Round 3

[bbcmusketeerskink]

Welcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme

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Free For All Round 1
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Comments

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 1/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in thread]

[kyele]

Warnings: (oh boy)

Dystopian AU, including the A/B/O equivalents of racism, sexism and transphobia. Also the real-world version of racism just for good measure because I refuse to whitewash Porthos’ past, though it’s a relatively brief mention from his past. Derogatory language, and not just on the part of the bad guys. Systemic oppression of an entire people based on genetic membership in a social group, up to and including the A/B/O equivalent of ethnic cleansing. Threats of mutilation and graphic references to said mutilation. People doing truly terrible things in the name of religion. Murder, including fratricide. Hate crimes in just about everyone’s backstories. Seriously.

Also mpreg, bonding, A/B/O dynamics, knotting, heat, and, eventually, sex.

(If you are just here for the sex you will be disappointed. The sex is not for a while. On the plus side, if you’re here for the worldbuilding, hoo boy, are you in luck. I think my actual bulletproof kink is worldbuilding. I promise actual sex though. Just… eventually.)

I’m going to be cross-posting this to AO3 the whole way through. Posting will be here first but I’ll do my best to update the AO3 version quickly.

Title from this hymn, because it wouldn’t be a Musketeers fic without some bonus Catholicism in the title.

OP, I hope you like it.

---

One: René d’Herblay

---

The Inquisition has had hold of Spain for centuries before René d’Herblay is born. It begins in Rome, but spreads quickly to the rest of Europe. Its influence waxes and wanes according to the country it’s in. Through much of Europe, the wealth and power of the noble houses limits the influence of Rome. To be noble in pre-Inquisition Europe was to be a pureblood, scion of one of the ancient lines whose strength is carefully maintained by allowing no Beta to interbreed, Alphas and Omegas mating in an unbroken chain back to the time of Christ. Naturally, such noble houses oppose the new doctrines, and the struggle between Church and State drags on in some countries even to the present day.

In the region that will become Spain, however, the situation deteriorates quickly. Political instability in the area’s princedoms combines with fear of damnation and the rise of the Beta-dominated lower classes against the pureblood noble houses. A vicious civil war ensues. When it’s over, the Betas Ferdinand and Isabella sit the newly combined throne, and begin the newborn Spain’s history with fire and blood.

The old Castilian and Aragonese nobility convert or are murdered. Their land is parceled out among the children – Beta offspring – of crown loyalists from the uprising. The new Beta nobility are, in turn, ever more faithful to the Inquisition. They preach the need for purity and turn the scythe on any of their own people who are born throwbacks to an earlier time.

The Duchy of Alameda is one of the few ancient titles still in the hands of its original bloodline. It owes that distinction to its aggressive support of Beta purity. When the Inquisition was instated, the twin doctrines of Beta supremacy and Alpha/Omega sterilization were proclaimed to the far corners of the realm. The Alameda family at the time had two offspring, an elder Alpha pup and a younger male Beta child. The Alameda Beta promptly murdered his family and declared his support for the New Church.

Since then, the Alamedas have been the standard-bearers of a new type of purebreed. The young René can trace his heritage back through twelve generations of Betas. If his family does produce any pups, they aren’t sterilized and sent to a convent the way other families’ throwbacks are: they’re smothered in their cribs, a bloody tribute to Beta supremacy.

At least, that is the story everyone knows.

The true story is one that is whispered to René in quiet moments. Late at night, when the servants have all gone to bed, the Alamedan offspring gather for a second set of lessons. His mother – no, his carrier – cradles them in her arms and murmurs the truth into their ears.

For that is the truth. René has no mother; mother is a Beta term for the female who bears young, because for Betas, gender – male or female – is what governs their matings and their laws of inheritance. René has a carrier, an Omega who whelped him. The man he calls father is in fact no Beta male, but a true Alpha, and properly René’s sire. Alpha and Omega, not male and female. Sex, not gender. That is the truth of the Alameda clan.

The long-dead Alameda family was murdered. That part of the story is true. But the knife was wielded, not by their son, but by a traitorous servant. Much as René has no mother or father, the family had no son, no male Beta offspring. The younger Alameda was an Alpha in his own right, who would have been called aleph, Alpha, in the old language of Alphaic/Omegan family relations. He came upon the servant in the act of killing his family, and slew the servant in his turn. Then he turned his attention to the salvation of the Alameda line.

The Alamedas are the last pure family in Spain. They have maintained their power and their position through secrecy, lies and self-denial. They live as Betas in every way. Their purity – a different kind of purity than that proclaimed by the Betas – is its own protection. The sign of a true pureblood was always a delicate, refined, retiring scent. Unlike the mongrels and mixed-bloods whose aggressive scents and low-cut garments made them easy prey, a true purebred – a true Alameda – may conceal their true sex with simple perfumes and modest clothing. They select their mates carefully from those who fall between the Inquisition’s cracks, and teach each new generation the tricks of hiding their true sexes.

This future of nobility in hiding is not available to René. He has always known that one day he must leave home. His death will be faked and he will be sent out into the world to find his fortune. He is an Omega, and there is no room for him here.

He’s survived puppyhood by appearing to the world as a Beta male. But that ruse will only support him until he comes of age. Then, as an heir of the noble Alameda bloodline, he will be expected to marry and procreate in the way of Betas.

An Omega cannot sire children. René’s parents could find him an Alpha female mate, and society might be fooled for a little while longer. But when the wrong belly grew round with pups everything would be over.

When René approaches puberty, his parents hug him one final time, press a purse into his hands, and send him over the border into France. With him comes his littermate Adele. Her problem is the same as his. With female gender characteristics, Beta society expects her to bear young. But an Alpha cannot carry.

They cross the mountains together. Back home in Alameda the family’s carriage goes into the lake. The servant driving the carriage escapes, but the bodies of the two middle Alameda children are never found.

---

The d’Herblays fetch up in Paris, for the simple reasons that a big city is easiest to get lost in and has many opportunities for talented youth. René is eager to disappear. As a Musketeer he is one among many. An Omega would not have been trained as a soldier, in the old days, but the Alamedas could not afford to hew to such stereotypes. Indeed, it’s by exploiting them to their advantage the family has survived for so long. René has been training with the sword and the musket since he could first walk. He knows how to compensate for an Omega’s lack of upper body strength with his corresponding increase in flexibility and speed, so that his swordfights end quickly before his opponents can overwhelm him. He understands how to counterbalance his poor recoil compensation with superior deftness and hand-eye coordination, so that he never needs to fire a second shot. And he learns to fake the aggressive behaviors he doesn’t naturally possess.

