Finally, a new story! Special thank you to MountainCat for the outstanding edits and suggestions! And to Greenlips for the information about 17th century accommodations for the insane.
This is a short story and something a little different than what I've written before. It's a stand alone story (not associated with any of my other works). This takes place after episode 10 of season 1 and before Richelieu's death on the show. It's Athos centric (my stories always are), but I've added Queen Anne for a different perspective.
I'm working some long hours lately and I expect it will go on for the next couple of weeks. I'll do my best to post nightly, but I can't promise it will happen. Just know that I will not go several days or weeks between posts. This story is finished, and will be cross listed on AO3.
Feedback is always appreciated by not requested. Hopefully, this will take your mind off the craziness happening in the world today. I hope you enjoy it!
Winter was fast approaching. Smoke billowed from chimneys in narrow serpentine patterns and disappeared within the passing breeze and gray overcast clouds. Summer's blue sky had been replaced with autumn's drab hue and gloom hung heavy in the air. Joy was suddenly, but methodically, replaced with melancholy. Scarves had been pulled from storage trunks, along with woolen socks, quilted doublets, and heavy cloaks. Parisians walked the streets with their shoulders hunched and those fortunate enough to have them pressed their cheeks into the warmth of their fur collars. Children, oblivious to the change in weather, continued to run through the streets, chasing after friends, dogs, chickens, and Madame Monnet's black cat that was known for its vengeful antics. Hiding in the shadows of a nondescript location, a stray claw often found its way into loose hats, gloves, and cloak tassels.
Horses in the garrison's courtyard snorted, stomped their hooves, and tossed their heads. A few men sparred, others crowded into the commissary to warm their hands and partake of Serge's wassail. The squeak of the door intensified with each swing open, only to clatter and bang when closed.
The tip of Aramis' nose was red and numb. He sniffed and wiped in annoyance at the moisture that collected, but he continued to clean his weapons while seated at the table beneath the awning. They had moved under the platform for protection from the winds, rains, and winter's eventual snowfall. Aramis whistled and hummed a hymn, snapped the soft sheepskin leather with a quick flip of his wrist, and then wiped along the barrel of his pistol. His weapons were pristine, particularly his pistol and his musket. Both shined like new and the brass fittings glistened. No matter the weather, the conditions, or the chaos in the courtyard, Aramis spent as much time cleaning his weapons as he did using them, and took pride in that fact.
Athos watched him, more out of boredom than interest, and listened to Porthos quietly murmur while he repaired his weapons belt. The leather stitching had come loose and he worked the long needle in and out of the belt to reinforce it. With a wince here, and a wince there, he would occasionally suck at the tip of a punctured finger and continue sewing. He refused to get a new one. He was a man who enjoyed the finer things, but the belt had been with him since before he had joined the musketeers. The straps and ties had been replaced over the course of the years, but the old leather belt, stained, darkened, and flexible, was an essential part of himself.
Athos blew into his gloved hands and considered a short stint in the commissary, but as the door opened and men tumbled out, he decided against it. He looked up when d'Artagnan took a seat beside him and rested his elbows on the table while he warmed his fingers around the steaming cup.
"More men are headed to the Wren for drinks. Adam said Monsieur Julian is promising to serve baked apples." D'Artagnan puckered his lips and blew at the steam and then tentatively took a sip. He watched several musketeers walk toward the exit while laughing and joking.
"Baked apples," Porthos said, and quirked a sly smile. "Sounds good." He tied a knot, and then sliced the leather string with his blade and checked the strength of his belt. "It's as good as new." He stood, wrapped it around his waist, and then buckled the belt. Satisfied, he attached his weapons and supplies.
"Now," Aramis said, "if only you could be as tolerant of stitching as that belt."
"Must be the man doin' the stichin'," Porthos said with a cocked eyebrow.
Athos chuckled and raised the corner of his mouth into a subtle grin and then turned suddenly with widened eyes when an explosion shook the buildings, rattled windows, and caused the horses to pulled back on their ties. D'Artagnan dropped his cup and wassail splattered against the table and the support beam. Porthos grabbed his remaining weapons and watched Athos run toward the exit. Aramis grabbed his pistol just as Treville exited his office, buttoning his doublet.
Another explosion echoed. Debris littered the ground, stone and daub fell in chunks around them, along the streets, and hit the roofs of houses and businesses. Horses reared and fought their restraints, snorted, and danced. A runaway team of drafts pulling a carriage rushed down the road outside of the garrison. Women screamed, men shouted, and children stood stunned. Dogs barked and tools, supplies, and merchandise clattered.
"Captain!" d'Artagnan shouted as he turned before leaving the garrison.
"Go!" Treville said and looked at his men. He waved his hand toward the exit and then looked toward the stables. "Jacques, my horse!"
D'Artagnan turned and sprinted after Athos while Porthos and Aramis followed. Smoke billowed from several buildings, including the Sorbonne and the Wren. People ran from their homes, children were hastily grabbed and dragged by their arms toward safety. Windows had shattered, shutters swung awkwardly from frames, doors had been blown off their hinges, and awnings collapsed. The closer the musketeers approached to the center of the explosions, the worse the debris and destruction appeared.
"Get down!" Athos shouted and waved his hand toward several merchants who tried to gather their scattered supplies. He ran toward the palace and could see flames coming from the Sorbonne and the Wren. He jumped out of the way and fell against a building when several horses galloped by. He paused before pushing himself forward when he noticed several red guards and musketeers stumbling from the scene of the Wren. Many coughed and others were carried. Their faces were smudged with ash and clothing and skin was torn, burned, and ripped.
"Athos!" Musketeer Marcus said as he stumbled and fell against a building. He ducked when another explosion echoed, this time closer to the palace.
Athos ran toward him, helped him slide to the ground, and noticed the gaping gash along his brow that ran into his hairline. Blood fell in a steady stream along his temple, his ear, and his cheek. Athos squatted, clenched his jaw, and kept his hand on Marcus' shoulder.
"The… the explosive devices are the sewers… there is gunpowder… in the tunnels beneath us — a man ran into the Wren." He paused, swallowed, and closed his eyes. His hands shook, and he hesitantly wiped at his brow, smearing blood along his forehead.
Athos noticed Marcus was missing two fingers.
"They're after the king —"
"Who?"
"The people… it's about… taxes." Marcus swallowed as more men stumbled around him. "The peasants are rebelling."
A few people leaned against the building, others fell to the ground because of the effects of their injuries.
Athos stood, grasped his weapon, and then looked toward Aramis, who pointed and instructed those around him how to manage the wounded. He watched Constance run from the direction of her home carrying a basket of cloth for bandages.
"Aramis?" Athos called to him.
Aramis turned, waved his hand, and shouted, "Go! We will manage this!"
Athos turned and ran toward the palace.