![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bbcmusketeerskinkWelcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme
The lowdown: You post your prompt, anon or not. Someone else will hopefully fill it (also anon or not). Not for profit, just for fun. And in this case, for king and country.
Anon is on, IP logging is off.
Rules:
No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
No prompts with characters under the age of 16 in sexual situations, please.
Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post
Mandatory trigger warnings/warnings for both prompts and fills:
non-con/dub-con
abuse (physical and mental)
issues such as racism, sexism, homo-/trans-/-bi-/ace-phobia etc
character death
suicide
self-harm
eating disorders
extreme physical or mental illness
substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, medication)
bullying
gore and horror
If this list misses anything, do let me know, though please understand that if absolutely everything is added this list will never end.
You are encouraged and advised to add additional warnings at your own discretion.
Please make use of the subject line.
If your prompt alludes to the book or any of the other adaptations, please let us know which one.
Lastly, prompt freezes (which I have to say I’m really not fond of) etc will be at the mod’s discretion. I will decide on a prompt cut-off point for prompt posts once I know how fast the meme moves.
Archive:
https://delicious.com/bbcmusketeers
Discussion post:
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/557.html
Official fill post (I strongly suggest you use it for better visibility of your fills):
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/418.html
Mod contact post
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1356.html
New updates:
- Extras fill post for the free for all rounds (as much as I hate dividing the meme even more.)
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html
- To answer a question going around in the discussion post, here's a small guideline: If you're unsure about something, either decide by yourself how you want to fill it and see if OP likes it or not or communicate with OP via aksing questions.
The lowdown: You post your prompt, anon or not. Someone else will hopefully fill it (also anon or not). Not for profit, just for fun. And in this case, for king and country.
Anon is on, IP logging is off.
Rules:
No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
No prompts with characters under the age of 16 in sexual situations, please.
Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post
Mandatory trigger warnings/warnings for both prompts and fills:
non-con/dub-con
abuse (physical and mental)
issues such as racism, sexism, homo-/trans-/-bi-/ace-phobia etc
character death
suicide
self-harm
eating disorders
extreme physical or mental illness
substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, medication)
bullying
gore and horror
If this list misses anything, do let me know, though please understand that if absolutely everything is added this list will never end.
You are encouraged and advised to add additional warnings at your own discretion.
Please make use of the subject line.
If your prompt alludes to the book or any of the other adaptations, please let us know which one.
Lastly, prompt freezes (which I have to say I’m really not fond of) etc will be at the mod’s discretion. I will decide on a prompt cut-off point for prompt posts once I know how fast the meme moves.
Archive:
https://delicious.com/bbcmusketeers
Discussion post:
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/557.html
Official fill post (I strongly suggest you use it for better visibility of your fills):
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/418.html
Mod contact post
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1356.html
New updates:
- Extras fill post for the free for all rounds (as much as I hate dividing the meme even more.)
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html
- To answer a question going around in the discussion post, here's a small guideline: If you're unsure about something, either decide by yourself how you want to fill it and see if OP likes it or not or communicate with OP via aksing questions.
Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-03 04:59 pm (UTC)Olivier had a fascination with the Court of Miracles. The mystery intrigued him, the history interested him, the people fascinated him.
In only five years Judge Richelieu, who was often discussed by his father, had tightened a hold of authorities in Paris, and had taken a harsh stance against the street performers and travellers that hid away in the Court of Miracles. It was Paris’ biggest and most well-kept secret. Only the gypsy community knew where the Court was, and they protected it and each other in a way that astounded Olivier.
Everyday there were whispers of gypsies being ‘quietly dispatched’ from the streets under Richelieu’s orders. They were to Richelieu the epitome of sin, and that was what Richelieu appeared to wish to stomp out of Paris.
It had been a boy, seven years ago now, that had first sparked Olivier’s interest in the gypsies. At the time it had been hard to comprehend that someone a similar age to himself could have such a different life. The boy had been in scruffy brown shorts and a loose white shirt, dark of skin and hair with, Olivier remembered, a huge smile. Olivier had seen the boy four more times within those seven years since their first meeting. Every time a little bit older, a little more handsome, and a lot more skilled in street performance.
The boy had been playing the tambourine the first time, with two older gypsies who were also playing instruments. He had caught nine-year-old Olivier’s eyes and the recognition had been there in an instant. Olivier had not waited around; he merely waved, winked and dropped a coin into the small sack on the floor in front of the performers.
The second time, the boy, possibly around age thirteen at that time, had been calling people in to watch a puppet show. Thomas had eagerly dragged his brother and his parents toward the stall and Olivier had come face to face with the boy. The boy had grinned, before disappearing into the puppet stall. When the puppets had jiggled and danced around, causing Thomas to laugh loudly amongst the other gathered audience, Olivier had wondered which puppet the boy was controlling as he ruffled Thomas’ hair with fond affection.
The third time it had been winter. Bitter cold. Olivier was thirteen, and hurrying alongside his father, when he had spotted a figure huddled in a bundle of ragged material. It had taken a moment or two of looking to see that it was the boy. Olivier had skidded to a halt, his father not noticing and carrying on down the street. Olivier had crouched before the boy, and the boy had looked up at him, breath clouding the air between them. Olivier had dropped a coin in the boy’s hat and pulled off his scarf. He wrapped it around the boy’s hands.
“What’s your name?” He had asked the boy, as the boy opened his mouth in astonishment.
“Porthos.” Came the reply. It was the first time the boy had truly spoken to him. The boy spoke in a cold rush, voice hoarse from the harsh wind.
“Porthos.” Olivier had repeated with a nod. He had squeezed Porthos’ hands before getting up to follow his father.
“Olivier.” Olivier had stopped in surprise at his own name being spoken. “Thank you.”
Olivier had nodded at the boy – Porthos - with a smile and then rushed away. His father had scolded him for being careless enough to lose his scarf. Olivier bore it with a secret smile.
The fourth time, Porthos had been dancing. Olivier was thirteen, which meant Porthos was a year or so older, and he had grown tall in the six months since Olivier had seen him last. He had been wearing loose brown pants and a V-necked white shirt, bangles on his wrists and a necklace about his throat. He was a great dancer. Olivier had stopped to watch, his brother beside him, and Porthos had caught Olivier’s eyes as he spun. Porthos had grinned brightly, and then carried on as though he had not been distracted. Olivier had decided not to distract him further and moved on.
Porthos had sparked Olivier’s interest in the Court. He often stopped to watch street performers in and around Paris, much to his father’s annoyance if they were in a hurry, and much to his mother’s chagrin.
“They will rob you blind, Olivier, if you are not careful.” She had warned him on many occasions.
“But I like watching them.” He had argued.
Thomas had caught his eye and smiled at him. Thomas loved watching them too, and knew of Olivier’s interest in the gypsies.
“It’s just, where do you suppose they go?” Olivier had asked his brother on many occasions. "Where do you think the Court of Miracles is?" His younger brother had just shrugged.
They often played games in their back garden, pretending to know the entrance to the Court of Miracles, evading capture, stealing and earning gold, and escaping Richelieu’s clutches every time.
Olivier was fourteen now, and it had been seven years since he had first met Porthos, and it had been a year or so since their last encounter. Every time Olivier ventured into Paris with his family he kept an eye out for Porthos, but like all of the street performers, Porthos never seemed to be in the same place twice, and Olivier did not come to Paris all that often; living a few miles out of the city in his family’s big country house and keeping busy with his home-schooling. He only got to go to Paris if he managed to persuade his father to allow him to join him when his father was on business.
It was September when Olivier was next invited to go into Paris with his father. Thomas, aged twelve, decided to stay behind to play with the dogs from his day off from their lessons.
Olivier was even more pleased when his father gave him a coin or two, and told him he was free to wander around the building in which his father was meeting a friend, just ‘not too far’ and that he had to be ‘very careful’. Olivier readily agreed, having not ever wandered the streets of Paris alone before.
It was by some great coincidence, just as Olivier rounded the corner into the next street and was wondering whether or not he would see Porthos, that he spotted the boy himself. Porthos looked older again from when Olivier had last seen him. His dark curls were shorter to his head and his warm, mischievous face was showing all the signs that he would grow into a very handsome man. Porthos was wearing purple pants this time, slung low on his hips with a gold chained belt, a loose white shirt revealing a sliver of a toned stomach and chest. There was a small gold ring in his ear. Porthos was performing some sort of card trick, to a small yet captivated audience. He clocked onto Olivier’s presence a moment or two after Olivier had noticed him. Offering him a sly grin, Porthos turned to the women standing closest to him.
“Ladies, please look at these cards.” He fanned out a pack of cards in front of the women. “Each card has a different picture on it. Is this correct?”
“Yes.” One woman said.
“Thank you Miss. Now, there’s nothing on the other side, is there?” He turned the cards up so that they could see that the backs were blank.
“Yes.” She confirmed.
“Now, if I could have a volunteer.” Porthos’ eyes landed on Olivier immediately. “Sir, would you like to volunteer?”
“Of course.” Olivier stepped forward with an interested smirk.
“Now, pick out a card, make sure I don’t see the picture, show the audience and then slide it back into the pack. Ok?”
Olivier did as he was told. The card had a rearing stallion on it; beautiful and intricately hand painted. He showed the crowd, then slid it back in amongst the other cards. “Ok.” He said.
Porthos opened his eyes and stacked the cards altogether.
“Now.” Porthos said, shuffling the cards. He swept one out. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a heart with a dagger through it. Olivier coughed. “Ugh, sorry. No.”
Porthos’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No matter,” He picked another. “Is this your card?”
The picture was of a jester.
“No.” Olivier confessed, looking apologising.
The crowd began to mutter between themselves and a couple at the back began to shift.
“Ah, ah, good people, before you think me useless…” Porthos clucked his tongue. “I have been tricking you, I am afraid.” He stepped towards Olivier. “It appears my volunteer has something in his pocket.”
“I don’t…” Olivier started, before Porthos reached forward and plucked a card out from his pocket.
Olivier stared in disbelief at Porthos. How had that card got into his pocket?
Porthos smiled as the crowd began to chatter in excitement. “My last chance…” Porthos declared dramatically. “Before you all title me a fool.” He put a hand over his eyes and thrust the card out towards the onlookers. “Is this your card?”
It was. “It is.” Olivier said in amazement as the crowd started cheering.
Porthos dropped his hand and beamed at them all. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” He took a bow. “Now, I shall be but a moment before my next trick. Please stay and watch, or, if you enjoyed, a small amount of money would be more than welcome, to make sure I can come here again and entertain you all.”
Porthos leant close to Olivier. “I will be done with this show in a few minutes, I will speak to you after?”
Olivier nodded, and passed Porthos a coin. “I am truly amazed by what you just did.”