The life of a soldier is in all other ways ideal. Musketeers must be unmated, so he needn’t fear the unwelcome advances of beta women. Journeys to remote areas are common for training purposes, allowing him to hide his heats from society. And no one would look for an Omega in the armed forces.

He’s nervous about the danger of living in close quarters with so many other Beta males. But it turns out he’s not the only one who prefers to keep to himself. Captain Treville’s regiment seems to attract those who wish to start over. René fits right in. He doesn’t mind the new name, the new identity, the lies. He just wants to forget his past.

Adele, by contrast, wants to write her anger in fire across the bodies of her oppressors. She never forgets that Alameda should have been hers, and its wealth and power with it. But because of the Inquisition the duchy will instead go to the baby aleph they’d left behind in their carrier’s arms. He will pass as a male Beta, and sire children upon a female Omega masquerading as a female Beta. A trick of gender, male Alpha instead of female Alpha, makes all the difference.

René worries for his aleph. (Sister, he was taught to say, and his parents always called Adele daughter. But they’re no longer in Spain, and in private René may say aleph for his Alpha sibling if he wishes it. He knows Adele prefers it. And she never calls him brother, even in Spain, however often their parents scolded her. Their parents may have said son, but to Adele René was always odem, Omega. The word brother is foreign to him.) Adele’s anger consumes her. She refuses to build a new life and settle into it. Instead she sets out to find the Resistance. Every pup has heard the tales of the heroic group who hopes one day to overthrow their Beta oppressors. No matter how many times the Church roots out so-called Resistances and destroys them, no matter how small the group or how pitiful their strength, the rumor persists.

It’s the only fairy tale throwbacks have left. René doesn’t truly believe there’s any Resistance worth the name, no great shadowy group that’s remained hidden all this time, that might actually gather the power necessary to stand up to the Betas. He doesn’t even know if Adele truly believes it. But he comes to realize his aleph will never let it go.

Adele is the last piece of family René has left. He can’t abandon her, no matter how toxic their relationship becomes. Adele knows it, too, and exploits it ruthlessly. Under her direction he carries messages and brokers deals between unsavory people. He helps her transport and secure arms, trembling all the while and praying they’ll never be used. Prayer might have seemed like an odd choice for an Omega in hiding, but his carrier had taught René to love the Lord, and save his hatred for the Betas who had corrupted His teachings.

René finally balks when Adele manages to become the mistress of Cardinal Richelieu himself. The great Cardinal is the foremost representative of the Church, and therefore the Inquisition, in France. Richelieu’s hatred of the old order is legendary. He made his career by exposing Alphas and Omegas in hiding, starting with his own odem, the Omega sibling in hiding who had held the Cardinality before him.

It’s widely known that Richelieu has a killing ground out in the woods of his estate, where he hunts captured Alphas and Omegas to their deaths. The Cardinal had hunted his own odem out there. Stories were still told of how mutilated the body had been when the Cardinal’s hunting attendants had brought it back. Rene had heard – and it made him sick to hear it – that Richelieu’s odem had been four months gone with pups at the time of his death.

It is this hateful man René’s aleph proposes to spy on and betray. He can’t believe she’s serious.

“This is my opportunity,” Adele says, her eyes alight with fervor. “This is my chance to finally do something to help the Resistance.”

“Are you out of your mind?” René cries, falling back into their native Spanish in his great distress. “They say he has the greatest sense of smell of any Beta in recorded history! They say he can scent an Alpha at thirty paces, and an Omega at twenty! And you propose to get naked with him?”

“Don’t you see what an opportunity this is?” Adele says back. Her voice is low and passionate. “If I can learn his secrets – if I could take him down – all of France could become safe for our kind!”

“How will you accomplish that? The first time he takes you to bed he’ll see you’re not a Beta!”

“I’ve handled that,” she says dismissively.

René gasps. “For God’s sake, Adele, what have you done to yourself?” He can’t stop himself from looking down her body. Horrific images run through his head of the terrible things the Inquisition has forced on Alpha and Omega pups for centuries – forcible removal of the so-called ‘unclean’ genitals, modification of what remains to match their twisted ideas of Beta purity –

Adele catches his hands. “No, no,” she says, horrified. “I’ve just told him I’ve got an illness – ”

“Then why would he take you for his mistress?” René demands. “Oh, God. He suspects!” A new set of images begin running through his head. The Cardinal will lure Adele back to his estate. He’ll drug her food to render her unconscious, and when she wakes up, she’ll find herself in his killing ground. She’ll run, and fight, but the Cardinal will hunt her down and butcher her like an animal. Just like he did his own odem. And then René will truly be alone.

“He suspects nothing,” Adele insists. Unexpectedly she steps forward, enveloping René in an embrace. “This is the biggest opportunity I could have hoped for,” she says in his ear. “Help me.”

René is powerless before her, as always. “Of course,” he says helplessly. “Just… just be careful. Please? For me?”

“I’m doing this for you, little one,” she says back. “I always have been.”

Aramis nods and lets her go. They have always wanted such different things.

Six months later, Adele leaves with the Cardinal on a visit to the Richelieu estates. She never comes back.

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 2/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

---

Two: Olivier de la Fère

---

Olivier de la Fère loses both his parents when his younger odem Thomas is barely a pup. Olivier is left as the Comte de la Fère even though he’s a minor, for there are no relatives who might try to hold it in trust. He’s barely old enough to have popped his knot. Under the old pack law, that would still be old enough to inherit. But France abolished pack law two generations ago.

The world thinks he’s a Beta, though, and in the wilds of the north, the old tradition of puberty meaning majority still holds. That lets him inherit despite his technical lack of majority. The villagers show Olivier as much respect as his age deserves. It’s more respect than they’d give if they knew his true sex, but he learned quickly, after his parents’ death, how to pass.

Olivier’s younger odem has no memories of their parents. Olivier shares every memory he has with Thomas. He tells Thomas of their carrier, who he still called Cara in the old way, instead of Mama like the Beta children do, who was gentle and sweet and sang softly to them in the evenings as her mate drove the cows home. And their sire, Sirrah – not Papa, never Papa, their sire was an Alpha and would never stoop to adopt the demonym of a Beta male – who had strict standards of propriety and culture.

