bbcmusketeerskink

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.

Rules:
No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings

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.

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

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http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/418.html

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

Porthos

It hadn't rained in a week in Paris and the dust was high in the training yard as d'Artagnan circled Porthos, testing his guard with sharp taps of his sword. Porthos was caught between relaxation and alacrity, in the state of battle readiness where nothing could surprise him because he owned the field around him. He supposed he did, in a way: the Musketeer garrison was the only place inside the city he ever truly relaxed, and Athos and Aramis were visible at the edge of his vision, further bolstering his confidence of place.

The dust wasn't the only trial of the day: the sun was unmerciful in its glare and Porthos found his leathers rubbing uncomfortably as he moved, sticky and damp inside from the sweat and dusty on the top.

d'Artagnan feinted, giving himself away with a flick of his eyes toward his true goal and a twitch to clear his shaggy hair from his gaze. Porthos used the small distraction to trip him and then had to leap away when, even falling, d'Artagnan managed to catch the edge of his shoulder guard on his upswing. The blade whispered past his skin, leaving him unblemished by the barest margin, and he laughed. “That's a good one! I haven't seen you do that before.”

d'Artagnan smiled ruefully, hair half plastered to his forehead from exertion as he pushed himself to his feet with a cough. “Trying new things...for all the good they do me. Blast this dust!”

Porthos twisted his mouth, glancing over the training yard. It looked as though someone had painted it all a dull tan in the combination of the harsh afternoon sun and the dirt swirling in the air from the faint occasional breeze and their own training. d'Artagnan himself was covered in the same in patches all along his side and his back from his tumbles to the ground. His pauldron was nearly gray. Porthos imagined he'd acquired several streaks himself when d'Artagnan had managed to drive him to the nearby posts a couple of times, and on one occasion, down to one knee before he'd managed to flip him off of his feet. “Yeah, it's awful. Can't wait for this storm to break.”

“Athos!”

Porthos looked up at Treville and found his eyes sweeping the four of them. He glanced back at d'Artagnan and was pleased to see he'd recognized the summons for all of them instinctively, shifting toward the stairs before stopping and sending a quick arched brow at Porthos who shrugged and started after Athos.

“Come now, children,” Aramis called, wrapping an arm around d'Artagnan and hurrying him to the stairs in time with Porthos. “Let's not be rude. Could be something interesting!”

“Or maybe someone's complaining about another of your late-night visits,” Porthos muttered, mouth quirking.

Aramis pressed his free hand to his chest. “Porthos! I am wounded that you could say such a thing.” He looked at d'Artagnan between them as they rounded the corner up the stairs, only a few steps behind Athos. “Such slander! Can you believe it?”

d'Artagnan looked at him. “You didn't deny it.”

“He's got you there.” Porthos had to laugh at the put upon tone, so out of place on a face that could hardly grow a beard.

Aramis grinned, teeth bright in the dusty air. “Well, I wouldn't want to be called a liar...”

Athos looked back at them. “Let's hope it's not another of Aramis' excursions, shall we?”His mouth curled faintly as he pulled the door and held the door open. “Wasn't the last one excitement enough?”

“Ahh, Helena,” Aramis sighed fondly.

Porthos paused in the door to level a look at him: Aramis might remember that night pleasantly, but all Porthos could remember was the bone-deep ache in his calves from carrying a chest of drawers through the sewers, and the stench. He'd been unable to shake the pain – nor the smell, frankly – for a week. “Never again.”

Aramis looked as though he was considering protesting that, but something in Porthos' face seemed to change his mind. “Of course.”

“This is one of those stories that won't sound half as ridiculous as it actually was if I can get you to tell me, isn't it?” d'Artagnan murmured as he passed Porthos into Treville's office without waiting for an answer, moving to stand at Athos' side.

Porthos held Aramis' eyes for a moment before they were forced to share a shrug between them to remain honest and then they pushed into the room together. At Treville's nod, Porthos pulled the door behind them.

Treville examined the four of them as though he was trying to determine the nature of their innermost nature before he slumped into his desk, face falling naturally into lines of exhaustion once he wasn't concentrating.

Porthos glanced at Aramis, brows arching in query, but Aramis shook his head, his own eyes wide with confusion.

Treville cleared his throat. “Have you heard of the attacks stalking the streets of Paris of late?”

Porthos frowned, casting his memory for any mention of a new plot and came up with...nothing. Aramis looked similarly thwarted, and d'Artagnan was obvious in his confusion. Athos, alone, appeared to have some knowledge of the matter.

“I have not spoken of it, as I was instructed.”

