Falling Into France
Author's Note: Welcome to Falling Into France! This story was originally written from August 2005 toJuly 2006 and is just now being published in full text on This text has been carefullyrevised, and each posted chapter contains two of the original chapters, noted by the bold titles. Reviews areheartily welcomed!
Disclaimer: I own Lauren, Bud, and Gil--quite literally. The other characters are from PAX/i's television series "Young Blades" and owe much to the writings of Alexandre Dumas
Falling
Lauren rotated her ankles, trying to relax her strained calf muscles. Just a few feet away, her friend Sarah took the last jump of her course, the stone wall. The large Trekhaner gelding took it big but made it pretty all the same.
Sarah pulled the bay down to a trot and a walk, halting in a corner. She shook blonde hair out of bright blue eyes and wiped her glistening forehead. The horse panted under her, and sweat soaked his neck and girth. A glimmer of his antlered brand could be seen when the sun hit his damp flank.
"Get off your horse!" called a gruff voice from the middle of the ring. With a lit cigarette in one hand and a beer can in the other, the girls' riding instructor praised, "That was prefect. Next!"
Lauren stuffed her feet back in the stirrups, pushing her heels back down with a moment in two-point. She tossed long, loose brown hair over her shoulders and blinked clear blue eyes. She backed her little Arabian/Quarter horse gelding so they could move to the rail.
Mentally reviewing the course in her head, she caught a glimpse of Sarah running up her stirrups before leaving the ring. Once outside, the blonde let her horse's head down to graze so she could watch Lauren's ride.
Gathering up her reins and squeezing Bud into a trot, Lauren began. The first jump was a simple cross rail, an 'x' formed by two poles crossed. From there she made a quick right turn to do a double combination, green box then vertical pole. She cantered across the center of the ring to jump a brush box, clearing it easily.
A quick lead change and a tight turn brought her back to the cross rail and off to the right to meet a rolltop. Now camp the final jump.
Lauren collected the small gelding below her. She sat up straight, checking him with her reins. The sun shone in her eyes, obscuring the stone wall from view. If she could just point him at it, Bud would take the jump himself.
She counted down the strides in her head, Three… two… one…, and went forward into jump position. She was too early.
The confused horse shut down, slamming on his breaks. Lauren scrambled to grab on to something, and she caught hold of Bud's bridle. It was no use; the built up momentum sent her body soaring over the wall in a graceful arc. The last thing she felt was crashing down on her right shoulder.
"Meurt-elle?"
"Non, elle respire et son coeur bat," said a deeper voice much closer than the first.
Lauren stirred. She opened her eyes to meet a pair of brown ones framed by a fair face and sandy blonde hair only inches from her face. "What the—? Who are you?" she asked in bewilderment, feeling very numb.
"Qu'est-ce qu'elle dit?" said a dark haired man standing a few feet away to the smaller one beside him.
He answered with a frown, "Je pense qu'elle parle l'anglais."
Oh… French, Lauren thought. She reset her mind to the different language.
"Where am I?" she asked in French as she sat up slowly, the light haired man assisting her with a hand behind her back. Immediately her hand went to her aching shoulder, reminding her, "Where's Bud?"
The dark haired man exchanged looks with his companion; they stood only a foot or two from Lauren's side, and she looked up at them. "This is outside Paris. Who's Bud?" asked the dark haired man, pronouncing the horse's name like 'booed.'
"My horse," she explained, "I was riding towards a jump…" She finally looked around. Where's the riding ring? "And I fell."
She noticed their grey and blue costumes. This must be some strange trauma induced dream. I must have hit my head pretty bad. Her head immediately began to throb in tempo with her shoulder. Lauren's hand went to her stinging cheek; she pulled it away covered with blood and arena sand.
"Ow…" she hissed as the blonde prodded her sore head with probing fingers. "That hurts!" She knocked his hands away. "Back off; I don't need your help."