Never forget, Sirrah would say to Olivier. You are Alpha; your odem is Omega. If I catch you calling him brother, I’ll tan your hide.

Brother meant male Beta sibling, sister meant female Beta: those terms were forbidden in the traditional la Fère household. Only Betas had to care about gender. Alphas and Omegas were divided by their sex, and in the Chateau de la Fère, the bloodline was still pure.

Sirrah would never have approved of Olivier passing as a Beta. But the world was changing even before his death, and if a band of brigands hadn’t killed Olivier’s parents as they returned from a journey to Paris, the villagers might have risen up and done it for them.

Sometimes, when Olivier walks down the street, he can hear them murmuring. It was the Lord’s will that the old Comte died, they say. He was unclean. A throwback. Thank Heaven the boy is a respectable Beta.

Olivier doesn’t teach Thomas to love and revere the old ways. He teaches Thomas to call him brother instead of aleph, and if Olivier winces at the word, sometimes, looking to the place on the wall where the strap used to hang, it’s better than the alternative. Better this than Thomas dead at the hands of an angry Christian mob, and Olivier along with him.

They grow older. Times for their people grow worse. The sterilization laws are toughened, with cutting now mandatory for all Alphas and Omegas, even the ones who join the convents and monasteries like the Church demands. Olivier sees the instruments of sterilization laid out on the table at Mass, next to the bread and the wine, like holy relics in their own rights. Tools of torture meant to be turned on the throwback pups of Beta parents who expected children and are furious with the difference. Jagged hooks to slide between an Omega’s legs and tear their womb out from within. Sharp blades to cut an Alpha’s knot off at the root, along with the rest of the genitals, like castrating a bull. Wicked needles to stitch up what remains and give the flesh an impotent mockery of Beta genitalia.

The nightmares wake Olivier up at night, sheer terror galloping through his veins. It’s not until he finds his sire’s liquor cabinet that he’s able to sleep again.

Then one day he meets a young girl, alone and lost in the wilderness of his family’s lands, running from the mob five villages over that had slain the rest of her family when they’d been discovered. She’s helpless and alone and her heat scent smells like flowers after the rain. Discounting his carrier, she’s the first Omega he’s ever met.

Olivier mates with Charlotte there in the wilderness, like the Alphas and Omegas of old, with no witness but the Lord above.

He takes her back to his family’s chateau as his bride. She wears his mating bite on her shoulder like a brand. Not for the first time he wishes, desperately, that his parents were still alive. He knows how to hide himself as a male Beta, but what of his mate? Charlotte must pass as a female Beta. As an Omega, she’s got the right body for it, but the tricks of Betahood are complex and vary enormously by gender.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she reassures him, fastening up a modest dress with a high neckline that she’d taken from Olivier’s carrier’s closet. “I’ve stayed hidden this long. It will be well.”

Olivier smiles at her, relieved, too much in love to admit the possibility of failure.

They have four blissful years together.

---

Thomas grows older, rapidly approaching the danger zone of his first heat. Olivier is desperately trying to devise a way to help his little odem. He and Charlotte have the right genders to pass for Betas; he can sire pups, and she can carry them. Thomas is meant to be a carrier, but his gender characteristics are male, and that’s the first thing the Betas will see.

Up until now the villagers have been content for Olivier and Thomas to remain largely hidden up at the chateau, accepting grief as an reason for their isolation. That excuse is coming to its end. If they don’t start mingling with the village again and taking up their roles as lords of the manor, the people will grow suspicious.

In a stroke of genius, Charlotte suggests that Thomas learn to pass as a female Beta. Changing one’s gender characteristics is difficult, but Olivier has heard of its being done. If Thomas pads his chest, hides his vestigial external genitalia under dresses, and alters his facial structure with makeup, it might be possible. Since the death of the last Comte and Comtesse de la Fère, no one has seen much of Thomas. The villagers might possibly be persuaded that they’d misremembered the gender of the younger sibling.

Thomas is willing, so Charlotte begins coaching him. In the echoing emptiness of their Chateau – still empty of pups, no matter how many times Olivier knots Charlotte through her heats – she dresses Thomas in concealing gowns, paints his face, and drills him on how to walk and sit and speak as a female Beta.

“No, no,” Charlotte scolds, watching as Thomas strides up and down the ballroom. The curtains on the tall windows are pushed aside for once to let in the morning sunlight. There hasn’t been a ball here in Olivier’s lifetime; the room dates back to before the Inquisition, when the nobility mingled freely. Balls back then were a place for young pups to meet and fall in love, while their parents smiled and their pack heads negotiated the mating contract.

Now Thomas is tuning to face Charlotte. “What’s wrong?” he asks in the high, soft tones of a well-bred Omega pup. He’ll have to relearn this tone of speech after his heat, when his voice would normally break and attain its adult octave. He’ll have to sound like a pup his whole life to pass as female.

“You’re walking too quickly,” Charlotte explains.

Thomas blinks, confused. “I was walking at my usual speed.”

“Yes, but Beta women are supposed to walk more slowly.”

“Why?”

“It’s a sign of submission. Remember, in Beta society the carrier is subordinate to the sire. They’re supposed to behave modestly and show deference at every turn.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Thomas says, exasperated. “How do they get anything done?”

“They manage to kill our people well enough,” Olivier says quietly from the corner.

Thomas tucks his hands under his arms and shivers. “Yes, brother.”

“Walking slowly is a sign that your doings aren’t important,” Charlotte explains. “Beta men walk quickly, because their affairs are of always critical, even if they’re only going to the tavern. Beta women are expected to get out of their way. Try it again, and try to glide.”

Obediently Thomas tries again. Charlotte is more satisfied this time. “Now,” she says. “Eye contact. When you walked by me, you raised your eyes to mine. That’s fine to do with other Beta women. They spend a lot of time socializing; it’s their version of pack grooming. But with a Beta man you must keep your eyes averted. It’s okay to look briefly, but if you meet his eyes, you must drop yours at once. To do otherwise would seem forward.”

“Which is immodest,” Thomas says, repeating from Charlotte’s previous lessons, “because it’s the role of the Beta man to make the first move in every encounter.”

“Exactly,” Charlotte praises, visibly proud of how fast Thomas is learning. “Walk by again, and this time pretend I’m a Beta male.”

