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D'ARTAGNAN SLEPT POORLY that night, when he slept at all. Nightmares jerked him into awareness repeatedly, and he awoke feeling sick and feverish. At first, he was aware of the other people in the room—of Aramis tossing restlessly in the other bed. Of Athos, followed by Milady and, later, Christelle helping him to drink and placing blessedly cool, wet cloths over his forehead.
As the fever progressed, however, the faces became unfamiliar and threatening as they loomed over him. He fought against them, crying out as his struggles pulled at the stitches holding his wounds closed. Instead of bringing him cool water, the shadowy figures tried to force bitter, stinking poison down his throat. He called out for help from his mother, his father, anyone, but his family only sat up in their shallow graves and shook their heads sadly at him; the blackened flesh hanging from their skulls like rags. He was too weak to fight his tormenters off. Though he choked and coughed and spat, some of the foul potion dripped down his throat to settle like lead in his stomach.
He continued in a state of semi-awareness for what felt like ages, convinced that he was dead himself. A wandering spirit, trying to find his loved ones; following the flash of a worn jerkin or the familiar hem of a skirt; crying out someone's name only to find himself alone and lost in increasingly unfamiliar surroundings with tombs stretching around him as far as the eye could see. Exhausted and hopeless, he stumbled. When his feet caught in the soft dirt of a fresh grave and he fell, he did not try to rise again. The moist soil clung to his face, taking him down into muffled, suffocating darkness.
When desperate thirst and a throbbing ache in his shoulder dragged him up into consciousness some unknown amount of time later, d’Artagnan was genuinely surprised. He blinked his eyes open, fighting lids gummed together by sleep and illness. The blurry form of Athos came into view, sprawled asleep in a chair next to the bed in such a way that he would almost certainly awaken suffering from a sore neck.
D'Artagnan tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position. As if somehow attuned to the small movement, Athos snapped into awareness immediately, and d'Artagnan realized belatedly that the other man had a hand resting on his arm.
"Is he awake, Athos?" The voice came from the bed across the room, and d'Artagnan recognized Aramis, sounding slightly stronger than the last time he had heard the man.
"I think so," Athos replied. "D'Artagnan? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"
Air grated against d'Artagnan's dry throat like broken glass as he opened his mouth to reply. He coughed, the motion jarring his injuries further. When he finally regained his breath, it was to find Athos lifting his head and shoulders enough for him to sip from the cup of water that appeared in front of him. At that moment, d'Artagnan could remember nothing sweeter having ever passed his lips, and he began to drink greedily, a pained noise escaping his throat when the vessel was drawn away, out of reach.
"Not too fast," Athos said. "You may have more in a few moments."
"What... happened?" he asked, his voice still less than a whisper.
"You took a fever from the wound in your shoulder," Athos said. "And you are a most recalcitrant patient."
"... says the man who once rode from Blois to Villerbon without bothering to mention that he had a broken leg," Aramis added sotto voce.
"The timely delivery of those papers was paramount, as you well know," Athos replied. "I would have said something, but I couldn't abide the thought of you fussing over it for the entire trip."
"I'm sorry to have been a burden," d'Artagnan interrupted hoarsely, as vague memories of struggling against his nursemaids surfaced.
"Don't mention it," Aramis said, a hint of laughter entering his voice as he continued. "Besides, I think the black eye makes Athos look positively rakish."
D'Artagnan looked at his host more closely, and saw that what he had taken for lack of sleep was actually a bruise. His heart dropped. "Athos, forgive me. I didn't mean to—"
Athos waved his words away, looking cross.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said, helping d'Artagnan up to drink some more water.
When he had slaked his thirst, a terrible thought occurred. "I didn't hurt the women, did I?"
Athos snorted softly. It was Aramis who answered.
"No, d'Artagnan. If you'd hit Milady, you'd probably have found something a bit more potent than willow bark slipped in the medicinal teas they were forcing down your throat. And that's if you were lucky." He paused, a smile lifting one corner of his mustache as he continued. "Frankly, I think the same could be said for Christelle. That girl is a force of nature. Milady keeps looking at her with this light in her eyes like she's found a worthy protégé at last. It's rather terrifying, actually."
"And the other sister?" d'Artagnan asked, searching his memory for a name. "Madeleine?"
"Too young and small to be much help with holding you down," Athos assured him. "She's fine."
Reassured, d’Artagnan allowed himself to relax back on the bed.
"I imagine Mme Prevette will want to look at your shoulder, now you're awake," Aramis said. "How does it feel?"
D'Artagnan's focus was drawn to the pounding ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. "Like an angry rodent is trapped inside and trying to claw its way out, now that you ask."
"Sounds about right," Aramis replied sympathetically. "You tore some of the stitches, and the rest had to be taken out to allow the pus to drain. Still, now that you've shaken off the fever, maybe it can begin to heal properly."
