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round 3

Round 3

Welcome 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.

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Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
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Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post

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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.

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Announcement: A blanket spoiler warning is necessary for prompts pertaining to season 2. Just season 2 Spoilers in the subject line will do.

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http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/557.html

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Free For All Round 1
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html

Page 116 of 138

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Epilogue: One Day

(Nine months later)

“How did it go?” d’Artagnan asks the moment Athos comes in. Athos’ mate is seated in a comfortable chair in the antechamber to their rooms in the Palais-Cardinal, reading yet another text on Omegan medicine, their offspring asleep in another room.

Athos rolls his shoulders, shrugging off the still-uncomfortable weight of the Comte de la Fère. His resumption of his noble title has been a crucial part of maintaining Louis’ new proclamation. The expulsion of the Inquisition is as much a political matter as a military one, and every ancient noble who will stand forward proudly and declare themselves a throwback is another pole of support for Louis. But that doesn’t mean that Athos is comfortable resuming the role he’d left behind with his odem’s death.

“Well enough,” Athos says finally. “The Duc de Bouillion is leaving France for Sedan. He says he won’t try anything, but he can’t stay here.”

“That must have hurt the King,” d’Artagnan says.

“Some,” Athos agrees. “But he’ll be all right as long as Frédéric keeps his word and leaves in peace. We’d be hard pressed to fight another front.”

Predictably, Louis’ proclamation had not been well received in all quarters. In one stroke he’d abolished the Inquisition within France’s shores, outlawed the convents and the sterilization of throwbacks, and modified the laws of citizenry and inheritance to apply to all people.

Rome is furious. The other nations with strong Inquisition presences are building their armies. France has spent the last nine months scrambling on the military side of things, bracing for a war that might rage for thirty years.

The political situation is similarly chaotic. Many of France’s former allies had repudiated their treaties as soon as news of Louis’ proclamation had reached their ears. It’s balanced in some cases by new alliances with other countries who had resisted the Inquisition. Since Louis’ proclamation, a new treaty has been signed with Savoy, and they’re in talks with England. But the enmity of Spain is not a threat lightly to be counterbalanced.

Within France, peace is holding generally, but civil unrest is widespread. In an attempt at fairness, Louis had proclaimed new inheritance laws that ignored sex and gender alike in favor of strict primogeniture. It probably is the best way, Athos can admit, but in the short term it pleases absolutely no one. Beta children have been suddenly disenfranchised in favor of long-hidden Alpha and Omega siblings, whom they had always been taught were animalistic throwbacks. Omegas who had never expected to inherit have suddenly found themselves the heirs to businesses and titles. And younger Alphas, who had expected to assert their birthrights under the old laws of Alphaic primogeniture, are furious at still being denied.

Squads of Louis’ army are circulating continuously throughout the interior, putting out fires and fighting brigands. Civil servants are mediating inheritance and property squabbles that have multiplied tenfold overnight. And every noble scion with any shred of connection to one of the ancient lines has poured into Paris, Alpha, Beta and Omega alike, to scheme and backstab for position in the new regime.

“It’s a mess,” Athos summarizes to d’Artagnan now. “But…” he shakes his head, amazed. “The peace has held for another day. We haven’t been invaded. There is not yet civil war. And we are all still alive.”

D’Artagnan smiles. “Another day,” he says, kissing his mate chastely on the lips.

A cry makes itself heard from behind one of the closed doors. From the pitch it’s Thérèse, their Alpha pup. She and her brother Charles had been born three months ago. They had benefitted not only from Aramis’ scholarly knowledge but also the practical experience of Jeanne, a trained crisis midwife who also happens to be the wife of Cahusac, one of Richelieu’s old lieutenants. Cahusac and Jeanne had left France after their marriage. But the Resistance is a hard thing to leave behind. After ten relatively peaceful years raising their offspring, they’d joined Mazarin’s household when Richelieu’s alphew had gone to Italy to enter the seminary. Mazarin himself is on his way back from Italy – a career in the Catholic Church under Richelieu’s patronage no longer being in his future – though he plans to stay some months first in Bavaria where his carrier Andreas and the rest of his family still live. Ultimately Mazarin intends to settle in Paris and continue his work under Richelieu. Both the newly independent Church of France and the domestic and foreign policy of Louis’ court need a strong, canny heir.

Under Aramis and Jeanne’s cool direction, d’Artagnan’s labor had been easy, lasting only five hours before pup and child alike had been brought safely forth and nestled in their carrier’s arms. Merely having a more experienced midwife present had been an enormous relief to all involved. Jeanne now spends much of her time travelling through Paris and the surrounding countryside, helping carriers who need her experience and training others in throwback medicine while she waits for her family to rejoin her with Mazarin.

For his part, Athos had spent every minute he could spare for the first five months after Louis’ proclamation cleaning and preparing these chambers for his small family. Porthos and Adele had helped, the Alphaic nesting instinct spreading among all of them as they’d reaffirmed their bonds as a pack. Even Richelieu had found time to join them, having the cribs brought up from his family’s estates and erected in the small room selected to be a nursery.

“Won’t you want them for your pups?” d’Artagnan had asked in shock, when he’d found out what Richelieu had done.

The Cardinal had shrugged this off. “There are more cribs in France than just these,” he’d said, evading the real question deftly and fooling absolutely nobody.

Thérèse squalls again. D’Artagnan shakes his head and disappears behind the nursery door. Athos follows him more slowly, lingering in the doorway and watching him soothe Thérèse. She’s much more active than her brother, already showing the naturally aggressive instincts of her sex. But Charles usually manages to get what he wants in the end by using his big brown eyes – Thomas’ eyes – to his advantage. It’s a pattern Athos suspects will endure all of their lives.

Athos thinks again, as he has a dozen times since d’Artagnan’s heat left him carrying, about going back to la Fère. Rebuilding the château of his ancestral line and raising his family there.