Thomas obeys. Olivier watches as his gaze flicks up, meets Charlotte’s, and is quickly dropped again.

“Excuse me, young lady,” Charlotte says, lowering her voice to approximate the register of a Beta male and stepping forward slightly into Thomas’ path. “Which way is the inn in this village?”

Thomas comes to a careful halt, taking an extra moment to arrange the still-unfamiliar burden of Beta female clothing. Olivier sees approvingly that he stops at the appropriate distance for a respectable Beta woman when speaking to a strange, though polite, Beta male.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Thomas says in his gentle voice. He doesn’t point, merely inclining his head in one direction. “It’s just down the street there, past the blacksmith’s.”

“Why, so it is,” Charlotte says, nodding. But she doesn’t move on. Instead she takes a step closer to Thomas. “It’s a ways away, though. I might get lost. Perhaps you’d show me the way?”

Thomas frowns, trying to think of what to do next. Tentatively he says, “Oh…”

“Good,” Charlotte says in her normal voice. “If you’re not sure what to do, make a noise like that and look noncommittal. The other person will usually give you a hint about what to do next.”

“What’s my hint?” Thomas asks.

Charlotte winks and drops her voice again. “Forgive my forwardness, young lady, but it’s been a while since I had a chance to have a drink with a pretty little thing like yourself.”

Thomas gasps. “Why – you’re flirting with me!”

She smiles. “Does that surprise you so much?”

“Well, it’s just – it’s just – oh, I can’t! It’s too weird!” Thomas collapses into giggles.

Charlotte tries to look stern. “Well now, young lady, I have to say I’m terribly offended – oof!” Olivier comes over and catches her around the waist, swinging her around and setting her down again.

“Are you flirting with someone else?” he asks, mock-sternly.

“Just for the sake of teaching him,” Charlotte protests, laughing. It makes a pleasant counterpoint to Thomas’ giggle.

“That’s not very nice,” Olivier pretends to frown. “What happens to Beta women who flirt with other Beta men, when their mate finds out?”

“Husband,” Thomas corrects, eyes bright with amusement at the chance to correct his knowledgeable older sibling. “Betas say husband and wife, not mate.”

“Am I your wife, then?” Charlotte asks, batting her eyelashes up at Olivier.

Olivier stills. He can’t say yes. No matter how prudent it would be, no matter how many years he’s spent forcing himself to reject the old ways, this is one term too many.

“No,” he says firmly. “No, you’re not. No matter how much time we spend pretending, you’re still my mate, Charlotte.”

“And I always will be,” she says, smiling, and leans in for a kiss.

Thomas watches them both. And it strikes Olivier, suddenly, that one day his little sibling is going to want a mate of his own. How had the little odem he’d sworn to protect turned into this nearly-grown youth on the cusp of adulthood?

“All right,” Charlotte says at last, pulling herself away from her mate. “You’d better let us get back to practicing, if you want us to be ready for Thomas’ debut.”

“Of course,” Olivier says, pushing away his sudden realization, and going back to his position in the corner.

---

Charlotte and Thomas go on practicing all through the long winter and into spring. On the first day of summer, after much debate and discussion, she takes him into the village dressed as a female Beta for a controlled test.

Olivier spends the day in a cold sweat, but at nightfall they return home, laughing and smiling. The day went well. Charlotte is well known in the village; her charm has long since won her entry into the villagers’ hearts, in a way that Olivier, lord of the manor, can’t compel. Everyone had warmed to Thérèse immediately, with Charlotte at her side.

They go back the next week, and then the week after that. No one suspects anything. Indeed, the gossip in the village is the most favorable it’s been to the children of the manor than it’s been for a long time. Olivier’s warmhearted bride and demure younger sister have won their hearts. They pat Thérèse’s arms and shoulders as she walks by, and say how sweet she is, and how much their sons are in love with her – not but what they don’t know she’s too good for them, they’ll add, smiling, but it’s nice to see young love. The matrons of the village begin to mother Olivier a little, though he’s well past his majority now. The men treat him with more respect. And they all ask Charlotte when they can expect to see children, to which she smiles and blushes charmingly.

Gradually Olivier relaxes. He almost allows himself to think all will be well.

---

The night it all comes tumbling down is painted in Olivier’s memory with broad strokes of fire and blood. In between the strokes are dark, empty places, where the details are missing. He’s missing half the tale; he only knows what he himself experiences, because no one else who had a part in that terrible day can tell him the rest.

He knows Thomas and Charlotte left at dawn and took the cart into town to buy necessary household supplies. He knows that they stayed away all day, until he began to worry. He knows he took his sword and shotgun and started towards town himself. He knows he took the shortcut through the woods of the estate, in order to get there faster, and that must be why he did not meet the column of angry townsfolk on the road. He knows that the Chateau, ablaze, lit up the night sky as brightly as if it were noon.

He knows what it felt like when his bond with Charlotte stretched and began to tear.

Olivier had run then, in fear – not for himself, but for his mate and odem – run so fast that he didn’t look where he was going, and tripped over Thomas’ body in the dark.

The tattered remains of Thérèse’s Beta clothing had been scattered everywhere. His body had been mutilated according to the rites of the Inquisition. Thomas’ face, oddly, had still been intact; framed in a pool of dried gore, Olivier’s baby odem’s eyes still stare up at him, glassy, pleading with his aleph to protect him.

He remembers feeling the second stab within himself, the complete breaking of his mate-bond, and knowing that Charlotte must now be dead, too.

Olivier doesn’t remember what he did after that. Somehow he makes it to Paris. Blinded with grief, he crawls into the bottom of a bottle at the first inn he found. There he stays, and there he would probably have been discovered and murdered in his turn, except that chance and God decree that it should be otherwise. One night the inn is raided. He’s arrested. For drunkenness, not for being a secret Alpha, though the strip searches in prison mean that one will follow the other soon enough. Olivier doesn’t care.

One of the arresting guardsmen does. He takes one whiff of the drunk Olivier, swears, and hauls him quickly into an alley. “Stay here and be quiet,” the guard hisses.

Olivier, obediently, passes out.

When he wakes up, he finds himself in the hotel of one M. de Treville, a very unusual nobleman from Gascony who runs a very unusual corps of Musketeers, and who proceeds to make him a very unusual offer.