The tone was nearly glacial, and Porthos wasn't sure how much of the chill had been brought by the idea that he would disregard orders, or that he'd been ordered to keep something from them in the first place.

Treville appeared to willingly ignore the tone and nodded to Athos. Athos turned a quarter that he might address them. “There have been cases lately in which otherwise rational men have entirely lost their minds and attacked citizens in the streets.”

Aramis frowned. “Not something that could be explained by the demons of drink...?”

Athos glanced at Treville and then shook his head. “The accounts of their victims once they have been subdued are clear, and relatively consistent. Two of the men in question had no scent of drink about them, nor did they appear to recognize the greater world...at all.”

Porthos frowned. Even drunk, there was more to a man than blind aggression. Treville sighed, taking over the thread with a quick glance to Athos. “One man attacked his brother with no sign of recognition or apparent motive, and it was this that caused suspicion.”

Aramis frowned faintly. “While quarrels among family are tragic, it would hardly be the first time they came to blows.”

Treville nodded. “Certainly, and that is something that is still being considered, however the descriptions of the attacks were too similar and instigated further investigation into their bodies. White spots were found under the tongues of each man.”

“So...poison? Of a kind that brings otherwise rational men to outcry and violence in the streets?” Aramis clarified.

Treville tilted his head. “That is the question. Thus far, the Red Guard have been entrusted with the investigation.”

Porthos managed not to actually snort, but couldn't help his heavy skepticism from displaying on his face and Treville leveled a look of censure. “They found the first bodies and were responsible for taking the claims of the people seriously enough to check the bodies.”

Athos shifted, drawing attention and clearing the slight weight the already stuffy air in the room had acquired. “I take it that something has changed.”

Treville nodded with a distant frown as he looked over the documents on his desk and then back to them with a sigh. “There's been another attack, this time in the palace. The man affected is a cousin of the king's, and his majesty is understandably upset. He's requested that we take over the investigation as the Red Guard have had little luck in tracing a connection between the victims or finding the perpetrator.”

Porthos wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. For all that the Red Guard could be bastards and occasionally cowards, the Cardinal was notoriously concerned with their movements and crafty enough to have spotted anything obvious. He also could have soothed the king's temper, even with a relative having suffered an attack, to maintain authority over the investigation. That he hadn't...it boded poorly, and from Aramis' from and Athos tight eyes, he wasn't the only one to think

“Is?” d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos looked to him and found they all were. d'Artagnan colored faintly. “You said the victim is cousin to the king. Is.”

Porthos understood immediately and made a noise of agreement. “He lived?”

Treville nodded shortly. “Nicolas de Conti*. A distant cousin to the king through his father. He was subdued, not killed. When he woke, he was able to remember his actions and provided some insight.”

Aramis hummed. “Being nobility has so many more benefits than one might expect.”

Porthos snorted. Of course the commoners had been put down, but the nobleman? He'd been handled gently enough to answer questions immediately? Typical.

“What did he say?” Athos asked and Porthos allowed the distraction to pull his attention away from things he couldn't change.

“His judgment was clouded, like he'd been drinking all night and yet, apparently his thoughts remained perfectly clear. He was in that state for some time, he cannot say, but his wife seems to agree that he was behaving strangely, though he was not violent. They were alone when she noticed the change, and it was some time after their morning meal.”

Athos hummed thoughtfully. “And when he did become violent? What changed?”

“Their head servant entered the apartments. When he grew close, the madness took him.”

Porthos hissed. “Did he survive?”

Treville glanced back at the summary he'd been sent. “Apparently. There were some guards nearby that heard the shouting. De Conti was rendered unconscious during the struggle and remained so for the rest of the day into the night. When he woke, he had apparently recalled himself.”

Porthos licked the inside of his teeth thoughtfully. “Guessing he has no idea on how he was poisoned.”

Treville nodded to Porthos. “Indeed. He and his wife ate the same foods by all report, and the staff and kitchens were searched thoroughly.”

“Our orders?” Athos asked.

Treville looked them over and then drummed his fingers over his paper-littered desk. “Find the party – or parties – responsible. You have free range in this investigation, save the intense need for discretion. We don't want to cause a panic, and the royal family doesn't need any gossip about instability. Do you understand?”

They all murmured their agreement and Athos collected the reports Treville had bundled for them.

*Nicolas de Conti was truly the illegitimate son of Francoise de Bourbon, first cousin to Louis XIII's father Henry IV. Francoise supported Henry's bid for the throne to the point of denying his own claim to it when there was some concern over Henry's religion before he converted to Catholicism and was crowned Henry IV. I'm writing this as though Nicolas was legitimate because the relationship, while distant enough not to cause problems for Louis, would be close enough for his outrage to be understandable.

