Chapter 3 - Enter Musketeers

In one of the many spacious, lavishly furnished rooms in a certain Monsieur de Tréville's villa, three men sat around a table, talking and playing cards. One man clearly looked to be the leader of the group, with an air reminiscent of a king, commanding immediate respect on sight. Across from him sat an extremely burly man, who was struggling to fit into his small chair while he dealt out cards on the table. Next to this second man sat his exact opposite - a short, wiry man, who looked as though he could either be a priest or a philosopher.

The brawny man played his cards recklessly, and threw them down on the table as if he expected a miracle to occur any minute. Across from him, the leader gave a calm smile, and laid down his cards triumphantly. The burly man's mouth fell open in shock, and then his face fell.

"What!? I lost again!" he whined. "Athos, why don't you let me win just this once, or I'll never be able to live down the shame!" The small man next to him snickered, but then quickly pretended to cough when the burly man glared murderously at him. "Shut up, Aramis!"

"Well, if you didn't challenge me first then you wouldn't have lost, Porthos," said Athos pointedly. This time Aramis didn't even bother to hide his loud guffaw, nearly falling over in his chair. Porthos sighed in resignation.

"Thanks to you two, I have no hope of being a true Musketeer again."

"A true Musketeer does not make bets that he will always lose," said Aramis, and he and Porthos soon fell to arguing, while Athos looked on in amusement.

Most days, D'Artagnan would have laughed himself silly at this comical sight of his three unlikely friends, but he wasn't there with them today. There were more pressing problems to address. Such as that of a certain Duke of Buckingham and his accomplice Milady de Winter.

Those two were up to something. He could tell, and he had heard the reports of suspicious activity. But no one knew exactly what horrible plans they might be cooking up, and that could spell danger in the extreme. D'Artagnan desperately wanted to do something about this, but what?

Lost in thought, he found himself taking the well-known path back to Monsieur de Tréville's villa. It held many fond memories for him - it was, after all, where he'd first met his lifelong Musketeer friends. Now that was one interesting story that he could definitely entertain children with - not that he had any, of course, still being only two-and-twenty ... Life was still long, and for now, he was enjoying it single.

Though perhaps 'enjoying' would be a bit of an overstatement in this case.

D'Artagnan entered the mansion and made his way distractedly through the winding corridors that were now practically imprinted in his memory. Then he turned a corner and crashed straight into a short young man, nearly sending him flying.

Whoops.

Note to self, thought D'Artagnan. Never walk so fast, especially when you're in a crowded mansion and not paying attention to where you're going ... unless you're running for your life, of course...

"My apologies," said D'Artagnan, holding his hand out to help up the young man. But the other refused his offer of help and got up, dusting himself off and looking extremely peeved. A letter was clutched in one hand, and the other grasped the hilt of a sword stuck in his belt - an aspiring Musketeer, then, by the looks of him.

He seemed very young, though - at least two years younger than D'Artagnan. The age requirements must have changed this year. His appearance told it all – he could have been a nobleman's son, or a nobleman even – plus his clothes would have made Porthos jealous for eternity. Even his voice radiated a faint air of dismissal, as though he was very much used to giving orders. This was exactly the type of voice that grated on D'Artagnan's nerves, but he wisely kept silent.

"Could you please look where you're going this time ...?" The young man's voice trailed off suddenly and D'Artagnan, though grateful for the silence, turned to look at him. The young man was staring at him oddly, and it was ... rather unnerving. There was something in his stare, something strange - recognition, perhaps?

D'Artagnan racked his mind for easily-annoyed, snooty, well-dressed young men, but found none. So what was it then? ...

"Have we met before?" D'Artagnan asked finally. The young man jumped at the sound of his voice, muttered a hasty negative, and suddenly became very interested in his coat pockets. Definitely strange,thought D'Artagnan, until he noticed something lying on the floor, a little ways from the other man's boot.

A pink, silken handkerchief … and with the initials "A.D." D'Artagnan struggled not to laugh aloud. This could only have come from a lady - the other man's lady friend! Now that explained everything ...

He had to stow the (many) well-thought-out remarks that now came to mind - he only ever used them on Aramis and Porthos, not strangers.

"Is this yours?" he asked the young man. Immediately the young man bristled, but D'Artagnan thought he could even detect a trace of red in the young man's face, thereby giving him away completely.

"No," said the young man brusquely, trying to ignore the handkerchief, though his eyes kept darting back at it. So it was definitely his.

"Now, now," said D'Artagnan, unable to resist. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your lady friend, now, would you?"

Now just turn away before he can see your smirk.

Too late, he did.

"Oh, all right," the young man said abruptly, and snatched the handkerchief away, apparently seeing that it was useless to argue. If possible, he looked even angrier than before. At being found out?