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3a/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

---

Three: Athos

---

The Musketeers prove to be exactly what Athos’ wounded soul needs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite heal from his broken bond with Charlotte, or Thomas’ murder, but he learns to bury the pain beneath the outward signs of a loyal solider. Even as he builds a new life for himself he’s comforted by the feeling of solidarity with the other Musketeers. He gradually grows to realize that, while his recruitment was accidental, he fits in here. There’s not a man among them who doesn’t have some ancient pain shadowing his every step. Treville curates his Musketeers carefully. They’re all looking to start over in some way and forget the past.

Treville himself cares for his men as if they’re his own pups. It’s not a comparison Athos makes lightly, nor would he ever speak it aloud: the word pup is loaded, referring as it does to throwbacks. Betas call their offspring children. At least until they’re born. Then the terms proper to the offspring’s sex would have been used, according to the old ways. But a Beta bears children; an Omega carries pups.

And Treville is an Omega. Athos had known that the moment the Captain had made him an offer of a commission. With Charlotte and Thomas still haunting him, Athos had smelled it on the Captain easily. In retrospect that amazes him. Treville takes great care with his scent. And while Athos was convalescing from his long depression in the Captain’s hotel, he’d seen Treville partially disrobed, seen the mating bite low on his shoulder. Alphas and Omegas emit pheromones for many reasons – territorial defense, posturing, to convey information like danger or opportunity to their packmates – but the primary reason, especially in the modern day, is to attract a mate. Once mated, a throwback’s scent diminishes considerably, unless they’re under great stress.

Athos can only conclude that he has an unusually strong sense of smell. Living in the remoteness of la Fère, he’d never had much to compare it to. But here in the city he discovers it to be true. He catches whiffs of other throwbacks that can’t possibly be as obvious to the Betas who surround them. Indeed, the handful of throwbacks he’s identified among the Musketeers also don’t seem to notice each other.

A gift of his bloodline, perhaps. Athos had been taught young that Betan interbreeding causes Alphaic and Omegan traits to be partially repressed. In the past, before the Inquisition, purebreds were the cream of society. Their offspring expressed their sex’s traits more strongly than the pups born from mixed lines that had interbred with Betas. Purebred Alphas are stronger, more commanding, more magnetic. More dominant. Purebred Omegas are faster, defter, quicker-witted. Sharper.

Most importantly in the modern world, a purer bloodline means a milder scent. And, perhaps, a better sense of smell? If so, it would be a self-reinforcing cycle. A pureblood wouldn’t be as attractive to a mongrel if the mongrel couldn’t scent them properly. It would keep the preference of the noble bloodlines for each other, perpetuating their heredity and power.

His nose’s primary value to Athos is the sense of security with which it provides him. Knowing his captain is an Omega who regards the Musketeers as his pack means that Athos has one fewer person from whom he must hide. And he can be assured that the Captain, at least, will not betray him.

It’s not the same thing as having his family alive. But it’s more than he’d ever thought he’d have again.

When Athos finally climbs out of the pit of grief and self-loathing, Treville hands him his commission and assigns him to one of the squads that perpetually keep a spot open for new recruits. It’s a training assignment, the Captain explains. Athos will stay with this group for perhaps half a year, learning the ropes of Muskteering, cutting his teeth on minor assignments like guard duty and policing Paris’ streets. When the Captain judges him ready, Athos will be reassigned to a more permanent squad and given real duties.

Over the next six months, Athos is drilled in everything a Musketeer must know. Lessons range from how to wear and clean his uniform, to how to mount guard, to how to behave in formal situations. Athos absorbs it all, eager for any kind of a distraction from the ruins of his former life.

“A Musketeer is an odd duck in the formal hierarchy,” their squad’s leader, a grizzled veteran named Laflèche, explains. “You’re not noble – no matter what title you might be hiding in your saddlebags – but you hold precedence just behind the nobility, and if there’s danger, your orders will rule. You must be firm without giving offense. The common people will respect you, but not in the same way they defer to the blood. You’ve got to be assertive. When you interact with the merchant classes it’s the worst. The precedence is murky enough that it’s difficult to resolve. You could assert your privileges, but it’s best to be flexible and adapt your approach to each situation.”

Athos learns this firsthand when he takes too haughty a tone with a grocer and gets a basket of rotten apples thrown at his head.

“Next time, duck,” Laflèche advises unsympathetically, dabbing at the bleeding cut on Athos’ forehead. “And you might try saying please.”

His second squad member Havet is about Athos’ age in years, though he seems older from years of living hard, both before and after he became a Musketeer. He’s one of those souls blessed with eternal good cheer, though, and a bit of a dandy. Athos won’t have to worry about his uniform or equipment ever failing to pass muster after Havet is through with him.

“The other regiments all peacock shamelessly whenever they have the chance, because they may never get another one,” Havet says, teaching an uncharacteristically clumsy Athos how to wield needle and thread for the first time. “Whereas we appear regularly at court and guard the King and his household. Of course they’re jealous! Who wouldn’t be? And some of them, especially the Red Guards, are just looking for an excuse to prove that we’re not up to the task. The uniform may not seem like it matters, but they’ll argue that sloppy dress means a sloppy attitude and we can’t be trusted with the safety of the King.”

It’s a variation of an old argument his sire had used to make about nobility. Your clothes reflect your station, he’d taught the young Olivier. Even if someone has never met you, they’ll see from your dress and your bearing that you deserve respect. That’s the hardest part. The rest is just keeping respect, which is much easier.

It makes it easier for Athos to swallow the lessons in stitchery, though he’s still annoyed when too many finger-pricks give him trouble at swordfighting the next day.

Havet has a shadow in the form of his final squad member, Brasseur, another new recruit who’s barely old enough to shave. Brasseur looks nothing like Thomas, but it doesn’t matter; any male youth will remind Athos of his odem for years to come. It helps somewhat that Brasseur isn’t shy or retiring, like Thomas. He’s an eager young man, bursting with excitement and dying to make his mark on the world. He’s imprinted on Havet for whatever reason, and the other Musketeer has his hands full with him. Athos wonders sometimes why Laflèche doesn’t step in and help detach Brasseur from Havet. What will the young man do when their novitiate is up?

“The two of them will probably move out together,” Laflèche says when Athos wonders this aloud after sword practice one day. Swords are one area of being a Musketeer where Athos requires little additional practice, so he and Laflèche have ended early, and are sitting on a bench in the practice yard watching Havet and Brasseur go another few rounds. The youth is from a farm out west and lacks the formal training with sword and musket that Olivier had received from puppyhood.

