D'Artagnan's Promise

Siroc and Ramon tried to stop him from jumping, but they were too late. Without thinking, without any consideration for the consequences of his actions, he jumped. "D'Artagnan!" Louis yelled.

Ramon ran down stream as fast as he could, but he was easily left behind. The cruel river swept their comrades away before anything could be done. Siroc had used what little strength he had to subdue the sixth bandit. When the man was restrained, Siroc looked down the river where he last saw Jacque and d'Artagnan.

Siroc, Ramon, and Louis looked on in fear when they saw Jacque submerge and d'Artagnan going under as well. Ramon made the sign of the cross, "Mother Mary…"

Siroc caught his breath. He could not believe that they were gone; it had happened so fast. They were right next to him, but everything changed in an instant . "Ramon, roundup the remaining horses that have not run far from here. We are taking, his highness back to the palace."

Ramon grabbed him roughly by his arm. "Do you mean to tell me that we are to leave our friends to their deaths?" he said in anger.

Siroc pulled out of his grasp, his anger matching Ramon's. "What would you have me do? Our duty…" he did not want to admit it, but it was true, "exceeds our relationships with our friends. His majesty has to be safe before we can search for d'Artagnan and Jacque."

Ramon shook his head, frustrated and exhausted. He knew Siroc was right. It was moments like these that would make or break their oaths as musketeers. "All right. We return the young king, but then we come straight back here. My mind will never be at ease if I left them." He did not wait for Siroc to respond and went to search for the horses that fled from the battle early on.

Siroc looked downstream, worry covering his face. 'God, if you really are there, they could use your help,' he thought.

Jacque struggled to keep her head above water, but whenever she moved her left arm, a searing pain shot up her side. She felt the strength drain from her body as the crushing tides beat against her brutally. In the far off distance, she heard several cries, "Jacque! Jacque! Laponte!" but then she was pulled under once again. For the brief seconds that her head broke the surface, she could no longer see her fellow musketeers. They were far from her reach, and they were unable to help her. She was going to die. Her chest burned, screaming for air, and her vision blurred. The seconds went by, but they seemed to be hours. She could not longer fight it; she was losing a battle she could never win. 'Maybe it won't be so bad,' she thought, feeling her mind slip away. 'Ill see father in heaven…'

Suddenly, she was lifted, and her head broke the thin shield that separated water from air. She could barely open her mouth to take in the nectar of life, but she realized she could no longer control her body. Her mind registered that she was still floating downstream, but something was pulling her to shore. Powerful arms wrapped around her waist and kept her above water.

"Jacqueline!" d'Artagnan whispered in her ear. "Jacqueline, stay with me!" Her mind went blank, and her eyes stayed closed.

D'Artagnan managed to pull her to the edge of the bank. It was some time before the water eased and he was able to swim to shore. When his feet found solid ground, he carried her out of the water and lay her on the grassy mound. His heart stopped when he saw that her lips were blue and her chest did not move at all. "Oh god," he said. He plugged her nose and placed his mouth on hers breathing for her. Then he began pushing against her chest in even strokes. "Jacqueline, please…" He breathed into her mouth once more. For the first time since he first held a rapier, he felt himself panic. His nerves were in a frenzy as he looked from her chest to her mouth. Nothing.

No, he would not give up on her. He repeated the routine again and again, willing her to cough up the water that filled her lungs. 'She cannot die!' his mind screamed at him. 'Who would he spend his mornings with bickering over meals and bets? Who would rise to the challenge if he was out of line and put him in his place? Who would be there to worry for him if an assignment went out of control, but would still wait for him to come back to the musketeer garrison? Who would be there to cover for him if he made a mistake? If Jacqueline died…'

Then she spit water in his face. Jacqueline rolled over on her right side coughing up all that water that inhabited her lungs. D'Artagnan could not believe his eyes. "You're alive," he said, feeling flood of joy fill him. Her left was exposed to him, and he felt a new fear. She had been shot. Blood flowed from her left side, staining the musketeer uniform. She had been bleeding freely since the moment she saved Louis' life. From what he could tell, the bullet went completely through her flesh. He pulled off his musketeer overcoat as well as his undershirt.

