes with a groan it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. The day has grown even hotter and his head is pounding. With a heart-felt sigh he raises himself on one elbow, looking around him.
d'Artagnan is lying on his back a few feet away from him, his arm across his eyes and even from this distance Aramis can see his chest rising and falling steadily. It would appear neither musketeer has suffered anything untoward.
And beyond d'Artagnan a familiar figure is huffing as he throws various things back into their packs.
"Porthos?" Aramis ventures.
The man in question turns and moves over to him.
"What are you doing here?" the marksman asks, confusion clouding his eyes.
"The king left Eleanor back at the Palace. Sent me back for her."
"Eleanor?" Aramis thinks that he might just close his eyes again.
"Yeah. Imagine my surprise though when I'm greeted by two slumbering musketeers."
"We're not slumbering," d'Artagnan mutters from beneath his arm. "We were attacked."
"I got that," Porthos smiles as he puts the last bandage back into Aramis' pack. "But now we need to head back to Paris. The King is keen to be reunited with Eleanor."
Aramis struggles to sit upright, watching as d'Artagnan does the same.
"Ah," he sighs. "There might be a slight problem with that."
"Who's Eleanor?" d'Artagnan queries, looking from Aramis to Porthos.
"Eleanor," Aramis grimaces, "is the King's musket."