I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's The Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.
I re-watched Commodities and...I don't think anyone will like those chapters but we'll get there.
Ages in this chapter:
Athos: 47
Porthos: 41
Aramis: 40
d'Artagnan: 30
Weeks of normalcy passed before Athos ever heard of Vadim.
Well, it wasn't all normal. The boy Aramis and Porthos had kept from his knowledge would arrive occasionally with his weapons and the three would spar together. Athos had ended up joining in when Porthos suggested d'Art learn swords from Athos himself. There was a bout of Aramis and Porthos raving about what a master Athos was while the boy scuffed the soles of his boots in the mud, avoiding Athos' gaze.
The boy had raw talent in every aspect. He may not able to shoot blind like Aramis but he could still shoot well. He wasn't as big and muscled as Porthos but he was just as fast – if not faster. His swordsmanship wasn't too bad, simply lacking in proper training and practice that Athos doubted he could have gotten in his current situation.
The weeks also drew in the random chancing upon the boy on the streets while they ran patrols. He would usually be alone, claiming he was trying to repay Constance for her help, but there were times he wasn't. Charlotte and another girl – Irish decent most likely if her red hair were any indication – would sit on barrels not far off, giggling together as they watched d'Art speak to the three men. Porthos would joke back at them occasionally but it was apparent he was being kind in his jests. Aramis was Aramis as always, winking and tipping his hat at the girls until the boy swatted him.
Athos had also become aware that the young man was staying at Constance's husband's home. How the boy was renting the room without proper income was beyond him though. All he ever saw the boy doing was speaking with the two girls, running errands for Constance, and sparing with Aramis and Porthos – winning the attentions of the other Musketeers and Tréville.
Of course, it didn't help that the boy had also gained the attentions of the Red Guards. All his time spent around the Garrison had led to the Guards treating him like he was a Musketeer recruit; hatefully. Like any other Musketeer, the boy was met with snide comments and glares as well as outright insults. There had been a moment when the tail of Porthos' scarf being caught by Aramis as the Spaniard spoke to d'Art and Athos was the only thing that had saved a rather loud Red Guard from a slow and painful death.
Yet, here the four of them stood, talking the boy through how he should fight a Red Guard and assuring him that the plan was sound and he'd be perfectly safe in the Bastille. They just needed someone to make friends with Vadim, learn where the gunpowder he'd stored was hidden, and find it.
Tréville had not told them who'd supplied the information on Vadim – or who had suggested the plan they were now tasked with – but Athos had seen the pointed look he'd sent in d'Art's general direction. D'Art was the only person who wasn't a fully commissioned Musketeer but connected enough for the plan to have a chance of success.
Athos had listened to Porthos and Aramis asking what was vital in a duel. When the boy said it was honor, Porthos had smacked the back of his head and muttered it was to not get killed. The mumbled he'd been raised to be a gentleman, a lit in his voice that made Athos raise a brow to question the truth of that statement. Aramis had asked if he'd been raised to die young which ended with a chuckle from the boy.
Athos had only been listening because, when they'd been walking to the duel, Porthos had asked if the boy had left a chain somewhere safe seeing as the guard would strip him of possessions. D'Art had assured Porthos that he'd left it, and the scarf, on trustworthy hands. That was about the time Aramis' face went pale and he'd started stammering while pointing at the boy's neck. Athos saw nothing wrong with the limb though when the boy lifted his chin with a smug smirk.
"You don't have to do this," Athos had said before the duel, his back to the Red Guard as he whispered to the boy. "It's Musketeer business."
He wasn't worried though, he assured himself of that. This boy did not, in any way, shape, or form, remind him of a boy with smiles of sunshine in Lupiac. This boy did not cause sparks of jealousy towards men he saw as friends because they had better relations with said boy than he did. This boy did not laugh the same blossoming laugh, have the same colored skin and hair, or have a warm touch that reminded Athos of hugs that could cradle his soul and heart in warmth.
This boy was a young man who'd lived – and was still living and surviving – the life Porthos had managed to escape decades ago. The boy was strong of will and of heart which only made his skills stand out all the more. His skills weren't to be sneezed at even if he weren't filled to the brim with youthful vigor seeing as he could keep up with two of the Musketeers' best – three if he really counted blade work but he didn't; yet.
He wasn't worried at all. Worry wasn't even factoring into this conversation. At all. No.
D'Art shrugged him off in a manner that could really only be read as polite and rather…pointed as he claimed he could handle it. There really wasn't that much choice in the matter after all. This was necessary.
Athos just wished the opponent wasn't so damned enthusiastic about attacking someone who was only associated with the Musketeer regiment. He also wished Vadim had chosen warmer weather to hatch this mysterious plot of his. Though, it was a bit entertaining to see what Porthos claimed to have taught the boy, Aramis' knowing smiles aside.
It was not entertaining, however, when they had to leave the boy to the Red Guard. He didn't really care for this part of the plan, no matter how important it was.
They went through the scolding from Tréville about how they weren't to be caught in illegal dueling and yet had allowed a possible new recruit do so. Athos felt it strange that d'Art had not told even Tréville his real name when it was fairly obvious that the man held some form of his trust. Porthos had mentioned trust issues once during the first week of the boy appearing before the garrison gates with shining smiles but Athos had seen the boy speaking – whispering really – to Tréville when no one was around.