* * *
Thankfully, Aramis' words proved prophetic. As the days passed, d'Artagnan gradually regained his strength under the watchful care of the others. The wound in his side stayed sound, much to everyone's relief, and before too long both he and Aramis were able to leave their beds for short periods, though the other man still tired after only a few minutes of activity.
When boredom and frustration at his physical limitations crept in, or when his earlier melancholy threatened to drag his spirits down too far, Athos would appear with some piece of tack from the stables that needed to be cleaned and mended, or Christelle would show up with a book from the small library and demand that he or Aramis read to her and Madeleine, since neither of the girls had ever learned how. At one point, Milady set him to mending torn clothing, though one look at his ragged, uneven stitches ensured that no similar requests followed.
Still, some nights were worse than others. On one such night, nearly three weeks after the battle, d'Artagnan lay staring at the room's ceiling, invisible though it was in the darkness.
"Aramis?" he said softly, not wanting to wake the man if he was asleep.
"Hmm?" came the drowsy reply.
"I need to ask you something, and I want you to give me an honest answer. Why does everyone here act as though they trust me?" d'Artagnan asked.
There was a slight pause before Aramis replied.
"Why would we not?"
"You'd all been here at the castle for some time, had you not?" d'Artagnan said. "Then I came along, and within days, you were attacked."
"Ah," Aramis said. "Now I see what you're getting at. You want to know why we didn't suspect you of being a spy?"
"You had—you have—no reason to believe what I've told you about myself. And de Tréville didn't really strike me as the trusting sort, even at the best of times. It doesn't make any sense for him to have offered me a place with you."
"You think not?" There was amusement in Aramis' voice, and d'Artagnan bristled, his scowl unseen in the dark. "D'Artagnan, Milady vouched for the sincerity of your confusion, during the attack, as to why anyone would want to harm Ana María. Then, of course, there is the small matter of the Queen herself having watched you jump in front of her to take a bullet. Frankly—and I mean this in the politest way possible—if you are secretly a spy and assassin in our midst, you're very, very bad at it."
D'Artagnan took a moment to digest this. "But someone must have told Her Majesty's enemies where to find her."
"We're well aware of that," Aramis said, the humor draining from his voice abruptly. "And, yes, it's a huge concern. To discover that the Queen was staying in this castle at all is one thing, but to know precisely which room was hers..."
"Would require inside knowledge," d'Artagnan finished, and Aramis made a noise of agreement. "But who here would—?"
"No one," Aramis interrupted. "That's the crux of the problem. Everyone involved is completely trustworthy."
Not everyone, obviously, d'Artagnan thought, and didn't sleep for a long time that night.
* * *
Toward the end of the third week of his recovery, Mme Prevette decreed that d'Artagnan's bandages could come off for good. Athos had forsaken his own sling in order to regain the use of his right arm the week before, and removed the dressings from the slash on his thigh the previous day. Only Aramis was still swathed and bandaged; since his wound had been the most serious of them all.
Having returned a few days earlier to the room he had originally occupied before the attack, D'Artagnan was standing in front of a dingy looking glass, craning this way and that, trying to get a good look at the angry red scars now marring his shoulder and side. It was Athos' reflection in the glass that first alerted d'Artagnan to his host's presence in the doorway. D’Artagnan turned just in time to catch the hilt of the rapier that the other man tossed to him, grimacing as the sudden movement pulled at his side.
"Come," Athos said. "You and I are sparring in the courtyard this morning."
D'Artagnan couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips as he followed, more relieved than words could express at the prospect of no longer being an invalid.
His relief lasted right up until his first attempt to parry a thrust, when the pain in his side flared brightly and drove him to one knee with a gasp of surprise.
"For God's sake, d'Artagnan," Aramis called from his position leaning against the railing that surrounded the dusty yard, where the others had all gathered to watch the show with the exception of Milady and old Mme Prevette. "You've been laid up for almost four weeks with major wounds. You can't grab a sword and pick up where you left off! Take it easy. And Athos? Don't break him."
"You've never had injuries this severe before, have you?" Athos asked him as d'Artagnan regained control of his breathing and staggered back to his feet.
"I broke my collarbone once when I was nine," d'Artagnan said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.
The corner of Athos' lips quirked up in a brief smile, and the expression seemed kind enough. Relaxing his stance, the older man rested his blade against his shoulder casually.
"Letting a wound heal is merely the first step to a full recovery," he said. "The wound must stay undisturbed so that it may scar, but that leaves the area stiff and tight. If the wound and resulting scar are bad enough, that part of the body will always be constricted and may wither from lack of use. However, in most cases, stretching the affected area and forcing it back into service will eventually allow you to regain the majority of your previous strength and range of motion. Or so I have found."
