Summary : During the siege of Arras, Cyrano is reckless and almost gets in trouble.
Author note : An unwritten bit out of the play, preceding the scene where it is revealed that Cyrano has been sending letters to Roxanne on Christian's behalf and that he stole away with De Guiche's white scarf. Dedicated to shapesofbirds for picking the icon during that infamous icon meme.

It was so routinely, for Cyrano, that often he tried to think of new ways to make this exercise interesting.

That morning, he was going to visit the Spaniards with a pretense.

The first moments were simple. He woke up before the rooster cackled (it really wasn't a song anymore, as even the birds were hungry, damn the Orange and their allies). He then slipped out of camp after making sure that Christian still slept, perhaps considered slipping another layer of a cloak under his pretty head, but never did for fear of waking him.

Cyrano would slip past the guards undisturbed. He did not command them, but he knew every single one their names, what village they came from, and whether they preferred a wenching, whoring, gambling, drinking, feasting, or whatever combination of the four. Those two were folks he knew well.

"Carbon," he saluted, as he touched his thrice-plumed hat. "D'Aubignac," he offered the other, as polite and friendly, vaguely commanding.

They smirked and looked at him as he went, off into the early morning mists. Then, the more difficult portion of the morning's exercise commenced. That was the part he loved best. One could not fault Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac for lacking in temerity.

He crept up the gentle slope in utter silence. When the Spaniards turned away, he slipped past them. Heroic feats could be done once the letter was delivered, he'd decided. In great secrecy, though the high grass and over the dusty roads, he made his way to the inn where the keeper kept stale wine and his lovely daughter hidden from the invaders.

"Alors, Thibert, quelles nouvelles?" He slapped the large man's shoulders, friendly and open, a touch exuberant as always.

Thibert slipped a glass of bad wine over his way. Cyrano sniffed it, sighed, took a slip and concealed the grimace he wanted to make at the sourness of the wine.

"The Spaniards are moving east," Thibert replied, quietly, in response to his inquiry. "Their commander is seen wearing Monsieur de Guise's white scarf, and he claims that soon he'll have the armor and victory to match it."

Cyrano grunted – he had no love for De Guise, but that insult certainly would not do.

"Thank you for the intelligence," he replied, and bowed a little to the man. "As usual," he added, as he slipped the letter to Roxanne.

The letter disappeared in the vast folds of Thibert's apron, and the broad-smiled innkeeper grinned a little. "Vive le Roi," he replied, not as loud as he'd have wished it to be. "And may the god-forsaken hidalgos leave Arras alone. I have a sister and a nephew in there."

Cyrano patted his shoulder, as if promising to make it better personally, and took his leave.

The remained was easy to handle. He slipped through the Spanish camp on the way back, not as careful, this time, but just reckless enough to get caught as he entered the commander's camp. The soldiers were just as lean as his comrades, he observed. They did not fare better than he did, and had little to be envied. There was no sign of cooking in the camp, no evidence of even tea brewing. The siege was reciprocal in really every way.

The Spanish commander was sleeping heavily, still, the white scarf was on a stool. Cyrano caught it, wrapped it around his wrist, hand assured on his rapier, a musket in the other.

And just then, the fellow's mustache tremored, and his eyelids fluttered open. Merde.

The Frenchman tried to slip out of the tent but it was too late – the commander awoke, screamed, and he was suddenly surrounded by Spanish blades.

« Messieurs, je vous défie de m'arrêter, » he taunted, unabashedly. « Il ne sera pas dit que Cyrano Savinien de Bergerac périra pour l'amour de Monsieur de Guiche, ne fusse que pour la gloire d'une étoffe de nuage! En garde! »*

The taunt was understood and the Spaniards braced. It happened all too fast for the first one to counter Cyrano's fury. The second did better, but was slain quickly and curtly. Through it all, Bergerac made for the French lines, a trail of red and yellow doublets falling in his wake. They must have been a dozen, maybe more.

His arrival at the camp was almost triumphant, though only the two watchmen saw him return, and by then the white scarf was well concealed under his red threadbare cape.

He counted it a new ace in his sleeve, for De Guiche's next jab, and he felt quite smug for it as he prepared a pipe and stretched his legs by the fire.

Cyrano was getting ready for battle, but from the looks of it, he was sunbathing.

His secrets, he felt, were always well guarded. Panache did have a use, after all.

*« Gentlemen, I challenge you to stop me, » he taunted, unabashedly. « It will not be said that Cyrano Savinien de Bergerac will perish for the love of Lord de Guiche, and even less so for the glory of a cloud's fabric! Brace! »