Once again he discards the idea. His pack is here. Athos isn’t the only one among them with an hereditary estate, but their life’s work will keep them all in Paris more than anywhere else, and so they have all chosen to build their dens here, too. The Palais-Cardinal has been massively expanded with wings to accommodate their growing pack. Richelieu and Treville remain in the main house, as head Alpha and Omega, where for the past few months everyone has been involved in building the nursery for their soon-to-be-arriving pups. Athos and d’Artagnan have laid claim to the west wing, Porthos and Aramis the south, Charlotte and Adele the north.

There had been talk of building an east wing for Richelieu’s alphew Mazarin and his household. But with Mazarin’s pack growing nearly as fast as Richelieu’s, it had eventually been deemed more practical to start a new den. Bernajoux and Boisrenard are overseeing the house they will eventually move into, rejoining their packmate Cahusac. The space they’ll leave will be filled soon enough with those Musketeers who wish to claim clan affiliation with Treville and Richelieu. Havet, Brasseur, and their two pups are chief among them. There must be something in the water: both Brasseur and Cahusac’s wife Jeanne are expecting, too.

The east wing and several annexes remain empty land and a set of plans in the Cardinal’s desk. One day their pups will grow and find mates of their own, and they’ll need the space. Impossible to imagine Thérèse and Charles that grown up, though. Right now they’re just two downy bundles, back to sleeping peacefully as d’Artagnan comes back out and closes the door softly behind him.

“How was your day?” Athos asks his mate.

“Well enough,” d’Artagnan replies. He smiles a little, which Athos is glad to see. Handling two infants is a full-time job, and while he knows d’Artagnan loves their offspring dearly, it’s been hard for the young Omega to be sidelined during such a crucial time in the history of their people.

“Constance visited,” d’Artagnan adds.

“How’s she doing?”

“Scared,” d’Artagnan says ruefully. “She wanted to know what it had been like being pupped. I told her the truth, but maybe that was a mistake. She really didn’t like the part about the vomiting.”

“Not all carriers vomit,” Athos points out.

“And I told her that, too. But she was looking pretty green already by that point. Good thing we hadn’t had lunch. She went back to the palace instead of staying to eat.”

“Hopefully she felt better there,” Athos murmurs. He doesn’t doubt that she did. Constance is carrying the heir to France. Every servant and most of the nobles in the Louvre will drop everything if Constance sneezes.

Anne’s confidante is the solution to the problem of neither French monarch being a carrier. The young woman is absolutely devoted to the Queen, and she’d always been well liked in court circles for her sweet, gentle nature. Louis had already been fond of her; for over thirty years Constance had been the only person in France, beside the King himself, who had known Anne’s true sex. It hadn’t taken much of a nudge from the Cardinal for both rulers to agree that Constance should carry the heir.

Supposedly the pup is Louis’, but Athos recalls the way Anne had grasped Constance’s hands when confronting Toreno, and it makes him wonder. But whatever the arrangement, Louis’ approval is obvious and enthusiastic, so Athos keeps his wonderings to himself.

“Any news of Treville?” he asks instead. Their clan’s head Omega is two full weeks beyond the usual gestation period, with no signs of being close. Everyone is worried. Jeanne affects exasperation and tells Richelieu that every baby arrives on their own schedule, but even she’s taken to going about lately with her lips pressed tight together and her bag of supplies close at hand.

D’Artagnan shakes his head. “Nothing yet.” He manages another smile. “I suppose he saw what fun I’ve been having, and decided to put it off a little.”

Athos hides a smile of his own. If d’Artagnan has been finding it difficult to set politics and soldiering aside for a time, Treville is going to find it absolutely impossible.

“I hear the Richelieus’ nanny is on her way back from Russia,” Athos offers. Alphonse’s and Andreas’ offspring are all well grown now, and both of the Cardinal’s older odems are past their bearing years. The Beta lines that had served as midwives and caregivers for generations of Richelieus are returning to France, now that France is once again safe for those who follow the old ways.

The Cardinal had written to his odems to invite them to return, too. But they’ve both built lives elsewhere, and the struggle for their people won’t end with France’s liberation. There are still throwbacks born in other nations who depend on the Underground to survive. Their work isn’t done yet.

Athos doesn’t regret it. Between the joining of his pack with Richelieu’s, Mazarin’s anticipated return from Italy with his household, and the pack of Musketeers that also claim clanship, Athos has more family than he’d ever dared hope. He hates to admit it, but more would be overwhelming.

Though he’ll gladly accept the services of an experienced nanny for their young. Pups are going to outnumber adults soon with the way the carriers in their clan are all expecting.

“I’m glad help is coming,” d’Artagnan admits. “I love my offspring – ”

“I never doubted it for a second,” Athos soothes, holding his mate close. “I understand completely. I also want to make the world a safer place for them.”

“That’s it exactly,” d’Artagnan says, burrowing closer. “I have to know they’ll never face what we did. I need to be sure, Athos. I need to see it for myself.”

“You will,” Athos promises. He kisses his mate again, much less chastely this time. “You will.”

Asleep curled around each other, Athos and d’Artagnan are awoken just past midnight, not by the wails of their offspring but by the banging of their chamber door as it’s thrown open against the far wall. “Lady Jeanne bids you come quickly,” the servant cries, bearing in a taper and lighting the lamps quickly. “Madame’s labor has started.”

D’Artagnan nearly falls out of bed in his haste. “Will you be all right?” he asks his mate, jumping into his trousers and reaching for his shirt.

“We will all be fine,” Athos assures him, reaching for his own clothes. Roused by the noise, Charles and Thérèse begin to stir. “Go on.”

D’Artagnan kisses him quickly, then runs out the door. He’s been studying Omegan medicine from Aramis and Jeanne, and from the books that the various noble houses of France have preserved, which have become available in the wake of Louis’ proclamation. The Cardinal is having all of the ancient texts that have survived copied many times over, and distributed widely to all who wish to read them.