"The downside is, it hurts like the very devil while you're doing it," Aramis added helpfully from the sidelines.
"I see," d'Artagnan said, somewhat disheartened, but hiding it resolutely behind an air of bravado and a cocky smile. "Well, there's something to look forward to in the coming days, I suppose. Hadn't we better get started?"
He was rewarded with a delighted laugh from Christelle and a look of admiration from Madeleine, while Athos inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. The pair fell back into en garde position, and began to test each other's defenses almost casually, to the occasional hoots and applause of their small audience. This time, d'Artagnan tried to maintain awareness of the pull in his side and off shoulder as he moved, feeling out his new range and finding himself more than a little appalled by his limitations.
He also watched Athos closely, seeing the faint sheen of sweat forming on the other man's pale forehead and the way his brow furrowed with discomfort as he gradually pushed himself further and further. D'Artagnan knew Athos was not trying to press him to any great degree, but he still admired the smooth strength and fine form of the other man's thrusts and parries, abbreviated though they were. If he had not already guessed after seeing Athos' competence in a fight while wielding a sword in his left hand, sparring with him today would have left him in no doubt that he was in the presence of a master swordsman. In full health, surely Athos would be nigh unstoppable, and d'Artagnan was already plotting ways to entice the man to train him.
Assuming, of course, that he was ever able to lunge properly again, he thought acidly as an ill-timed overextension left him stumbling and gasping in pain once more.
"Perhaps that's enough for the first day," Aramis called from his perch on the railing. "I'm getting sore just from watching."
With a complicated twist of his wrist, the tip of Athos' sword swished in a smooth figure eight and ended up pointed squarely at Aramis. "Your day will come soon enough, my friend."
"Yes, thank you very much, Athos. Believe me—my joyful anticipation knows no bounds," Aramis replied with a transparently fake smile and an elaborate doffing of his feathered hat with his uninjured left arm, much to the amusement of the Prevette sisters arrayed on either side of him.
Athos smirked and turned his attention back to d'Artagnan, saluting him briefly before sheathing his rapier. D'Artagnan returned the salute and let his own blade dip to the side, feeling the disused muscles in his arms and torso trembling with fatigue, but also tingling with renewed blood flow.
"You have a natural talent," Athos told him, "and the makings of a more than decent swordsman."
D'Artagnan was taken aback by the praise, wondering how the older man could possibly come to that conclusion after seeing his clumsy fumbling today.
"That is kind of you to say," he replied as Aramis crossed the courtyard to join them. "I perceive, however, that I am considerably outclassed in my current company."
"Most people are outclassed as swordsmen in Athos' company," Aramis said easily. "Keep sparring with him long enough though, and who knows?"
D'Artagnan looked at Athos hopefully. "I would certainly be honored to do so, if Athos continues to be willing. Perhaps tomorrow?"
"As you wish," Athos said. "Besides—talented or no—as you see, my options for a sparring partner are somewhat limited at the moment, since Aramis is still indisposed, and it's generally considered bad form to raise a blade to one's own wife."
"I would spar with you, M. Athos," Christelle called brightly, batting Madeleine's hand away when the younger girl looked scandalized and tried to shush her. Athos blinked, taken by surprise.
Aramis came to his rescue, visibly amused by the proceedings. "I'm afraid M. Athos would consider it bad form to raise his sword to any lady, mademoiselle. Perhaps it would be better, for now, to focus on your knife-throwing lessons with Milady."
D'Artagnan's mind slid to a stumbling halt at the mental picture of Christelle and Milady standing before a target in the spring sunshine; Milady correcting the younger girl's form as she prepared to let fly a slender dagger. As such, he was ill-prepared to respond either to Christelle's stubborn insistence that in that case, she could always spar with d'Artagnan instead, or to Aramis' deepening amusement as he replied under his breath to her retreating back, "Indeed, I'm certain that d'Artagnan would be open to engaging in all forms of swordplay with you, mademoiselle."
Feeling a blush climb his neck, but unsure of the exact cause of his discomfiture, d'Artagnan excused himself hastily and returned to the relative sanctuary of his room to rest.
The following days passed in more or less similar fashion, with d'Artagnan and Athos pushing themselves increasingly harder as they sparred. Afterwards, Aramis would often drag d'Artagnan out of the castle for target practice with his pistols, neatly shattering empty wine bottles from twenty paces as he shot left-handed. The first two days, d'Artagnan's arms trembled from fatigue too much after his earlier fencing to make shooting practical, so Aramis set him to reloading the pistols as he emptied them one after another. From that point on, though, d'Artagnan was able to join him, and he reveled in the feeling that he was finally making solid progress in his recovery.