"Jacqueline, you're bleeding pretty badly. Keep this wrapped around you for now," he said, stretching the sleeves around the wound and applying pressure.

"D'Artagnan?" she called out. She saw him clearly for the first time, and she could not help but feel the rush of relief that flowed throughout her body. "You saved me?" He nodded, his attention strictly on her wound. 'He came for me,' she thought.

"Keep the shirt here," he said. He didn't know what he had done till he jumped into the water. When he saw her fall into the river, his body reacted. Her hand was placed beside his, and she grimaced when the pain shot up through her side again.

D'Artagnan placed one arm under her legs and the other was behind her back. "I'm going to try and be as gentle as possible, but we have to leave here. Someone may spot you and recognize you from the wanted posters." He lifted her in his arms, and it hurt him to see her face contort in pain, but she did not cry out.

"D'Artagnan," she said, leaning against his chest, conserving as much energy as possible. "I recognize this place." Her eyes surveyed the woods that they faced. "Remember, I told you before that I used to swim in a river during the summer? My family farm is just a few minutes from here, that way," she said. She pointed west, straight into the heart of the forest.

"I hope you have some supplies left there. Just hang on a little more," he said and began walking. He was pressed for time. Though he was conscious the whole time, even he did not know how much time had passed since they were pulled down the river.

He found a small path that weaved throughout the natural maze. Common sense told him that paths such as these were to lead either to an open glen, to the city, or to a residence. He followed the path for several minutes, and it did not take him long to see the small farm. There was a house next to the stables, and a small garden that branched out from the side of the house. In plain view, lay two headstones. 'Jacqueline's father and mother,' d'Artagnan thought in empathy. 'She's all alone.' Her parents were dead, and her brother had no choice but to flee to the Americas. She had no one to turn to, yet she was as brave and courageous as any man he knew. He admired that about her.

When he was a boy, d'Artagnan was used to grand mansions filled with vast furnishing and luxuries. The fact that his father helped saved the life of France's previous king gave the family certain credit and recognition. However, he never found it pleasing to him. The fame he received since he was a child and the respect he gained only because he was someone's son never pleased him. He wondered in the back of his mind what it would be like to live in a small farm with a wife and children. First things first though. Jacqueline needed him.

He approached the wooden door to the house and kicked it open. He was not going to waste costly time. Jacqueline was bleeding severely, and she needed aid. It did not take long to locate a decent bed to lay her on. "Jacqueline, I need bandages and rum, anything to that effect," he said looking around the room.

She groaned when the flat surface pressed against her body. "Across the house… cupboards, father's room…" she whimpered. She did not have to see the d'Artagnan's shirt to know that it was soaked in her blood. She could feel it with the tips of her fingers, certain it was not water that damped it.

D'Artagnan went straight away to the other rooms. If someone were to walk in on the Roget residence, they would have thought that the family was being robbed. D'Artagnan went through all cupboards and drawers like a madman, searching for anything that could help. He grabbed a handful of thin blankets when he could not find bandages, and he also found a bottle of whiskey on a small dining table. During his hunt, he passed by a fireplace. He stared at it for a second then thought back to the wound that Jacqueline suffered. He knew that it would never heal on its own. It was too deep and critical. D'Artagnan found pieces of flint next to the fireplace and started striking them against each other.. He could already hear her screams in his ears, but the injury needed to be closed. When the fire began anew, he returned to her side.

He knelt beside her bed and drew out his dagger that he hid in his boot. Spreading out the blankets, he began to shred them in long even strips. Once he was done, he held the bottle of whiskey in one hand and removed his bloodied shirt from Jacqueline's grasp. "I have to clean it," he said, knowing full well this was only the beginning of the pain she would feel. She nodded, understanding and accepting what needed to be done. She began to lift her shirt exposing her stomach and the bullet wound.