“It’s a little late to become a doctor,” Aramis had said in amusement, when d’Artagnan, then eight months pupped, had demanded access to all the medical texts available.

“I need to know what’s going to happen to me when I go into labor,” d’Artagnan had said in determination. “I need to know what to do with my pups.”

Aramis had hardly been able to argue with that. Now d’Artagnan, with the added weight of personal experience, is in a fair way to becoming a competent field midwife. Jeanne says he has a gift for it and that there would be a career waiting for him if he ever decides to stop Musketeering.

Athos finishes dressing and goes to pick up his offspring, who have progressed to full-blown wailing. Charlotte comes in in time to stop Thérèse from rolling right off the table where her sire had just put her.

“She’s rolling over already?” Charlotte says in astonishment. Then something closes behind her eyes and she passes Thérèse hastily over to Athos. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Athos says, wishing he knew the right words to comfort his former mate. Charlotte loves her clan, and its offspring in particular. But she’s never able to look at them without being reminded of what the Inquisition had stolen from her.

“I wanted to tell you not to worry about going to the Louvre today,” she says, carefully looking anywhere but at Charles and Thérèse. “Jussac says there’s no need. I’m going with Adele and I’ll handle your part. You focus on taking care of your offspring and helping Jean, all right?”

“Thank you,” Athos says sincerely. He doesn’t question Charlotte’s desire to be away from the Palais-Cardinal when Treville whelps. She’d stayed away for d’Artagnan’s labor, too. It’s counter to the usual Omegan instinct towards carrying and nurturing, but it’s far too painful a reminder of what she’s lost.

“Send a runner if anything happens,” she says. Charlotte darts forward to give him a quick hug, and her scent still smells like flowers after the rain, though the downpour has changed from a gentle shower to a terrible storm. But she’s not his anymore, and so it’s easy to let her go, let her run out of the room and back to Adele. Athos looks down at Charles and Thérèse and allows them to fill his heart, pushing all of his old losses aside for a time.

The day drags on long. Charles and Thérèse seem to sense something is afoot and compensate by being particularly demanding. By nightfall, Athos is exhausted and no longer able to resist their cries. He takes them across the Palais-Cardinal complex to the main building and down the long hallway.

Richelieu’s office has been turned into a staging area. Piles of linen and empty basins are stacked on top of the desk, and the fireplace is stoked high for the benefit of the iron pot suspended over it. Various servants come and go. Even through the thick oaken door that bars the way to their bedchamber, Athos can hear Treville. The Omega sounds like he’d be screaming if he had the voice left to do it. Even the groans Athos can hear are agonized.

“What’s going on?” Athos asks a passing servant, keeping his voice calm so his offspring don’t catch on to his worry.

“I’m not sure, my Lord,” the servant says. “I can ask your mate to step out?”

“Please do,” Athos says, putting his fear of being selfish aside. D’Artagnan has been in that chamber since just past midnight. If there’s any real danger, he won’t come out; otherwise, it’s Athos’ responsibility to make sure his mate is cared for too.

The servant goes back in. A few moments later, d’Artagnan appears. He’s drawn and tired. The strain around his eyes eases slightly when he sees Athos and the babes. D’Artagnan takes Charles into his own arms and sinks down on a settee, breathing slowly.

“What’s going on?” Athos asks again.

“It’s taking too long,” d’Artagnan says quietly. “There’s no way to tell what’s really going on, but Treville should at least be pushing right now. Aramis is worried too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Jeanne thinks drugs may help. Relaxants. To loosen the passage.”

Athos frowns. “When is Jeanne going to give Treville the relaxants?”

“We did it just before you arrived. Treville will sleep soon. Jeanne says that’s normal. He’ll wake in a few hours and then hopefully…” d’Artagnan trails off. Pasting a smile on his face he goes on, “So it’s good, your getting here just now. Aramis says I’m not to come back for a few hours. Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Athos sets Thérèse down next to d’Artagnan and goes to the kitchen.

He finds Porthos already there, putting together trays. Athos goes to help him in silence, pulling down cheeses and smoked meats. Simple food. The servants could cook, but no one has the stomach for anything beyond plain fare.

“Aramis says it’s not going well,” Porthos says eventually, breaking the silence.

Athos hums noncommittally. It doesn’t take the insight of an oracle to see how worried Porthos is. Not just for Treville, either, though Porthos would be as devastated by the loss of their pack’s head Omega as any of them. But Aramis is six months pupped himself. His and Porthos’ long struggle to conceive had finally borne fruit shortly after Louis’ proclamation. Once the Inquisition had been expelled Aramis could gain access to the necessary remedies. In fact, he’d benefited from the same drug that had been used to such devastating effect against Treville, though this time properly gathered and dispensed.

Porthos obviously doesn’t like the stresses Aramis is putting himself under to help Treville whelp. Aramis isn’t exactly young himself for a carrier. And Porthos can’t possibly be calm about the idea that his mate might be watching another Omega struggle and die in the whelping even now, pups still trapped within him.

Athos shuts down that line of thinking fast, before his mind starts changing the image around to feature d’Artagnan, or, worse, Charlotte. “Aramis is a pessimist,” he says instead.

“Oh yeah?” Porthos growls. “What does d’Artagnan say?”

Athos hesitates. “He says Jeanne still has things they can try.”

“Experimental things,” Porthos says darkly. “Untried, dangerous things.”

Athos doesn’t answer. He takes two of the trays, and Porthos takes the others. They walk back to Richelieu’s office in silence. D’Artagnan thanks them for the food and they all eat, still silent, no one willing to speak first and let the fear spill out.

The chamber behind them is silent. Treville must be sleeping. Aramis emerges eventually, looking tense and worried. Porthos immediately guides him to a chair and puts food and water into his hands.

“How it’s going?” d’Artagnan asks nervously. Porthos glares at him for interrupting.

A mouthful of cheese is chewed and swallowed before Aramis answers. “No change,” he admits, shoulders slumping. “The first pup may be stuck… it hasn’t passed down into the whelping passage yet, and it should have.”