Porthos’ smile split his face. “I am glad to hear it.”
Olivier nodded and left Porthos to it, as much as he wanted to watch the next trick, he also wanted to get a look around. He would get a chance to see Porthos when Porthos had finished his show.
He wandered a little further down the street, smiling to himself at the exclaims of wonder from the audience that had gathered around Porthos. As he turned into the next street he stopped dead, there were two soldiers harassing a musician further down the street, and another couple of soldiers were heading his way.
Olivier doubled back when he realised the two soldiers were clapping irons on the musician. He had to warn Porthos.
The crowd around Porthos was dispersing when Olivier reached him. “Thank you, thank you.” Porthos was saying with a huge grin.
“Porthos.” Olivier muttered as he wove through the straggling crowd.
“Olivier.” Porthos smiled.
“There is no time Porthos.” Olivier hissed urgently. “There are soldiers coming this way.”
Porthos’ face fell. “What?”
“They are arresting a performer in the next street. You have to pack up and go.”
“Right.” Porthos went to packing up with practiced skill which showed he had had to clear out in a rush before. “It’s been getting more and more often recently.” He said, shoving the last of his things into his bag and grasping his bag of coins.
Raised voices approached them, and just before the soldiers could round the corner, Porthos clasped Olivier’s wrist and tugged them into the nearest alleyway.
“I cannot stray too far from this street.” Olivier said urgently. “Or my father would ban me from coming back.”
“Then I will let you go.” Porthos said with a small smile. “I owe you once again, Olivier.”
“You do not owe me anything, though maybe one day we may be able to have a full conversation.”
Porthos ducked his head. “Hopefully.”
“It was good to see you again.” Olivier said. “Just make sure that you keep safe, I would hate not to see you next time I am in Paris.”
“You know about the crackdown on my people?” Porthos realised. “You know that they are being more ruthless?”
“I do.” Olivier said, he stuck out his hand. “So, keep out of their hands. Until next time?”
Porthos reached out and shook his hand. “Next time, my friend.” He promised.
Olivier watched Porthos rush down the alleyway and slip out of sight, just as the soldiers passed by the end of the alley, stunned at the realisation that Porthos considered him a friend. Olivier was not aware that he would not see the other boy – his friend - again for a long long time.
20th May 1470
To Judge Richelieu, Porthos and his kind were vermin. Over the years Richelieu’s iron fist grew tighter and tighter and he came down harder and harder on the gypsies. Porthos had lost countless friends to arrest, execution and outright murder, that no-one was brought to justice for. The Court of Miracles was still unfound. But it was becoming more and more of a common knowledge amongst the gypsy population in France that there was a safe haven in Paris, and every day more and more people came to Paris seeking safety against the condemnation and prejudice that was spreading country-wide under Richelieu’s watch.
Porthos spent a lot of his time performing, running and hiding, performing, running and hiding, trying to live whilst making a living. Porthos did not personally like stealing when earning the money was a possible option, but with street performers being targeted more frequently the crimes were increasing, and Porthos himself had had to steal more frequently in order to just get by. He had to.
With looking after his friends, his people, the closest thing he had to a home and family, he had not given much thought to the kind, wealthy boy he had befriended all those years ago. He had seen Olivier almost annually since their first meeting, but then he had not seen him for a while. He had never forgotten Olivier’s numerous acts of kindness; the money, the scarf, the warning of soldiers approaching. But he did not see him for a long time.
Then one day, he thought he saw him at a distance, a handsome young man with another – possibly Thomas – laughing beside him. Entranced at the possibility, Porthos tried to get closer, but had to duck into a doorway as soldiers patrolled nearby.
It was not until May 1470, a long six years after their last true encounter, that Porthos saw Olivier again for definite. The only issue was, Olivier did not see him. Porthos was twenty-one, sitting comfortably on a blanket and whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a flower. He had found a talent at whittling and it brought him a lot of trade. It was also easy to scoop his figures up in the blanket and make a break for it if soldiers came passing.
Porthos glanced up, almost as though drawn like a magnet, when he heard a bright, sunny laugh. Not many people laughed so openly in these dark days. His eyes landed on Olivier. Olivier, who had a woman on his arm. A beautiful and striking woman dressed in blue and white, with blue flowers in her brunette hair. She was smiling up at Olivier and he was gazing adoringly back. Olivier was so entranced by his beautiful woman, that he passed Porthos by without even looking away from his companion.
The happy couple had another companion, undoubtedly Thomas, ever trailing behind his big brother, who did glance at Porthos as he passed, and tilted his head in vague recognition when he spotted him, but he must have dismissed it, as he soon looked away again.
Olivier had looked so happy, so stunning in his fine clothing and adoration, that Porthos felt a saddening twist in his stomach. Had Olivier really outgrown his fascination with Porthos and his kind? Had Olivier really outgrown him?
It was, coincidentally, the last time Porthos would ever see Thomas. It was also the last time he would ever see Olivier, as he had once known him.
Re: Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-03 06:49 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-04 07:39 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-03 08:07 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 2/?
Date: 2015-01-04 07:40 pm (UTC)Fill: Sanctuary 3/?
Date: 2015-01-04 06:06 pm (UTC)16th February 1472
Porthos was playing a tune on the pipes as Flea danced around before him, drawing the attentions of passers-by, but not enough for them to stop. Less and less people stopped these days, for fear of being seen to associate or sympathise with gypsies.
And, as per usual, it wasn’t long before a low whistle from the young boy sitting on a nearby wall warned them of soldiers approaching.
“Meet you at the base.” Porthos sighed.
Flea nodded, sending him a brief smile, before gathering her skirts and running for it. Porthos bent to gather their coins and made his way down the street in the opposite direction. However, the clattering sound that abruptly followed his retreat made him stop and close his eyes exasperatedly.
“Typical.” He grumbled, turning on his heel to see that his and Flea’s earnings had scattered through a tear in the bag. He glanced up to see soldiers walking toward him down the street.
“Shit.” He clenched his teeth and began to gather as many of the metal pieces as he could. Money was harder to earn these days, and they needed every penny to get enough to eat. He wouldn’t let Flea lose her earned share for his foolishness, he refused.
A hand stepped on his, slowing his process.
“What is this, then?” A voice said above him.
“What does it look like?” Porthos replied airily. “I dropped some of my money.” He gathered the last couple of coins and shoved them in his pocket.
“Your money? Unlikely! You been stealing, boy?”
Boy? He was twenty-three now! A man! “I have earned every coin, Sir, I have some pride.” He stated, standing up straight to look the soldier in the eye. “Now let me continue on my way.”
“You think we don’t know who you are? Evading us for years…” The soldier started.
“Now, now, Phillipe.” A voice admonished beside them. “We didn’t actually catch him physically performing or stealing now did we?”
Porthos glanced at the second soldier, before doing a double-take and looking back. Surely it wasn’t – Olivier? The man stood in the silver armour of Richelieu’s soldiers. But it looked like Olivier. It was his eyes, that same face, older now and bearded, but otherwise…How had Olivier become a soldier? And there was something wrong. For as similar as Olivier’s face seemed, it was set in an expression Porthos had never seen on it before. Gone was the happy smile, the curious eyes and the mischievous wink. This man was frowning. His eyes looked haunted. He looked severe and unhappy. What had happened in only two years to make Olivier look this way, and not as he did when with his lady on his arm and his brother at his heels?
Olivier made no move, made no reaction to suggest he had ever seen Porthos in his life. Surely he still remembered who Porthos was? Porthos didn’t look much different – taller, much more muscular and bearded, yes, but still recognisable as Porthos.
“No.” The other soldier was biting out.
“Then I am afraid there is nothing we can do.” Olivier reminded him lightly.
“Fine.” The other soldier bit out. “But be warned, gypsy, street performing is banned.”
“Not illegal.” Porthos pointed out.
“Watch your tongue.” Olivier snapped.
Porthos sent Olivier a glare, and still there was no recognition on Olivier’s face.
“It is banned.” The other soldier said. “Next time you may not be so lucky.” He then turned away and stalked off down the street.
Olivier did not move to follow. Instead, he stooped down and picked up a stray coin that Porthos had missed, before turning right into Porthos’ face. He grabbed Porthos’ wrist, pushing Porthos’ fingers open and pressing the coin into Porthos’ palm.
“When you promised me you would stay out of trouble, I thought you might keep it.” Olivier said, looking up at Porthos from under the brim of his hat, finally indicating that he did remember Porthos after all.
“It’s getting harder.” Porthos said, watching Olivier closely. “Olivier…”
Olivier flinched back as though Porthos had hit him. “It’s Athos now.” Olivier said shortly, “And I recommend that next time you collect money, use something that doesn’t have a hole in it.”
Then he turned and was gone, leaving Porthos gaping and speechless behind him.
*
It was suicidal, but Porthos followed Olivier – Athos, now, he’d been told – home. It had been easy to dart through the streets behind Athos and Phillipe, until Athos was off duty. And, to Porthos’ surprise, Athos then walked to a house within Paris. Porthos had always guessed that Athos had lived out of the city in his youth, but something must have changed for Athos to be here now; probably when Athos became...well, Athos.
Athos was just opening the door when Porthos appeared behind him. “So,” Porthos said. “..‘Athos’?”
“Like it?” Athos asked, not turning around.
Porthos had a million questions to ask, but from the tone in Athos’ voice, he could tell the other man was not in the mood to answer any of them.
“It’s…different.” Porthos said.
“Not so dissimilar to ‘Porthos’.” Athos commented.
“No, but I was given my name as a street urchin.” Porthos said.
There was a huff of a laugh and then Athos pushed the door open. “You had best come in before someone realises I am allowing the type of man I am supposed to be arresting into my house.”
“Speaking of which…” Porthos said the moment the door closed behind him. “A soldier?! Olivier…Athos…really?! After everything you did for me?”
“It is not…ideal.” Athos shrugged, leading the way into a sparse dining room.
“Ideal?! Athos! You are arresting people like me! Sentencing people like me to death for just being who we are!”
“I’m not.” Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, wandering towards the nearest cupboard and opening it, revealing lines of wine bottles inside.
Porthos raised an eyebrow. “So you’re a drinker now then, as well?”
Athos worked the bottle open, before taking a swig. “How do you know I wasn’t one before?”
“Because you were…what? Fourteen?”
“Point.” Athos shook a finger at him before pulling out a chair and sitting in it, motioning for Porthos to do the same.
“Though I saw you again, after that.” Porthos said.
Athos looked surprised. “You did?”
“About two years ago.” Porthos said, watching as Athos’ face fell. “You didn’t notice me, you were with company.” Porthos paused. “You looked happy.”
Athos’ face screwed up and he took a big gulp of wine. “Hmm.”
