Chapter Text
The courtyard had begun to dry. Winter still clung to the stone, to the chill that rose through the soles of the boots, to the breath that misted the air before fading, but the sun had learned a new angle. It reached farther now, warming shoulders before the body had quite decided it was safe to believe in spring.
Athos stood at the center of the yard. He had rolled up his sleeves and kept the rapier loose in his hand.
Opposite him, Porthos stretched his arms over his shoulders and grinned. “Three against one,” he said. “Hardly sporting.”
“Think of it as charity,” Aramis replied, adjusting his grip. “He’s been idle.”
Athos inclined his head once and raised his blade.
They came at him together. He turned Porthos aside with a short parry, stepped inside d’Artagnan’s reach before the boy could correct, redirected Aramis’s blade without force. He did not rush.
They clashed in quick succession, the rhythm breaking only when Porthos overcommitted and nearly took d’Artagnan with him. Laughter followed at once.
“Careful,” Athos said as he disengaged. “You’ll trip over your own enthusiasm.”
“That,” d’Artagnan protested, circling him again, “was entirely strategic.”
Athos felt the familiar ease of combat loosen his shoulders. The wound had healed cleanly. His body answered him again without hesitation, remembering what the mind did not need to linger on. Distance. Balance. Breath. Training had become something he could rely on: structure.
He disarmed Aramis with a twist of the wrist, caught Porthos on the flat of the blade before the larger man could recover, and stepped back just as d’Artagnan lunged: quick, but entirely predictable.
“Again,” Porthos said, rubbing his wrist. “I wasn’t ready.”
“You were,” Athos replied. “You simply expected me to move.”
A shadow fell across the yard. Tréville stood on the balcony that ran along the upper floor and watched them with an expression that gave nothing away.
“That will do,” he called. “Gentlemen. My office.”
The others straightened at once; they lowered their blades and turned toward the building, though each glanced back at Athos first. He sheathed his sword and gave them a short nod. By now, he was used to seeing them leave for missions and dispatches, just as he was used to remaining behind.
“You too, Athos,” Tréville added then.
The sudden rush at his temples told him otherwise.
D’Artagnan lifted a brow. “That’s new.”
Athos followed them without comment and, once inside, fell into line with the others, standing at attention.
“You have a new mission,” Tréville said as he leaned over his desk. “You will escort Mademoiselle Éléonore de Brissac, the only daughter of the Comte de Brissac. Thirteen years old.”
“We’re escorting children now?” Aramis murmured. “And the destination?”
“The Electorate of the Palatinate. Heidelberg,” Tréville said. “She will reside there until her marriage is concluded.”
Porthos frowned. “Marriage?”
“Arranged,” Tréville replied. “To a Palatine count in Heidelberg. Catholic, which is a rarity for that region. The handover will take place at the border in Lorraine. An Imperial escort will meet you there.”
He straightened, then looked directly at Athos. “I insisted you be included.”
Athos said nothing.
“The King has agreed,” Tréville went on. “Should this mission conclude without incident, your suspension will be lifted.”
Porthos exhaled. “About time,” he muttered.
Tréville shot him a look, then allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. “You leave in two days.”
Outside again, the sun had climbed higher. Light caught on the pale stone of the courtyard, on steel and buckles and familiar faces.
“That sounds easy enough,” Porthos said. “A pleasant trip to the country. Fresh air. No riots. No accusations of treason.”
D’Artagnan grinned and turned to Athos. “It’ll be good to have you back.”
“You speak for yourself,” Porthos said at once. “I rather enjoyed not having him there to tell us what we were doing wrong.”
“Well,” Aramis said lightly, clapping Athos on the shoulder, “try not to disgrace us, my friend.”
Athos huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
The outer court had been cleared for departure. The carriage stood ready beneath the pale stone façade, its horses already harnessed and restless in the sun. The Musketeers waited alongside it in their travelling clothes.
A small gathering had assembled at the foot of the steps: a handful of courtiers lingering out of obligation, some valets standing a careful pace behind their charge, and the family itself, positioned as if for a portrait they did not intend to keep.
Mademoiselle Éléonore de Brissac stood before her parents: a small figure dressed in pale blue silk, her back straight, her hands folded before herself. Her fair hair had been arranged with care and caught the sunlight in flashes of gold.
