I do not own the Musketeers or any of the recognisable characters I may use or mention in this fic. I am merely playing with them for my own amusement.
Chapter One: Sauveur.
She could handle the ambiguity of the icy void around her, the thievery of the air from her lungs by the churning swells, even the blindly tumultuous rise and fall of her last few moments of life.
What she could not handle, however, was the guilt.
Maybe this was her punishment. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe he had watched her intently, only putting a stop to her actions at the very point she believed she might actually succeed.
The only consolation was that this would all be over in a matter of seconds.
Her torso ached with the nigh impossible task of sustaining the last precious gulp of air in her lungs and she looked around for any glimmer of hope that may be afforded her; a guiding light, a piece of rope, an errant barrel.
But there was nothing.
She clawed upwards at her best guess, but found no purchase. She turned and flailed in the opposite direction, hoping that she had been wrong in the first instance. Something made itself known to her here, though it was not a fortunate discovery. If she had to guess she would have said it was an old chest, heavy and laden with either food or personal effects. Certainly not jewels or riches; she hadn't gotten that far yet. Whatever it was, it had attacked her; landing her a blow to the back of her head, forcing the last breath from her and bidding her cease in her primal struggle for survival.
She tumbled then, limp like a discarded marionette; one more for the scores who found their eternal rest in the folds of the shroud of the Seine.
Monsieur Purcell despised the driving rain and bitter wind that came with storms of this calibre and he had been loathe to leave his hearthside and venture out into such a tempest, but the storm had been sudden and unpredicted and, as such, posed a significant threat to Purcell's small vessel. So, the fisherman had had no choice, but to brave the downpour with nought but a lantern and a length of rope to arms.
After he had secured the boat to the best of his abilities, Purcell had taken a moment to watch the swells from the safety of the river bank.
Occasionally, waves such as these would confuse the shoals of fish and see them leaping to safety, only to dash their little heads on the decks of ships or asphyxiate on the embankments until morning. It was a rare occurrence, but something that fascinated Purcell and it pleased him to wait and see if on this night some such event might present itself.
He held the lantern at an arms' length, sweeping it from side to side in increasing frustration, until the rainwater bit at his neck and hands so much so that he could no longer feel them. With a disappointed grunt Purcell turned away, picking his way up the bank. He pivoted only a moment later when he heard something break the surface with a deep glug. The fisherman's brow knitted together as he cast the lantern light forth and was met with the sight of a young woman, grazing the hull of his vessel.
Purcell leapt onto the unsteady craft, grappled for the boathook and proceeded to lever the dead weight out of the river.
Once the strange woman had been brought aboard, Purcell took a moment to study her; she appeared to be younger than himself and, even though her pallid complexion was probably a gift from the Seine, he felt she possessed a purity and vibrancy that had not seen in an age. Her waterlogged brunette locks clung to her high cheekbones and rounded jaw in places and there was a miniscule smear of red on her paled lips, though whether this was paint or blood, Purcell could not fathom. Her clothes were her most peculiar feature; in place of the customary dress of her gender, she wore a white cotton shirt, and dunn coloured trousers and boots. A black and burgundy, brocade waistcoat was buttoned atop the shirt and the hilt of a small silver and black stone dagger peeked out from the cuff of her right boot.
The fisherman pressed two fingers to the woman's neck and was relieved to feel the thread of a pulse there. He immediately rolled her onto her side and patted her hard on the back. After a few moments, the woman spluttered, expelling the water from her lungs and drinking in several selfish mouthfuls of air.
Purcell tilted his head a little as his rescued woman opened her eyes, panicked and unfocused. He found himself smiling at their hue; snow sky blue. Cold, crisp, delicate. Her brow twisted into confusion for only a moment before she fell back into unconsciousness.
The fisherman gathered the woman up in his arms and then stooped awkwardly for the lantern. Trepidation slowed his efforts to return to land since he did not wish to slip and surrender the woman to the thralls of the river again. He picked his way gingerly up the embankment, holding his charge close to his chest in a superfluous attempt to keep her dry.