Hey there, a quick oneshot before exam prep really sets in. This is inspired by something I go through (though not to this extent) with my own horse in the fall and winter when the weather starts turning. Some horses get really fresh, meaning they get excited or hyper, when it gets colder, and thus become more sensitive to noises, sounds, and your own energy. Sometimes you can tell before getting on if it's really such a good idea, or if you should stick them on a lunge line and let them buck and gallop without you on their back. I imagine for a horse used to mild winters coming somewhere cold would set them off.
On another note, I have gotten into my dream program, creative writing, for next year at university, and I am so freaking excited to go!
LS
The day was cold and crisp, prompting d'Artagnan to pull his fleece lined cloak closer about his this frame. The weather had been turning colder, though the days remained clear and the sun glittered on the morning frost. The others would laugh at d'Artagnan's need of a thicker cloak in only the first weeks of October, but it was already almost as cold as winters in Gascony. At home, the sun still meant warmth and flowers, not cold and frost.
Planchet was still abed in his cot in the kitchens beside the still warm stove and d'Artagnan felt no need to wake the man for a simple breakfast. He could always find something to eat on his watch. Though he was not a musketeer yet d'Artagnan was still awarded small duties and a small wage by Monsieur Treville. The captain had let the boy work watches and even occasionally go on patrols with the others to nearby cities. Delighted as he was to be working with the musketeers, d'Artagnan could not help but to wish for his twentieth birthday, and the day when he would be fully inducted into their ranks. With this thought warming his heart d'Artagnan rushed across the frosty ground to the stables across the courtyard. Today he would be on a mounted watch from the first morning work bell until the fourth one of the afternoon. It was going to be a long, cold day. Silently, d'Artagnan slipped into the stables and shut the door behind to retain the heat that had built up inside the small building overnight. The four horses raised their heads to check the intruder before dropping their heads to their feed. Buttercup sat snugly in her stone stall on the end and eyed d'Artagnan as he drew closer.
As soon as he approached his old mare d'Artagnan felt something amiss with the energy coming from her. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, and it troubled him somewhat, but not enough to make him worry. D'Artagnan ran his hand over the soft speckled coat and fed Buttercup the small crabapple he had in his pocket before going to collect her tack from the hooks on the wall. The leather creaked in the cold as he set it outside Buttercup's stall. As he stood to fetch a brush a roll of cold air rushed over d'Artagnan, sending shivers down his spine. Turning, he found Porthos' large frame outlined in the light in the doorway. The older man lumbered into the barn and over to his large bay gelding Gorlois.
"Good morning, Porthos" said d'Artagnan as he slipped inside Buttercup's stall and began brushing the dirt and dust from her coat.
"Morning lad" Porthos took Gorlois' tack and began to brush down the large animal. "I'm on your watch this morning, someone has to keep an eye on you and keep you out of trouble."
"I hardly need a babysitter anymore! I am almost of age" huffed d'Artagnan indignantly as he gently put the saddle down on Buttercup's wide back.
He tried to ignore Porthos' muffled laugh as he drew the girth up tight around the mare's chest.
Soon both men were ready, their swords at their waists and their horses tacked and ready with food in their saddlebags in case of hunger striking while they were still on duty. Porthos led Gorlois out of the small stable first and nimbly mounted without the help of a stone or stump -proving he was nimble despite his size- and loosely took the reigns of his bombproof horse. The gelding merely snorted and tossed his head in the air, eager to move in the cold morning air.
The uneasy feeling from earlier returned to d'Artagnan's stomach and grew with each step he took as he led Buttercup out into the frost. The mare seemed to tremble and jump at every new sight, jerking the reigns in his hands. Not wanting to appear scared in front of Porthos for fear the tall man would tease him he led the strangely spotted mare up to the mounting stump in the corner of the courtyard and jumped softly onto her back. Instantly he felt that familiar energy of a crazed horse. Last time he had felt this was when helping his cousins with a young horse's training. D'Artagnan had ended up being thrown into a tree, and it was something he would rather not experience again. He was debating whether or not to wake Aramis and see if he could borrow the ex-priest's sensible white mare when he spied Porthos already leaving, and any such chance of him riding a sane horse for his watch along with him.