"How bad is it?" she asked, unable to lift her head to see the damage. Every breath she took brought her pain, but she did not feel embarrassed being in front of d'Artagnan. He actually made her feel calm and relaxed.

"Well, it's not as bad as your horrid bellybutton," he said, trying to lighten the mood. He was relieved to hear her laugh weakly. "It seems that the bullet went straight through your side, so I'm going to have to clean both your front and back. You were lucky not to get shot somewhere vital, but still, this is a pretty nasty wound."

Jacqueline rolled to her right side with his help. With every movement, she had to bite her lip and blink away the tears. The unbearable ache wracked her body, and she shuddered involuntarily. When d'Artagnan applied the whiskey, she grabbed his free arm asking silently for support. He let her hold onto him; it was the only comfort he could give her in such a time. She held the cry in, and her body shook violently. When he was done, he gave her a few moments before breaking the silence. "Jacqueline…" he did not know how he would tell her that there was more to come.

"I need to bite onto something…" Jacqueline said. She knew. "Anything will do."
When d'Artagnan was done, he gave her a piece from the tattered blanket. "Bite into this, I'll be right back," he said, dreading what he was about to do. With knife in hand, he returned to the fireplace. He waited for the blade to turn bright red before he withdrew it from the fire. Quickly, he went back to Jacqueline. She already bit into the ball of fabric and waited for him.
He placed one knee over her legs and held her upper body down with his free arm. "I'm sorry," he said, and placed the blazing knife on her open wound. As he suspected, her body flinched violently, and he pressed down against her with all his weight to keep her from moving. She bit down harder into the fabric, but her cries were hardly blocked by it. Her body twisted and turned, but he held her as he applied the knife to the rear wound. Again, she flailed, trying to tear herself away from the scorching metal that burned her skin shut. Tears were streaming down her face, mixing with sweat.

D'Artagnan wanted to choke when he heard the sizzling of her skin and the knife. 'Just a bit longer,' he thought. Jacqueline was much stronger than he thought. It took all of weight and strength to hold her and tend to her injuries. When he saw the skin close, he immediately dropped the knife and held her in his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said over and over again.

Desperate, she held onto him and cried into his shoulder. All of the stress she had felt, hiding inside of Jacque, watching her back constantly in case someone might have seen her drained her mentally and physically. She bottled her feelings inside of her these past few months when she had become a musketeer. Now, she felt the guard that she kept around her collapse. D'Artagnan held her, pulling her matted hair out of her face, telling her that he was here for her. All of the frustration she had kept inside since her father was murdered, flowed out of her. Her sobs were muffled by his shoulder, and her tears covered his bare shoulder.

He stroked her hair as they sat together, waiting for her to calm. Slowly, her sobs died down and her body relaxed. He looked down at Jacqueline; she had fallen asleep. He moved from underneath her, again laying her down in the bed as gently as he could. He found more blankets and pulled them over her, being careful not to brush the cauterized wound. In her father's room, he had found an unused shirt. 'I don't suppose he would mind me using it,' he thought.

Jacqueline was in a dreamless sleep. D'Artagnan checked in on her every so often to make sure that she was comfortable. Night soon fell upon them, but he dare not leave her side. He decided that he was going to sleep on the floor next to her. Only moonlight filled the room, and a smaller portion of light came from the other room that contained the fireplace. He leaned against the bed, tucking strands of hair behind her ear, feeling her smooth skin beneath his fingers. "Jacqueline, it's my fault," he admitted to her, but she could not hear him. "This should have never happened to you, and I promise, it will not happen again. I swear it." He looked at her flawless face, admiring every curve. She was a beautiful woman, with a strong heart and a stronger will. He wanted to protect her at all costs from any harm that might befall her. He placed his lips over hers gently, sealing the promise he made to himself and to her.