Chapter Text
…the baying crowd were silenced, and the only sound that remained was Clara’s pained gasp as she hit the floor…
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‘Breathe, Clara, just breathe’ she intoned to herself in her mind, her eyes closed, awareness trying to right itself to the cobbled street that she now lay upon, but finding herself unable to comprehend anything other than the burn of the lashes welted across her back and the weight of the young boy that she now held in her arms.
‘Breathe, Clara, just breathe.’
As the immediacy of the pain subsided, she felt gently calloused hands meet her shoulders, turning her and coaxing the weight of the lad from her, passing him over to waiting arms.
‘Breathing is good. Breathing is very good. I highly recommend breathing,’ spoke a soft voice wryly in her ear, as nimble fingers ghosted over her head and neck, seeming to check for hidden injury.
‘Now,’ continued the voice, dropping in volume as though to shut out the ears of the gathered crowd and afford her some privacy, ‘I am assuming that you, Madame, are Clara, and that therefore your advice regarding the life sustaining act of inhaling and exhaling air is not directed at either our young friend here, whom in which case you have somewhat blindly mistaken for a maiden, or at some phantom which has appeared as a result of the pain caused by your heroic, but unquestionably risky actions?’
Clara grimaced inwardly, and acquiesced with a small movement of her head.
‘Good. Now, can you open your eyes for me, Clara?’
Her eyes snapped open to meet the gentle yet intense, dark eyed gaze of a musketeer, his hands now resting gently on her shoulders as though to reassure himself of the fact that her chest was indeed rising and falling and that she was obeying her own instructions.
‘Oh, well done Clara,’ she thought, gazing up numbly in to the face of her helper, this time making sure that the words did not meet her lips and find voice, ‘He probably thinks that you’re a lunatic. First you leap of your own volition in front of an oncoming whipping, and then you talk to yourself in the manner of an addled minded simpleton who should be escorted at all times, or at very least transported in a gently padded carriage in order to avoid inadvertently injuring herself. Brilliant first impression. Really, well done.’
Aramis looked at her, concern creeping over his features and his hands moving softly towards her head once more. He hadn’t felt the tell-tale result of any blow which would cause the kind of confusion that he was seeing written across her face, but maybe he had missed something through the tangle of copper curls that framed his current patient’s delicate green, no, wait, blue eyed visage...
‘Ahem…’
A dry voice from above caused Aramis to pause from his murmurings and ministrations and he looked up to see Athos, stood with his arms placed lightly on the shoulders of a trembling young boy.
With his attention diverted for long enough to allow Clara to move away from his insistent hands, Aramis looked around to take in the situation that they found themselves in…
The whip-laden stall holder was engaged to their left, gesticulating wildly to any of those who remained in the crowd that would listen, obviously telling tale of an errant thief and a crazy woman, protesting that he was only protecting his wares.
The young lad held under Athos’ hands looked as though he might pass out from the stress, exhaustion, confusion and pain of the event at any moment, and the only thing preventing him from doing so seemed to be Athos’ form standing sturdily at his back.
And Clara, well, Clara was scrambling indelicately to her feet, moving towards the lad for whom she had taken the raised blow of the corded leather.
Aramis rose from the cobbled street and was at her side within moments, as she unsteadily reached the boy and turned her head to say loudly in the direction of the stall-holder, ‘Shame on you Monsieur. Shame on you indeed, whipping a young boy who is obviously desperate for food.’
As she took in the full extent of the lad’s current state, her temper flared within her and she moved towards the stall holder, arm raised and seemingly intent on meeting out with the flat of her hand across his cheek some semblance of the pain which he had caused the child with his whip.
Athos quickly handed the boy off to Aramis, who took no time in turning the boy around to begin examining the wounds on his back, and rapidly strode the space between them, taking her raised arm in his hand and softly speaking in to her ear, suggesting that, ‘maybe now is not the time for vengeance Madame. There is a crowd gathered, and I warrant that a more diplomatic solution may be found once the heat of both this moment, and the marks on your back, have cooled slightly.’
Clara lowered her arm, and turned to look at Athos. ‘Yes. Maybe, maybe you are correct Monsieur,’ she stuttered, the adrenaline rush from the encounter receding from her body like the vanishing tide.
As Athos turned her back towards Aramis and the boy, she was once more reminded of the purpose behind her erstwhile actions and moved to gently embrace the child.
Aramis lifted his hands from the work of exploring the extent of the damage upon the boys back as Clara turned him and tilted his downcast face to look up in to hers.
‘Hello young man,’ she said, with a care and tenderness that he appeared to physically lean in to. ‘My name is Clara, and today is my first day in Paris. You have made that day a somewhat eventful one, beyond what I would have imagined. Now, can you tell me your name?’
The boy met her gaze, and seemed to draw courage from the kindness that he saw in her eyes. ‘Timothée,’ he said. ‘Or Timmy. That’s what my Maman used to call me.’
Aramis and Athos looked on as Clara conversed with him. ‘Well, Timmy it is then. Now, I think that we had better take you back to my new house where we can clean you up and dress those wounds, and see if we can find you a new shirt to wear and maybe something to fill your belly that you don’t have to steal. You can be the first house guest of Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Columbier!’
She raised her head to thank the Musketeers, realising that she hadn’t even found out their names, the action causing her to sway slightly where she stood.
She took a steadying breath. ‘Thank you, kind Monsieur’s, for your timely assistance. We will be leaving now but, before we do, may I enquire after the names of my able helpers, given that you have both mine and Timmy’s, and we are now at a disadvantage.’
Aramis examined her through half closed lids, as though she might indeed be suffering from that head injury that he had previously been fearful of, and moved closer in case her gentle swaying turned in to something more likely to land her at his feet on the cobbles once more.
‘My name is Aramis, of the Kings Musketeers, and this is Athos, also of the Kings Musketeers. With due respect Madame, it is not just young Timothée, sorry – Timmy, here that is need of attention. I do not need to remind you that you, yourself, were subject to the same lashing that he received, and that you have yet to allow me to examine your wounds, much less tend to them. Please, allow us to escort you home and make sure that you have everything that you require for a speedy recovery. If today is, as you say, your first day in Paris, I cannot imagine that this is the kind of welcome that you were hoping for from our fair city, and we would like to mitigate your impressions so that they are more favourable.’
Clara heard Athos snort gently behind her, and she drew herself up to her full height, trying not to grimace at the pain that coursed across her exposed back and shoulders.
‘Do you always use a thousand words when fifty will do Monsieur?’ She said, defiantly. ‘And, also, it is not Madame, it is Mademoiselle. Were you to ask me, rather than assume, I think that you would find that my injuries are not nearly so grievous as you protest. I thank you for your kindness, but I think that I am more than capable of escorting young Timmy here along the few streets to my home, and warrant that the action of bathing and dressing his wounds before providing him with some nourishment will not cause me to expire with any degree of immediacy.’
Athos’ snort upon hearing her speech was less gentle this time, and she set her jaw as she turned to meet his gaze - the action of which caused Clara to sway a little more than she had anticipated.
She inwardly cursed, or at least she hoped that it was inwardly, as her vision blurred, and her traitorous legs gave way beneath her as she felt the lithe hands of the annoyingly-many-worded Musketeer gently break her fall and lift her into his arms, taking care not to further disturb her wounds.
The last thing that she heard before the darkness took her completely was his voice as he said, with vague amusement: ‘Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Columbier, wasn’t it young man?! Right then, we’d better get Mademoiselle Clara here home and sort both of you out, preferably before she wakes to tell me once more that she is not injured in the slightest. Athos, bring Timmy would you...’