Another man walked up holding a wad of wet cloth. This Spanish-looking male spoke to the standing men, "The horses are—she's awake! Here." He handed the rags down, and the blonde proceeded to blot at Lauren's bloody cheek.
She knocked it from his hand, giving him a warning glare. The smallish man seemed to think it was hilarious and laughed into his friend's shoulder. The blonde sighed, picked it up, and offered the dirty cloth to her. Lauren took it gingerly and pressed a clean corner to her cheek, gently dapping away the mess. "So who are you all, and what's with him?" she asked, gesturing at the blonde who grimaced.
The Spanish one spoke up. "That is Siroc; he is a bit eager when it comes to doctoring or anything scientific." Siroc gave a tight lipped smile and eyed her progress in cleaning her face. "I am Ramon. These two are Jacques and d'Artagnan." Lauren turned a weary eye on the strange looking Jacques and then quickly glanced to d'Artagnan.
She laughed abruptly. "Oh! I get it! I'm having a dream about 'the three musketeers.' I knew I shouldn't have read those books this summer." The laughter subsided as she saw the looks on their faces. "What?"
"Where do you think you are?" Siroc asked her slowly. The others looked down in concern.
"Well, I was in my usual Thursday jumping lesson in America, but now I seem to be having a dream set in a field full of French musketeers." This is by far the weirdest dream ever. I've got to tell Sarah about it.
"America?" repeated Ramon with a furrowed brow. "That's a long way from Paris." Siroc looked concerned. Lauren avoided his 'she-is-crazy' look by staring at the pair to her left. D'Artagnan whispered something to Jacques, and the latter gave him a small punch in the chest.
"What was that? I'm sitting right here, you know," Lauren told them. Like it isn't so obvious that they're talking about me…
They looked at her guiltily, and Jacques explained with a sharp look d'Artagnan's way. "Your outfit is… different." He blushed and looked down.
Lauren looked at herself. She wore a black sleeveless shirt, olive green riding tights, and her dirty black paddock boots, all a little more grimy than usual from the fall. "I wasn't expecting to end up in France in such high company," she shot back, annoyed at being laughed at in her own dream.
She scrambled to stand, tired of being looked down on by these strangers. She pulled herself to her full five foot, three inch height slowly and painfully. Why can't I dream with no feeling? She took a tentative step forward and winced as pain shot up her back. "Ah…" she gasped, and d'Artagnan was by her side with a supporting arm around her back.
"Hands off!" she ordered. He dropped her and backed off a step. Lauren caught Siroc giving him a shrug. "I am perfectly capable of walking, thank you."
She glanced around. They were standing in a small dip in a hilly, grassy area. Lauren gave a long whistle that started low and slow, ending high and sharp. The sound of cantering hoof beats became more distinct, and a familiar little gelding slowed and walked up to meet her.
"Enjoy the trip?" she asked him, scanning him for any cuts, scrapes, or bruises. Bud seemed to have entered her dream unharmed. And untacked, she thought, noticing that her horse wore no saddle or bridle. Lauren grunted in frustration.
The four musketeers looked taken aback at the animal's appearance. Siroc dared to move closer. "Bud, I presume?" He held something out to her.
Lauren looked at it in surprise. "My bridle? How did you—?"
"It was lying near you on the ground when we found you," he said shortly and offered it to Lauren, taking care not to touch her.
Lauren grinned inwardly. I trained one of them… "Thanks." She gave him the most sincere smile she could muster and took the leather from him. Putting a hand between Bud's ears, she pulled the bridle over his head and buckled it easily.
Now she was stumped. The field had no large rocks or stumps for her mount off of, and she was too short to get on bareback from the ground. She looked over at the men wearily. "Could I get a leg up?"
D'Artagnan took a step forward, but Jacques stopped him with a hand on his chest. The smaller man strode over to Lauren and made a stirrup of his hands. Lauren stepped a foot in and threw her other leg over.