From: (Anonymous)

I'm officially hooked, please do continue!

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you! I will definitely continue. I'm thinking it will be around 4 parts, one for each of them as the POV character, but possibly longer depending on how things go.

From: (Anonymous)

KUDOS!

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you!

From: (Anonymous)

I'm totally into this. Please don't keep us waiting to long!

From: (Anonymous)

Glad to hear it! I'll try not to. I'm balancing this with other writing obligations.

From: (Anonymous)

Oh, wow-- this is excellent! Can't wait for more...

From: (Anonymous)

That's kind of you to say! I'll try not to take too long in posting as I take care of my other obligations.

From: (Anonymous)

I'm so happy someone is filling this! :D Can't wait for more.

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you! I've got 760 words for the next part, about halfish I'd estimate. Soon, at any rate.

(deleted comment)

From: (Anonymous)

KUDOS! Greatly looking forward to reading more!

From: (Anonymous)

Ahhh, thank you! I just realized I was logged in when I posted this though so I'm deleting it and reposting.

From: (Anonymous)

(I AM THE WORST. REPOSTING ANON.

Note: Aramis' part was a bit longer than I initially figured, so there'll be a 2b soon.

Warning for this part: Ableist language as people discuss the potential cause of the fits in one of the victims, and oblique reference to PTSD. I tried to approach it all both briefly and delicately, but please keep that in mind if you chose to read.)

Aramis

“Looks...like a street.” d'Artagnan said cautiously, eyes roving the lane before him as though uncertain of his own words. “What am I missing?”

Aramis considered the scene. He and d'Artagnan were at the mouth of the street, standing in the shadow of the hostel. There was a stale smell of animal sweat and old hay from within, and the distant buzz of horseflies through the open door. The area they were in front of was one of the rougher streets outside of the Court of Miracles, especially at night. Early afternoon, it was quieter than most places in Paris because most of the people that spent time there were still abed from a very late night. The day had continued to heat up, though thankfully the dust was still laying low as not many people had been by to kick it up.

They stood in the shadow of a building that appeared to be a cobbler's shop at the moment, one of the few locations Aramis could see that didn't have a sign of some kind with animal and tankard, large enough that even the most intoxicated man might recognize the building for what it was. The buildings – all of them, tavern to cobbler and the few others he couldn't quite make out, but probably included an inn suitable for the local and likewise a brothel of similar status – were worn and occasionally sagging with neglect. Wood and stone were bleaching in some places, and appeared brittle from rot in others.

“Nothing, my friend,” Aramis sighed, eyes returning to the approximate location where – according to the report from the guards which had been first on the scene – the first victim of this plague had lost his mind and begun attacked all within reach. That first attack had taken place lane five nights ago; Aramis wondered what about it had been odd enough to warrant the memory when the Red Guard began investigating the other deaths, as the people here must see brawls aplenty. “It's dreadful, of course, but in an average sort of way.”

d'Artagnan's brow furrowed. “Then why would anyone go to so much trouble to attack someone here? It doesn't make sense.”

Aramis fingered the brim of his hat as he considered that, then tucked his hands into his sleeves and shrugged. “Perhaps the motive will make more sense when we have more information on all of the victims.”

d'Artagnan's look was entirely doubtful. Aramis ducked his head to hide his sudden grin and jerked his head toward the row of taverns before them. “Let's see if any of the proprietors or staff of these fine establishments can give us more information on our dearly departed. We'll start with the closest one.”

d'Artagnan fell into step beside him easily, arms swinging casually but never too far from his sword, Aramis noted with approval. Still rough, d'Artagnan, but nowhere near as raw as he'd been when he'd entered the yard, belligerent and grief-stricken, charging at Athos like a bull all those months ago.

They tried two taverns and found them both barred. D'Artagnan stood back quietly while Aramis knocked and didn't seem surprised or upset when there was no answer. Aramis found himself smiling as they moved onto the next place, whose sign bore a rooster and hammer. They may have knocked some of the shine off of their young Musketeer, dirtied him up a bit, but Aramis was pleased to see that despite his newly discovered caution, d'Artagnan's eyes considered each building they passed without judgment. He was a good man under all of that honor nonsense they hadn't fully beaten out of him yet. Something to consider; he didn't imagine Athos would turn down more help rolling d'Artagnan in the mud for the good cause of his long life...

“Did I ever tell you that I can tell when ever you three are coming up with new torture tactics for training?” d'Artagnan asked mildly as they angled toward the first tavern past “You get this look like someone is running hot pokers over your feet and it tickles.”