“I thought Havet was stuck on novice training duty until the Captain wasn’t mad at him anymore,” Athos says, remembering the various tall tales about Havet’s alleged misdeeds that the Musketeer himself had told over the various evenings of Athos’ novitiate. The more wine Havet drank the taller the tales became, and Athos still isn’t sure exactly what he’d done to earn his Capitan’s ire. Especially because, if Laflèche was to be believed, Havet had always been something of a scamp.

Laflèche just smiles. “Sometimes teaching goes both ways,” he says. “Brasseur’s been good for Havet. Steadied him down a lot. The Captain put Havet down here because he needed a break and a reality check. Looks to me like he’s got both.”

Athos nods, somewhat dubiously. In the yard, Brasseur scores a touch on Havet and the other Musketeer collapses dramatically, rolling around in the mud – unusually, without a care for his uniform – and bemoaning his imminent death in florid tones. If this is Havet being steady, Athos thinks it’s no wonder the Captain had to send him down to novice duty for a while.

“Gentlemen,” the Captain’s voice says behind them in greeting. Both Athos and Laflèche move to stand and salute, but Treville waves them off and joins them on the bench. Together they watch as Havet’s antics take a sudden turn towards dirty tricks. He swipes Brasseur’s legs out from under him in a move worthy of the battlefield. Thankfully both swords have been kicked out of the way already, and the lesson degenerates into a wrestling match fairly quickly.

“What do you think?” Treville asks Laflèche, amused.

Laflèche watches the two scamps tolerantly. “They’ll do,” he says, voice belying his fondness.

“And Athos?” the Captain goes on, as if Athos isn’t right there listening to every word they say.

Laflèche glances at the Musketeer novice sitting next to him. “More than,” he says with quiet confidence.

The Captain smiles. Then he shouts, “Hey, you two! Inspection!”

Havet and Brasseur spring to their feet and into parade position so quickly Athos almost can’t believe they were rolling in the mud moments ago. Treville stands as well and prowls around them, scowling broadly to hide the way his lips keep twitching.

“Absolutely disgraceful,” the Captain proclaims. “Are you Musketeers, or Red Guards?”

“Musketeers, sir!” the two bark.

“Seems to me that our uniforms are supposed to be blue, Musketeer Havet,” Treville says. “Yours looks awfully brown to me.”

Havet looks dismayed. “Yes, sir,” he says dismally. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Hmm. See that it doesn’t,” Treville says, backing away and finally giving them the wave to relax position. “Your new squad will be expecting you to look your best.”

“New squad?” Brasseur stutters. He glances sideways at Havet.

“You’ve been a novice long enough, young one,” Treville says to him. “And this one’s been stuck on training long enough.” That’s to Havet.

“Yes sir,” Havet says. Neither look terribly happy.

Treville pulls out a single piece of paper from his doublet. “Your new assignment,” he says, extending it to a point about halfway between the two Musketeers.

Havet and Brasseur share a quick look. “Sir?” Havet says tentatively. “Which of our assignments is that, sir?”

Treville gives him a look of exaggerated surprise. “Did you really expect me to write it out twice?” he says incredulously. “Waste pen and ink like that, with our budget as short as it is? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Musketeer, but you two are just going to have to share the same set of orders this time. This is a regiment in the King’s army, not a noble estate; we all have to make these little sacrifices sometimes.”

Brasseur breaks into a wide smile.

“Yes, sir,” Havet says, much more happily this time.

“Well, well. Isn’t someone going to take this from me?” Treville demands. He’s doing an admirable job of keeping his own amusement out of his voice, but it’s there in the way his lips keep twitching.

“Yes sir!” Brasseur says at once, taking the orders. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well, well,” Treville says again. He turns slightly and pulls out another piece of paper, extending it to Athos. “And here’s yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Athos says, taking the orders. He turns the paper over once in his hand, then tucks it away to open later.

It’s odd. He’d been ready to end his novitiate, more than ready, but he finds himself hesitant nonetheless. It’s like starting over all over again.

“As for you,” Treville says to Laflèche, “I’ve got another two coming up from their families’ farms in the next month. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Laflèche sighs, adopting a put-upon air. “I suppose if I could make Musketeers out of this lot, sir, I can make Musketeers out of just about anyone,” he says, mock-serious.

“Oi,” Havet laughs. Athos knows that laugh. If the Captain hadn’t been standing right there, Laflèche would have found himself in the mud just then.

Or possibly not. When Laflèche wants to, he has any of them pinned in seconds, without turning a hair. But he lets them get away with it every now and again regardless; he says it wouldn’t do to thump them all the time.

“Get out of here,” Treville says, laughing. “All of you. Take the rest of the evening and do whatever you like. Tomorrow you start your new duties.”

“Yes, sir,” they all say, and this time everyone’s smiling.

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3b/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

That night Athos and Brasseur buy the wine and thank their elder squad members for their help in teaching them the ropes of soldiering. Athos spends five minutes out of every ten wondering what his new squad’s assignments will be. His novitiate has been valuable, but nervousness aside, he’s ready for something a little more challenging than guard duty.

“Good luck,” Havet says, toasting Athos with his wineglass. It’s a fine Anjou. A little much for a novice Musketeer, but Olivier’s father had been meticulous about contingency planning. Athos’ lines of funding hadn’t died with Charlotte and Thomas. “May you cover yourself in glory, eh?”

“Thank you,” Athos says as seriously as he can, five cups in. It’s easier than it probably ought to be. Wine doesn’t make him merry, as it does for Havet. If anything it has the opposite effect.

“Time for you to get some rest,” Laflèche suggests to Havet.

“Aye, aye,” Havet says agreeably. He hauls himself to his feet, then pauses, blinking at the floor. Brasseur is sprawled there, snoring gently, his third cup of wine having proven too much for him. Havet could just step over the young Musketeer to leave, but it doesn’t seem to occur to him.

Laflèche sighs. “Here, now, Athos, lend a hand,” he instructs. Together they heave Brasseur up and drape him over Havet’s shoulder. “You take him home, now,” Laflèche tells Havet. “Make sure nothing happens to him, all right? He’ll have a deuce of a headache when he wakes.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Havet promises with exaggerated solemnity. He winks.

Laflèche watches them go, then sits back down. Athos pushes the rest of the wine bottle over to him. He’s probably had enough tonight.