“What happened?” Porthos asked. “How did Olivier become,” He motioned at Athos. “Athos?”
“You know, this is the longest conversation we have ever had.” Athos pointed out. “You didn’t know all that much about me before.”
“I knew enough.” Porthos argued. “The Olivier I knew wanted to have a full conversation with me. I know Olivier wouldn’t become a soldier, helping to wipe out my people.”
“Well, Athos is.” Athos said, and took a swig of wine, before catching Porthos’ devastation and rolling his eyes. “Honestly Porthos, do you take me for an idiot? I would never arrest a person for being who they are. I needed a change, and this was the only way I could see to help people, like I helped you today. I thought I could be a voice of reason amidst the authorities. My Captain, Treville, he is the only other soldier I have met who is sympathetic to your cause, but Richelieu overrides him every time. I thought that being out on the streets would help people.”
Porthos could not help but breathe a sigh of relief. So Athos’ values hadn’t changed as much as he’d feared. Now that he knew for certain that Athos posed no more of a threat than Olivier had, Porthos let curiosity take hold. “Why did you need the change?” He asked Athos.
“Ah, ah.” Athos said. “You have made me talk far more than I normally ever do. No more from me tonight.”
“I’ll just have to get a bit more information out of you every time we meet then.”
“Well in that case I hope we continue meeting on our usual annual basis.”
Porthos snorted, “Funny. I didn’t know you had such a dry humour.”
“It has grown with time.”
“As has your beard.”
Athos chuckled into his bottle. “As has yours.”
Porthos grinned, pleased to have finally made Athos show a bit of that old smile, “So, you are living in Paris now?”
“Clearly.”
“So we may, actually, see each other on a more than an annual basis?”
“For your sake, Porthos, with the job I have now, I really hope we don’t.”
5th June 1472
“What did I tell you?” Athos sighed in frustration as Porthos clambered in through his window.
“That I wasn’t allowed to come here.”
“And how many times have you been here?”
Athos watched the taller man stop and think about it, one foot still up on the window ledge. “This makes five.”
“Hmm.” Athos said in fond exasperation, as in all honesty, he wasn’t all that bothered. He liked Porthos’ company; to have a friend left in the world was a comforting thing. And Porthos’ visits at least kept Athos reassured that Porthos was unharmed and uncaught. “Wine?”
“Please.” Porthos smiled at him, slumping down in a seat. “There is an honest reason for me being here this time, though. I was being chased. I lost them, but I didn’t think I’d make it back to the Court without running into someone. Richelieu’s going mad, I swear, there are more patrols than ever before.”
Athos passed him a cup of wine. “This Court of yours, it still amazes me.”
“I know.” Porthos said, and Porthos looked amused. This had been the third time Athos had brought it up in conversation, and Porthos must have known it.
“Sorry.” Athos apologised. “If I go on about it much more, you will think I am prying for a reason.”
“No I don’t.” Porthos said. “I just see the curiosity of a seven-year-old boy.”
Athos sent him a small smile, rare on his face these days.
Porthos smiled back, a warm look on his face, before his expression changed to determination. “Tell you what, if you ever need to find me,” Porthos pulled a piece of string at his neck, revealing a woven pendant that he had been keeping close to his chest. He ducked his head as he pulled it off and pressed it into Athos’ hands. “A gift, in exchange for all that you have given me over the years; money, warmth, shelter, food and drink…”
Athos held it up and looked at it. The woven piece was confusing. Lots of coloured lines with the odd symbol here and there. “What is it?”
Porthos laughed. “That is the answer to your years of wondering.” His grin was as bright as it always was, and Athos wished he could return it with the same force. “This is the map to the Court of Miracles.”
“What?!” Athos gasped delightedly, turning it over in his fingers in excitement as he studied it with heightened interest. “How do I read it?”
Porthos’ hands closed over his own. “When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand. Remember that when you need to find it, but only come to the Court if you really really need me. Ok?”
“Thank you, my friend.” Athos said earnestly. “I cannot believe you are trusting me with this.”
“Believe. Because of course I trust you.” Porthos said, as though Athos was mad to suggest otherwise. “You are one of my oldest friends.”
Athos thought back on his life. The joy of having Anne as a wife, such a young and loving couple they had been for a short while, before her betrayal. He thought of his affection for Thomas, before his little brother became suspicious and died as a result. Porthos had asked after Thomas on his second visit. Athos’ silence had been answer enough. Porthos had not asked about Anne. For that Athos was glad. The deaths of his parents, Anne and Thomas had left him in ruins, that is why he was where he was now, soldiering and drinking his days away, trying to do a little bit of good in the world even as he destroyed himself. Porthos though, Porthos was the only constant in Athos’ life, and that was something he was beginning to appreciate more and more.
“And you are mine.” Athos found himself choking out, turning his palms over to grasp Porthos’ hands, where they still lay over his own.
Porthos smiled, and Athos was once again struck by how handsome his friend was. “How are things at the Court?” Athos asked softly.
Porthos’ eyes met his again, brown and soft. “We lost another two yesterday. Arrested. We assume execution in a day or two.”
“And there’s nothing you can do?” Athos squeezed Porthos’ hands. “Nothing I can do?”
Porthos shook his head angrily. “Richelieu is a madman.” He bit out. Athos could see an anger in Porthos when he talked about Richelieu that was raw and brutal and so unlike Porthos, but completely justified in its fire. “He wants to purge the world of vice and sin, but he doesn’t realise that the most corrupt thing in this city is him.”
Athos also knew by now that the only way to calm Porthos down from a rant was to distract him, so he reached out to fondly flick at Porthos’ earring. “When did you get so wise?”
Porthos’ dark eyes cleared a little and, as Athos predicted, the other man grinned at him, “I have always been wise. Just because I’m an uneducated orphan doesn’t make me stupid.” He winked. But just as Athos knew when to change a topic, Porthos knew the tactic he was playing. “Any more wine?”
“Like I said,” Athos reached for the bottle again. “A wise man.”
Fill: Sanctuary 4a/?
Date: 2015-01-04 06:35 pm (UTC)The day that Athos finally found the Court of Miracles was a cold night in December. Snow had fallen on the ground and the darkness was drawn in. Athos had been a soldier for just over a year, but was growing increasingly frustrated. For every gypsy he helped to save, another one was arrested or killed elsewhere. He was tired of making limited difference.
Treville understood Athos’ frustrations. Treville was the only man as committed to Athos to making a difference, and yet Richelieu’s claws were still digging deeper and deeper into how the city was run.
Athos kicked a clump of snow.
There had been a meeting a couple of days ago with Richelieu and some of the other soldiers, which Treville and Athos had not been asked to attend. Richelieu was clearly suspicious of their loyalty. Athos snorted with laughter; if only Richelieu knew that he had been harbouring a gypsy in his home almost every week for months. A gypsy who happened to be Athos’ best friend. A gypsy who had given Athos the map to the Court of Miracles.
Richelieu was becoming more fixated on finding the Court, and despite all his attempts he had still been unsuccessful. If he knew Athos had that power… Athos frowned and clasped the woven pendant that lay on his chest next to a locket filled with forget-me-nots. Athos had not even told Treville about Porthos, or Porthos’ gift to him. The less Treville knew about it all, the better. Athos was good at keeping secrets. In fact, he was the best.
Athos was pleased to have a night off from patrolling. His usual patrol partner had been one of the ones called to Richelieu’s meeting, and had since been out of Paris for two days on some kind of mission.
Athos was in a foul mood, so had taken a walk to calm his mind. His walk had taken him, as it often did, toward Notre Dame Cathedral.
Notre Dame de Paris was architecturally magnificent, with its strange gargoyles and its long history. Each stone held a secret; each bell rang with such power. Athos had been inside a couple of times, but, not considered to be overly religious, had felt out of place amongst the prayers, candles and incense. It was, therefore, the aesthetic of the building that attracted Athos, rather than its purpose. He considered the imposing exterior to be one of the most beautiful sights in all of Paris.
Tonight, however, there was something that was tarnishing its beauty.
As Athos approached the grand stairs to the main entrance, he noticed something on the stone steps. There was somebody lying in the snow.
“What the…” Athos muttered, approaching the person. “Are you alright?” He called to the person.
To his surprise, the person moved. They hauled themselves up another step before collapsing back down into the snow again.
Athos hurried to the figure, realising with a growing sickness that the figure – who he could now make out to be a man – was leaving a trail of blood up the snowy steps.
“Sir, are you…” Athos stopped. The man was not well clothed for the cold weather, and when Athos turned him over, Athos could not stop his mouth from dropping open.
The young man’s handsome face was bloodied and he had a bandage wrapped roughly around his temple. One of his hands, slick with blood, was clutching at his side, presumably covering a wound.
“What happened to you?” Athos ground out, ripping material off his own shirt and scrunching it up, before batting the man’s bloody hand away and pressing the wad of cloth over the wound.
“Sanctuary.” The young man was muttering, over and over like a mantra. “I claim sanctuary.” His eyes cracked open, though they looked clouded and distant. “Sanctuary.”
“You have sanctuary.” Athos tried to calm him. “You have it.”
“Not here.” The man moaned, pain lacing each word. “Not for me.”
At that statement, Athos took in the appearance of the man in the moon and lantern-light. He saw tanned skin, brunette curls, the loose clothing the man wore, the rings on his fingers with unusual symbols in the centres.
He then understood what the man meant. “Are you a traveller?” He asked urgently. “A gypsy?”
“Don’t turn me in…” The man whined through gritted teeth. “I claim sanctuary; I just need to get to…” The man suddenly rolled over and attempted to crawl further up the stone steps.
“Stop. Stop!” Athos ordered. “Let me help you.” He eased the man onto his back again. “Are you from Paris?”
The man shook his head, biting his lip in his pain and his hand shot down to push against Athos’ where it held the wad of material to his wound. His snow-covered hair fanned around his head like a bizarre halo.
“Do you know where the Court of Miracles is?” Athos asked. If the man wasn’t from Paris and did not know of the Court’s location, Notre Dame must have been the only place he thought he could find safety.
A string of Spanish passed the young man’s lips, which, from what Athos picked up from his limited grasp of Spanish, was “I couldn’t find it.”
Athos looked around desperately. There was no-one around. If he took the man into the Cathedral to claim sanctuary he would find limited help for his wound at this time of night. If he took him anywhere else he would be arrested or left to die as an outside gypsy trying to enter the city without permission. The Court and Porthos were his best hope.
Athos took a better look at the wound, to see whether the young man could make it. The wound was already roughly stitched, he was surprised to find, but had since torn slightly.
“You stitched this?” Athos asked in surprise.
“I’m normally better at it.” The young man wheezed a laugh, looking up at him through hazy eyes.