“That's...oddly specific,” Aramis replied as he pushed open the door into the interior.

“I've been trying to figure out what it was exactly for a while now,” d'Artagnan admitted, pausing half a step so that they presented less of a target to potential attackers on the other side, and he could more easily pull Aramis back if need be.

Good man, Aramis thought, looking the dimly lit room over in a quick threat analysis, and then more leisurely when it was clear the only inhabitants moving were an elderly man behind the bar and a middle-aged woman leaning against a table, neither of which bore arms and both of which, after taking Aramis and d'Artagnan in with expressions briefly gone hard themselves, didn't seem immediately inclined to go for whichever weapons they undoubtedly had in reach. The man's skin was deeply lined with wrinkles and his hair was an ashy gray color along the sides of his head where it hadn't receded away. His eyes were puffy and blue and Aramis thought it might be the color of cataracts but couldn't be sure. His hands on the bar were unexpectedly deft, though, with only little sign of affliction of the joints. Probably quick to the trigger, if it came down to it, which might explain why he still ran things here at his age, even with potential vision problems.

The woman was plain, but still handsome for that. She was of a good stature with a figure to suit. Her cheeks were ruddy from work – likely cleaning, considering the place didn't reek of vomit and spilled wine – and she was damp with sweat. She wore a cap with her hair tucked up, but some blonde strands had escaped it and were now slicked to her skin from the exertion. Her brown eyes tracked Aramis and d'Artagnan both, not quite a confrontation but with a steady caution learned from spending time with men whose tempers were driven to extremes by drink and hysteria.

“Well, that's promising,” d'Artagnan muttered.

Aramis snorted and glanced at him. “Remind me to tell you about the time Athos and I had to question a farmer about his prize sow two winters ago due to a rather convoluted string of events that led to the pig...eating some rather sensitive jewelry. That was the most singularly unwelcoming greeting I hope to ever experience.”

d'Artagnan looked at him for a long minute. “I'll never hear any of these stories in truth, will I?”

Aramis had to look away from him then to avoid laughing. His face was hilariously blank but for his faintly wrinkled brow; his voice, however, was heavy with resignation. He'd really adapted well to Musketeer life, specifically the particular insanity that came from being attached to Aramis and his friends. He was becoming a fine man, their d'Artagnan. “Just think of all of the stories you'll be able to taunt us with, one day...” he muttered, then lifted his voice and removed his hat. “Good afternoon, monsieur. I am Aramis and this is d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers. We've been given charge of an investigation that includes events which happened in this locale recently, and I have a few questions for you if you don't mind the interruption.”

The man behind the bar grunted, apparently unimpressed with Aramis' manners. Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis saw d'Artagnan trying not to laugh. Still a brat, though, he tacked onto his earlier thoughts. Perhaps he'd spent too much time with Porthos, lately. “Wonderful. Around a week ago, a man went mad in the streets and began attacking all around him blindly until the guards arrived and assisted in subduing him. Alain de la Charrue. Did you know the man?”

The man stared at him for a long moment, and Aramis wasn't sure if it was stubbornness or an honest inability to fully distinguish his features. Finally he turned to the woman and jerked his head toward them. “Charlotte?”

The woman stood up straight from the table and Aramis glimpsed what might've been a rifle stock leaned against one of the legs through her skirts before they settled and blocked his vision. Her voice was low and pleasant to the ear for all of it's coolness. “He'd come in when he could, Alain. Didn't always have the coin, but now and then we'd spot him a drink on credit since he was family.”

Aramis touched his cross. “My condolences.”

Charlotte glanced at her father and shrugged finally, eyes going briefly distant. “It'd been a while since he was worth anything,” she said frankly, though her voice had gone a shade softer than it had been. “He was a soldier and when he came back, if it wasn't the memories it was the drink that possessed him.”

Aramis swallowed. He'd nearly gone that route himself: would have, if not for Porthos' support and the fact that Treville had forced them to take Athos on as an apprentice. He'd quickly seen the same deficiency in Athos they'd all three noted in d'Artagnan: excellent swordplay but a surfeit of honor. Outside of that, he hadn't needed any of the normal help a mentor was expected to give an apprentice. Rather, he found a steady man driven to melancholy and depression, but one whose humor was well suited to his own when it was allowed to show through. Aramis had realized then that Athos' own demons were driving him just as destructively as Aramis' had tried to drive him, and he was able to steady out (with much help from Porthos, whom he could never repay) in order to help their new friend. “I...understand how such things affect men.”