"You know, I've heard that dueling is an important part of being a Musketeer," he continued. Challenge shone in his eyes. (Rather hotheaded new Musketeer we've got here, thought D'Artagnan.) He didn't even wait for D'Artagnan to answer. "So... I challenge you to a duel!"

Hmm ... someone was annoyed about being teased, apparently.

Well, he'd soon learn that dueling, when it involved an experienced Musketeer, was no easy matter.

And if it had been anyone else ... well, that would be a matter of life and death.

But the word was out, and there was no taking it back once D'Artagnan had accepted it.

And he did enjoy a good duel now and then.

They ended up shaking hands on it.

"All right then, that's settled ..." D'Artagnan stopped, realizing that they still didn't know each other's names.

"André," the young man supplied helpfully.

André ... Hm... "At another time, perhaps, it would have been nice to meet you. Anyway, I'm D'Artagnan. How about dueling at noon tomorrow?"

"That would be just perfect."

"Now, what have I done?" Annette said despondently to herself in the confines of her room, looking at the mirror. "I've gone and challenged an experienced Musketeer to a duel, when my last swordsmanship lessons were almost a year ago..."

With her moustache and men's clothes on, she was barely recognizable, even to herself. A pair of previously energetic grey eyes now stared back at her listlessly from the depths of the glass. This was what she had now become, what she must now become used to ... a life on the run. A life that might now be jeopardized unnecessarily ... by her own hand! ...

"All because of a stupid handkerchief!" she groaned aloud. "I couldn't even, for the life of me, have walked away as if it was nothing! No! I had to challenge him to a duel ..."

This stupid hotheadedness would be the death of her if she didn't get rid of it soon.

She didn't even need to worry about outside dangers now - there was only one name for the ridiculous threat that now faced her.

Annette Lefevre herself. Only Annette could get herself into such big scrapes.

She felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. But she knew that would only help her disguise, not her situation.

"So much for André," she lamented. "If I lose this duel, Annette - or rather, André - will never become a Musketeer ... or anything else, for that matter."

Pride always goes before the fall.

Look at you, Annette. So you think you've gained the upper hand simply because you're the favorite. So what; you'll never amount to anything in this world anyway.

The cold, cruel, spiteful voice suddenly reverberated within her mind, causing her to shiver involuntarily at the memory.

The full, rouged lips, turned up at the corners in what would have been a friendly smile if the eyes had not been glittering with malice, hate ... and an unmistakable thirst for revenge. But revenge for what?

She didn't want to think about it, and she closed her eyes tight, as though she could shut out the unpleasant thoughts...

It was all dark. The entire room was pitch black, and completely silent. Where was she...?

The door slammed open, and light lanced throughout the room like a laser, nearly blinding her with its onslaught. Light ... very bright, but as though it had been reflected off of something...

... Something metal.

Before she knew it, the metal was pressed against her throat. Her heart juddered in fear - intense fear that only quadrupled as she realized who was holding the dagger.

"You ..." she gasped.

"You never had any hope of escaping me, Annette. I've found you at last." The cold, cruel voice gave way to a mirthless laughter that sent chills down Annette's spine. She tried to back away from the dagger, but there was no way out. The tears began to steal down her cheeks, even though she had made a vow against weakness.

"Why ... why would you do this? To me? To all of us ...?"

"Only because I must."

And then the shining dagger came hurtling towards her with impossible speed...

"NO!"

Annette sat up in bed with a start, shivering, her face still streaked with tears.

It was only a dream. Only a dream. She wouldn't be found, ever. It was only a nightmare. She was safe.

All the same, she still wished she could talk to someone ... someone who understood her...

And for some reason, she found herself suddenly remembering a certain, rather (actually very) handsome-looking Musketeer from a few hours ago...

No.

She was always too ready to trust in people, and that was a weakness. She had to be strong.

She was startled by the blinding light that suddenly lanced from the window, which she silently cursed herself for not closing properly. But then she went to the sill and looked outside. It was still afternoon, thank goodness. Not too far away she saw the marketplace, full of shops and people. Here and there she could spot a guard, and sometimes a child or two, before they got called back to their families.

Family...

No. She did not need those kinds of thoughts right now. She had to be strong. Only with strength – and courage – could she face the past.

Annette took a shuddering breath.

But where was strength to be found nowadays? While she was still running for her life?

She had to calm down, or her head might explode. She felt terrifyingly close to it.

A walk, that's what I need. A walk.

She struggled to compose herself, and managed to look sufficiently stable before turning to leave. Then, on second thought, she returned to the mirror and pulled off the wig and moustache. She already had enough on her mind at the moment without being reminded of her upcoming duel.

Even more importantly, she barely even remembered herself anymore.