#marsac

“now and at the hour of our death”

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“Is Tréville still not back from his meeting at Court?” Marsac hissed impatiently from where he kept his horse from getting antsy. “It would seem not.” Aramis stroked the mane of his beloved Esme. In return, she tried to bite his fingers but he only chuckled. They had been waiting in the courtyard of the Garrison for nearly an hour to be seen off by their Captain. All twenty of the Musketeers lucky enough to be chosen for further training had been steadily getting more restless as the time ticked by. Even those that are staying behind had appeared to see them leave. “Why do we need to wait for him anyway?” “Because it has taken a long time to organise this winter training, and he has had to finalise the details with the king. Besides, this is the first large training we have done as a regiment, and Tréville has chosen us to lead it.” Aramis replied. “Chosen you to lead it.” Marsac muttered. He had recommended his friend from his previous regiment for the Musekteers just over a year ago, and Marsac had proved a highly effective soldier, which soon earned him a full commission. Aramis sighed and clapped his friend firmly on the shoulder, rubbing the already-worn pauldron. “You will have your chance to prove your worth soon.”

----

“My arse is so numb I can’t even feel the cold!” Hugo ranted as he threw himself into a pile of snow. “You’ll certainly feel it when you freeze through and your manhood drops off in your breeches.” Marsac snarled, dragging the young Musketeers to his feet. The small opening they had found in the woods fitted the group nearly; with enough places to rope the horses and enough fallen twigs to begin a fire. “So what’s the plan?” Hugo asked instead as he sat on a log next to Aramis, as eager as the day Treville welcomed him to the regiment. Barely twenty-one and already causing trouble with the Red Guards, Aramis and Marsac were already placing bets on when his first solo stable muck-out will be. “The plan is to get some sleep.” He replied. “I’m not sharing with Xavier again!” Michel hollered from where he was pitching a shelter. “And I’m not sharing with George!” d’Alembert added. “I’m not the one who snores!” “At least I’ve actually bathed this year!” “Enough!” Marsac bellowed, and Aramis smirked into his maps and plans. While he had led other missions and training sessions before, nothing compared to the scale of this campaign. But before he could begin to doubt himself, Marsac sat down next to him. “You coming or do I need to drag you away from those papers?”

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D’Alembert and Xavier did not even make it out of their tent before they were slain. He can see their feet poking out of the battered fabric. They had been trampled to death from the -

- Laurent had not tied his left boot properly -

He knew distantly that he had felt this feeling before, his soul untethering from his body. But the last time the air had been thick with heat and flames choked his lungs. Now they were -

Movement.

Marsac.

Relief flooded his body.

- Alvin was to his right. He’d tripped over the arm that was lying two feet from his body. The snow had turned -

Movement.

Marsac. Of course it was Marsac.

He watched his brother drop his pauldron into the snow. He tried not to be distracted by -

- So much blood it was impossible to tell which wound had killed Fabien -

Marsac was at the edge of camp with his back to him and he had no idea what -

- Hugo had been shot in the face -

They were all dead.

And Marsac was gone.

----

Crow eyes are the most haunting eyes Aramis had ever looked upon. They descend from the sky, shadowed wings rustling silently. Not even their savage skwarking woke his dead brothers, nor the threat of becoming carrion meat. Before the cold sapped all his energy and the split in his skull pulsed to an unknown rhythm, Aramis tried to defend their rest.

But then he had noticed how the trees closed in on him and the roots churned beneath his feet, branches trapping and tangling and tearing. The trees were alive and the crows were their eyes.

Surely it must be their secret calls that the pounding in his head followed. He had learnt in the lifetime he spent in this forest that the cold and damp will rob him of his mind. The mind he grips so very tightly. Aramis knows that the biting wind carries their voices and the rotten leaves weigh him down. He will not be able to fight when they come.

He needs to rest to keep his strength up. He needs his strength to hold onto his mind. He lies still and silent and closes his eyes so the crows cannot take them. They will not find him. Not ever. He can join his brothers in rest.

----

“He still breathes!” “His skull has been cracked.” “Aramis, can you hear me?” “A Spanish raid? Here?” “We’ve found Marsac’s uniform!” “Who could've done summat like this?!” “Porthos, quiet!” “Twenty-one dead Musketeers.” “I’m sorry. He will not survive surgery.” “Aramis, open your eyes.” “His fingers are turning blue.” “We never found his body.” “Do not underestimate him.” “Yer safe now.” “Twenty dead Musketeers.” “I never meant for this to happen.” “How did he survive?” “A deserter then.” “I’ll look after ‘im.” “Please wake up, Aramis.”

"mirror of justice ... throne of wisdom"

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“It’ll be okay, Nanette.” A young woman soothed an elderly vendor who was weeping over her broken stall after some horses charged through the market. “We’ll sort something out.” Aramis doffed his newly acquired hat. “May I be of assistance?” “We will be moving on shortly, Monsieur.” She replied coldly, bright eyes daring him to approach. “If it is a carpenter you need, Bernard can help.” The older Musketeer had done an admirable job restoring the Garrison stables. The two women eyed him warily, and he did his best to appear non-threatening. “We are the King’s Musketeers.” He reassured. “Bernard can fix your stall before the end of the day.” Bernard took the opportunity to begin asking the vendor questions about her stall and how he could help to repair it. This allowed Aramis to focus his attention on the younger woman. “Allow me to escort you home, Madame…?” She huffed and brushed the dirt and dust from her skirts. “It’s Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Clairbourne. And I don’t require any help getting home.” She was about to stalk off when Aramis watched her hesitate and turn around. “Will that man really fix Nanette’s stall? Selling those candles is her entire livelihood, you know.” “On my honour, it will be as good as new before the sun has set.” Her eyes squinted and Aramis could tell she was judging his truthfulness. “I’ll be holding you to that. And if the stall isn’t fixed, your commanding officer will be receiving a complaint from Constance Clairbourne first thing tomorrow.” Then she stormed off. Aramis smiled in her wake.