Charlotte looked at him for a long moment and Aramis forced himself to hold her hard gaze. Finally her face softened and she dropped her eyes. “He was family,” she repeated. “Not always a useful man to have around, but not a bad sort. He never acted like that before.”

“Did he behave oddly before he left?” Aramis asked, gentling his tone in response to hers.

Charlotte glanced at her father and then her mouth firmed. “He was hardly able to keep his feet when we kicked the lot out. No anger, no...madness. I went with him...wanted to make sure he got back to his room.”

d'Artagnan made a soft noise then and Aramis almost winced. She'd probably witnessed everything, then. “I assume...?”

“I saw it all, yes,” she said dully. “They ran him through.”

Aramis crossed himself and then bowed to her. “Someone I...treasured recently died before me. I am very sorry that you had to go through that as well.”

Her eyes were damp when he lifted his head, and she nodded once, then looked down.

d'Artagnan cleared his throat, glancing at Aramis briefly before looking back to Charlotte. “We have reason to believe that your...cousin? May have been poisoned, resulting in his behavior. Was there anything that happened on your walk? Anyone he met before you left together that might have had the chance to dose him?”

She stared at him. “Poisoned?” she repeated in a whisper, her hand finding the edge of the table. “You mean...he wasn't mad? Or possessed?”

“We do not believe so,” Aramis said with as much certainty as he could muster.

It was enough, apparently. “Oh, thank God,” Charlotte muttered, crossing herself. “I worried for his soul, you see. He still went to church every Sunday, but with...well, there was talk about...well, I'm glad he was poisoned, for all that it may be an odd thing to say.”

Aramis could imagine. “I understand your meaning. Could you tell us everything you remember from that night?”

Charlotte blinked several times, then straightened up and brushed her hands down her skirt and straightened her stained apron. When she looked back up, her face was hard. “Of course.”

From: (Anonymous)

It continues! :D Yes, good! MORE, please! :D

From: (Anonymous)

It liiiives!

Yep! Thank you for the comment! <3 More soon, just have to juggle work and other writing.

From: (Anonymous)

Another excellent chapter that only thickens the plot.

From: (Anonymous)

Aww, thank you! I try to double check the plot each part to make sure things line up like I think they should.

From: (Anonymous)

(Note: Um, dead bodies are described briefly here in warning to the squeamish.)

Exiting the tavern some time later, Aramis hesitated at the door and half turned. Charlotte was dealing the small party that had entered so he looked to the old man, who'd continued to clean the room with a careful eye on the Musketeers while Charlotte had given them all of the details she could. “Monsieur? May I have the full name of your establishment for our notes?”

Tired muzzy eyes glanced at him – perhaps not tired so much as bored – and then the man shrugged. “The Cock and Blow,” he admitted. Aramis snorted and a spark of humor briefly lightened the lines on the old man's face.

Aramis wondered if he'd been responsible for the name. “And your name, sir?”

“Etienne.”

“My thanks,” Aramis murmured, ducking his head in a brief bow and then turned back to leave. As d'Artagnan held the door for him, he wondered at their luck. A lead at the first place they'd been able to actually find someone! And yet, that lead was an older man whom Charlotte had never seen before and could only generally describe.

“Graying hair, pale skin, light beard...” d'Artagnan's mouth twisted. “That's about half of Paris, isn't it?”

Aramis sighed, a bit disheartened himself, and clapped d'Artagnan's shoulder. “We've just started! We're actually doing rather well. Remember how we met? We had to ride hours out of Paris for a lead into Gaudet.” Then he realized exactly what he'd just said and winced, keeping a wary eye on d'Artagnan in case he decided to punch him.

d'Artagnan held his eyes for a moment, and Aramis could see him struggle with himself at the topic. It seemed temperance won out over anger and grief, finally, and he ducked his head in somber agreement. “I suppose that's true,” he murmured finally, looking down and straightening the cuff of his coat.

He had a generous heart. Aramis wasn't sure he would have taken someone mentioning his father's murder so cavalierly. He honored it by allowing the topic to drop. Charlotte had told them everything she could remember of the night Alain de la Charrue had apparently gone mad in the street and attacked his neighbors, though all she could give them was an unfortunately generic description of the nondescript man Alain had spent time with in the latter half of the evening before Charlotte had kicked the lot of them out. She'd allowed them to finish their drinks when Alain had tugged at her apron and asked. She'd looked at him then and was certain that she had lost sight of the other man only more a moment, but he'd been standing closer when she'd looked his way next after telling Alain they were welcome to it, if he allowed her to escort him home.