Once he was certain that he would not embarrass himself by falling over or passing out during the attempt, d'Artagnan returned to his self-appointed goal of shoeing all the horses in Athos' stables, partly as a means of recompense for the hospitality he had been shown, and partly as a way to help prepare for their departure to rejoin the others. Her Majesty had taken d'Artagnan's gelding, of course, and Porthos had his own mount, shod by d'Artagnan on the day that they first met. Aramis had offered de Tréville the use of his Spanish mare, and Athos bade Grimaud to take his horse instead of the servant's own ill-tempered, broom-tailed nag, so that the first party would all have freshly shod horses for the journey.
That left de Tréville's stallion, Grimaud's mare, Milady's gelding and a carthorse for their own transportation; all of them with ragged feet and missing shoes since the plague had claimed the blacksmith in Blois some months earlier. Though he was forced to take it in easy stages, trimming and shoeing a single horse over two or three sessions and resting often, d'Artagnan determinedly worked his way through the string until all the animals were sound and ready for travel.
When Aramis insisted to the others that the bandaging holding his right arm immobile would not hinder his ability to ride as long as he could claim use of the slow, gentle carthorse, the seven occupants of the castle sat down to plan the details of the upcoming journey.
"I propose that we leave at first light, two days hence," Athos began. "Thiron Abbey is roughly thirty leagues away, and we should be able to make the trip in four days unless we encounter trouble. Aramis, does that sound reasonable to you?"
Aramis quirked an eyebrow at him. "If that's your way of politely enquiring whether I can keep up, then, yes—I am confident I can manage seven or eight leagues per day."
"Very well," Athos replied. "As we lack pack horses, we will need to stop along the way to renew our provisions. While I still have some gold in the coffers, there is no way of knowing how high the prices for food and wine have soared in the towns along our route."
It was true. With so many dead of the plague, there was a serious shortage of labor across the countryside. With few vintners and farmers left, the cost of basic goods had become vastly inflated despite the government’s attempt to enforce price controls.
"Barter is better than coin, these days," Mme Prevette said, and Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.
"As you say, madame. There are few options for barter that are lighter and more compact to carry than gold, but—"
"Gunpowder," Milady cut in. "Ammunition, as well."
"Indeed," Athos agreed. "Your thoughts mirror mine, as usual."
"It's settled, then," Aramis said. "We'll bring along provisions for a couple of days, but concentrate mainly on packing as much powder and shot as possible."
"It will have to be packaged carefully to make sure the powder stays dry," d'Artagnan pointed out, and the others nodded.
"And if worst comes to worst," Milady said, straight-faced, "we can always rent out d'Artagnan's horse-shoeing skills."
The others smiled, but d'Artagnan had just thought of something else. "Athos, what of your castle and estate? Once we leave, there will be no one to ensure that it does not fall into the hands of the first people to force their way past the door."
"I was coming to that," Athos said, unperturbed. He turned again to Mme Prevette, including her two granddaughters in his gaze. "Madame. Mesdemoiselles. If the building or acreage here is of any use to you after we leave, you are welcome to it. As you are aware, the structure has suffered some considerable damage, but I feel it would be remiss of me not to make the offer."
D'Artagnan felt his jaw drop open. He could not possibly have heard correctly. All thoughts of manners and propriety fled, and he looked at his host in disbelief.
"Athos," he said, "you cannot possibly mean to give away your estate! It has been in your family for years!"
Athos blinked at him. "What use have I for a castle and grounds if I am living elsewhere? A building and some dirt in Blois does me no good if I am in Thiron-Gardais or Paris."
D'Artagnan stared at him as if he had gone mad, before turning to Milady for support. "Surely you do not agree with this?"
"It may not have been my idea to tilt at these particular windmills, d'Artagnan," Milady said, "but it would be as impractical to attempt to hold this property from a distance as it would have been to attempt to hold La Fère when we left it to come here."
D'Artagnan felt thrown yet again. "You gave away the lands at La Fère as well?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Athos was still looking at him as if he'd grown a second head when he replied, "Not formally. I merely let it be known that anyone who could make use of it was welcome to do so."
Milady was also regarding d'Artagnan in a distinctly unimpressed way. "Would you have had us attempt to hire guards to hold the property on our behalf against our own tenants and neighbors, while the land lay fallow and grew over with weeds? I don't know if you've noticed or not, d'Artagnan, but two-thirds of France's population is dead. Guards who would stay loyal for a pocketful of coin are rather thin on the ground these days. As are farmers to work the fields and shepherds to tend the flocks."
D'Artagnan felt his stomach turn over with sudden nausea, bile rising in his throat. He looked around the table. Christelle and Madeleine were watching him with wide, worried eyes, while Athos, Milady, and Mme Prevette just looked confused. It was the knowing look on Aramis' face, however, that drove him to his feet to retreat from the room with a muttered, "Please excuse me; I didn't mean to speak out of turn."