Athos had no idea what kind of man would try and stitch himself up after receiving a wound like that, but he figured that man would have to be determined to live, and Athos was going to make sure that he did. Athos had the map after all, and he believed that, after studying it carefully, he had finally figured it out.
“What is your name?” He asked the man.
“Aramis.” came the slurred reply.
“Ok, Aramis.” Athos grimaced as Aramis shuddered out another wheezy breath. “I’m going to take you to the Court. You will be safe there. I promise.”
*
Aramis was unconscious when Athos opened the secret entrance to the Court of Miracles, which, he was amused to find, was in a tomb in the centre of a graveyard. Of course the Court would be down among the Catacombs. Of course it would. After all that wondering for so many years, Athos didn’t know whether to be slightly underwhelmed by the bare obviousness or completely amazed by this secret place that had remained hidden for so long.
Athos tugged Aramis’ limp arm further around his shoulders and held more tightly onto his waist. “Not much further.” He whispered. “Just a bit further.”
After the entrance was closed behind him and they had made it down the stairs, Athos got the distinct feeling that they were being watched. Almost immediately after that thought, wooden torches blared to life and several figures jumped out from the shadows, from among the skulls and walls of the catacombs. They held swords in their hands and those swords were pointed directly at Athos.
Athos would have put his hands up in a peaceful gesture, had he not being holding Aramis up for all he was worth.
“I’m a friend!” He shouted. “A friend. This man is one of you. He is injured and he needs your help.”
“Never seen him before.” One of the men said gruffly. “And if he is ‘one of us’, what does that make you?”
“I…” Athos began, unsure as to how he should proceed without revealing that he was, in fact, a soldier.
“Athos?” A voice came from the darkness, and Athos almost slumped with relief to see Porthos pushing through the others, a sword in his own hand. “Athos, what are you doing here?”
Athos jerked his head towards the one lolling near his shoulder. “I found him on the steps of Notre Dame. He’s injured and one of you, I didn’t know where else to take him.”
“Lower your weapons.” Porthos snapped immediately, and Athos was surprised to watch all the men obey Porthos immediately.
Porthos walked straight up to Athos and pushed his forehead to Athos’ own. “You weren’t followed?”
“Unfollowed.” Athos promised. “I kept checking. I would not bring that danger upon you.”
“I know.” Porthos smiled quickly, before taking in Athos’ unconscious companion. “Who is he?”
“His name’s Aramis. He is a gypsy, just not from Paris. I don’t know anything else.”
“I’ll take him.” Porthos offered, holding out his arms for Athos to manoeuvre the unconscious Aramis into Porthos' arms. Porthos lifted Aramis like he would a damsel, with limited effort. Aramis’ hand fell limply from his side and dangled in the air. “Come on Athos.” Porthos sent him a warm, fond smile. “Time to finally see your mysterious Cour des Miracles.”
Athos tried to remain stoic as the strange entourage of armed men followed he and Porthos through the tunnels toward the Court of Miracles, but he could not help glancing about in wonder. It was incredible how the gypsies had made a home down here among the ancient foundations and bones of Paris. A safe haven from death among the long dead. Smart, yet completely ironic. There were so many questions he had to ask Porthos, but he held his tongue, unwilling to outstay his welcome in the eyes of the men following him suspiciously.
Finally, they reached a large open stone space, bigger than Athos could have ever have imagined to lie beneath the city. It was like a whole other town down below the ground, with stalls and alcoves and tents, with a big stage at the front, with, Athos was displeased to see, their own gallows. There were stores of food, water and materials.
“This is incredible.” Athos could not help admitting to Porthos. Porthos gave him a lopsided smile, before hurrying into the mass of stalls and tents.
“We’ll put him in my tent.” Porthos said.
“You can help him?”
“I think so. Pierre,” Porthos barked at a nearby man. “Fetch Flea and Elise for me.”
Porthos laid Aramis down carefully on several layers of blankets. Athos looked around him, taking in the tent where Porthos slept, where Porthos lived. It was simplistic. The tent was patched from bright materials, and the cushions and blankets within held that same technicolor clash, there was a small wooden chest in the corner, but otherwise that was it. Athos assumed that when one lived among thieves (and he assumed Porthos was not a stranger from having to steal either), you would learn to keep your most valuable possessions on your person.
Aramis was pale, but still breathing. Porthos inspected the wound with the same look of awed confusion as Athos had had.
“Did he try and stitch this himself?”
“I gathered as much.”
“Tenacious.” Porthos commented. He tilted his head to look at the young man’s face, before spotting something around Aramis’ neck. He took Aramis’ necklace in hand, showing Athos the crucifix around Aramis’ neck. “Religious.”
“He was claiming sanctuary.” Athos told him.
“It’s worked for me before.” Porthos nodded thoughtfully, “Though you couldn’t call me religious.”
“You’ve claimed sanctuary?” Athos was surprised.
“A story for another time.” Porthos said, focusing on the wound in Aramis’ side. “We’ll have to cut these, clean the wound and stitch it again, I think, to best avoid any infection.” He pulled a knife from his belt.
The knife had only cut and removed one of the threads, when Aramis heaved a huge intake of breath and his eyes snapped open, lurching upwards and grasping onto Porthos’ wrist.
“Where am I?” Aramis gasped with wide, delirious eyes.
Athos watched, surprised that Aramis had even regained consciousness, as Porthos did a double-take, staring into Aramis’ eyes. “You’re in the Court of Miracles.”
“Cour des Miracles…” Aramis stared around unseeingly, before his eyes passed over and then shot back to Athos. “You brought me…”
“Aramis.” Athos spoke softly, “What happened to you? Do you remember?”
Aramis’ brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment, before his face flooded with a new panic. “Savoy.” Aramis whispered in a rush. “We were sleeping.” His eyes went distant again, haunted. “They killed everyone.”
“Everyone? Who killed everyone?” Porthos asked urgently, trying to meet Aramis’ eyes.
Aramis’ head turned from one side to the other, as though searching for people who weren’t there. Porthos gently took hold of the tops of Aramis’ arms and Aramis flinched, before he finally focused on Porthos, “You are saving me?”
“I am.” Porthos promised. “You can go back to sleep now, if you want. We’ll take care of you.”
Aramis’ lips tilted into a wavering smile that looked half-drunk yet somehow still dashing. “Such gentlemen.” And then his eyes rolled back into his head as he gave up consciousness again.
Porthos lowered Aramis back to the bedding, seemingly transfixed by the newcomer. “What do you think he meant?” Porthos asked. “That ‘they killed everyone’?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Porthos glanced up at Athos with a grim expression on his face, before his concentration moved to something over Athos’ shoulder. “Flea, took you long enough!”
“Sorry Porthos.” The woman Athos supposed was Flea entered the tent with another woman. “We got held up. Word on the street is that there was some kind of massacre just outside of Paris tonight. A troupe of about twenty people travelling from Savoy. No survivors.”
Porthos and Athos found themselves staring down once again at their wounded stranger. “Actually,” Porthos said, “There might be one.”
Fill: Sanctuary 4b/?
Date: 2015-01-04 06:35 pm (UTC)Porthos let Flea and Elise take over the care of Aramis, taking Athos’ arm and drawing him out of the tent.
“Richelieu’s work.” That much was painfully obvious.
“Almost definitely.” Athos sighed, “He sent a few of his most trusted out of town, which is why I wasn’t on duty tonight; my partner was out of town. I did not know to what purpose they were sent, but I would put money on this being their work.”
“Hang on.”
Porthos closed his eyes, hating Charon’s choice of timing. He turned around and found Charon, the right-hand man to the ‘King’ of the Court and one of his oldest friends standing behind them, flanked by the men who had taken a disliking to Athos at the entrance to the Court.
“The others said we had a stranger in the Court, Porthos, but him being ‘off duty’? Tell me he isn’t a soldier.”
“Charon…” Porthos started warningly. “Athos is a friend.”
“He’s a soldier!” Charon snapped loudly, clicking his fingers.
The others seized Athos immediately. The last thing Porthos needed was for Charon to be overheard. Athos would not be leaving the Court alive if word got out that he was a soldier. And if the ‘King of the Court’ found out…
“Lower your voice and let him go.” Porthos demanded.
Charon may have been the second highest in command down here, but Porthos wasn’t far from a top-spot himself. He was respected and Charon considered him a loyal confidant.
“I won’t let him go,” Charon said, though his voice was decidedly quieter. “I have half a mind to announce it to the entire Court and watch them lynch him. How the hell did he get here?”
“Because I gave him a map.” Porthos countered, drawing up to his full height and levelling Charon with a hard stare.
“What?!” Charon asked.
“He’s had the map for about half a year.” Porthos said, desperately trying to make Charon understand. “I gave it to him because I trust him more than anyone. Has he come in with an army at his back? No! He only came to us now because he was trying to help one of us! The only survivor of the massacre that's just happened!”
Charon looked taken aback. “Someone survived that?”
“He’s in there.” Porthos nodded back toward his tent where the mysterious, handsome younger man laid unconscious and being sewn back together.
Charon did not let the distraction linger. “Regardless of whether he saved one of us or not, how can you trust him?! He could turn us over in a heartbeat!”
“He’s been letting me hide out in his house for the last year.”
Porthos watched Charon pause, staring at him in disbelief. Charon had often asked Porthos where Porthos’ new hiding place was, and where Porthos went to when he disappeared for hours on end, but Porthos had never told him.
“That’s where you’ve been hiding?”
“Yes.” Porthos growled. “He is one of my most trustworthy and oldest friends. I’ve known him since I was eight.”
Flea and Charon were his best friends, yes, among many others in the Court, but he did not know how greatly he could trust them. He did live among thieves and tricksters after all. Athos was constant and loyal in his friendship.
“This is your noble-boy?” Charon recalled, his anger changing into something more akin to curiosity as he eyed Athos up and down.
Porthos had told Charon and Flea about the generous child that had helped him on several occasions over the years. They had theorised about who the young man was, and why he was so interested in the gypsies, who were so condemned by most others.
“Yes.” Porthos said, relieved when Charon now looked at him with that same childish wonderment for a moment or two.
“I thought, for a while, that he was too good to be true.” Charon commented. “Yet here he is.”
Porthos knew Athos was watching him now, probably intrigued as to what Charon had been told. Sometimes, Porthos wondered why he liked to keep such inquisitive company.
“Here he is.” Porthos agreed. “And you have not been particularly welcoming, Charon. Now that you know what you do; that he is of absolutely no threat, are you going to see sense and let him go?”
Charon levelled Porthos with a hard, considering stare before nodding shortly. “Release him.” He ordered of the men, and Athos was immediately let go. “But on your head be it, Porthos, if he does turncoat.”