“Any bleeding?” Athos makes himself ask, and doesn’t resist the urge to hold Thérèse closer.

“Not yet,” Aramis says. “But there’s been no progress in three hours, despite everything we’ve tried.”

“Let him eat,” Porthos says, holding a sausage to Aramis’ lips.

D’Artagnan breathes out shakily, pressing into Athos and staring down at Charles as if the sight of his own child will erase the fear of what might be happening behind the closed door. D’Artagnan’s experience of whelping had been relatively easy. Jeanne had said she’d never seen an Omega so flexible, bloodline be damned. She’d had Thérèse out of d’Artagnan inside an hour. Aramis, under her direction, had taken longer with Charles and grumbled about it to cover his relief. Treville isn’t being anywhere near so lucky.

Aramis finishes the food Porthos had handed him and shakes his head when his mate tries to press another serving on him. “I’ll just throw up if I try,” he says wearily, draining the flask of water Porthos had provided.

“Shall I go in for a while?” d’Artagnan offers. “Let you rest?”

Porthos immediately voices his approval of this idea, drowning out Athos’ own frown of disapproval, but both their opinions become moot when Aramis shakes his head. “Your pups need you,” he says. It’s true; Thérèse and Charles are whimpering, demanding their carrier. “Jeanne and I are taking shifts. Treville is still sleeping. I’ll be all right.”

“Send for me if I’m needed,” d’Artagnan orders.

Aramis ruffles his adopted odem’s hair. “Of course,” he says, and Athos doesn’t point out how badly he’s lying.

Porthos doesn’t either. He just helps Aramis get back to his feet, ungainly with his own swollen stomach. “Is everything all right still otherwise?”

“If this goes on for much longer I think France will dissolve into civil war,” Athos says, trying to lighten the mood. It falls flat. Richelieu hasn’t left Treville’s side since his labor had started, which is as it should be, but the new order in France isn’t stable enough. Treville’s labored sixteen hours so far with nothing to show for it. So far there haven’t been any political crises Jussac and Charlotte haven’t been able to deal with, but if it takes another sixteen…

Aramis gives Athos a half-smile, though, in thanks for his effort.

When Aramis pulls the door to the whelping room open, Athos can’t help but peek. He can’t see much of the Captain. Jeanne is bending over Treville, listening to his heart, blocking him from view. But the Cardinal is visible in profile. He’s holding tightly to his mate’s hand, and the look on his face tells Athos more than he wanted to know.

Two hours later they get the word that the stuck pup has finally dropped into position. D’Artagnan nearly passes out from a combination of exhaustion and relief, and Athos is finally able to convince him to go to bed. Jeanne and Aramis will want him for the actual whelping in a few hours, and one of Treville’s attendants really ought to have had some sleep. D’Artagnan accedes to this argument but demands to be awoken the moment anything happens.

“It’s necessary,” he says insistently, perhaps sensing how tempted Athos is to let d’Artagnan sleep through the rest, just in case it still turns bad. “I may not know as much as Aramis or Jeanne but I’ve been training. The Captain needs all the help he can get.”

Athos promises. He knows how important Treville is to his mate, a carrier figure for the pup who’d never known a throwback parent. And it’s not like waking to find the Captain dead would be that much better than watching him die.

The party who had gone to the Louvre arrive a few hours after d’Artagnan leaves.

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t get away sooner,” Adele begins, clearly ready to regale Athos with stories of the delicate political work they’d been doing to cover over the Cardinal’s extended absence. Then she notices the atmosphere and stops short. “Isn’t it over yet?”

“Not yet,” Athos says wearily. “I think Treville may be pushing the first pup now.”

“Oh my God,” Charlotte says, suddenly frightened, and rushes past him into the whelping room. Adele and Jussac freeze next to Athos, unsure what to do.

There’s a commotion within just as Charlotte opens the door. Athos comes automatically to his feet. He may not be an Omega or Treville’s mate, but the Captain’s a carrier figure to him too, and he has to know.

“Almost there,” Aramis is saying encouragingly. “Almost – oh my God!”

“What?” Treville demands, voice nearly destroyed. “What is it?”

“A hand,” Aramis says, laughing in disbelief. “No wonder she got stuck, she’s waving at me right now – all right, push again, now!”

The mechanics of it escape Athos, but Treville must obey, because all of a sudden Aramis is holding an arm. Jeanne leans over, deft hands tugging, and a shoulder emerges too.

“Good,” Aramis praises. Athos glances upwards – Treville is panting and exhausted; Richelieu looks like he’s not sure whether to weep or collapse. “One more push and you’ll have a pup.”

“Thank God,” Treville whispers devoutly.

“Now,” Jeanne orders.

The whole process repeats again. When it ends the pup doesn’t seem appreciably closer to being whelped.

Aramis winces. “Okay, apparently one more than that.”

“What?” Treville tries to shout. The usual parade-ground bellow is barely louder than a speaking voice, but the expression on his face speaks volumes.

“She’s being stubborn!” Aramis defends. “Come on, you can do it. One more time – now – ”

Athos is familiar with the signs of someone pushed past their limit, but somehow Treville must do it, because with one final cry Aramis is holding a stunned female Alpha pup. Treville sags back against Richelieu, panting, tears of exhaustion pooling under his lashes.

“Oh my God,” Athos says involuntarily. During d’Artagnan’s labor he’d been up where Richelieu had been, behind his mate on the whelping bed, helping support d’Artagnan in a kneeling position and supplying encouragement. He hadn’t actually seen it from this side before. It’s… intimidating. Athos is suddenly devoutly grateful he hadn’t been born an Omega.

“Why isn’t she crying?” Treville demands.

Athos’ attention is jerked back to the pup. Belatedly he registers that she hasn’t yet made a sound. Fear grips his heart.

Jeanne, shockingly, doesn’t seem concerned. “Just stunned,” she says briskly. She takes the pup by the ankles, hangs her upside down dangling from one hand, and smacks her bottom once with the other.