Jacques looked up at her, "Are you sure you don't want some help? You seem disoriented. We could at least escort you home, and you would be able to ride properly on one of our horses."
Lauren grinned. "I'm quite comfortable riding like this. Besides, my home is pretty far from here, but thanks. Let's part on a good note." She gave one last nod to the group of bewildered musketeers.
She rode off at a canter, letting Bud pick his way over the grassland to the tree line. A path there should take me further into this dream.
Paris
Lauren entered the woods following a narrow path that Bud had discovered in the tall grass. As the gelding ambled through the dappled light, she loosened her rein and turned inward to reflect on her position.
I know I fell. Then I woke up in a field surrounded by French musketeers—not bad looking ones either. Actually, Siroc looked a little like Mark Hildreth… She smiled, thinking of her favorite singer and humming a few bars of "Ready to Fall."
A cluster of birds took off from the treetops, fluttering and chirping recklessly. Bud spooked a bit, and he shied to the side, refusing to move forward. Lauren shortened her reins, and squeezed her legs around his barrel. "Come on, Bud-pony. It's okay. Good boy." She could feel his ribcage rising and falling with deep nervous breaths, but he did move forward.
"That's it, good boy," Lauren said soothingly. A song popped into her head, one that she had to sing at night to the young girls when she worked at a camp. In her lullaby voice, she began to sing:
"Chanson pour les petits enfants,
Chanson pour toutes le monde.
Chanson pour les petits enfants,
Chanson pour toutes le monde."
The horse slowly calmed as they walked on, and she returned to her musings. D'Artagnan. Of course I bring him into my French fantasy, she thought to herself drolly. But why on earth did I imagine that Spanish guy and the effeminate one? I hope this isn't like the dream where I had Nazis chasing me, and I had to find clever means of escape. A certain image of stealing a motorcycle and riding it through a field of yellow flowers entered her mind, and Lauren smiled.
Reprimanding herself for taking joy in a series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep, she said aloud, "I need to stop living in my dreams—I need a real life!" She sighed, thinking of the boring and endless classes and meetings and hours of work that waited for her on the other side of consciousness.
Lauren looked around at the old forest surrounding her. It reminded her of the trails on Shadow Mountain that she had ridden often with her friend Genevieve. There, natural obstacles had been arranged on some of them so you could jump to get the blood going; it was Gen's favorite thing to do. I could use some company now…
As she thought it, Lauren looked ahead, seeing a wagon and riders on a trail running perpendicular to hers. She trotted to catch up and arrived on a broad dirt avenue. She halted, stunned, turning her head to the left and tilting it back to take in the high wall of Paris.
"Some elaborate dream," she muttered as she joined the line of carriages, carts, and individuals mounted or on foot, all trying to squeeze through the arched gateway. No one seemed to notice her unusual dress or riding style, or at least no one bothered to mention it. Soon she was inside the walls and wandering down the crowded streets. Mobs of peasants shuffled through the mass, all of them staring at their feet and keeping to themselves. Lauren split her attention from wading through the crowd and staring in wonder at the old-style buildings.
Admiring the thatched roofing on some of the shops and houses, she felt a tug on her leg. She looked down to see a burly man attired in a red uniform of sorts and covered in a layer of grime. Her lip twitched in disgust. "May I help you?"
He gave her a sour look and revealed a dark smile as he said, "I'm sure you could, missy." He let out a low rumbling chuckle and yanked her leg, pulling it down sharply.
Lauren fell sideways. She frantically grabbed Bud's mane in her fists, gripping his side with her other leg. "Let go of me!" she screamed. None of the passersby even glanced over; they just let this maltreatment go on.
Bud took an anxious step sideways, and Lauren toppled to the dirt ground. "Bud!" she called hysterically, but the horse was gone, lost in the crowd. Lauren looked up at her attacker; he was bending down to grab her arms and drag her off. Soreness forgotten, Lauren planted a good square kick in his chest with a booted heel. The man grunted but was not deterred. He half lifted her up and took a firm grip on her upper arm. Lauren tried squirming, hitting, and going limp in rotation to no avail. He was simply bigger and stronger.