His new friend had begged the last bit of his drink and retreated. He wasn't the only one stumbling out, though, so Charlotte hadn't thought anything of it as she waited for Alain to finish his ale. Then they had left together, arm in arm as Charlotte supported and steadied him.

”He started acting...I don't know, a bit off after a bit, I suppose. He wouldn't stop looking at me. He was always a bit...affectionate when in his cups, not in a bad way mind! Just...stupid, but sweet. It was like he didn't care that there was anyone else on the road. He got like that then, but it was...I don't know. He was going on about how much I looked like my mother. Then that man bumped into me and...well, you know what happened.”

Aramis cleared his throat. “I think it's time we move on.”

“The morgue?” d'Artagnan asked. “Do you think we'll find anything? The reports seemed thorough, and...well, it's been a week...”

Aramis' lip curled faintly at the thought before he sighed. “Yes, it will be entirely disgusting, but needs must, hm?” He checked the the position of the sun. “We'll go now and be back to Athos' apartments by night.” d'Artagnan shrugged rather doubtfully, but voiced no further doubts. Aramis was rather put out: he'd been hoping he could come up with a good reason to put off going. “Away with us, then.”

d'Artagnan arched a brow at him and fell into step. “You sound so excited. It was your idea...”

They navigated away from the taverns and began the journey further north into the city. “A necessary evil. I don't particularly enjoy poking at the dead, you know. They're so...smelly.”

“This from the man who somehow managed to lead Porthos through the Parisian sewers?” d'Artagnan snorted.

“He told you about that, did he?” Aramis eyed him with a mixture of resignation and jaded glee. “The sewers are nothing. If you don't vomit, I'll buy wine for us all tonight.”

d'Artagnan's brown eyes widened, then narrowed as he processed Aramis' tone. “Be prepared to do so.”

Aramis nodded, patting his shoulder, and made a note to tease him about this later. Unless, of course, he managed the incredibly unlikely feat of holding down his gorge as none of them had managed during their first visits to the morgue.

The building they eventually stopped at was old and surrounded on all sides by open lots, as no business owner was stupid enough to build directly adjacent to a place that handled the dead. It had originally been a tavern until the owner had died. Then it had stood empty for a year or two before some enterprising soul realized that the deeper than normal wine cellar was just the thing to help preserve the city's dead, and it had become one of the most infamous buildings in Paris.

After a moment – or several minutes, perhaps – d'Artagnan looked at him. “Are you sure you aren't the one afraid to throw up?”

Aramis looked up to the sky. “Ah, to be young and naive once more...” He ignored d'Artagnan's rolled eyes and started for the door. “Turn your head away from me when your lunch rebels, please.”

Roughly fifteen minutes later, d'Artagnan was kind enough to oblige him his request. The human body was truly disgusting once the eternal spark of the soul had deserted it, Aramis considered, and touched his cross to his lips as d'Artagnan helpfully staggered to the far side of the room and vomited.

The body of Alain de la Charrue was unfortunately bloated. The body of the second victim – Christophe Baudin, a sailor from the notes given them by the Red Guard – had also begun to bloat, and the air around all three of the bodies reeked. Aramis was almost certain it was a sudden burst of gas being released from Baudin when Aramis had prodded his mouth open that had driven d'Artagnan over the edge. Thankfully, the man the guards had identified as Henry Evard, a well off baker, was still stiff and hadn't really gotten to reeking yet. They might never get d'Artagnan back into the building after this otherwise.

The attendants were standing as far away from the stench as possible, eyes shifting between d'Artagnan and where Aramis was examining the bodies. He wondered how badly they'd been threatened to keep the corpses in this condition above ground, and unmolested by their ghoulish pseudo-medical coworker.

Aramis had to pry Evard's mouth open, stiff as he was, but it wasn't quite as unpleasant as the soft, wet give of flesh from the other two. Aramis swallowed back his own gorge and quickly checked the tongue. The spots were there, just as described...and along the back of the throat as well, standing out quite vividly against the dark flesh of his throat now that gravity had drained the man's blood to the lowest points of his body. “Hm. Spots present on all three. I can't be certain with the first two, but Evard's actually got them along his throat as well.”

d'Artagnan glanced up, panting for breath through his mouth with what looked like a mighty determination, then quickly looked back down as his shoulders shook with dry heaves.

“Is it the plague?” One of the morticians asked.

Aramis looked at them sharply and then forced himself to take a deep, calming breath – through his mouth, which was still relatively foul. “No, no it is not the plague, my friends. We believe a most peculiar poison was used on all three of these poor souls, so please don't cause a panic when there's no need. Yes?”