A second, a pause, and then a screech loud enough to wake the dead fills the room.

“She wasn’t sure it was over yet,” Jeanne explains. “Coming out arm-first like that, she didn’t know when it was time to start breathing.” She rights the pup and gently tickles one small foot, watching in satisfaction as the pup jerks in automatic response.

“Aramis?” Jeanne prompts after a moment. Aramis tears his eyes away from the pup and snatches up a basin. Athos realizes what must be coming next and averts his eyes.

When he judges it safe to look back, Jeanne has briskly toweled off the pup and is in the act of handing her over to her parents. Athos looks away again, this time to preserve the privacy of such an intimate moment. He blinks a few stray tears away, thinking of d’Artagnan. Of Thérèse and Charles.

His eyes catches Charlotte’s and for a moment they gaze at each other. In her face Athos sees the pups they never had together. The pups she’ll never be able to have with Adele, after what the Inquisition did to her. But she smiles a little, glancing back at the crying infant, and Athos still knows her well enough even after all these years to tell that she’s grateful that their people can still have moments like this, even if she’ll never experience them first hand.

Adele comes up next to her. They hold hands. Jussac has his over his mouth, eyes suspiciously bright.

“God is great,” Richelieu whispers reverently, gazing down at his mate and pup.

Treville smiles up at him. Then he groans again, looking startled as he does it.

“Two more to go,” Aramis says encouragingly, giving Treville a smile that’s not entirely free from mischief.

Athos can’t help laughing a little. The atmosphere in the room makes for wild mood swings. But the sound draws Jeanne’s attention, and the midwife glances at the Alpha over her shoulder. “Are you volunteering to help out?” she asks pointedly.

“I think I’d better go fetch d’Artagnan,” Athos says hastily, making for the door. “I did promise.”

“Make sure France is still in one piece while you’re at it,” Aramis calls after him, lighthearted and joking.

And this time it is a joke. This time, Athos feels it in his bones. The peace is fragile but it will stand; the Inquisition will not return to their shores. One day they’ll spread freedom back throughout all of Europe. Today, their pack is healthy, and safe, and growing by the minute.

Athos takes the image of the happy family away with him, and goes to tell his mate and his offspring.

The End

A/N: Folks, it's been incredible. Thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos, commented, asked questions, debated the answers, speculated about the plot, squealed, tumbled, chatted, emailed, and cheer-led. A few call-outs in particular:

Elenduen, the original prompter, whose suggestion spawned this epic. I know this went places you could never have imagined but you stuck with it, and I'm grateful beyond words for the original spark!

mellyflori, for indispensible help-I'm-stuck plot advice, geeky conversations about everything from linguistic evolution to Bastille design, and beta (Beta?) advice in part four.

Kat2107, for taking a short line about a minor character and turning it into an incredible (canonical!) spinoff fic that is bringing amazing depth and richness to the empty spaces I'd left in the world. If you're not reading it, you're missing out.

Everyone who played the fantasy casting game for Richelieu's lieutenants in the comments. For the curious, Cahusac is now played by Olivier Martinez, Bernajoux by Blaise Matuidi, and Boisrenard by Ezequiel Lavezzi.

This is the end of ye heirs of glory, but I hope not the end for the extended heirs universe. In addition to Kat's fic, I'm planning several timestamps/behind-the-scenes ficlets. And everyone is invited to come hang out on my tumblr for a DVD commentary/Q&A party! My askbox is open for anything and everything heirs. Starting tomorrow I'll repost some of the material I originally wrote in comments for people who asked questions about how the world worked, and I'll answer pretty much any question, from the biology of Alpha females (to everyone waiting, that's definitely first!), to what I was thinking when I wrote a particular line, why a character behaved the way they did, what became of your favorite minor character, and anything and everything else!

Readers, thanks again. I hope you'll leave me one more comment telling me what you thought of the ending. If you're here for the second time, please leave a reread comment and tell me how it stood up the second time! I hope you found your experience different with spoilers known in advance :) I also strongly encourage you to check out the AO3 posting of this fic, which has received additional copyediting in places and had a few mistakes corrected (mainly timeline issues, terminology fixes, and corrections to the chapter breakdown in part three). The AO3 version makes for a smoother reading experience.

The fic may be over, but don't be strangers. We'll always have heirs.

Edited 2015-05-01 02:03 (UTC)

The Savoy event told from the perspective of one of the soldiers in the troop who died, up to his moment of death.

Extra points if Aramis initially stops his throat from being cut, only to go down in front of him with an injury to the head, etc. And thus the soldier is killed while Marsac is dragging Aramis off. Though really anything from this kind of pov would be good.

I liked in the first episode of the second series where when Aramis started to walk off after the priest, Athos tapped Porthos shoulder and said, "I'll go" - like it was a given that one of them would. No way they'd let him face whatever the hell he was walking into alone.

I'd love to see a 3x (or whatever) fic with this same shorthand phrase being used between the three as they look after each other and get each others's backs, serious or small. Someone needs to go get Athos home from the tavern or accompany Porthos to a meeting with a red guard or a card game. Go with Aramis on a difficult errand or with Porthos to meet an old friend. Stuff like that (though it doesn't have to be any of those).

I know this has been done to death on the show, and with Athos specifically, but still...

Since Athos was so drunk in "The Return" as to make his abduction and return to la Fère relatively easy, can we get a situation where someone capitalizes on that with more nefarious intent? Bro or ot3 preferably.

Yes, I like this.

YES, please! Not OP, but I'd LOVE to see this with Omega!Aramis. Seasoned soldier Omega!Aramis. Ooh, what a good.

I absolutely loved the fill I got, but seeing how I couldn't stop thinking about my own prompt and seeing how I feel like I just have this terrible need for more impact play in my life, I wrote a second fill (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3858490).

Author nonnie, I've started writing this, but it's turning into proper torture. I don't know how dark you want to go with it?