An hour later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his room and contemplating the deepening rust color dying the tails of the lash hanging on the wall across from him. The fabric of his shirt tingled and burned against the flesh of his back, but his mind was quietly, blessedly blank when a figure appeared in the doorway. He had been half expecting Aramis to come, but it was Athos who called into the room.
"May I enter?"
"Of course," d'Artagnan said.
His host came in and positioned the single chair a short distance away from d'Artagnan before sitting.
"I owe you an apology," d'Artagnan began in a flat, lifeless voice, still clinging to that soft, fuzzy place in his mind where he didn't have to think or feel. "It was not my place to speak to you or Milady in such a manner."
Seemingly ignoring his words completely, Athos leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
"Aramis told me that your neighbors drove you off of your family's property after your parents died," he said, blunt as ever.
Serenity fled like a cloud before the sun as d'Artagnan was forcibly thrust back into the memories of that horrible winter. "Yes," he managed.
In his mind's eye, d'Artagnan relived the moment when big, broad Bezían knocked on the door, flanked by Arnald, Gilem, and Nadal. The newly turned earth had not yet settled over the shallow graves of his mother, father, and little sister; d'Artagnan had been seated at the kitchen table, eyes fixed blankly on the cold fireplace when the sound of knuckles on wood jerked him into awareness.
"Ye won’t be able to keep this place up on yer own," Bezían said gruffly. "Me an' the others'll take over the fields an' the cattle. Works out better for everyone, I expect, since yer father's ground is better for crops than ours."
D'Artagnan stared at the taller man, his mouth hanging open as his muddled wits tried to make sense of the words. Anger—no, rage—flooded him as he thought of his father, barely cold in the ground before his neighbors came to take what he'd worked for all his life.
"Are you mad?" he asked. "This farm is mine now—it belongs in my family! What right do you have—?"
D'Artagnan choked on his grief, the tightness in his throat cutting off the words. Bezían looked down at him with a mixture of pity and disdain, the others around him frowning.
Gilem regarded him mockingly. "What right? You're sitting on the best farmland in the parish, and you ask what right we have to come in and farm it? Are you gonna till the fields and milk the cows all by yerself, young d'Artagnan?"
"They're my fields," d'Artagnan replied, his voice rising as he forced the words past the lump in his throat.
"Pfft," Gilem scoffed. "You'd starve to death the first year."
"Those of us that are left gotta plan, an' do the smart thing," Bezían cut in, motioning Gilem to back off. "Or we're all gonna starve next winter. You're upset now. We'll come back tomorrow an' talk. But d'Artagnan, lad, ye need to accept the way things are now. We've all lost people—not just you."
Rage settled, icy in d'Artagnan's gut. "Show your face on my land again, and you'll find yourself at the point of a sword. That goes for any of you."
True to their word, the same four returned the following day despite his threats. And true to his, d'Artagnan chased them off at sword point, Nadal cursing as he clutched the gash on his upper arm. Two days after that a mob, consisting to d'Artagnan's eye of every able-bodied man remaining in the parish, showed up at his door and set fire to the house. He stumbled outside, coughing and choking on smoke, only to be overpowered in seconds with a blow to the temple that knocked him senseless.
When he came to sometime later, it was to find his hands and feet bound, and Bezían looking down at him with a stern expression. D'Artagnan struggled madly, but the ropes held firm. He snarled, venting his anger at the man his father had called a friend.
"If you're going to kill me, then get it over with, coward," he spat.
"No one's killing anyone, you spoiled little shit," Bezían growled. "At least, not unless Nadal dies from his wound sickness. He took a fever from that gash you gave him, you know. Ain't there been dying enough these past few years, without you trying to add to it?"
D'Artagnan glared at him, silently daring the man to bring up his family. Bezían shook his head.
"Yer house is a burned out hulk," the big man continued. "Arnald went in an' found the coffer before the flames got too bad. There was fifteen crowns in it. I've got it right here."
"So now you steal my money as well as stealing my farm?" d'Artagnan said, resuming his struggles.
"I ain't got no use for yer money, any more than I had a use for your house, you hot-headed idiot. But no one 'round here is going to stand for you acting like a cock-of-the-walk. Not after you cut Nadal. Take yer damned money and yer horse and go, before someone decides they want revenge. There's nothing here for you now."
D'Artagnan stared at him, feeling righteous anger trying to pour out through his very eyes. Bezían's lips twisted in a grimace and he turned away, muttering, "Fuckwit. Yer father'd be turning over in his grave if he could see you."
He returned a few moments later with several men, three of whom held arquebuses pointed at him. Bezían produced a short dagger and cut d'Artagnan's bonds.
"Now pick up yer coin and go get yer horse from the barn. Yer weapons and some supplies are there. Saddle up and ride away from here, and don't come back unless you want a bullet through the heart. There's no room around here for lads who think they're better'n other people just because of their name."