The Comte de Brissac’s posture was stiff; his expression was composed to the point of austerity. The Comtesse’s gloved fingers rested lightly against her daughter’s sleeve, not quite touching her, as though proximity itself required restraint.
“Safe travels,” the Comtesse said quietly. “And remember what you have been taught.”
“Yes, maman.”
Éléonore curtsied with perfect form. As she straightened, Athos caught the small signs that betrayed her age: the narrow line of her shoulders, the adjustment of her stance, the crease that appeared between her brows before it smoothed again.
Tréville stepped forward with a short bow, and the Musketeers followed suit.
“Mademoiselle de Brissac,” he said. “These are the gentlemen who will see you safely to the border.”
She regarded them in turn and did not smile. When the carriage door was opened, she moved closer and paused, looking at them as though waiting for instruction.
Aramis nudged d’Artagnan with his elbow. He stepped forward at once, bowed, and offered his hand. “If you please, mademoiselle.”
She accepted it with a graceful nod and climbed in neatly. At the top of the step she glanced back toward her family — a flicker of hesitation in her pale blue eyes — and then disappeared inside, arranging her skirts with automatic care.
Porthos reached for the door. “Off we go, then.”
“Not yet,” Tréville said. “Mademoiselle de Brissac will not be travelling alone.”
Athos could have sworn he saw the faintest shadow of a smile pass across the captain’s mouth. He turned back toward the palace — and stilled as he saw another figure approach.
Beside him, d’Artagnan grinned. “Unbelievable.”
Aramis stopped short. “Well,” he said lightly, glancing sideways at Athos, “there goes your chance at a quiet reinstatement.”
Claire d’Arville came to a halt before them, and her expression brightened with joy and mirth alike. Her eyes found each of them in turn before resting on Athos.
“A pleasure to see you again, gentlemen,” she said lightly.
“Mademoiselle d’Arville,” Aramis replied warmly as he bowed. “Paris has been noticeably dull without you.”
“Has it now,” she replied, arching her brow. Beneath her poised restraint, Athos saw that familiar glimmer of disorder, alive in the curve of her smile.
“Mademoiselle d’Arville will accompany you,” Tréville said then, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “She will ensure propriety, handle translations, and smooth the handover at the border.”
Porthos let out a short laugh and shook his head. “You have to stop appearing like this, mademoiselle.”
Claire turned to him with a grin. “And deprive myself of the look of surprise on your faces? Allow me a little selfishness, monsieur.”
The others laughed. Her gaze returned to Athos, and he found himself stepping forward without quite meaning to.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Athos had last seen her three months earlier, when she had stepped out of the gate of the garrison under the swirling snow. After that, Claire d’Arville had done what she did best: disappeared. Not that he had gone looking.
Now her hair was set more carefully than he remembered. Dark locks had escaped their pins and swayed softly at her temples; the familiar silver arrow pin caught the light. Her dress was pale, elegant, chosen to be acceptable rather than invisible. The look of someone who had discarded the clothes of Aline Deschamps, court functionary, and turned into something else.
“I trust you are well?” she said at last. Her eyes flicked toward his side.
For a moment, white sheets flashed behind his eyes. Snow beyond glass. Warmth that had not yet faded.
“And you,” Athos replied, inclining his head.
Behind them, Aramis cleared his throat. “We should be on our way.”
Athos stepped aside and offered Claire his hand. She placed hers in it, letting her fingers rest against his palm for a heartbeat. Then she stepped into the carriage, and he closed the door.
The driver gathered the reins. The horses leaned into their harnesses as the carriage began to move.
Porthos swung into the saddle with a satisfied grunt. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “if this goes wrong, at least we’ll know why.”
Claire’s face appeared at the window. “I heard that.”
Tréville stepped closer and placed a hand on Athos’s shoulder. “Escort the young Comtesse,” he said quietly. “See that everything runs smoothly. And you’ll soon be joining our ranks again.”
Athos inclined his head. “If that was the aim,” he murmured, “it might have been wiser to limit the variables.”
Tréville’s mouth twitched. “A translator was required regardless,” he said. “Better, then, to include a variable you already know well.”
Athos held his gaze for a moment longer before he gave him a small nod and swung into the saddle.
They turned to offer Tréville a final acknowledgment. Then the driver urged the horses forward, and they all moved. The gate ahead stood open.
Athos took his place alongside the carriage and rode on.