And omega Athos! Love to see how the dynamic of the four would be with a young hot head alpha d'Art and seasoned and higher ranked omega Athos and Aramis, along with an amused alpha Porthos.

Would prefer not too dark but as long as the angst and comfort is good feel free to go where your muse takes you!

SA as above

I loved the fill - I've got a fill I've been thinking about that fits this too. It's cool to do additional fills, right?

A visiting duke has asked to have a musketeer in his charge all week. This Duke does not appreciate the musketeers and is abusive and over demanding of them when he is visiting.
In particular he asks for Aramis of whom he caught sleeping with his daughter once and when visiting always proves to make Aramis' live a living hell. With rumour of the dukes arrival, Aramis braces himself and refuses his friends offer to lie for him and take his place guarding the Duke.

With Aramis too stubborn for his own good the other three decide to knock him out and lock him up/restrain him in his quarters in order for them to service the duke during his stay themselves in Aramis' place.

Cue a nightmare of a charge in trying to calm Aramis down when they visit him in his rooms.

Don't mind if people want this gen or OT3 (my personal fave)

(Hope you like it, OP!)

Aramis wakes in hell.

The air is hot, and dry, and he can barely breathe. His wrists and ankles are manacled together and the shackles are uncomfortably warm against his skin. The room is pitch black, which only seems to make it hotter.

He traces the chain from his ankles to a hole in one wall. It's anchored to something on the other side, and the wall itself is hot enough to burn him when he touches it. He shuffles as far away as he can. The chain's too short to let him reach the opposite wall, so he lies on the floor instead.

He's still wearing his leathers, he realises slowly. Chained as he is, he can't get them off, but he fumbles, thick fingered, at the laces, managing to loosen them a little. He pretends it helps.

Maybe he sleeps; he can't tell. If he does, nothing has changed when he wakes, except that he feels even more miserable now. The air is pressing down on him, so heavy and thick he can feel it. He's having to work for each breath. His throat's like sandpaper and his eyes are burning. Even without moving, he's dizzy and lightheaded. He can track his heartbeat - too-slow, too-slow, too-slow - by the pounding in his head, and nausea is steadily building.

He rolls over in time to throw up, so at least he doesn't choke. But moving away from the stinking mess means moving closer to the burning wall. He moves only a few inches, but even that small distance feels much hotter. He spreads himself as wide as he can, bound as he is.

He must have slept, this time, because he's woken by a noise. A slow, steady drip. He follows it to the farthest corner. By straining as far as he can, and contorting in a way that makes his ankles bleed, he manages to get his forehead under the drip. The water's warm - at least, it's not cold - but for a few minutes it feels like heaven.

After a few minutes, though, it's not enough. It's dripping too slowly, too warm. He wants to get his hands under it; he's desperate to get his mouth under it. He needs it; he'll die without it.

The chain connecting wrists to ankles is far too short to get his hands anywhere near close enough; he can't raise them above chest level. The chain connecting ankles to the wall is only a couple of inches short, and even as he thrashes some part of him wonders how deliberate that is. He's tall; most people wouldn't get even this close, and he somehow thinks getting this close and no closer is the point.

That part of him eventually takes control and he crawls slowly, painfully, back to the burning wall, lying down there, where he can't feel the drip at all, turning his back to it. Hunching up, folding himself almost in half, he scrapes the damp off his forehead and hair, sucking up every bit of it.

The drip doesn't stop.

It must be draining somehow, because the room doesn't cool and there's no wetness on the floor. Aramis lies with his back to the corner, doing his best to ignore it. But the darkness doesn't lift and there's no noise, only the damn drip. It falls in no pattern he can trace; he finds himself holding his breath when it takes longer than usual, gasping when it's faster. Over and over he finds himself moving back towards it before he catches himself, defiantly staying away from it.

He tries counting seconds, but he finds himself counting drips instead. He tries talking to Porthos and the others, but he finds himself counting drips instead. He tries to pray, but he finds himself counting drips instead.

Breathing gets harder and harder.

There has to be air coming in somewhere; the room's not that big, he'd have suffocated by now. But he can't feel any hint of a breeze, no cool air at all. It must be hidden somewhere in the brickwork, far enough for the air to warm before it gets to him.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Breathe.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip…

Light, and noise, and a howling wind. Aramis tries to curl in on himself, but he has nothing left. Someone curses; someone shouts. Someone touches his shoulder.

He can’t see anything. His eyes burn as he blinks repeatedly; he can’t produce tears. The room is blindingly bright, and there are figures crouching over him.

Some part of him recognises Porthos’ touch, enough not to fight when he’s picked up. They must have freed the chain on the other side of the wall; it rattles along behind them as they leave the tiny room.

He starts shivering almost at once; the air outside feels wintery sharp in comparison. Porthos holds him tighter in response. They pick their way through the room, into another, even colder, and Porthos sets him down on a bed. He does – something – and the manacles fall away, one by one. The skin underneath burns, but it’s absorbed into the pains in the rest of his body.

Athos and Porthos start stripping him in silence. He should be saying something. Teasing. Helping. They’ve done this often enough, he knows his part, but he can’t. He has nothing.

Athos vanishes briefly and comes back with a bowl. Porthos, sitting beside Aramis, takes out a strip of cloth and lays it along his arm.

Aramis arches into the touch, then away, confused. It’s so cold.

“S’all right,” Porthos tells him, rubbing gently over the strip of cloth. “Feels like ice, I bet, but it’s only just cool. You’re burning, we’ve got to cool you down. Try and bear it, all right? It’ll start to feel better soon.”

Athos reappears – when did he vanish? – and lays a wet, cool blanket over Aramis’ lower body, making sure it’s tucked in around his groin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, opposite Porthos, he joins him in laying cloths along Aramis’ arms and chest.