D'Artagnan eyed the firearms pointed at him, and briefly weighed the merits of going out in a blaze of glory versus returning at a future date with reinforcements to take back his land and exact revenge. He could go somewhere else—Paris, maybe—to make his way in the world and gain allies to help him. In his imagination, he saw himself returning here at the head of a small army, the men in front of him falling to the ground in fear as they realized what retribution awaited them.
The barrels of the guns followed him as he got to his feet stiffly, went to the barn, saddled up his father's gelding, stowed the provisions that had been left for him, and rode away. His jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth hurt, and the prickle at the back of his neck did not subside until he crested the hill at the crossroads; the curls of smoke rising from his burnt-out home disappearing into the distance, and Bezían's words echoing in his ears.
"Yer father'd be turning over in his grave if he could see you..."
* * *
D'Artagnan came back to the present with a start. Athos was looking at him carefully, and he realized that he must look ghastly with the blood drained from his cheeks and anguish behind his eyes. With supreme effort, he pressed down the memories and the feelings that came with them, stuffing the whole sorry mess into the space behind his ribcage where it sat like a lump of hot lead. He cleared his throat, and repeated, "Yes," adding, "I apologize for allowing my own feelings on the matter to overcome my manners."
Athos continued to regard him silently in that unsettling way he had, and d'Artagnan stumbled on, hoping to move the conversation to safer topics.
"What was decided, in the end?" he asked, proud of the way the words came out in a level voice.
Athos leaned back in his chair, and d'Artagnan absolutely did not let out a breath of relief as the pressure of the other man's gaze abated.
"Mme Prevette considers the castle too large and too badly damaged for herself and the girls to maintain, but she has some acquaintances who might help her form a cooperative to tend the kitchen gardens and hunt game in the forest."
"I'm glad that they'll benefit from it, then. They seem like good people." D'Artagnan paused momentarily before continuing, unable to help himself. "Does it really not bother you?"
Athos' brow furrowed in perplexity.
"It's just dirt and stones, d'Artagnan," he said. "I would imagine that if we are successful in our endeavor, there will be land and titles enough for all of us if we desire them. And if we fail—well, we'll most likely be dead, so it won't particularly matter."
"I hadn't thought of it quite like that," d'Artagnan said.
The other man gave a faint shrug, and laid a hand on his shoulder as he got up to leave.
"Get some rest," he said. "We'll organize the supplies tomorrow and be ready to leave first thing Tuesday morning."
D'Artagnan nodded, and did his best to take Athos' advice. The following day was a whirlwind of activity as food, drink, bedrolls, tents, utensils, clothing, weapons, and valuable gunpowder and ammunition were gathered and packed, amidst mostly good-natured bickering and periodic disagreements about what was most important, or which was the best way to do this or that.
When D'Artagnan fell into bed the night before they were to leave, he was exhausted, but also full of restless anticipation. So it was that, upon being startled from a light doze by an approaching candle flame and the sound of soft steps in his room, he was halfway off the bed with the dagger he kept under his pillow brandished in front of him before he was even properly awake.
"Easy there," said a feminine voice. "It's just me. I've come to say goodbye."
D'Artagnan blinked, lowering the knife as he registered the familiar pale face in the light of the flickering candle flame. "Christelle?"
Christelle smiled and nodded, adding, "The very same. You know, you're sweet when you're half-asleep; has anyone ever told you that?"
"Probably my mother, at some point. Though I seriously doubt I was pointing a dagger at her at the time," d'Artagnan said, stowing the knife back beneath his pillow and hoping the dim light would hide the blood flowing to his cheeks.
"Well, dagger or no, she was right," Christelle said, the corners of her lips still canted upwards as she set the candle next to the bed and came to stand half a pace in front of him where he sat on the edge of the mattress. "So, you'll be leaving in the morning, then."
"Yes," d'Artagnan said, looking up at her as she closed the distance between them even more.
"I'm going to miss you," she said, her smile fading to something wistful. "I think I'd like something more to remember you by."
Trying to ignore how nervous and off-kilter he felt sitting there in his unlaced shirt and smallclothes, d'Artagnan said, "What did you have in mmph—" only to be cut off by Christelle's lips closing over his own. His hands came up of their own volition to cradle her face and twine through her honey-colored hair, even as she gripped his shoulders to steady herself and deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth and sending all his blood rushing to his prick.
Christelle kissed the same way she did everything else—as if it was a contest she was determined to win. D'Artagnan let himself be swept away by her passion for several moments before dimly remembering that he was the man here, and should probably be doing more of the sweeping away part. With a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, he slid his hands down her neck and across her shoulders to grip her upper arms, using his greater weight and strength to twist them both around and spill her backwards onto the bed. He followed immediately, covering her body with his own and resuming the kiss.