“You have my word that I am a man that will take my secrets to the grave.” Athos said, with a little too much sincerity for Porthos’ liking; there were secrets he still hoped Athos would one day reveal to him. “I would die before I betrayed the Court.”
The corner of Charon’s lips quirked and he nodded again in satisfaction. “I will take your word, Athos, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then Athos, Porthos,” Charon paused, looking between them for a final time before clearly coming to a final decision of letting Porthos win this round, as Porthos often did. “Tell me about this survivor of the Savoy massacre.”
Fill: Sanctuary 5/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:14 am (UTC)Athos did not go back to the Court of Miracles after the day he saved Aramis. He knew that whilst he remained a soldier he would never really be welcome there. Though that did not stop Porthos from coming back to visit him. And now, he did not come alone.
Aramis had taken over a month to recover physically from the ‘Massacre of Savoy’, as it was now known by the people of France. It was an event that had not been kept quiet. Aramis had recounted the tale to them when he had been in a strong enough frame of mind to do so; Aramis had been part of a troupe that had been travelling from Savoy to Paris. They had been attacked as they slept just outside of Paris. Aramis was the only survivor from the group of twenty, the loss of his best friend Marsac hitting him the hardest. Aramis had fought back, killing two of the attackers, but was injured in the process. Assumedly believing their job to done and the victims all dead, the attackers had left, and Aramis had managed to roughly sew himself up and bandage his head before making a break into Paris under the cover of darkness.
There had been no intended survivors of the massacre, which was most likely how Aramis had managed to slip past the boundaries unnoticed. It had been the most blatant and cruel attack on the gypsy people yet. Everyone was talking about it, but whether anyone was actually doing anything about it was a different matter. Athos was trying. Treville was trying. They had made enquiries into the Massacre, but as expected, their fellow soldiers claimed to know nothing about it, claiming it to be the work of bandits. They both knew better.
The shock of the attack and the loss of his friends had made Aramis’ mental recovery much tougher than his physical recovery, though Porthos had informed Athos that Aramis was making vast improvements under Porthos’ watch and care, and now, five months later, despite the odd episode or headache, he was back to what Athos and Porthos assumed to be ‘the old Aramis’.
The real Aramis, they had discovered, was a force unto himself. His handsome looks came paired with a chivalrous attitude, passionate spirit and an unmatched charm. He was a hit with the ladies; ladies in the Court of Miracles, ladies of the court of Paris, towns-ladies, married ladies, single ladies, barmaids and ladies maids. He charmed them all with a clever tongue and a dashing smile. He bedded a few of them as well, and a couple of men besides, as far as Porthos had informed Athos. But Aramis was, of course, far more than that. He was kind and had a humour that complimented Porthos’ blunt and raucous wit and Athos’ dry wit and sarcasm. Aramis was a healer and just as he had informed Athos whilst half out of his mind on the steps of the Notre Dame, he was very talented with a needle. He was an asset to the Court, which saw more and more people turn up in need of help. Aramis was also religious. He prayed, and went to church when it was possible. He always wore his crucifix around his neck, and he clutched it out of habit.
Aramis was also very gifted at entertaining. According to Porthos, he could dance, sing and play a variety of instruments, which Athos was yet to see. But apparently Aramis truly specialised in something quite different.
“Contrary to what you may think after my issues about Savoy,” He had informed them. “I am actually a thrill-seeker. As a part of the troupe, I often did the ‘risk-taking’ tricks; fire-breathing, fire eating, sword swallowing…” At the last he had winked at Athos and made Athos break eye contact and stare into his wine. It was undeniable that Aramis was an appealing man and it was also obvious that he wasn’t just attractive to ladies. Aramis had Porthos wrapped around his little finger, though he never abused that power, and Athos often let him get away with being cheeky. Though no matter how far Aramis had entranced them, he was also aware of Athos and Porthos’ history. He had claimed it a ‘classic romance story’ and was enthralled by their friendship, which had made Athos realise even more how much he appreciated Porthos in his life. Athos could admit to himself that he had been romantically interested in Porthos for some time, though he had never acted on it; too afraid after Anne to ever consider falling in love again.
Porthos seemed as fond of him as ever regardless, and Aramis equally had in such a short space of time fitted quite comfortably into their friendship.
“It is suspicious how he has come to fit so well into our lives.” Athos had commented to Porthos on one occasion.
Aramis had smiled, “Well do not fear, I have used no spell, I promise. You both must just enjoy my company.”
Because that, coincidentally, was another talent of Aramis’; “I wanted to be a priest, for a while when I was a child.” He had told them. Because Aramis was a lot freer with his secrets with Athos and Porthos. Far more open than Athos and Porthos had so far been for him. “But that became something of a problem when my grandmother started to teach me the art of black magic.”
“You are having us on.” Athos had scoffed.
Porthos hadn’t looked so disbelieving. “Witchcraft?”
“To an extent.” Aramis had shrugged. “I can do the usual; powders and whatnot, mostly illusion, of course. But there is some reality there too, though I suppose my fire-breathing and risk-taking performances could be classed in a similar category, being slightly different to mild entertainment.”
“I hadn’t even known that sort of thing really existed.” Athos had said honestly.
Aramis had looked slightly apprehensive then. “Now, such practice can be considered a punishable crime outside of my community.” He had glanced at Porthos. “Are there such performers at the Court?”
“There are.” Porthos had reassured him, which had surprised Athos, he had never seen a street performance as to what Aramis had been describing. “That kind of thing is kept until big events like the Feast of Fools however,” Porthos had explained, “It is becoming less and less of a good idea to perform it outside of those events, if you value your head. Though, to be quite honest, just living appears to be a punishable crime for us these days.”
The mood had then darkened slightly, before Athos had said, “So Aramis, you are a religious man who practices dark magic. Those two must slot hand in hand together so nicely.”
Aramis had rolled his eyes. “I’m a saint, I’m a sinner.” He had flopped on his chair dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a complex man.”
Porthos and Aramis visited Athos frequently; several times a week in the last couple of months. It was risky, but they had so far been undiscovered, and that had made them more confident. Plus, Athos could never deny himself of their company. Which is how finding the two of them letting themselves into his house via the back window on the 25th May not surprising in the slightest.
“Hello. Come right in.” Athos deadpanned. “What was it this time, a patrol?”
“No.” Aramis said airily, “We just wanted the pleasure of your company.”
“Was that sarcasm?” Athos asked Porthos as his friend pulled him into a quick embrace.
“No, he genuinely means it.”
“Honestly, my dear Athos, I daren’t even attempt to begin a battle of sarcasm against the best.” Aramis winked, taking his turn to hug Athos when Porthos let go. “And don’t pretend you are not pleased to see us.”
Aramis then took Athos’ hand and started to pull him towards what passed as a drawing room. Aramis had pointed out to Athos on many occasions that there was no point in having a house if it wasn’t properly lived in. This meant that all the rooms of Athos’ house were now used and lit whenever Aramis and Porthos came to visit. Athos could have hardly denied either of them this piece of homeliness, with Porthos never actually having had a proper house, and that part of Aramis’ past still being a mystery. Despite this, Porthos had still apologised for Aramis’ interfering, knowing Athos’ need for some seclusion, but actually, the house felt a great deal warmer with lit, lived-in rooms and good company.
Now that Aramis had visited plenty of times, it was routine that Porthos went about lighting the fire, whilst Aramis lit the room, and Athos…
“You wouldn’t happen to have any wine in the house, would you Athos?” Aramis sent him a dazzling smile.
“Ha. Ha.” Athos said flatly, heading for the wine cupboard that was never short in supply.
When he returned, the fire was glowing and Porthos was sitting on one of the cushioned seats whilst Aramis investigated the room. Athos sat opposite Porthos, pouring a cup of wine and passing it to him.
“How are you?” Porthos asked him.
“As well as I ever am.” Athos responded. “I despise my job.” The burden was growing heavier on him with every passing day; the need to save people, with the disappointment when he could not. He had had to attend an execution in the previous week, and that night he had not slept a wink. Porthos and Aramis had visited the next day and sat with him silently, each holding one of his hands.
“You helped Elisabeth yesterday.”
“I did, but every time I help someone…” Athos trailed off, the situation was just as hopeless as ever. And as a result, he got drunk more often than he used to, which was saying something. He knew it concerned Porthos and Aramis, despite Aramis' lightheartedness about Athos and his wine.
“I know.” Porthos said, his voice quiet and sad, “I know.” Porthos leant forward and patted Athos’ clenched hand. Athos uncurled his fingers slightly and sent Porthos a small smile.
“A-ha!” They were interrupted by a cry of triumph as Aramis appeared from a cupboard, brandishing Athos’ lute. “Look at this Porthos!” He hurried over and slumped into the seat beside Porthos and looked to Athos, “I did not know you could play, my friend.”
Athos found Porthos staring at him in surprise. “I did not know either.” Porthos admitted.
“I had lessons as a boy.” Athos revealed with a smirk, reaching out for the lute which was eagerly handed to him.
“Play for us Athos!” Aramis pleaded.
Athos had found he could not often say no to Aramis. So he tuned the instrument quickly and started to play.
When the tune came to a quiet end, Aramis and Porthos were watching him avidly.
“That was beautiful.” Porthos said softly.
“Oh Athos, how wonderful that was.” Aramis agreed, ever the romantic. “Next time, Porthos and I should bring our instruments; I think we would sound exquisite as a troupe.”
“You know, I think I would enjoy that.” Athos found himself saying. “I have never seen either of you play an instrument.”
“Then we must. Soon!” Aramis said eagerly.
Athos agreed, and although it was true that they did play together in the future, it was not quite as they planned. For, not that they knew it yet, Athos was not going to be a soldier, or living in his little house in Paris, for very much longer.
Fill: Sanctuary 6a/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:34 am (UTC)Everything changed in June 1473. Athos was on duty early one evening, when a commotion in the next street had he and Phillipe running to find out what was going on. They found six of their comrades, pointing drawn swords at three men who were kneeling on the ground.
“What is going on here?” Phillipe shouted as they strode forward.
“We caught these three thieves red-handed.” One of the soldiers informed them.
Athos looked down at the thieves, to find Porthos looking right back at him. Athos’ heart stopped. Then stuttered. This had been a day he had feared since he became a soldier; Porthos kneeling at his feet, arrested and clapped in iron, with his life resting on Athos’ ability to talk him out of it.
Athos gritted his teeth, checking that neither of Porthos’ companions was Aramis, before staring back at Porthos. He’d clearly fought against his arrest and had been outnumbered because his temple was bleeding and a black-eye was forming. Porthos gave him a minute shrug, apology written all over his face. Of all the years of avoiding capture, Porthos now chose to be reckless, and whilst stealing?!