The other Musketeer doesn’t take the offering. He just studies Athos, squinting in the dim light of the tavern. “You’re a smart young thing,” he says suddenly. “Very smart.”

“I am as God made me,” Athos murmurs philosophically.

“Exactly.” Laflèche points a finger at him. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. It sounds like you’re answering me, but you’re actually saying something completely different, something you don’t think I’ll understand.”

Athos blinks warily, straightening in his seat and trying to will the wine from his veins. How much has Laflèche had to drink? Athos would’ve said the older Musketeer had been matching them all cup for cup – excepting Brasseur, who’d passed out early – but Laflèche sounds far too sober for that.

“Your father should have taught you better,” Laflèche mutters to himself. Drunk as Athos is, he can’t suppress his flinch at the word father. And Laflèche sees it. Because, Athos is beginning to realize, he’s been watching for it.

“Well, listen to me, then, boy,” Laflèche says, deliberately using another Betan word to reinforce his point. “You’re about to go into the big wide world. Oh, don’t give me that look. Surely you’ve figured out by now that you haven’t spend the last six months with this squad because the Captain hadn’t anywhere better to put you.”

“He said a novitiate would do me good,” Athos says cautiously.

“He didn’t just mean it for soldiering,” Laflèche says.

“Ah.” Athos contemplates the still half-full bottle of wine. Perhaps he was wrong before. Perhaps he’s not drunk enough for this conversation.

Laflèche sees the line of his gaze and moves the bottle away completely. “That’s one thing,” he says. “You drink too much.”

“It helps me sleep,” Athos says. It should be another of his evasions. But his eyes flick up at the wrong moment, and suddenly he’s remembering all of his nightmares at once. The perennial ones of the sterilization tools laid out at Mass, the older ones of his parents’ death, and the still-new ones of Thomas’ body and Charlotte’s gruesome fate. Athos hadn’t seen what kind of death his mate had been given, but his imagination has obligingly conjured up some images for him to see when he closes his eyes at night.

Laflèche’s face softens. “We’ve all lost something to them,” he says quietly. “We can’t let it rule us. As soon as we do, they win.”

Athos has nothing to say to that. To him, it sounds like just another empty proverb.

The other Musketeer sighs. “You’re about to go out on your own,” he repeats. “Up until now you’ve been protected. God willing, you will remain protected. The Musketeers look out for their own. The Captain, now. He’s doing God’s work. You can always count on the Captain. You know that, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. He knows he can count on Treville.

“Good. That’s good. And now what I want you to know is: you can always count on me, too. All right? If you ever need anything, and I do mean anything, you come straight to me.”

Athos stiffens. Even through the wine, Laflèche’s words ring a very peculiar bell.

“You’re one of them,” he says in astonishment. “You’re with the Underground.”

“Keep your voice down,” Laflèche admonishes. He glances around the tavern. No one’s heard; the place is too noisy for a stray word to be audible from a distance. The older Musketeer probably chose this place for that reason. Still, he’s cautious.

And rightly so.

Every throwback pup knows of the Underground, even though many, at least those of noble birth, never have any direct contact with it. It exists in every country, Athos has heard, though more effectively in some than others. A network of throwbacks who help and look out for reach other. They work to divert Inquisition attention, rescue pups from sterilization, and teach them to pass as Betas. In extreme situations, it’s said that they knew secret ways to smuggle throwbacks out of the country, though in most cases escaping is even more dangerous than staying behind.

The lower-class pups benefit from the Underground’s existence the most. Village midwives are much more likely to hand over a pup at birth to the Inquisition for sterilization, confinement or death. In that area, as in so many others, the pups of the merchant and noble classes are more fortunate; their families can afford private midwives, like the ones who’d helped Athos’ carrier whelp he and Thomas. Some noble lines have loyal Beta midwives and caregivers whose lines had been with them since before the Inquisition, and who have stayed loyal despite the Church’s new heresy.

“I’m going to show you something,” Laflèche says. He glances deliberately downward, drawing Athos’ own gaze. Hidden beneath the overhang of their table, where it crowds against the wall, Laflèche is showing Athos his empty palm.

A quick flick of his wrist, and suddenly he’s holding a small chit, about the size of a coin. Unlike a coin, it’s a dull, matte black – some kind of metal? – and is bisected with a red line.

Another flick, and it’s gone.

“Did you see?” Laflèche asks, returning to his wine as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Yes,” Athos says slowly. “But… surely that’s not what I think it is?”

“And why not?”

Athos keeps his voice down and resists the urge to glance around; too many wary looks and the innkeeper will suspect they’re up to something illegal, though he probably would be surprised to discover what. “Surely it would be dangerous for the members of a secret group to all carry an identifying token. Supposing the token were compromised, or the person carrying the token were captured with it on them?”

Laflèche laughs. Genuine, unrestrained mirth. “Oh, you young ones,” he says in amusement. “What could a token betray that our bodies don’t already?”

Athos feels his cheeks burn. Of course. Being discovered as a throwback is already a crime punishable with sterilization, torture and death. Possessing a token linked to the Underground would do no more than tell their oppressors that the Underground still exists. A fact of which they are no doubt perfectly aware already.

“But if the Church knows about the token, they could make copies,” he persists despite his embarrassment. “Then they could infiltrate your ranks.”

“They already do infiltrate our ranks,” Laflèche says matter-of-factly. “They’d do so whatever countermeasures we tried. The trick is making sure they don’t climb the ranks. Enemies in our outer circles are like rats fleeing plague; you can’t kill them all, and you’re safer if you can keep your eye on them.”

“I see,” Athos says, still smarting.

Laflèche sighs. “Pup, I can’t promise you that everyone carrying the token is on your side,” he says gently. “It’s an indicator. One among many. We don’t hand them out to just everyone; someone has to prove themselves, advance within the Underground first. Could spies manage it? Probably. Many of them? If so, we’d be done for already, and we’re still here. So use the knowledge carefully, but don’t dismiss it based on fear. In every throwback’s life a time will come when you have to decide who to trust. And I promise you, it won’t be an easy choice. I’m just trying to give you as many tools as possible for identifying your true allies.”

Athos nods again. Then something else occurs to him. “What about…” Athos’ voice trails off as he gives in and glances around the tavern in his turn. “The other?”

“What other?” Laflèche frowns.

“The other organization?” Athos ducks his head. “The violent one?”