He ignored Aramis and Porthos' mumbles about being popular versus being unpopular, the larger man's scared brow twitching when the Captain got in their faces about leaving a young man friendless, alone, and condemned. He had other things to be worried over.
Tréville updated them after the rest of the regiment had left, sounding tired and worn out from the charade he'd known of but was still surprised by. Aramis made a point of whining about the other men hating them only to be shot down by Porthos who stated the obvious reason as to why. It looked like they'd betrayed a friend, one who had wormed his way into the regiment with barely any effort. Porthos muttered about feeling sick about such thoughts from fellows but Athos could hear a protective growl behind it.
Tréville continued on about the brilliance of the idea until Athos muttered that the raw talent of a kid from the streets didn't mean much; no matter how promising he seemed. Tréville mentioned the boy would have had to prove himself one way or another. Athos wasn't exactly pleased to note how his stomach rolled at the idea that the boy was risking execution to help men he barely knew though. Noble cause and supreme need aside, the boy had all of two men in the regiment who could vouch for him and both had just helped in a charade to have him arrested.
All to have him be put in a cell with a man who had enough gun powder for a small war hiding in the city somewhere. That was all without mentioning the men Vadim would have under his beck and call.
Athos could barely wait to be on the Queen's protection detail when she went to free some few souls she could later. He'd be able to make sure they hadn't just sent a young man to his death far too early in life.
"How'd you do that?" d'Artagnan asked after Vadim made a coin disappear from his fingers.
He'd seen magic tricks before but always from a distance. Flea and Charon had been rather clear in what they thought of the magicians in and out of the Court. He, Charlotte, and Radha had made it a habit to watch the spectacles from a distance though. Anything to annoy without getting into any real trouble.
"A secret to a good trick," Vadim stated, with a smile on his face, "make people look the wrong way." He produced the coin in his other hand as he spoke, leaving d'Artagnan a bit impressed.
Though, d'Artagnan had a feeling Vadim would probably have nothing on Radha's ability to get a man's purse off his belt while he stared at it. Hell, Charlotte could probably lift more bread out from under the Mademoiselle Cherie's nose than Vadim could. He didn't say anything about them though. No point in giving too much of his background away after all.
He didn't eat the food. After his last run in with bad food, he kept his mouth shut on the dead mouse in his bowl. He set the dish aside when the guard left, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He knew Vadim was watching him as he pushed the bowl away.
"You'll starve if you're not careful," Vadim hissed.
"I don't eat mice."
"Shame," Vadim muttered as he stirred his broth.
D'Artagnan watched him, eyes cool and calm as the man began to eat in silence. He couldn't see the man as someone who would steal so much gun powder but he could see Vadim as a thief. If he tried, he could see a desperate thief but not much else.
He settled into his corner and waited. It was Good Friday. The Queen would be here soon, a band of Musketeers with her. He could wait.
Aramis was beginning to think he hadn't prayed enough the day before for the success of this mission as he held the Queen's head to his chest.
Before they had gone onto the Queen's guard detail, they had run into Constance, who was waiting as her husband spoke to Tréville about cloth for a new cape. She was dressed as prettily as ever but damn did she have an arm on her. His cheek was still stinging. He and Porthos had shared a laugh that he loved violence in a woman but from the looks they shared later on told Aramis the try to lighten their moods hadn't lasted.
Athos had been the first to say he would visit the cell d'Artagnan was being held in which – of course – led to his finding the prisoners were escaping. He'd had to knock at least one prisoner out so he could help Athos free himself from three prisoners as well as shoot quite a few more people than he would have liked for the day. He may be a soldier but killing was something he took very seriously.
And during all of that, Vadim, his men, and d'Artagnan had snuck around the crowd of prisoners. Vadim had taken the Queen hostage, d'Artagnan behind him with a dangerously calm look in his eyes ad Vadim bellowed at them to back away. When Vadim yelled for the gate to open, it was d'Art who nodded with a confidence Aramis wasn't aware he held.
"I told you they'd let me walk out of here," Vadim had said with a smug smile.
"Hurt the Queen and we're all dead," d'Artagnan had hissed. "Let her go. You don't need her anymore. Let's go."
Vadim had apologized to the Queen, releasing her with a shove, and rushed out the gates. Tréville had called for them to shoot but the Queen, too dazed and frightened, was still between them and their targets. Aramis had acted on instinct, rushing to her side and dragging her to the ground, lying over her body as men trampled around them.
"You still think d'Art was the right man for the job?" he heard Athos growl as he lifted his head.
Once he was sure it was safe, he gazed down to the queen. He assured her things were fine, that she was safe, ignoring the pang in his chest as memories of Adele surfaced. Adele was gone, had made her choice. He had to leave it alone.
He apologized to her, realizing the gods awful position he'd just put her in. Not only had he bodily tackled her, he'd lain over her without permission. It shocked him when she noticed a cut on his cheek once he'd helped her to her feet, her hand gentle on his jaw as she aimed to inspect it. That was what she was worried over? Not the riot, near kidnapping, or the fact that a Musketeer had shoved her to the ground like she wasn't of royal blood?
As much as he appreciated it, he was beginning to worry over his sanity.