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“Ah, so you are the baker’s daughter!” Aramis could not help but exclaim when a familiar face arrived at the Garrison beside her father, who regularly supplied the regiment with bread. She levelled her memorable glare at him but Aramis could see some flour in her wild fringe. “Your friend fixed Nanette’s stall.” She admitted as though it physically pained her. “Thank you.” Aramis beamed. “My pleasure.” “Aramis, why have you not unloaded those supplies yet?” Came the dreaded call of Octave the cook. His fear of the hulking man must have been visible because Mademoiselle Clairbourne scoffed. “You’re afraid of the cook?!” “That man is nearly seven feet tall!” Hissed Aramis. “Monsieur - Aramis, was it? - Octave used to work for my father. He is a good man and a passable cook. If you want my advice into his good books?” “Yes.” Aramis urged, desperate to get the most threatening man in Paris off his back. “Flowers. Posies, to be exact.” “Posies?” He repeated dumbly. “You jest?” “Constance!” Monsieur Clairbourne boomed across the courtyard. “We have other orders to deliver.” “Coming papa!” The young woman grinned. “Good luck, Monsieur.”

----

Aramis could not exactly remember how he got from the tavern to the bed of Madame Tellier, nor how he got from there to the empty Parisian streets. All he knew was that he had to make it to morning muster before the 5 o’clock bell. “Aramis?” A call came from… Somewhere. “Aramis? Look at the state of you!” “Mademoiselle Clairbourne?” He squinted at the blurry figure approaching him. “What are you doing here?” “You’re standing outside my father’s bakery.” She sighed and Aramis realised he did not want to disappoint her. “Late night was it?” “The King’s Musketeers patrol the streets of the city morning, noon-” He hiccuped. “-And night.” “You’ve got makeup all over your face.” “Oh.” He should have known that Marsac’s welcome party would spin out of control. But maybe he forgot at some point. He did drink a lot of wine. Constance must have gone back inside at some point because suddenly she had two small jars in her hands. “Here, use this to get the makeup off. And drink this to sober up.” “That’s a pretty dress.” Useless mouth! That was supposed to be ‘thank you’! “I mean - I’m not trying - I don’t - I just… It’s a pretty dress, Constance.” She smiled pityingly. “Thank you, Aramis. It’s from the tailor five streets down if you want one. Now go on back to The Garrison!”

----

Aramis used his last pistol shot to fell the bandit. A group of thieves had been working their way through Paris for over a week, and had quickly moved onto assault and murder. The threat was over now though. Aramis crossed himself and began to reload his weapons when a voice spoke behind him. “I think that was the first time I’ve seen you do something soldierly.” “Constance?!” He exclaimed. “Are you hurt? Your family? What are you even doing in this area of the city?” “I was on my way to visit a friend when I heard gunfire.” Aramis starred. “... And you decided to come closer?” Constance shrugged, knowing full well that she should have been moving in the other direction. “Someone might have needed help.” Glancing back he saw his fellow Musketeers begin to search the bodies for weapons or stolen goods. “It’s not safe here. Please, continue on to your friend’s house.” “I think it is perfectly safe, thanks to you.” What should have been a compliment was spoken with anger and Aramis realised Constance was looking at the corpses of the bandits. No ordinary citizen should have to see a sight like that. “They were murderers.” Aramis tried to explain softly. “I know. But, the idea of taking anyone’s life, for any reason is… hard.” Constance turned back to him, eyes searching for something within him. Aramis tried not to think about those he had killed since he took his first life eight years ago. He tried not to regret, but it was hard. “It should never be easy.”

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This time Aramis heard her approach once everyone else had filed out after Mass. “I’ll admit I didn’t expect you to be devout.” Constance began as she grabbed a matchstick to light a candle near the altar. “I like to keep you on your toes.” Aramis replied, but even his own ears registered his sombre tone. He just did not have energy to jest currently. Constance began to shuffle nervously. “I have interrupted your prayers.” She apologised. “You can stay.” Aramis liked the company. “Why are you here, Constance?” “I came for Mass.” “Why are you still here?” “... You looked lonely.” She swallowed. “What do you pray for?” “I’m not sure. Guidance? And protection for my friends.” “Not your family?” He had long since cut ties with the d’Herblays. Anyone he used to love was probably long gone in the subsequent wars, revolts, plagues, or famines. “I don’t have one… Unless you count the Musketeers!” He aimed for a smile and missed. Constance looked horrified but Aramis grabbed her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “What do you pray for?” He asked in return. “My-” She stopped and tried again. “My parents have begun talking about marriage. I do not pray that it will never happen, because it must… But I pray that it will not change who I am.” With nothing more left to be said, Aramis squeezed his friend’s hand again and together they watched the candle flames flicker.