She gasped approval, and slid both hands into his hair to hold him in place. D'Artagnan fumbled for the lacing at the sides of her corset, wishing with sudden and desperate urgency that he were more practiced in dealing with women's clothing. He shifted, and his aching prick brushed against the crease at the top of her thigh through the fabric of her skirts. Unable to help himself, he thrust into the welcoming space there even as his hands loosened the knots in her lacing.
Christelle moaned into his mouth, but then one of her hands was guiding his head back so she could speak, and the other was closing over the top of her corset.
"Wait!" she said breathlessly. "You can't take me that way. I don't want to get pregnant."
Before d'Artagnan could drag together enough coherence to form a protest, Christelle smiled up at him, a blush staining her cheeks becomingly.
"Don't worry," she continued. "I know a better way. My friend Odette told me about something else we could do."
She pushed him off far enough that she could wriggle out from under him and stand next to the bed, looking delightfully rumpled with her hair mussed and her lips wet and swollen from kissing.
"I still want to see you," d'Artagnan begged. "Let me see you, Christelle."
Christelle blushed brighter, but nodded, looking down and to the side shyly before catching his gaze once more, her lower lip caught between her teeth. D'Artagnan surged up, allowing her to show him how best to loosen the lacings on her corset without removing them altogether, whispering to him that this way she wouldn't have to re-lace the whole thing in order to put it on again. He helped her wriggle out of it and watched, rapt, as she undid the ties of her skirts, letting them slide down to puddle at her feet before stepping out of them and kicking them to one side.
She returned to him wearing only her chemise, and he kissed her again, allowing his hands to wander over the soft linen. Her breasts were small and flat; slightly upturned. A surprised mewl of pleasure escaped her throat as he palmed them, feeling the nipples pebble with arousal against his hands. He swept his hands up and then down again, sliding the light underdress down her arms and off, leaving it to settle at her waist.
"No fair," she said, and wrestled his shirt over his head in retaliation.
D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at her. "It's totally fair. I'm nothing to look at—I'm all over scars."
"Seen 'em before," she retorted. "Don't care."
He grinned, a sense of pleasure and belonging that he had not felt in months and months washing over him.
"Good," he said, and pulled her chemise down completely, baring her to his eyes. She was lean and sinewy; pale as milk. "Christelle, you're beautiful."
Her answering smile was radiant. She dove for the laces of his braies, and he reached down to help her, desperate to get them off. They ended up getting in each other's way more than anything, especially when the brush of her fingers against his cock sent new pleasure sparking through him, turning his own fingers thick and clumsy. Thankfully for his sanity, the knot eventually came loose and Christelle pushed the offending garments down over his hips so he could kick free of them.
"Sit on the bed," she said, giving him a push when he wasn't fast enough for her.
He flopped onto the edge of the straw-filled mattress, his legs falling open. Christelle folded herself into the space between them, kneeling on the pile of discarded clothing. His swollen prick gave an interested twitch as she studied it, reaching out a hand to touch. Her face was so close that he could feel her breath ghosting over the tip, and he shivered involuntarily.
"Odette told me that a man could take his pleasure from a woman's mouth, instead of her cunny," she said, looking up at him with wide eyes. "You'll have to tell me if I'm doing it right."
D'Artagnan could only nod; his voice stuck fast in his throat. Christelle leaned forward slightly until she could place a kiss on his cockhead where it was already leaking slightly. Her tongue darted out to taste the drop of his essence seeping from the slit, and he sucked in a surprised breath.
"Good?" she asked, still looking up at him through her lashes.
"Yes," he managed, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please—please do it again..."
She smiled with delight and bent back to her task, letting the head slip past her lips to slide into the warm, silky heat of her mouth. D'Artagnan moaned, unable to help himself. Christelle alternated kissing and licking around the slit with taking his length into her mouth, a little deeper each time, and d'Artagnan felt his pleasure rise higher with every brush of her lips and tongue. When she licked firmly along the bottom of his shaft and suckled, his hips lifted off the bed involuntarily. Startled, she choked and pulled back, letting him slip free.
"S-sorry," he said, barely recognizing his own voice, but she only shook her head and smiled.
"Here," she said, wrapping her small hand around the base of his cock, "let me just—"
She trailed off, repositioning herself and swallowing him once more. Her hand pumped him up and down in counterpoint to her lips and tongue, and d'Artagnan was lost in moments, hands gripping the edge of the bed until his knuckles turned white.
"Christelle!" he choked out, and came with such force that lights flashed behind his closed eyelids. He was dimly aware of Christelle making a startled noise around his pulsing cock and pulling off with a soft pop. When his vision returned, he looked down to see her watching him with an air of amusement, a dollop of his release sliding slowly down her cheek and a bit more at the corner of her mouth. Something about the sight made d'Artagnan's heart skip a beat, and his spent cock give a halfhearted stir of interest.
