Chapter Text
On a cold winter’s day, the most loyal of the king’s Musketeers were riding back into Paris following an unsuccessful mission. They had been sent by the king to hunt a man accused of practicing witchcraft just outside of the city. Word was that he planned to kill the king and try to set someone of his own choosing upon the throne.
Athos, who had never believed in magic, scoffed at the very idea. He had begun to wonder now if this were just some petty way to get the Queen away from all of them; whispers had plagued the palace for months that Anne’s love for Louis had grown cold, and many suspected she had taken a lover. Some had even suggested that her paramour was a Musketeer.
Athos turned to look around him; he was happy here, surrounded by his three brothers. These were the Musketeers he would trust with his life. But he wondered how they would defeat a sorcerer with swords and horses.
“Wait, I see something.”, Aramis cried suddenly, handing the reins of his horse to Porthos. He knelt in the mud and examined the road before them, humming curiously to himself as he did. Porthos’ head snapped up, as though he felt something change in the atmosphere.
“Someone’s been through here. Look at these tracks.”
“Perhaps it was a visitor, or a man who had lost his way along the road.”
“No, they’re headed in the direction of Paris. We should keep following their trail, this way.”
“Aramis. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”
“We’re always careful, aren’t we? We take our time unless…”, Aramis began, but he was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s cry. His head snapped up to look around the place. The strangled sound had reminded him of the Queen. But that was impossible; he had only just left her side as they set out from the Garrison.
“This way. We have to help her!”
“No, Aramis. It’s too dangerous. You know the Queen is at home in Paris; we promised her we would return safely!” Athos shook his head; Aramis’ penchant for orphans and babies had become far more evident since his return to the regiment. Athos had hoped that invoking Queen Anne would give his friend pause, since their affair was now well known, at least in Aramis’ immediate circle. But then another sound; a smaller and more vulnerable wail, reached their ears.
“I have a responsibility to—.”
“You are thinking as a monk again, and not a Musketeer, Aramis.”, whispered Porthos. But it was far too late, and before the words could sink in, he was off in pursuit of the cries. Athos, muttering an oath, mounted his horse again, knowing it would serve them better to follow than to wait for him to return.
“Jesu. . . the fool will get himself killed one day.”, muttered D’Artagnan.
“With our luck, all of us will go with him.”, added Porthos, a light chuckle escaping his lips. He said nothing more, but Athos’ glare told his companions that this time, Aramis may well have gone too far. Aramis himself did not recognize his folly until he stumbled upon a well which he had never seen. Desperate for a drink, he leaned over to check for a way to draw from it, when one of the loose stones slipped free. It was too late for him to right himself and he tumbled into the dark depth of water, surrounded by an unknown magic that changed him even as he fell.