They didn't get too far before trouble struck. A young boy with a head full of blonde curls darted out of his mother's arms directly into the path of d'Artagnan and Buttercup. The old mare let out an uncharacteristic squeal and gathering all her energy into her hindquarters sprang over the toddler and took off in an uncontrollable charge up the cobbled street on the other side. Porthos gave a shout but the words were lost on d'Artagnan as he gripped the belly of the mare for dear life with his legs and hauled back on the reigns with every ounce of strength he had in an attempt to make the mare stop. Buttercup had other ideas and took the bit firmly between her teeth, and in a vicious act dropped her head between her knees and gave an enormous buck. The movement unseated d'Artagnan, but he still managed to cling to the spooked horse as she once again took off in a charge down towards the bank of the Seine. Near the water's edge the road became more slippery, made worse by the morning's chill. D'Artagnan knew what was going to happen next, and closed his eyes, clinging on to his mare's neck in anticipation. As Buttercup tried to gallop around the corner at the end of the road her feet slipped on the stones and she fell to her knees, still sliding with the momentum and crashing into the stone railing preventing the drunken passerby from falling into the water at night. Buttercup was stopped by this barrier, but d'Artagnan was not. His grip on Buttercup's neck was broken by the impact and his wrist caught on something unseen, snapping as he flew into the cold dark waters.
Water filled d'Artagnan's nose and mouth as he tried desperately to gain some idea of which way was up. His wrist flared in white-hot pain as he tried to swim. It was no use, he couldn't find the surface, he couldn't swim, and his heavy fleece lined coat that had seemed such a good idea this morning was weighing him down. Suddenly, a hand grasped the back of his shirt and d'Artagnan was being lifted out of the depths and came sputtering into the cold sunlight.
"Bloody hell lad!" Porthos boomed next to d'Artagnan's ear, but the boy was more concerned with taking in large lungfulls of sweet air.
"Just breath, I've got you. Your horse is as crazy as she looks isn't she?" Porthos kept his arms protectively around the boy's small shoulders and rubbed his chest encouraging the boy to breath, but getting increasingly worried as it did not appear to get easier for d'Artagnan to draw breath. Porthos ripped off d'Artagnan's wet cloak, replacing it with his own in an attempt to warm the shivering lad.
"Somebody call for a physician, and tell them to come to our apartments!" roared Porthos as he picked up d'Artagnan and sat him on Gorlois' high back and swung himself up behind. "You boy, bring the mare to our stables and you'll get a franc for your trouble!"
And without further ado, Porthos rode towards home with one arm wrapped securely around the semi-conscious d'Artagnan. Once there he let out a shout as he leapt off Gorlois and pulled d'Artagnan down with him, taking care to set the boy on his feet gently and hold most of his weight as they shuffled towards the door. The hour was late enough for the household to be warm with the fire and stove burning and the other two musketeers to be awake, but home still.
Athos threw open the door upon hearing the shout and froze at the sight of a nearly drowned d'Artagnan being supported wholly by Porthos. Aramis was close to follow and rushed to help carry his young friend to a chair by the fire. Quickly they stripped d'Artagnan of his clothes, and the fact that the boy –who was usually shy about that kind of thing- did not turn a shade of red worried them. Quickly he was wrapped up in quilts and blankets with his swollen right arm hanging out so Aramis could inspect it. Athos went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of brandy, downing one himself before bringing the other to d'Artagnan. The liquor seemed to bring the boy back to his senses, much to the three friends' relief.
"What the devil happened, boy?" questioned Athos with his usual amount of gruffness.
"Buttercup just bolted! I've never seen her do anything like that ever before. Usually she's so calm and sweet. She's too old and lazy to do that," d'Artagnan pondered before remembering the crash at the end of the gallop, "Buttercup! Is she all right? We slid and-"
"Your crazy mare is fine. She will be sore the next few days, but the horse was definitely better off than you."
D'Artagnan ducked his head and allowed Aramis to examine his wrist.
"The bone is broken, and I'm afraid we are going to have to wait for the doctor for the proper materials to immobilize it. You are incredibly lucky, d'Artagnan, you could have broken more than just your wrist."
"You are also going to learn to duel with your left hand, if I have anything to say about it," Athos said with his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders, "You won't be any good to the musketeers if you can't handle a sword. But please, try and avoid riding any more crazy horses in the near future."