“What were they stealing?” Phillipe was asking.
“We caught them robbing the house behind you.”
Athos looked up at the house and then back at Porthos. Porthos just stared back. The situation was at a checkmate. Porthos had been caught stealing - a crime worthy of genuine punishment - there was no way that Athos was getting Porthos out of this without truly revealing leniency and loyalty toward the gypsies. Athos could see from Porthos’ pained expression that he had come to the same conclusion.
“Well,” Phillipe said, “That is enough reason for arrest if ever I heard one.” He then looked thoughtful and Athos felt his stomach drop as Phillipe dragged the point of his sword across Porthos’ throat. Phillipe knew of Porthos by sight after years of nearly catching him, and Athos knew that he would not be letting Porthos go now that he finally had him. “Though as we have a legitimate reason…we could just dispose of them here.”
The blatant threat on their lives gave Athos the clear indication of what Porthos’ fate would be. He suddenly saw flashes of could-be scenarios blaring in his mind; Porthos swinging from a rope, Porthos beheaded after being shamed in front of a crowd, Porthos being murdered right there in the cold street with no-one there to fight for him. There was no way out of this for Porthos.
Porthos was struggling now and it took four of the men to hold their three captives down.
“You cannot do this.” Porthos growled out, eyes fixed on Phillipe.
“I think you will find that we can, and Richelieu will title us heroes.” Phillipe corrected.
Athos wrapped a hand around his sword hilt and tried desperately to think of a way to intervene without getting Porthos and his companions killed. Suddenly, a commotion at the side of the house Porthos had been robbing revealed three more people appearing before racing down the street, taking opportunity of the soldiers’ distraction to make an escape.
“We will handle this.” Phillipe ordered, “You four, follow them!”
Four of the soldiers obeyed Phillipe’s command and went in pursuit of the three fleeing figures.
That left Athos, Phillipe and two more soldiers holding Porthos and his friends. Now was Athos’ moment to act, when they were less outnumbered.
“Right, well we may as well start with you.” Phillipe told Porthos with a smirk. “I have waited a long time for this.” He began to raise his sword.
Athos seized his chance and knocked the blade away from Porthos with his own. “I think not, Phillipe.”
“Athos.” Phillipe growled, clashing his sword against Athos’ before trying to strike at Porthos again. “What are you doing?”
“This.” Athos responded, suddenly slashing out and cutting Phillipe’s leg. Phillipe fell to the floor with a shout. Athos wasted no time in turning to fight off the two soldiers behind him, managing to injure them both before hauling up the one that had the keys. “Give me the keys.” He hissed.
He heard a snarl, and glanced back at Porthos to find Phillipe had managed to right himself whilst Athos had been fighting and was now standing behind Porthos, his knife at Porthos’ throat.
“I knew you loved these gypsies.” Phillipe spat. “Defending them all the time and finding excuses to let them go. But now we have the proof; that the ‘noble’ Athos has no loyalty to Paris, only the scum that infests it.” The blade ran across Porthos neck with a little pressure and Athos could see blood blossoming around the sharp edge even in the darkening street. “This one you have helped once before. Don’t think I don’t remember.”
Athos met Porthos’ soft brown eyes and between them passed a thousand memories and unsaid feelings. Phillipe must have caught the wordless interaction because he carried on, “Is he a favourite of yours, hmm? Well count yourself a traitor and friendless, now Athos, because this one isn’t going to survive the night…”
Phillipe’s tirade was abruptly cut off by Porthos dropping his head down before flinging it back. There was a crunch as Porthos’ skull met Phillipe’s face, and although Athos had had the terrifying millisecond where he thought the knife had been jerked back into Porthos’ flesh on the impact, when Phillipe dropped to the floor with a cry of agony, Athos saw that the knife had been wrestled away from Phillipe by the captured man on Porthos’ right, despite his hands being bound.
Athos was unsure how much time Porthos had bought them and how long it would take Phillipe or the other two soldiers to get back to their feet, so he stopped asking nicely and, finding the keys in the soldier’s pocket, wrenched them away and rushed to the three gypsies who had staggered to their feet. Athos rushed to each in turn, not daring to take the time to look at or speak to Porthos until the chains had fallen away to the pavement.
“Go.” He whispered urgently at them.
“Do it.” Porthos ordered, and the two men either side of him ran in opposite directions and disappeared into the night.
“You will hang for this Athos!” Phillipe screeched through the blood that was pouring from his broken nose. “Get up you idiots!” He yelled at the two soldiers who were struggling to stand, “Kill them before they escape!”
Athos finally found himself looking up at Porthos, suddenly at a complete loss for what to do. He had just thrown his entire life away in a matter of minutes. He had broken the law. He was now a wanted man. What was he going to do now?
Porthos seemed to understand the lost look in Athos’ eyes as he urgently told him “You can’t stay here.” Before taking Athos’ wrist and pulling him away from the three injured soldiers who were shouting after them.
“Where’s Aramis?” Athos asked as they ran, Porthos leading the way through twisting and turning alleys Athos had never used. It was rare to see Porthos without Aramis those days, and Athos was worrying that one of the three gypsies that had avoided capture and run had been their friend.
“I left him back at the Court.” Porthos replied, his voice jolting as they ran. “I knew the robbery was risky but Jean was confident he had it all figured out.” He snorted. “On hindsight I probably should have paid attention to my own worries.”
“I can’t believe you went along with it.” Athos bit out. “With all the patrols and…” He was unable to finish his sentence as Porthos yanked him back into the shadows of an alley, pressing him up against a wall with a hand over his mouth.
Athos looked silently at Porthos with surprise, and Porthos looked back with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, a warning in his expression, a moment before there were shouts and several figures ran past the end of the alley, missing the two men hiding in the shadows.
“Soldiers.” Porthos breathed, his hand hot on Athos’ face and his breath a warm caress on his face, standing with his body pressed up against Athos’.
Athos glanced down at the hand covering his mouth with a raised eyebrow. Porthos understood the gesture, slowly taking his hand away.
“Where are we going?” Athos whispered, finally wondering where Porthos was leading him.
“Where do you think?” Porthos asked, his voice equally quiet and urgent. “You can’t go back now.” His face crumpled slightly with regret and guilt, “I am so sorry about that, Athos.”
“It was bound to happen one day.” Athos shrugged, defeated, “I was at my wit’s end, so do not apologise. But I also cannot come to the Court with you now.”
“What?!” Porthos looked more wounded than Athos had ever seen him, “You must! There is a manhunt happening right now! Richelieu will be baying for your arrest. You will be welcomed at the Court.”
“I mean that we cannot go there together, right now,” Athos amended. “We have to split up. With me in this garb, we will only draw attention.”
“You cannot go back to your house.” Porthos watched him like he was mad. “They will be waiting for you.”
“I won’t.” Athos promised, though he was lying. “I will travel a separate way to the Court. I will meet you there.”
“Promise me you won’t go back to your house.” Porthos’ hands landed on his shoulders and squeezed them tightly.
More shouting forced them to quiet and push back against the wall again. Once the danger had passed Porthos said “The number of men is only going to increase. If you insist on splitting up then promise me you will see me at the Court before the night is ended.”
“I promise. Now go.” Athos gave Porthos a shove, but the taller man did not budge.
“My recklessness has caused this. Athos I am so so sorry.” Pothos ducked his head. “You have lost everything because of me.”
Athos felt that familiar warmth for the other man blossom in his chest; the knowledge that Porthos cared for him as much as he did for Porthos, “Not at all.” Athos corrected, putting his fingers under his chin and lifting Porthos’ head until their eyes met again. “In fact, the only thing I had left to lose was you, and I wasn’t going to let you leave me in this hellhole.” He quirked a smile.
Porthos regarded him, his open eye tracking Athos’ smile, before flicking up to his eyes and back down to his mouth. And that was when, to Athos’ upmost surprise and delight, Porthos’ hands cupped his face and he kissed him, the taller man pressing Athos back against the wall. Porthos kissed with his whole body, and it left Athos feeling like the weight of fear lifting from him for a moment.
That moment was broken when their shadowed spot was disturbed by something that had lit in the next street. Athos could almost see the group of soldiers holding torches, starting to search the side alleys.
“Come with me now.” Porthos tried again, and Athos could feel Porthos’ heart hammering, though it may well have been his as well, and he wasn’t sure whether it was due to the kiss, or the adrenaline of being on the run.
Athos. The criminal. It seemed completely absurd.
“It’s best that we split up and you know that.” Athos said, fisting his hands in the lapels of Porthos’ jacket and kissing him quickly, unsure as to how exactly the action felt so natural and easy, like he and Porthos’ had been (or should have been, Athos decided) doing it for years. Voices were growing louder and Athos knew it was only a matter of time before their alley was checked. Porthos knew it too. And they had more chance of both making it out alive if they were alone, and less likely to be spotted. “I will see you and Aramis at the Court. Trust me, ok?”
“I trust you.” Porthos said immediately, touching Athos’ face with light fingertips before taking off into the night.
Fill: Sanctuary 6b/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:34 am (UTC)The back of his house seemed quiet. It was odd, as Athos had imagined the whole building being surrounded. He picked his way across to the back window that he always left unhatched in case Porthos or Aramis came calling. He looked in through the glass, and his house looked dark inside. Curling his fingers under the window, he began to slowly edge it open. He had said to Porthos that he wouldn’t come back, but he had to. There were things here that he needed. If his life in the city was over and he had to leave his house, fine, but he did have a couple of possessions that he still cared for.
When the window was open enough, he crawled through, stealthy as a cat and then, easy as anything, he was in his house. He had to be fast though. If anyone had been watching the house and saw him enter, they could well spring a trap and have him surrounded in no time. He quickly crossed his kitchen. To walk smack bang into someone.
“What the?!” The person he had walked into growled, and suddenly Athos was met with Captain Treville, his face disbelieving and sincere in the dim light of the house. “Are you insane?!” The Captain hissed. “I did not think you would be mad enough to come back to the house. The whole city is looking out for you, to arrest you for treason!”
Athos stood motionless, poised to flee, unsure as to whether the Captain was going to turn him in or not. He and the Captain had grown close over Athos’ time as a soldier, and Athos hoped the Captain would be lenient on him now. If not Athos would be hanging by a rope at dawn.
“Phillipe and I had a disagreement.”
“Oh I am well aware of that. The front of your house is being watched, just in case you returned. I am supposed to arrest you if you cross the threshold.”
“I came in the back way, so does that not count?”
Treville sighed, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “No-one suspected there was a way through the back. Though I suppose that is how those gypsy friends of yours managed to pay you visits?”
Athos stared, speechless.
