Spring

"Brujon!"

He didn't recognize his own name for a few heartbeats, until it was called with more asperity, followed by the order to fall out. They were supposed to be standing motionless, at attention, and he was startled by the call. Was something wrong with his uniform, his weapons? Stepping back, he resumed stillness.

D'Artagnan approached, circling him with what Luc knew could be a deceptive attitude of leisure. The man, while never less than fair, was also no less exacting for being only a handful of years older than many of the trainees.

He waited. It seemed more than a few moments before d'Artagnan spoke. "Were you at proper attention, cadet?"

"I...believe so, sir."

D'Artagnan let his answer rest in the cool air for another several counts. "Your eyes were on the clouds."

Luc listened to his heart beat in his ears, flexed his fingers in their leather gloves without thinking. He was uncertain whether an apology or an explanation was expected, even though he'd witnessed many such callings-out from their teachers in the past months.

"Something on your mind?" d'Artagnan prompted.

"No, sir." He responded at once, as it was a direct question. Questions were never to go unanswered, even if they might be traps. That at least he knew.

"Hmm." The other man took another slow turn around him, and though he was looking straight ahead now, he could feel the critical gaze. Then d'Artagnan motioned for him to fall back in and turned on his heel, returning to his position at the front. Luc breathed out for what felt like the first time in the entire interlude. His third-hand boots were pinching his feet, standing so still like this. He inhaled again and stared forwards, willing himself to concentrate.

When they were, at last, dismissed for the brief period allotted daily for personal affairs, Luc took the steps of the garrison barracks two at a time—thinking to check his bunk was in perfect order before leaving to visit his family home some streets south. It was not a trip he usually made daily, since even at a jog the distance meant he could only spend a few moments before having to return to the garrison, but in the last week he had gone without fail.

D'Artagnan was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps when he came rushing down. He slowed, not liking to appear so worked up, and paused to dip his head in deference.

"Headed home?" d'Artagnan inquired, considerably more relaxed than when they had been on the training field.

"Yes, sir."

"Is all well? I see that you've gone every day this week."

Luc hesitated. "My sister...has not been well."

"Emilie?" D'Artagnan straightened. "What ails her?"

"We are not certain." He dipped his head again and would have taken his leave but the other man halted him, reached into a pocket concealed within his vest and withdrew a small pouch. He pressed coins into Luc's hand. "Bring your family something fresh from the market."

Luc stared at the money, knowing he should protest, knowing his fingers were going to close around it anyway. The meagre pay of a cadet was not due again for another several weeks and he knew their teachers had little more—soldiering for the King was by no means a profitable employment. He struggled with his conscience a moment longer and then said, "Thank you, sir."

"Don't speak of it." The musketeer's tone was light. "Now go, or you won't return in time."

Luc went. He had indeed to run now, stopping briefly at a stall to use some of the coins for still-fresh fruit he thought might tempt his sibling, and then racing through the winding streets, ducking buckets of splashed wash-water and flapping lines of dingy laundry. A few children ran after him for a time but gave up, their short legs no match for his long ones. He arrived out of breath at his family's tiny apartment.

His mother Lisette let him in, her lined face lighting at the sight of the food. "Emilie is resting," she said.

He pushed the fruit into her hands. "Have you eaten today?"

She lifted a shoulder. They both knew there was little enough to eat. He saw the scant remains of yesterday's soup, mostly vegetable peels, simmering by the fire.

"I cannot stay long," he said, as he always did. He tapped on the door that led to the second smaller room. Emilie's face was the color of the washed-out linens covering her. Her eyes were closed, but they opened when Luc came in. He knelt by the low cot and took her hand, chafing it. It was cool in the room, and her skin had no heat.

"I brought fruit. Will you have some?"

She nodded. He let his legs fold underneath him so he was sitting, and smoothed hair off her forehead, listening to the sound of her raspy breathing. It seemed to grow quieter as he sat with her. She closed her eyes again. "I wish you could stay longer, Luc."

"I know. On Sunday I will." They were given the entire afternoon, though it was meant for purposes of worship.