Nods all around. Aramis considered Evard once more, and then reluctantly began examining what would have been visible skin at the time of his death, just to be certain. He found no injection marks even after muscling the arms up and examining the livid flesh of the back sides. He forced each one back down and hesitated, then leaned forward and felt along his hair line. Thankfully, nothing moved and he swiftly withdrew his hands from the dead man's greasy hair.

“I believe we've established what we can here. Why don't we depart?” d'Artagnan was at the door, pale and slightly hunched, before Aramis finished the sentence. He turned his attention to the morticians. “No unfortunate rumors, now? About plagues or poison? We are still investigating.” Perhaps his tone was too sharp, but a panic over another bout of plague was truly the last thing Paris needed. Riots were an awful risk when the streets were as narrow as Paris'.

The morticians were intimidated into sharp nods, at least.

Aramis stopped d'Artagnan at the first tavern they passed and went inside to purchase their cheapest wine while d'Artagnan waited outside, taking deep, even breaths as he regained control over his stomach. When he rejoined d'Artagnan outside, he splashed it liberally over his hands, set the cut inside the door, and dunked his sticky hands into a horse trough.

d'Artagnan frowned at him even as they started walking. “Why did you do that?”

Aramis shrugged. “Something I read about regarding contagions. You must be careful when you handle the dead, never know what you might acquire.” d'Artagnan's brow furrowed faintly in confusion and Aramis shrugged. “Well, the author was Italian. Still, better safe than sorry. Now, let us away. We've had a long and rather disgusting day, and it's time we meet our friends and glorify them with all of the lovely details. The first round of drinks are on you, I believe.”

(Note: The reference to contagions and the Italian was a very loosely researched nod to Girolamo Fracastoro as a way to make myself a little OK with Aramis touching dead bodies bare handed.)

From: (Anonymous)

Seriously loving your writing style, characterization, pacing and details. A intriguing and excellent chapter!

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you! I'm trying to keep things interesting. <3

From: (Anonymous)

This story has me hooked! Can't wait for more!

From: (Anonymous)

Awww, thank you! More is coming soon!

From: (Anonymous)

Athos

Faint tension lingering at his temples was all that lingered from last night’s indulgence, and Athos counted it a blessing as the sun gave no quarter in the open area that fed into the docks. The streets behind them threw taunting shadows over the stone a span from his feet.

“This reminds me of that one play Aramis dragged us to,” Porthos muttered, looking at Athos from the side.

Athos tilted his head, cutting away the glare of the sun with the brim of his hat. “The one where they were in hell the whole time?”

Porthos grunted, casting his eyes over the relatively vacant space around them. “Was around here, wasn’t it?”

Athos nodded to the left. “The report said he was in the middle of a crowd when the fit took him, the night before the ships sailed out.”

Porthos snorted. “Meaning most of the witnesses are gone…”

Athos dipped his head and shrugged. Of course this investigation was impossible and likely doomed to fail: Richelieu would never have given it up to Treville if it hadn’t been.

He considered what facts they had available to them: Christophe Baudin was a sailor; he was in port for a week and had plans to sail out the morning following his demise; he had neither surviving family nor wife to claim his body following the investigation’s close; he was surrounded by a crowd when he was (presumably) poisoned; and finally, that most of the witnesses were drunk or sailors themselves, and so gone when the Red Guard had made their rounds asking questions.

“Wonderful,” he murmured, rolling his head back on his neck and glancing at Porthos. “This reminds me - “

“Been trying not to think about it,” Porthos interrupted. “If I get shot on this assignment because the Red Guard couldn’t get their acts together, I’m definitely taking it out of them at the table...for months.”

Athos cocked a brow. “Remarkably temperate of you. I think you’re mellowing with age.”

Porthos snorted. “Well, d'Artagnan did join us not too long ago." Athos cocked a brow. "Aramis said laughter is the best medicine.”

Athos’ mouth twitched. “That he did. Well, we would be remiss if we didn’t at least try and find someone who might have been here at the time of the brawl.”

Porthos nodded and jerked his head toward the cluster of buildings - though Athos named them so only hesitantly - that clustered together off-center from the loading area. “They usually have artisans and craft-men about. Could be someone was out that night.”

Athos tugged the brim of his hat lower, reseating the band, and nodded. “Well then, lead the way, my friend.”