Treville snorted quietly. “You think I did not know? I myself am better connected than I led you to believe, just as you hid what you had to from me. The fact that both of us have the same loyalties however will not keep you safe if they catch you. I cannot talk you out of anymore.” Treville pushed a pack into Athos’ hands. “So for whatever god forsaken reason you thought you had to come back here for, get it done immediately, and then escape the way you came in. Get to the Court. It’s the only safe place for you now.”
“I will never be able to repay you for this, Captain.”
“Survive the night and count me repayed. Now go.”
Athos nodded, shedding his armour as he rushed up the stairs. He changed his clothes, stuffing more in the pack. He lifted the floorboard under his bed and grabbed the handfuls of money he had been keeping safe, and finally took his miniature portraits of his brother and parents before descending the stairs.
“I hope you make a better gypsy than you do a soldier.” Treville’s voice commented from the darkness as Athos made to make his escape back through the window.
He smiled, despite the hopeless situation.
He could see torches shining through the front windows of the house from people gathered outside. He didn’t have much time left. “I will see you again, Treville.”
“Just not arrested, I hope.”
“I hope so too.”
*
Athos was unfollowed to the entrance of the Court of Miracles. He had the map-pendant clasped in his hand more for comfort than direction. The sun was just breaching the sky when Athos reached the tombstone that marked the secret passageway. He had spent the whole night running and hiding, not wanting to make a break for the Court too early, just in case. He had promised Porthos that he would get to the Court before the night ended and he had kept his word, waiting until the last possible moment in order to truly make sure that he was not being followed; the task much easier in the early morning light.
The moment he entered the passageway under the tombstone he was expecting the ambush of men with blades that had met him the last time. Instead, he was met with a different ambush altogether.
A body barreled into him and he found himself in a tight embrace. “God, Athos,” Porthos’ relieved voice filled his ear. “I was beginning to think…”
“I told him to have more faith.” Aramis commented on Athos’ other side, and Athos found himself being released by Porthos only to have Aramis wrap his arms around him. “We were both so worried.” The breathy confession was spoken quietly, but they all heard it nonetheless.
“I did not want to risk being followed, I decided to wait it out until I was sure.” Athos explained, finding Aramis’ hand and giving it a squeeze. “I am sorry that you were worrying.”
“We are just glad to see you safe.” Aramis brought a hand to Athos’ neck, this thumb running over his pulse, before smiling coyly and drawing back slightly.
Athos took a look around and found that the three of them were the only people in the passage. “No welcome party this time?” He asked Porthos.
“No. We have guarded the entrance all night.” Aramis admitted. “We were waiting for you.”
Athos smiled fondly at Aramis, before his eyes found Porthos. Although their kisses earlier that night were still at the forefront of his mind, he was now not at all sure how the other man would react now that the adrenaline rush was over. Had it just been a spur of the moment action?
“Aramis was furious with me when I returned and told him what had happened.” Porthos told him, looking guilty. Athos suddenly noted that Porthos’ temple was no longer bloody and was bandaged up – Aramis’ handiwork, undoubtedly – though Porthos’ black eye was beyond saving at that point, and would just be a waiting game to recover.
“Well I could have lost both of you tonight!” Aramis said, voice sharp all of a sudden.
Athos saw Porthos flinch under Aramis’ glare, never one to take well to being at the end of Aramis’ anger. “Well now you have both of us.” Athos saved.
Aramis sent him a dazzling smile, mood changing instantly. “I am so glad you are here. You were too kind to be one of Richelieu's soldiers.”
“Far too kind.” Porthos agreed. Porthos stepped forward again, until he was in front of Athos, “I did not get the chance to thank you for saving my life. It seems I owe you once again.”
“You do not owe me anythi…” Athos started, and then stopped short in surprise when Porthos captured his lips in a kiss.
“I can pay you back in those.” Porthos suggested, sounding hopeful.
Athos startled, leaning forward slightly into Porthos, whilst also seeking out Aramis, worried what the other man’s reaction would be.
He was surprised to find the other man smiling wickedly. “As you both gave me such a fright last night, you are welcome to repay me in a similar manner.” He declared, sending them a wink. He then moved in to place a peck on Athos’ cheek. “Thank you for saving Porthos, we would be lost without him.” The gratitude in Aramis’ eyes, plus what he had implied, made Athos’ wonder whether he could Aramis too. To have both Porthos and Aramis as his. It was something he had never dared dream.
Unaware of all the thoughts and feelings warring in Athos’ head and chest, Aramis took Athos’ hand, “Welcome to the Court, officially.” He said, before dragging Athos down the passageway, asking him about his ‘daring escape’ across the city.
Athos looked back at Porthos with a raised eyebrow. Porthos was watching them both fondly and he shrugged, making Athos wonder, not for the first time, how close Porthos and Aramis had truly grown whilst down in the Court. The thought made his stomach flutter with aroused interest, as it always did. However, the thoughts faltered when Porthos’ eyes dropped to the bag slung over Athos’ shoulder.
“Athos.” Porthos growled warningly. “You went back to your house didn’t you?”
“Erm…yes…well, about that…”
Fill: Sanctuary 7a/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:57 am (UTC)The boat slipped silently over the River Seine. The occupiers of the boat; four men, a woman and a boy of fifteen, were travelling under the cover of darkness. The only sound they made was the quiet slosh of the oars steering the boat towards the bank. The water was black and flat, the banks under a covering of snow and no-one in the boat dared speak.
The boy huddled further into his cloak, pressed up along his father’s side. He was afraid. All the people in the boat were. He could sense it. His father pretended not to be, but he was. The boy knew. They were attempting to enter Paris, in order to find shelter at the Court of Miracles. They had to do it discreetly. Gypsies were no longer welcome in Paris. They would have to be smuggled further into the city, before attempting to find the Court.
The boy shivered against the chill of the air and in anxious anticipation as the boat bumped the bank and the man rowing the boat motioned for them all to get out.
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked as they were, he nodded at them and beckoned them forward, holding out his hand for their money. “For safe passage into Paris.” He said gruffly.
As the men of the group fumbled with cold fingers in their pockets, the boy noticed movement under the bridge a little further down the bank. He reached out and grasped his father’s sleeve with a gasp of fear.
His father glanced up before starting back, dragging the boy along with him, as armed men rushed out from under the bridge, followed by a man upon a horse.
“Judge Richelieu…” The man who was supposed to be taking them safely into Paris muttered in terror, and it was clear that he had been unaware of the trap that had been laid for them.
The boy looked at the man on the horse. Looked at the face that would haunt his life for years to come. Richelieu had a stern face, with unforgiving eyes, his greying hair shining slightly in the moonlight. Richelieu wore black, and his horse was the same in colour, a monstrous thick beast that the boy was also afraid of, despite being well acquainted with horses from a farming life so long ago back in Gascony.
Grey eyes regarded them coolly. “Take these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice.” Richelieu ordered of his men.
Before his men could even advance, the boy felt his arm being grabbed, and his father telling him “Charles, run!” And then he and his father were running for their lives.
Charles knew that they were being pursued by Richelieu when he heard the thunder of hooves behind them. His father held onto his arm, leading them through twisting streets, over fences and through small cracks hoping that the Judge would not be able to follow them on horseback.
Charles’ father did not know Paris, so Charles was uncertain of where his father hoped to hide, until his eyes fell upon the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles knew then, that they were going to claim sanctuary.
The ground was slippery from the ice and snow and still Charles and his father ran. Charles’ breath was freezing in his throat, tearing from him in harsh pants and his chest burned with exertion. His legs ached and his father was clearly not coping as well either, being older in years now, but still they ran. They did not dare stop. The streets still echoed the sound of hooves, making it impossible to tell whether they had lost Richelieu or not, and he did not know how far behind them the Judge was. He did not dare look back for fear of stumbling.
Of all the men their group had prepared to run into as they entered Paris they had never suspected the Judge himself. He was the man of nightmares among the Travelling community, and to Charles he was the epitome of the evil in the world. Charles felt his heart clench as he let himself fleetingly wonder whether their travelling companions had also managed to escape. He and his father had not known them until a few days previously, but they had all had a common hope, and a common enemy. He hoped they had gotten away.
His father pulled him up the steps of the Notre Dame and finally, with great relief, Charles and his father were at the door. His father tried to open it but it was locked. Charles saw his father flash a panicked glance at him, before his father began hammering on the door “Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!”
There was an ominous ‘neigh’ of a horse, far too close by, and Charles whipped around and to his horror, saw the Judge’s horse galloping towards them through the snow. Charles felt his arm being grabbed again as his father gave up on the Cathedral and pulled him in the opposite direction to the Judge, back down the steps and away.
But suddenly the Judge was upon them. Charles found himself being knocked aside by his father and Charles could do nothing but watch helplessly as in a matter of a second, the Judge kicked out with his boot. Charles watched his father fall back down the stone steps. Charles watched his father not get back up again.
“Father?” Charles’ heart was in his throat and the wind was roaring in his ears. Charles ran and skidded to his father’s side. “Father!” He cried out, when he saw the snow was red under his father’s head and his father was not breathing. “No!” He screamed, tears spilling from his eyes. “Please, no, father! Get up! Please! Get up!”
In his shock and grief he paid no heed to the horse towering over him, until its rider dismounted and he was being hauled up and away from his father by the scruff of his cloak.
“No!” Charles screeched, struggling and attempting to reach his father again. “Please! No!”
He was turned in an unforgiving hold and suddenly found himself eye to eye with the devil. “You killed him!” Charles gasped through his tears.
The Judge did not even flinch. His cold stare regarded Charles, assessing, cold and calculating. “Another gypsy child to roam the streets.” He seemed to think about it for a moment. “We cannot have that.” He looked around, not relinquishing his vice-like grip on Charles.
“Please let me go.” Charles begged.
“I will boy. I will.” The Judge said as though he had reached some kind of decision, suddenly dragging Charles forward.
Charles winced in pain at being manhandled so, his feet scuffing against the floor in his fight to stop being pulled along. He glanced up through his hair to see where the Judge was taking him, and his eyes landed upon a stone well not far from the bottom of Notre Dame's steps.
“No.” Charles whispered. With a sickening dread he knew that the only way the Judge was letting him go was down. Down down down in a deep dark well to drown. To be rid of another homeless child. To cover up his murder. “No!”
They reached the well and the Judge did not say a word, forcefully pushing Charles half over the lip of the stone ring. Charles looked down into the darkness and cried, but he did not cry for mercy. He knew he would get none from this man. Judge Richelieu lifted Charles up, trying to get him over, and Charles shot his arms out, bracing himself on the lip of the well, trying to keep his feet on the floor.
“Richelieu!” A voice cracked the silence like lightening, and suddenly, Charles was released. His feet met the floor once more and he collapsed to the snow in relief.