Their mother brought in the food and he spent the next few moments helping Emilie to eat something, wiping her chin when she spilled, encouraging her to take more when she said she had had enough. Then he rose, reluctant, knowing his break was almost over.

"Don't come tomorrow," she said. "Wait until Sunday. It's too far. Your boots will wear out."

"Silly," he said, shifting. His feet ached, as a matter of fact. "I'm fine. I have to go. Rest."

He brought the dish back to his mother and urged her to partake while he was there, knowing she would want to save it once he was gone. Lisette complied, trying, he could see, not to seem especially hungry. He gave her a parting kiss on both cheeks and said he would come again when he could, likely tomorrow. And then he was gone, running through the streets again on tired feet, dodging slower-moving passersby and carts and avoiding piles of horse dung. He arrived back at the garrison just in time to hear the bell that signaled their evening training commencing. He participated in the fencing exercises with dogged determination, devoured his late meal of bread and vegetables and fell into his bunk almost without taking his pinching boots off. He registered a good-natured joke or two from his nearest bunk-mates about having been called out that morning, and was almost instantly asleep before the main lantern was extinguished.


D'Artagnan stared at the flickering lamp-light shadowing off the walls of his tiny partition, just big enough to be considered a separate room from the main dormitory that housed the cadets. The walls were thin enough that he could hear the closest men snoring, but it gave a semblance of privacy. Porthos and Aramis had similar rooms, not that Aramis was usually to be found in his (he preferred more opulent accommodations outside the garrison, belonging to rich women). Athos, having succeeded the now minister Tréville as captain, had the finest, though still modest quarters.

Parchment and a quill with ink had been sitting on d'Artagnan's small table for days, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to use them. There was nothing to say. There was too much to say.

Constance. If he set quill to paper he might just write her name over and over again, like a child, like a fool. He picked up the quill now and turned it in his fingers. He knew where she was. He knew where to send it. What he didn't know was if she wanted to hear from him. Or if it was even safe. And he didn't want to do that, dispatch a letter that she might hesitate to open, knowing it was from him, or put her in any kind of danger...

He rubbed his forehead, then leaned his elbow on the desk. He was tired, that was certain; even a day of relative uneventfulness—no summons from the palace, no particular mischief about the streets—was full and busy, with only a few moments here and there to sit and think. He preferred it that way. Porthos often urged him to come for a drink to the taverns, as they had before, and even when the others joined in on the request he had been declining. Better to sit in the silence at his table, if he couldn't sleep. He'd no stomach for public drinking. The first night that he had been back and Constance was elsewhere, Athos—he was fairly certain it had been Athos—had left a capacious jug of wine just outside his door. D'Artagnan had appreciated the offering, but it was still two-thirds full. Rather, he had taken it upon himself almost exclusively to supervise the cadets' training, and such a responsibility wasn't coupled well with a fuzzy head.

Though there were times, like tonight when sleep was not imminent, that a tavern visit didn't seem like such a terrible idea, and he might have accepted, had one of his brothers showed up at the door with an exhortation to join them for a round of drinks. He had no will to seek them out, however. He was tired. It was late.

Constance.

He dragged the dry quill across the parchment experimentally, writing her name in quick strokes, imagining it was actually there. Imagining she was actually here.

Oh, that was easy.

Her scent of lavender-soap-washed linens. The way her hair curled of its own volition, escaping a braid down her back. The tilt of her head when she was feeling audacious, which was most of the time.

The softness of her skin...

He didn't want to imagine this any more.

He tossed the quill aside and pushed the parchment away. And found himself craning his head to see where he'd stored the wine jug. It was still there, on a low shelf, reassuringly full.

Wouldn't hurt to have a little. Perhaps it would bring on the sleep he sought.

Good night, Constance.

He kicked off his boots, eased on to the side of his cot, and, reflectively, contemplatively, began to drink.


It was dawn, and the musketeers were assembled in formation below, while Athos walked along the balcony, unofficially surveying the group from above. He ignored the half-stifled inadvertent yawn from the cadet in the back (Rouget, one of the youngest), and proceeded, the only sound the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. Where the devil was d'Artagnan? He was supposed to be down there.