Christelle wiped at the mess with the back of her hand, which seemed merely to spread it around rather than removing it. Unable to help himself, he reached down and pulled her up far enough to kiss the life out of her. She hummed approval into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. By the time his mind started working well enough to identify the source of the salty, bitter taste in her mouth, it was really too late to worry about it, and he merely pulled her closer in his embrace.
When they eventually surfaced for air Christelle laughed, breathless and carefree.
"I take it Odette knew what she was talking about, then?" she asked.
"She did, indeed," d'Artagnan replied, reveling in the sense of relaxation and well-being sliding over him.
"Bit messy, though," she said, wiping again at her cheek. "Maybe you're supposed to swallow it all?"
D'Artagnan could only smile at her like a fool. "Maybe so," he agreed. His eyes drifted lazily over her exposed body, noting the hardness of her nipples and the patch of wetness smeared across her inner thighs, shiny in the candlelight. "Come here. Lie on the bed with me."
He arranged her at his left side, shifting them until he could explore her body with his right hand without his scars pulling too badly. Her eyes were luminous in the low light as she looked up at him. Her belly trembled as he ran his hand lower, through the patch of short brown hair that grew between her legs, to the apex where slick moisture clung to the sodden strands. He cupped her mons, letting the evidence of her excitement coat his fingers. Her eyes followed his hand as if bewitched when he raised it to his lips, breathing the scent deeply before licking along his palm, and she released an unsteady moan.
"Taste it," he told her, thinking that this way, their essences could still mingle even if he didn't spill his seed in her womb. She grabbed his hand immediately, sucking his fingers into her mouth with as much enthusiasm as she had his prick. Again, he felt a stir of desire, even though it was far too soon for him to be ready.
"You are so beautiful," he told her. "I could watch you all night."
She slid his fingers from her mouth to growl, "Watch me all you like, but touch me while you’re doing it, damn you."
He grinned at her and silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the desperate noise she made when he returned his hand to her soaking cunt and exploring the folds delicately with his fingers. The little button of sensitive flesh at the front made her hips buck up against his hand, and when he slid a finger back along her inner lips with steady pressure, its tip disappeared into her slick, tight passage, making her groan against his lips.
He amused himself with sliding back and forth between the two points in an unhurried, steady rhythm, circling the slippery nub and then plunging the whole length of his finger into her warm depths, back and forth... back and forth. After a few minutes of the painfully slow, delicious torture, Christelle jerked away from the kiss, cursing him between moans and trying to speed his movements by rolling her hips against his fingers. Grinning, he pinned her lower body with one of his legs across her thigh, and kept right on with what he was doing.
Cursing gradually turned into begging as Christelle gave up struggling and became pliant and soft under his ministrations.
"Please, d'Artagnan, please," she implored. "I need more; I need—oh, I don't know! Something..."
"Like this?" d'Artagnan asked, adding a second finger to her passage. Christelle keened, and d'Artagnan marveled that something so tight could also be so welcoming, seeming to clutch at his fingers as if trying to keep them inside. A sudden idea struck—if going back and forth between her nub and her passage could drive Christelle to such heights, perhaps both at once—?
He shifted a bit lower until he could slide his thumb over the sensitive flesh with two fingers still inside her. Christelle stiffened, trembling; her breath caught in her lungs for several seconds before she shuddered her release, muscles rippling around d'Artagnan's hand. He kept stroking her until she whimpered and flinched away, oversensitive. After gently sliding his fingers free, he wrapped her tightly in his arms and held her as little shivers continued to wrack her body every few seconds. When she had regained her breath a little, she looked up at him in amazement.
"That was... I've never—" She cut herself off, shaking her head a bit. "I didn't know it could be like that."
D'Artagnan felt a wave of pride and protectiveness wash over him simultaneously, and he hitched her warm, drowsy body a little closer so she could rest her head on his chest as he kicked the blanket free of his legs and dragged it over both of them.
"I'm glad it was good for you," he told her sincerely, before quirking a smile down at her. "And you'll have to thank Odette on my behalf."
A small furrow appeared between Christelle's eyebrows.
"Odette died last fall," she said, her voice going quiet and distant. "I miss her. I'll miss you, too, when you leave."
"And I, you," d'Artagnan agreed. "But I'm glad I'll have this night to remember you by. Will you stay here with me?"
He felt her nod against his chest.
"Yes," she said, "but I'll have to leave early enough that we don't get caught."
"Thank you," he said, feeling unaccountably grateful that he wouldn't have to let go of her right away. He leaned over far enough that he could blow out the single candle before burrowing down into the bed with her warm weight sprawled across his body. Within moments he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