Laflèche’s eyes widen. “You mean the Resistance?” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

Athos nods. The Resistance is even more of a legend than the Underground, and even harder to find evidence of. If the rumors are to be believed, they’re a militant branch of the Underground, whose members are working towards the eventual overthrow of the Inquisition. Violently if necessary.

The older Musketeer shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and sighing. “You’ve been listening to too many idealists,” he says, voice thick with regret. “Oh, hell, I can’t blame you. When I was your age I thought the Resistance might really exist too. It’s a nice thought. That someone might be out there getting ready to swoop in and save you, that all you had to do was just hold on long enough and change would come…”

Laflèche trails off. He reaches for his wine glass and sips from it, seeming to be lost in his own memories for a moment. Then he shakes it off and refocuses on Athos. “The Resistance is a story to make throwback pups sleep better at night,” he says, quiet and resigned. “If there ever were one, they were destroyed long ago. The only way change is going to come is if we make it ourselves. So that’s my advice to you, young one. Fight for change in whatever way you can. Don’t be afraid. There may not be any Resistance, but that doesn’t mean you’re alone. If you’re truly in danger, come to me, or go to the Captain. The Underground will get you out.”

“I understand,” Athos says. After a moment he adds, “Thank you.”

“Good,” Laflèche says. “Then there’s just one other thing I have to tell you. A warning. Probably it doesn’t need saying, but it’s important, so I’ll say it anyway. You watch out for the Cardinal.”

Athos freezes. The slow slide of ice down his spine is in harsh counterpoint to the sweat that suddenly breaks out on his forehead.

Cardinal Richelieu is the head of the Church in France. He’s of no little consequence in Rome, either. That’s enough by itself to strike fear into the hearts of throwbacks. But Richelieu doesn’t do as many other Cardinal-Ministers do elsewhere in Europe, and pass the administration of their countries’ Inquisition off to their aides and Bishops. Richelieu oversees it personally. To devastating effect.

No throwback can think of the Cardinal without a spike of terror going through their heart. The stories of his passion for hunting are legendary. Where most of the nobility prefers to chase after stags and rabbits, Richelieu hunts throwbacks. The hunting grounds on his family’s estates are legendary. Reports vary as to how many throwbacks the Cardinal has personally killed, but the lowest estimate is still in the dozens. The high guess is well into the hundreds. And it’s no secret that Richelieu’s thirst for their people’s blood remains unquenched.

“I heard,” Athos says, and has to stop and swallow. There’s one story in particular, about the Cardinal, that gets whispered about the most. And yet it’s also the one where the details change the most in each telling. Athos has always used that as an excuse to justify telling himself that it’s not true. That not even the feared and hated Cardinal Richelieu would be so evil.

But he doesn’t live in the wilds of la Fère anymore. He lives in Paris. He’s a Musketeer. The Musketeers are the sworn enemies of the Cardinal and his guards. One day Athos is going to find himself in conflict with them. And that means he has to know. He has to know what he’s protecting himself from.

Laflèche nods slowly. “You’re referring to the story about his brother,” the older Musketeer says.

“Is it true?”

“I’m not a youth,” Laflèche says, seemingly apropos of nothing. His eyes are sharp on Athos, though, not distracted, so Athos pays attention. “I’ve been in the King’s service, one way or another, for thirty years. I remember when the Musketeers were first founded. That was right about the time the current Richelieu became Cardinal.”

Athos reaches for his wineglass and takes another swallow, quickly. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

“Before that, the current Cardinal’s older brother held the position,” Laflèche says. Then he taps the table significantly. “I say brother, but that’s not right.”

Odem. So the story is true. Athos stares down at his wineglass, too sick to drink again, wishing he’d never asked.

“His name was Alfonse,” Laflèche says. “Not that I knew him personally. But I attended his consecration, and they said his full name right out in the Basilica. So I remember. I don’t think hardly anyone remembers his name anymore. Just another one of Richelieu’s many victims.”

“Stop,” Athos begs.

“You asked,” Laflèche says inflexibly. “And you were right to ask. Someone has to remember. Or else all the dead just become drops in a river, indistinguishable.”

He pauses. Athos keeps his eyes down and doesn’t protest further.

“There’s not much to tell,” Laflèche says at last, seemingly taking pity on Athos. “The old Cardinal, Alfonse, went and got himself pregnant. Pupped, as they used to say for Omegas.”

Athos is familiar with the distinction. Betas got pregnant; Omegas were pupped. His sire had made the difference very clear to the young Olivier when Cara had first conceived Thomas. Sirrah had hated the growing use of Betan terminology to describe Omegan reproduction. He’d always insisted on the strictest precision in Olivier’s speech.

Laflèche is going on. “Somehow or other the current Cardinal found out. Exposed his odem and demanded the right of killing Alfonse himself. The King granted it – well, really, the Queen Regent did; our King wasn’t yet of age. Dunno that he’d’ve done any different, though. God bless his Majesty, but I’ve never heard of him saying no to Richelieu.” Laflèche falls silent for a moment, staring now at the whorls of the table.

“So Richelieu killed him?” Athos says lowly. “His own odem?”

“Hunted him down like a dog on their own family’s estates,” Laflèche says grimly. “They brought the body back and displayed it outside the gates of the Palais-Cardinal for a week. It was so mutilated it didn’t look like Alfonse anymore. Couldn’t even tell if it was Alpha or Omega. That’s what the Cardinal reduced his own odem to. Just a slab of meat.”

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3c/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

Athos bows his head. He crosses himself out of sheer reflex.

He can feel Laflèche watching him. “You still believe?” he asks, sounding sad.

“Shouldn’t I?” Athos says, quietly. “Why should I let them take anything else away from me?”

“Good for you,” Laflèche says after a moment. “Hold on to that belief, if you can. Not many of us do. But maybe it’ll help you.”

Athos doesn’t answer. After a moment Laflèche sighs and pushes back his chair.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you after all,” Laflèche muses. “But I’m getting old now, and I don’t think somehow I’ll ever get any younger. I thought someone else ought to remember. And you’re the first one to actually ask.”

“I’ll remember,” Athos says quietly. “You’re right. Someone should.”

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder for a moment, Laflèche’s grip tight and firm. Then the other man goes off to bed, leaving Athos alone with the rest of the wine bottle.

He reaches out for it, then stops. Maybe Laflèche’s right. Maybe he should stop.

He’ll stop soon, Athos tells himself. But tonight, he doesn’t want to have nightmares.