Aramis hazes in and out while they patiently swap cloths. Porthos dribbles water into his mouth whenever he’s anything approaching conscious, giving him only drops at a time no matter how much he whines. Athos talks quietly, endlessly, streams of words saying nothing at all; every time he stops, Aramis starts listening for the drip again, and even if they don’t know why they can see how distressed it makes him.

He adjusts to the light. His throat gradually eases; after a while Porthos feeds him willow bark and then goes back to water, and his head stops pounding. His breathing steadies. They very carefully wash and dress his wrists and ankles; Porthos clucks over the blood on his ankles. His wrists are only – only, he thinks wryly – mildly burned.

Athos tests his temperature, frowning in concentration. “Better,” he murmurs. “How do you feel?”

Aramis considers it carefully. “Heavy,” he says finally.

“Hot, cold?”

“Nothing.”

Athos nods, accepting that. “You feel better, your colour’s better, breathing and heartbeat all good.”

Aramis smiles faintly. “Make a medic of you yet.”

“Something had to rub off on him,” Porthos says lightly. He’s still absently running a finger up and down Aramis’ arm.

Aramis swallows, relishing that simple motion. “Where are we?”

“Craftmans quarter,” Porthos tells him. “We were investigating rumours of smuggling, do you remember?”

“Sort of.” He remembers the mission, vaguely, but not what they’d been doing.

“We must’ve pissed someone off. We’re in a blacksmith’s; that space was designed to trap all the heat and fry anyone who was left in there.”

“An oubliette,” Athos says quietly.

Aramis shudders, reaching for Porthos, nestling against him. “How did you find me?”

“The apprentice. He’d been uncomfortable with his master for some time; your chain was attached on this side and when he saw it moving, he realised something had to be wrong. Treville’s promised to find him another place. He risked a lot by coming to tell us.”

Aramis nods. He’s exhausted now, barely awake; he reaches for Athos, deliberately wrapping his hands in Athos’ tunic. “Stay.”

“Always,” Athos promises, settling beside him. Aramis is nestled between them, and maybe it should feel claustrophobic but it only feels safe, familiar. “We’re here.”

“Talk,” he says pleadingly, feeling himself sink, “don’t want silence.”

He’ll have to explain that one later, he knows, but for now it doesn’t matter. Porthos and Athos talk quietly – he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, they might be reciting training manuals for all he knows, but that doesn’t matter. They’re solid beside him, comforting, and he lets himself fall, knowing they’ll be there when he wakes.

I like it.

Excellent! This made me feel hot (Not that way ~_^) just reading this and the ending was a nice cool balm for the burn.

For some reason, two of the Inseparables decide to send their new apprentice D'Artagnan to the airport to welcome the last of them. The problem is that D'Artagnan doesn't know this man's face and name, so he asks the two men about it but they refuse to answer. Consequently, D'Artagnan has to wait this mysterious man at the airport terminal holding a card with this ridiculous pet name which is the only information he can get from the two men.

Gen or slash is fine. ^^

Really want. With Aramis pacing like a caged tiger.

Want want.

Sorry this is long prompt, but only to set things up and was completely inspired by musicmillennia's recent and adorable fic up at AO3.

When Porthos was still young and living on the streets with Flea and Charon, a deal goes bad and they end up stealing from the wrong people, forced to split up and flee for their lives into the night. His pursuers chase him into a old section of town that still has tall imposing stone buildings from times long past before the 16oo's. Most of them still well maintained because of their historical relevance and being tourist attractions even though they (for the most part) stay empty.

There is also a popular story that the place is haunted and not just by ghosts, but a monster! There is also the disquieting fact that people occasionally do go missing in the vicinity of this one imposing structure, the nameless historical society with the city that manages and maintains the building have a strict curfue. No one is allowed in the building after nightfall and the staff make sure its securely locked, there is not even a security guard posted, yet no one (save a few) can or will say just why. Though they deny its to do with the stories, ghosts, monster? Thats just silly!

Porthos has heard the stories, everyone has, but old stories told to scare little kids is the least of his problems when the local bad-guys are out to stomp you into a smear on the pavement. So in desperation he breaks into the building to hide and soon he and his pursuers become lost in the dark maze within, unfortunately for them there is a monster who once went by the name of Rochefort that stalks the dark many corridors and massive rooms (think 'It' by Stephen King). A few of Porthos' pursuers get eaten/killed and Porthos only makes it out alive to escape the building at dawn is thanks to a few helpful ghosts trapped there by the name of Aramis and Athos.

Years later Porthos is now a man having pulled himself out of poverty, been in the military and is now a Ghost Hunter and he's heading back to that building with a camera in hand to investigate and try and help the (good)spirits within with his fellow ghost hunter d'Artagnan.

Portamis, Athos/d'Art, Richelieu/de Tréville, otp3 or Gen is all welcome!

Exactly what you would think.

d'Artagnan is attacked and brutally- as in, nearly-to-death- beaten by whomever and for whatever reason Anon would like to go with. It's about mid-winter, so there's snow everywhere. Attacker(s) eventually leave, but d'Artagnan is in such a bad way (Bleeding severely, cuts, bruises, broken bones even, freezing, whatever...) by the time that they stop that he literally cannot get himself to help or safety. He's either stuck just lying there waiting for it to be over, or he might be able to sort of stumble about in a delirious fashion for a bit.

Things just generally don't look so great for him.

However, he's eventually found by any friendly Anon chooses. Could be one or all of the Inseparables, Treville, Constance...maybe even somebody unusual for the role like Bonacieux or the Cardinal/Cardinal's guards, or just somebody not frequent in fanfic at all. In any case, patching-up and hurt/comfort ensue.

Anything of that general ilk would be highly appreciated! I honestly have no real preferences other than it not being an Inseparable or Treville that hurt d'Artagnan to begin with. I also don't mind if Anon chooses to throw in other stuff as well or alter the scenario in any way.

Excellent fill. First time anyone's filled one of my prompts and you did a cracking job.

More fills appreciated if anyone else wants to give it a go. I love hurt aramis...Maybe too much!

I've had a bash at this. Here's the first part.