The buildings looked somehow less sturdy within than they did looking on them outside, and they smelled of fish. In fact, they reeked of it. There were pallets on the floor made up of worn blankets which hadn’t had the dust beaten from them in some time. A few men occupied them, fisherman perhaps, if they were part of the small boats moored in the shallower waters. There were two people awake on the other side of the room, an older man and woman. The woman’s hair was going white in streaks from a light brown, while the man’s had fully changed. Both of them had dark roughened skin, well worn by the sun. Their clothing was sturdy, though appeared to be of poor quality. They had a net spread between them, obviously well used, and appeared to be mending it, thin rough twine wrapped around the shuttle and gauge respectively.

Athos stopped at a comfortable distance and ducked his head, removing his hat with a slightly deeper nod to the woman while Porthos mirrored him from the side. The man was watching them carefully, his eyes an odd light color caught between green and brown. “Good afternoon. I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers, and my companion is Porthos. May I ask your names?”

The two shared a look between them, fingers still moving. His eyes were on Athos, but he would dart a look down to his work now and then, sometimes shifting whatever bit of net he’d repaired back to tie off. When the man spoke. His voice had a strong parisian accent, and he spoke with a reserved tone. “Charles, sirs, and my wife Marie. How can we help the King’s Musketeers?”

“My companion and I are investigating a brawl that broke out in this district some three days ago. Would you or your wife have been in port at the time?”

Charles’ brow furrowed faintly even as his hands continued their work. After a moment, he looked away from Athos to Marie. She was looking down at their work but seemed to feel his eyes on her and glanced up briefly, barely a flick of her eyes, before returning them to the net. “They mean that awful brawl with that popinjay sailor the other night.”

Charles’ confusion cleared and his eyes returned to Athos. “We have a good number of brawls here,” he muttered in explanation, shrugging.

“I can imagine,” Porthos replied. “Sailors aren’t generally known for their restraint on short hauls in port.”

Charles studied Porthos a minute, but seemed to find his accent - rough at the edges from his childhood, and similarly accented - comforting. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased and his hands moved a little more freely over the net. “Not sure what we can tell you about that mess; we were well in bed before any ruckus was raised and didn’t look about after I made sure nobody was coming near us, you see. We didn’t learn about the riot until the morning.”

“Understandable,” Athos replied. “Not here, then, I presume, but somewhere more...removed?” Charles was silent and Athos moved on. “Did you know anything about Christophe Baudin, the man who started it? You called him a popinjay, ma’am. Was that because of something in particular?”

There was another moment of silence and then Porthos glanced at Athos, who tilted his head in automatic acquiescence, and shifted forward just enough to catch their attention. “We are investigating the causes behind the riot,” he said, and Athos observed the couple. Porthos wasn’t making any attempt to encourage his own accent, nor was he using his not-inconsiderable size to intimidate. “We believe that Baudin was the cause of the riot, from other accounts we’ve received. We’re attempting to determine if the reasons behind his behavior were linked to other crimes in the city. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

Marie looked up at Charles then, thick brows arching, and he sighed and shook his head in resignation before looking down at his work. Marie looked at them directly for the first time. Her eyes were a warm, rich brown, lovely even in the dim light filtering in from the ragged cloth covering the doors and windows of the shed. When she spoke, her accent was similar to her husband’s, though there was a faint trace of some other accent coloring her vowels Athos couldn’t quite place.

“He was a thief, or he worked with them. Not...a deeply pursed one, but he kept steady on his work.”

Porthos hummed. “A black marketeer, eh? Hm.”

Marie nodded, glancing down long enough to finish securing a section of tearing net When she looked up, her eyes went past Porthos to the other side of the room to where the two figures still napped. “He was generous enough when he’d been paid well if you stoked his ego. My son fell in with him, once or twice and considered joining him on a venture before we set him right.”

Athos found his mouth curling at the steel her tone had acquired. “Admirable.”

Marie turned thoughtful, intelligent brown eyes on him, assessing his sincerity, and then nodded in acceptance. “No son of mine will spend his lifel skulking about in the dark for a bit and the dust on a noble’s boot,” she said firmly. “Fishing may not be the most wealthy way to live, but the Red Guard never knifed any of our folk in the back.”

Athos had seen less pride on the faces of men who could trace their lineage to kings, and counted themselves in the line of succession. “I’m sure he’s begun to realize what that’s worth now, with all of the events going on.”

Marie shrugged, but the upturned lines at the corner of her mouth appeared satisfied to him. “Well, he hasn’t grumbled about it for a few days

Porthos laughed softly. “Well, it would take an incredible effort of will to stand against such a formidable woman.”

Charles snorted and Marie cut him a slanted look.

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(Anonymous) - [Fill] What Truths I Learn, I Keep 1/?

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Page generated Jul. 21st, 2025 03:22 am

Round 1

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