Porthos was buckling his sword-belt, coming down the passageway towards him. He raised a dark eyebrow, noting the absence of their compatriot. A mild curl of alarm formed in Athos' mind, and he hesitated momentarily, a hand on the railing.

"You check his room?" Porthos muttered so as not to be overheard by the silent group of men below.

"Not yet. Where is Aramis?"

"Haven't seen him either. But I don't believe he slept here last night." Porthos adjusted the bandana on his forehead and made a low humming sound in his throat.

"I'll have to speak to him about the example he's setting."

"Haven't we earned the right to do as we please?" Porthos said, light-hearted enough to indicate he wasn't entirely serious. Athos still gave him a measured stare, then jerked his head in the direction of the troops—Porthos could deal with them—before continuing down the hallway towards the second entrance of the barracks.

He paused by the door of d'Artagnan's room and used the back of his knuckles to rap twice. No response from within, and he tried the latch. It was locked from the inside.

"D'Artagnan!"

Still no sound, and Athos turned his right shoulder to the door and exerted a short burst of force towards it. It yielded on the second try, splitting the interior bolt—perhaps not enough of a deterrent for a determined invader or assassin, but then d'Artagnan would be up with his dagger at the ready by now, if he were within—

Athos' concern turned into relieved irritation when he saw his younger friend on the cot, one slack hand sprawled out, and the empty jug of wine on its side on the floor.

"By the saints, boy, you weren't meant to drink the whole thing in one night," Athos said severely.

D'Artagnan's hand flexed, and lines appeared in his forehead. He emitted a pitiable groan, somewhere in the middle of which a barely understandable mumble of "...when's the last time you called me boy," made itself heard.

"When was the last time you missed morning inspection?" Athos folded his arms across his chest. "Porthos is covering for you."

D'Artagnan slid a leg out of bed and raised himself on one elbow, then fell back. "Ahhh."

Blowing a breath out between his teeth, Athos crossed to the table and poured water of dubious freshness from the pitcher into a tankard. "Here. Drink."

"Not thirsty." He was covering his eyes with a hand, although it wasn't especially bright in the room at this early hour. Athos watched while he made another half-hearted attempt to sit up. "Ah—I thought that was only wine."

"It was. Have you forgotten how to hold your drink? You're worse than a cadet." He spoke roughly, but without anger. Far better to find him here than in the streets, or not at all. Still, this was why they were supposed to imbibe together. "Are you getting up?"

D'Artagnan extended a hand in mute plea. Athos took it and pulled him to a sitting position, but D'Artagnan clung to his hand as if he were falling off the sides of a ship. Athos sighed again and sat down next to him on the cot. D'Artagnan leaned into him and made another pitiable cat-like sound.

"Why didn't you talk to me last night?"

"I didn't...want to talk." He took the cup of water that Athos had pushed near his face, but didn't bring it to his lips yet. He was staring, Athos realized, at the door. "Did you break my door?"

"You locked it."

"You could have knocked."

"I did."

D'Artagnan considered that for a bit. "I'm sorry," he mumbled eventually.

"Don't be a fool."

"I should go down there. Porthos will let them...get away with—"

"Porthos is far more able than you," Athos said, adding "at this present moment", to take some of the sting away from the statement.

"I'll get up..."

"There's no need, now. Wash, drink, have something to eat. Join us later."

He wasn't sure which of these options was the one that d'Artagnan groaned at. Possibly all of them. Athos clapped him on the shoulder with more force than necessary, and stood. "We'll talk tonight."

D'Artagnan looked more pained than pleased at the prospect.

Athos examined the splintered door bolt on the way out and observed, "And get that fixed," before departing.


Aramis purchased an apple from a stand just outside the garrison and sauntered in through the gates, munching on the fruit by way of breakfast. It was the middle of the morning by now and the men had dispersed about their various tasks; a few guards stood at attention, some were away on patrols, while the cadets were learning some new sword drills in the yard. Aramis spotted Athos perusing a map at the table in the courtyard and approached.

"I see you took the morning off," Athos commented without looking up.