This is my dream, isn't it? she told herself. If I don't like it, I'll change it. She closed her eyes and pictured the people she would most like to see at a time like this. Her eyelids popped open, and there above the crowd she could see four musketeers coming her way. That wasn't so hard…
The multitude of peasants cleared a path for them as they marched along on impeccably clean steeds. Her captor finally spotted the uniformed men, too. He picked up the pace, skirting the far edge of the crowd to avoid their notice.
Lauren watched the musketeers. They were laughing and joking while all around them the poor waddled on in their dreary lives. Social injustice, Lauren thought indignantly. They parade around in their little outfits while the common people fight for a simple livelihood, all because they weren't born into nobility. Well, beggars can't be choosers.
"D'Artagnan!" she yelled over the noise of the street. "Siroc! Ramon! Jacq—!" The man pulled roughly on her arm. It was too late for that, however, because d'Artagnan had picked up the sound of a female voice calling his name. "A little help, please?"
Jacques moved into action first, turning her horse and maneuvering it through the crowd. D'Artagnan opted for a flying dismount, charging through the crowd on foot toward her. If only this could happen in real life… the girl thought amusedly.
Lauren let herself be drug along, knowing that her knight in shining armor was coming. The grounded musketeer reached her first, pulling out a rapier. "Nice sword," she called to d'Artagnan with a smirk. To her surprise, her captor spun her out behind him. Lauren swayed on her feet for a minute before regaining her balance. "How rude!"
Neither heard her; they were engaged in a duel. For my honor, I suppose, she thought languidly, enjoying the live swordfight right out of a movie. The area around the fighting men had cleared out quickly. Only the musketeers dared to stick around to watch. Jacques came up behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" he asked roughly.
Lauren looked up at the slim man. She took in his clean shaven face and pointed chin. He had long eyelashes and gentle eyes. Lauren looked at the hand on her arm and took in the neat nails and slender fingers. She grinned. "Now I understand," she told the musketeer. "I'm a sucker for those women-dressing-as-men-to-fight stories. You are a pretty nice character for something I thought up." Lauren admired her imagination's handiwork; it was a rather convincing disguise.
Jacques removed her hand and looked down at the girl with a twinge of apprehension. Lauren ignored the stare and returned her attention to the fight. D'Artagnan was beating the red pretty bad. He disarmed the clumsy man and sent him scurrying away before joining the watching women.
"I apologize for your rough treatment, mademoiselle," he said gallantly. "I only wish that I had ignored your protests and accompanied you to Paris so this never would have happened." Lauren allowed him to take her hand and kiss the back, hiding her amusement. What are dreams for if not to have some fun? she thought deviously. She decided to play along.
"Oh! My hero!" she exclaimed. She put a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. As she let her knees buckle, d'Artagnan lunged to catch her. Lauren righted herself before hitting the ground and laughed. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." Jacques and d'Artagnan exchanged looks. Siroc and Ramon had made their way over to catch her performance, and Siroc pulled the others over for a conference.
Lauren waited patiently outside the huddle, rocking back and forth on her heels and catching whispered phrases every once and awhile. Pretending she had not heard a word, she regarded them innocently when they turned to address her.
Siroc looked a little frazzled as he spoke. "We think you should come with us to the garrison. You can get some food, clean up and—uh—find a proper dress."
Lauren shrugged. "All right. I lost my horse though, so I hope this garrison isn't far." They looked surprised when she did not fight them. I tried to leave them once, and they found me; maybe this is what my dream is supposed to be about, she reasoned out in her head.
A moment later she had mounted d'Artagnan's horse with Jacques' assistance. She even let him lead the horse, like she was a child on a pony ride. Lauren resigned herself to admiring the life on the Paris streets as they moved from the poor outer circle into the wealthier district of the city. A garrison sounds like fun…