The snow had been falling heavily all day, laying thick and fast on the streets of Paris; covering the filth and dirt with a coating of white. It almost made the streets look beautiful with its purity. Almost.

The purity of the snow had been tainted by red. Blood had seeped through the white forever defiling the snow it flowed over. There was too much of it and in the centre was a young man, badly beaten and freezing in the cold. His broken body lying still almost as if he was dead but if one looked closely he was still breathing shallowly as he was abandoned by his attackers and they skulked off into the night.

What had happened? The night had started out pleasantly enough despite the weather, he had been to the tavern with his brothers but had left early, feeling exhausted from the challenges of the day. He had quickly noticed that he was being followed and had attempted to confuse his stalkers by heading down a nearby alley. It hadn’t worked.

He had been expecting the first blow and blocked it. He put up a good fight, he was a strong fighter after all, but there were too many of them and they quickly overpowered him. He felt himself hit the floor as he heard accusations from his attackers over the incorrect assumption that he had tried to seduce one of the men’s wife. He had tried to defend himself over these accusations but the men could not be pacified. The beating continued.

He had no idea how long it went on for but eventually the blows ceased and he was left alone in the snow. In his half-conscious state he was vaguely aware of his injuries. He knew he had at least two broken ribs and his arm was refusing to co-operate. The warm blood against the cold snow indicated to him that he was losing a lot of blood and quickly. He knew that he had to move.

That was easier said than done. Despite his brain shouting at him to get up and move his body wasn’t listening. He could do nothing but lie there in the snow and slowly freeze. Time meant nothing any longer as the minutes stretched out, feeling like hours. He welcomed the numbness that accompanied the unconsciousness that descended upon him. It was easier than feeling the pain.

“Mon Dieu,” a voice permeated the darkness. He thought he recognised the voice but he was too tired to figure out who it was. He just wanted to sleep. “What has happened to you d’Artagnan?”

He couldn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to. Everywhere hurt so much he just wanted to pain to go away. He let out a small cry of pain as he felt the familiar man hoist him up and hold him securely in his arms. He had thought that it was impossible to feel any more pain than he was already in. He was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” the voice apologised. “I will try to be gentle.”
D’Artagnan felt himself being carried through the streets, the voice keeping him from succumbing to the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not. “Please,” he managed to gasp, not even sure what he was pleading for, the pain to stop or to be left alone.

“It’s all right, you are safe now. No-one’s going to hurt you,” the voice was comforting and for a moment, in his haze, d’Artagnan actually believed it.

“Help,” he whispered softly as he felt the sweet pull of unconsciousness take hold and he fell into a blissful oblivion.

Heaven and Hell are forever at odds, with the Mortal world trapped between the two feuding powers/dimensions with various players fighting for either side and plenty more who fight for their 'own' side. While other beings just want to be left alone be they Angel, Demon and or other creature of light or darkness.

The Inseparables in life fell together in war leaving the mortal world, but found themselves cruelly separated not by death but the afterlife.
Heaven eagerly snapped Porthos up for their ranks as soon as his big heart gave its last beat, his good soul in no doubt, aswell as the fiery young d'Artagnan. But it was not the same for Aramis or Athos, both far more aware of the heaviness of their souls and the darkness they carried, neither surprised when they found themselves in the chaotic realm of Hell. Time moves on the conflict of Heaven and Hell continue as various wars are waged in the Mortal world and all to soon its modern times in the Mortal world and its into this world that the much changed Inseparables will meet again.

Porthos is now a Archangel with massive powerful white wings and flaming sword, he's also been looking for his brothers for centuries now. Still upset that they had not ascended as he and d'Art and even later Treville (both high angels as well).

Both Aramis and Athos managed to keep their souls while separated and trapped in their own personal torments in Hell (Athos spending a lot of time with the now high-demon Milady, Richelieu is also in Hell but is now very involved in all the politics involved there), but their time there has also changed them. Done with their time in purgatory (thanks to overcrowding and time served) both now free to wander Hell and the Mortal world as they please, both having done their best to try and stay out of the messy politics of Hell. Athos is a powerful demon, though he looks like a dark angel because of his large black wings, he cant eat or drink anything save alcohol which doesn't even give him a buzz no matter how much he drinks. Aramis is now a lust-demon/incubus who feeds off sexual energy to survive, he's got small horns, a tail, black bat-wings and looks like he fell out of a dark wet-dream.
What happens when the Inseparables finally find each other again?

Gen or pairings welcome

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Page 116 of 138

Round 3

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 41a/41 COMPLETE [many pairings, dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 41b/41 COMPLETE [many pairings, dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 41c/41 COMPLETE [many pairings, dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

Savoy told from different POV

"I'll go" - 3x prompt

Athos framed for Murder (or some other crime)

Re: "I'll go" - 3x prompt

Re: Omegaverse alpha D'Artagnan

Re: S2 Spoilers, Athos/Aramis, consensual violence, impact play, (D/S?)

Re: Heat Exhaustion - Author?

Re: Omegaverse alpha D'Artagnan

Re: Heat Exhaustion - Author?

Re: Aramis - Panic Attack

It's for your own good! Brot4 or OT3 - fluff and smut

Fill: (Down, down, down) and the flames went higher (TW: mild torture, vomit)

Re: It's for your own good! Brot4 or OT3 - fluff and smut

Re: Fill: (Down, down, down) and the flames went higher (TW: mild torture, vomit)

Modern Airport AU - OT3 + D'Artagnan

Re: It's for your own good! Brot4 or OT3 - fluff and smut

Re: "I'll go" - 3x prompt

The Ghosts and It- moder supernatural AU

Gen- d'Artagnan gets the absolute hell beaten out of him (Extreme violence)

Re: Fill: (Down, down, down) and the flames went higher (TW: mild torture, vomit)

Re: Gen- d'Artagnan gets the absolute hell beaten out of him (Extreme violence) P1

When Heaven and Hell let out - AU