Aramis squinted at the shimmering sun. "Not the whole morning," he said agreeably. "It's only half way to noon." He looked down, trying to read the map upside-down, but the spidery script rendered it illegible. "Had we any employment?"

"I'm supposed to meet with Tréville at midday. Beyond that I haven't any new information." Athos ran a finger along one of the map creases, smoothing it out and studying the faded ink. "Which is just as well since I wouldn't have known where to find you, had we need of your company."

"I told Porthos where I'd be, before I left last night." Aramis crunched the last bit of apple between his teeth and inspected the core.

"Did you?"

"I'm sure I did." He tossed the core into the distance, where a chicken hurried to peck it over.

Athos looked up for the first time and ran a hand through his tousled hair, sweeping it out of his eyes. "Between you and d'Artagnan..."

"Why, what did he do?" Aramis sat down sideways on the bench.

"Drank an entire jar of wine at some point during the night?"

Aramis whistled through his teeth. "It didn't end well, I take it?"

"It ended with him sleeping through morning drill."

"That is unfortunate," Aramis agreed, cheerfully. "Still, not a regular occurrence for him, true?"

Athos' look was dour. "Unlike, one might say, your absence?"

Aramis lifted an easy shoulder. They both noticed d'Artagnan making his way slowly along the upper balcony towards the stairs, his face twisted as if to ward off the light. Aramis could not repress a brief grin when their friend joined them. He gave him a chest punch by way of greeting, which d'Artagnan was generally fast enough to dodge but this time received the light blow with a grimace. "Did you have to do that?"

"No, I wanted to."

Athos inhaled through his nose in a loud manner that meant they were both irritating him. "How's your head?" he asked, evenly.

"Like a cracked melon?" d'Artagnan tilted it from side to side and then closed his eyes.

Porthos was approaching, now that the cadets were disbanding. He gave them his broad smile, though only Aramis bothered to return it.

"Don't," d'Artagnan said, taking a wary step back once he grew close, "hit me."

"I wasn't about to," Porthos defended, putting both hands up. "You look rough enough."

"My thanks for taking the students." D'Artagnan was unable to meet anyone's gaze, even though they all were looking at him.

"Not a problem," Porthos said, genially, widening his eyes at Aramis now to convey amusement. "I didn't make them work too hard today. Why does our captain look so troubled?"

"These are troubling times," Athos said, rolling up his map with a decisive snap. "I'm on my way to see the minister."

"Have you seen Sylvie?" Aramis couldn't resist asking the question, even though Porthos made a not-especially-subtle throat-slitting gesture as soon as he had.

Athos had turned to go towards the stables, but he paused, and said after four heartbeats, "What does that mean?"

D'Artagnan gave a small groan, but it might well have been due to his headache. Aramis lifted a shoulder again. "Nothing subversive. Just curious as to when you'd seen her last."

Athos' hand drifted to his hilt. "Well, I don't have an appointment with her. Are you saying something's wrong?'

"No. Are you?"

"I am not saying anything." The irritation in his voice was unmistakable now and he brought it back to a more normal monotone. "Except that I do have a meeting with Tréville for which I will shortly be late. Please concern yourselves with your own affairs, if you don't mind, and be prepared to meet when I return."

"He needs a break," Aramis said once Athos had ridden past them out of the garrison gates.

"He's not likely to get one," Porthos answered. "Doubtless we have some peace-keeping endeavour coming up."

"Doubtless," Aramis agreed. "There will always be missions."

"Come, d'Artagnan, want to go for a drink or two before he returns?"

"No," d'Artagnan grimaced.

"You're going to stay here and mope?"

"I—I might, yes."

Aramis and Porthos shared another glance. D'Artagnan looked up at last and said plaintively, "You have no idea how much I regret last night's wine."

"Have to get back on the horse," Porthos advised.

"No, I really do not. The horse is gone. There is no horse. This is a terrible conversation that is making my head hurt worse than it already does."

"You know what makes a bad conversation better—"

"Come, Porthos." Aramis decided it was time to take pity on their younger friend. "I'll accompany you to the tavern, and we'll see you later on to learn what plans our good minister has for us, yes?"

He waved them away, and they took their leave, chuckling.