He looked up to find a soldier in elaborate armour standing on the steps of the Notre Dame, near to his father’s body. The man was watching the Judge and Charles in bewilderment.
“Not now, Treville.” The Judge barked out.
“What have you done, Richelieu?!” Treville demanded. “You have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame! And about to drown a child?!”
“I am guiltless.” The Judge said. “They ran. I pursued.”
“And now you would add this boy’s blood to your guilt?”
The Judge looked down at Charles with those dead eyes. Charles ducked from the Judges’ reach and rushed across the stones again until he could collapse by his father once again, at the feet of this soldier who might just be his saviour.
“My conscience is clear.” The Judge said to the soldier.
“You can tell yourself that, and tell that to your men,” Treville argued, “But the eyes of Notre Dame have seen what you have done here tonight, and as a religious man, Judge, I can imagine that you would not wish for them to see your crimes.”
Charles glanced up to watch the monster look up at the statues and the gargoyles that lined the exterior of the Notre Dame. And he finally thought he saw some kind of emotion flicker across the Judge’s face. It looked slightly like fear.
“Keep your immortal soul intact.” Treville suggested. “Let the boy go. You have already taken his father. Show him mercy.”
Charles ran his hands through his father’s hair, damp with snow and blood, and felt that his father’s skin had grown cold. Tears dripped down Charles' cheeks still. He was unaware of the silent battle that was taking place over his head.
Finally the Judge snapped, “Fine. I will let the boy go, for now. But I will find him again. Mark my words Captain. And he will be dealt with properly.” He mounted his horse. “I will be sending soldiers back here as soon as I come across any, so I want you to dispose of these gypsies by the time they arrive. Understand, Captain?”
“Yes Sir.” The Captain forced out through clenched teeth.
Charles flinched as the horse reared and thundered out of sight, taking the monster that would haunt Charles’ dreams with him.
Charles started backwards in fright when the soldier knelt down at his side.
“It’s ok.” The man soothed, raising empty hands in a placating gesture. “It’s ok, boy. What’s your name?”
“d’Artagnan.” Charles whispered. “Charles d’Artagnan.”
“d’Artagnan.” The Captain repeated. “It is not safe for you here. You must run. Now.”
“My father…” Charles’ fingers clenched into his father’s cloak. “You can’t!”
“I must take his body to be buried.” Treville rushed urgently, “And soldiers will be here soon. Do not trust any soldier in this city who is not me. They will arrest you. Do you understand me?”
Charles nodded, his eyes clouded with tears and he flung himself forwards onto his father’s body. “What will I do?” He choked. “Where will I go?”
“Find one of your own people, they perform in the streets daily. The first one you see, tell them that you need to see Athos. Do you understand?”
“Athos?” Charles repeated.
“Yes. Remember that name. They will take you to Athos, and he will help you. You will be safe. They will take you to the Court.”
Charles looked up at the soldier with fear. “But I don’t…”
“You must go now! Leave your father with me, he is in good hands, you have my word.”
“I…” Charles’ voice wavered and broke. He reached down and slid his father’s ring from his cold finger, clutching it in his hand.
“Now!” The Captain insisted, finally giving up on patience and hauling Charles to his feet. “Run, boy.” He ordered. “d’Artagnan, run!”
And just like that, Charles became d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan was once again running for his life. Fleeing from the Notre Dame and his father’s death, but still following the same orders that both his father and Captain Treville had given him – Run.
He found an entertainer just as the sun came up on the streets of Paris. The streets were mostly empty, but he saw a woman at the corner of a building, setting an array of items out on a blanket. “Please.” d’Artagnan gasped as he reached her. He had been running all night. He was cold, his chest ached, his feet and legs burned, and above all, his heart was broken. “Please, I need to find Athos. Will you take me to Athos?!”
The woman looked at him in surprise. “Athos?” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, “What do you want with Athos?”
*
Athos woke up with Porthos’ arm over his waist, and Aramis’ legs tangled with his own. He stretched languidly, careful not to disturb the other men. They had slept in late, but they were not needed out on the streets that day, they had duties in the Court to attend to.
It had been surprising really, how well Athos had fitted into the Court in just over six months. He had found himself well suited to the life, and he found it more comfortable than the Noble and Solider lives that he had tried to live before.
Everyone had welcomed him into the Court after all he had done for the gypsy community, and he was now just as respected as Aramis in the Court. Porthos, of course, was second in command only to Charon and the King of the Court, and Athos had found that if he had Porthos’ trust, he was guaranteed most other people’s trust too. Athos had proven himself a talented musician also, now performing on the streets of Paris, avoiding capture and living in a completely opposite world to the one he had occupied only half a year before.
Aramis had also decided that Athos looked very good in the gypsy attire and had taken great joy in experimenting in lining Athos’ eyes with kohl, similar to Aramis’ own, and dressing him in the loosest shirts and tightest trousers he could find. Porthos, on the other hand, liked to see both Athos and Aramis in lots of gold. Aramis wore bangles and rings and earrings, and Athos himself now sported a small hoop in his earlobe. It had not taken long for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to easily fall into their three-way relationship. It just seemed natural. Not that it would be deemed natural by many others, and there was an unspoken acknowledgment in the Court that yes, the three men were close, but any further relationship between the three was never mentioned (no-one commented, for example, about the three sharing a tent, far away from the other sleeping arrangements). The three, already titled the ‘Inseparables’ due to how close they were, kept their intimate relationship for privacy. And it was these mornings that Athos loved more than anything, a lazy morning with the most precious people to him in the world.
Aramis stirred beside him, his eyes squinting open. “Morning.” He said, sending Athos the most dazzling smile.
“Morning.” Athos responded, propping himself up on his elbow slightly to languidly kiss Aramis to full wakefulness. Aramis hummed happily, shifting so that Athos could drop to his back and Aramis could slide on top of him. Athos traced light fingers down Aramis’ sides, feeling the younger man shiver on top of him. When Athos’ hands found the scarred flesh on Aramis’ side, Aramis gasped and pushed his face into Athos’ neck.
“Still sensitive there?” Athos whispered.
He felt Aramis nod against him.
Athos kissed Aramis’ dark curls, feeling lips move to his collarbone in response.
“Well, this is a pleasant sight to wake to.” Porthos smiling voice had Athos and Aramis both turning their heads towards him.
“Morning, love.” Aramis offered, leaning down to kiss Porthos.
Porthos then moved to kiss Athos likewise, before collapsing back down to the blankets and pillows. “What time is it?”
“Not time to get up yet.” Aramis informed him, turning back to run his tongue over Athos’ skin.
Athos groaned. “I agree.”
Porthos laughed, his eyes crinkling, “You know we have duties this morning.”
Aramis sighed dramatically, dropping his head with a thud onto Athos’ chest. “If you insist, darling.”
Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:57 am (UTC)Athos was busy discussing the food stores with Flea, when he heard the shout of “Athos!” from across the court.
Athos looked around to find Elaine rushing towards him, pulling somebody along behind her. Her shout and hurried movements caused quite the stir, as people’s attentions were caught and they began to follow.
“What’s going on?” Aramis asked as he came up behind Athos.
Athos shrugged and walked toward Elaine to meet her halfway. The middle-aged motherly woman stopped, panting heavily, when she reached them. “Athos.” She repeated, “This young one found me this morning.” She then ushered a boy out from behind her to stand in front of Athos.
The boy looked about fifteen or sixteen, quite tall already, with black hair, tanned skin and dark brown eyes that looked around him in a nervous mixture of trepidation, wonder and sadness. His eyes then locked onto Athos.
“You are Athos?” He asked.
“I am.” Athos said in confusion.
As though given permission to let go, the boy dropped to his knees and gave a grief-stricken moan, clutching his face in his hands. Athos startled and looked back to find Aramis and Porthos watching him in stunned silence, along with most of the Court.
Not knowing what else to do, or how this mysterious boy knew his name, Athos knelt down before the boy. “Who are you?”
“My name is d’Artagnan.” The boy said, tear-filled eyes looking straight into Athos’ and Athos could see a whirlwind of emotion in those dark eyes. Eyes that looked too old and haunted for the boy’s years. “I’m from Gascony.”
“He was travelling with a small group of our kind,” Elaine informed Athos when d’Artagnan said no more. “Entered Paris last night by the water and walked straight into a trap. Athos, Judge Richelieu was among the men waiting.”
Athos head shot up in surprise. “What?!” Richelieu did not often go out on patrol. He did not like to do the dirty work himself. Athos found himself looking at the boy in wonderment, “Then how are you here?”
“He chased us to Notre Dame.” d’Artagnan’s voice was wobbling, “He killed my father.” He gasped as the first tears began to fall from already reddened eyes, “On the steps.”
Athos heard Aramis gasp aloud behind him, and Athos spared a glance to make sure that he was alright, memories of finding Aramis dying on those same steps flooding his mind. Porthos had taken hold of Aramis’ arm, keeping him grounded.
“And then he tried to drown me.” d’Artagnan’s next words had Athos’ attention flying back.
“What?!” Aramis cried aloud this time, rushing forwards to kneel by the boy also, taking his hand, “You poor thing, I am so sorry.”
“How are you not dead?” Porthos asked in stunned surprise, regarding the boy with interest and joining Athos and Aramis on the floor with the boy.
“I was saved. Captain Treville…” d’Artagnan paused, clearly waiting for the reaction of recognition from Athos, and once finding what he was looking for carried on “He stopped him. He said he’d take care of my father’s body.” He took a deep breath and his hands were shaking slightly in Aramis’ hold. “And then he told me to find you, Athos.”
Athos nodded, absolutely stunned by the terrible losses that had befallen the boy at Richelieu’s hands. “Treville did right. You are safe here, d’Artagnan.” He placed his hand over Aramis and d’Artagnan’s. Athos looked to Porthos for support, Porthos always knew what to say.
For once, it appeared Athos had said the right thing, as all Porthos did was join his hand to the pile and repeat, “You are safe here with us, d’Artagnan.”
Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-16 02:41 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-16 03:11 pm (UTC)Thank you, anon. I am glad you are enjoying it!
Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-17 10:45 am (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-18 07:23 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-18 06:13 am (UTC)I love how you tied the two stories together with Savoy and D'Artagnan's father. And obviously I can't wait for the Feast of Fools!
Re: Fill: Sanctuary 7b/?
Date: 2015-02-18 07:24 pm (UTC)Fill: Sanctuary 8/?
Date: 2015-03-05 10:38 pm (UTC)(Just so you are aware, for this chapter on ao3, there are parts 7a&7b at the beginning, with new fill afterward). Hope you enjoy!
Re: Fill: Sanctuary 9/?
Date: 2015-03-17 06:45 pm (UTC)