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Athos: Looks 

(Quite sure by the end of the season Athos won’t need lines at all anymore, he’ll just stand there judging people silently…)

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Athos hugs him like he knows this isn’t goodbye, that they’ll see each other again.

d’Artagnan hugs him like the little brother really not wanting his older brother to go.

Porthos hugs him reluctantly and a little in disbelief, “I’m goin’ along with this cos’ apparently this is how it goes, but I’m not believin’ a moment of this - this is a joke.” Which is so foretelling of his reaction in S3 Ep.1.

Muskehugs are the best hugs.

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Athos: Looks (part 2, part 1 can be found here)

Why use words when staring people into submission is so much more effective?

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Books: Musketeer March Day 17

This one is short bc life and also inspiration things. Under the cut

Also on ao3!

Keep reading

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Day 19 - “Promise me”

Warning: Major character death.

"Promise me." Blood spurts from d'Artagnan's lips, but his grasp on Athos's shirt is firm. "Promise!"

Athos brings his face even closer to his and hisses, "You don't have to ask!"

"Then indulge.. indulge me." D'Artagnan's hand falters as he sighs, his head lolling as he loses focus. Athos's fingers tighten in turn.

"Child-"

"I don't... don't really hate it - when you call me that."

The confession comes with a teardrop sliding down his temple, and Athos's hand cradles the side of d'Artagnan's face.

"Please..."

The boy is fading fast. He's slipping, and Athos feels freezing cold and out of his own skin at the same time, hovering above, watching the scene play out as if happening to someone else. As if this is a grotesque dream, such that he doesn't even feel very involved, knowing that he'll soon awaken and reality will return. But blood all over him and d'Artagnan's broken body before him are too stark and cruel even for a dream. Yet Athos can't feel anything.

"Please - I need to hear - I -"

"Shh- alright. Alright, I promise," Athos cuts him off with a murmur- anything to soothe him and stop him talking because blood is coming up with every gurgled word and breath and it needs to stop. "On my honor, d'Artagnan, for as long as I draw breath, Constance will be protected. I'll look after her," he runs his hand over d'Artagnan's hair, "so long as that formidable woman needs anyone's protection."

"And she'll," d'Artagnan gasps with a laugh through his tears, "she'll look after you."

"And this conviction of yours that I need looking after-"

"Athos-" d'Artagnan reaches for Athos's hand and finds it easily, "Thank you. Thank you for everything-"

"Stop that-"

"-you've - taught me so much. You and - the others - you've become family. Thank you."

Athos is not aware of the wetness on his own cheeks. This feels like a part of his own flesh being ripped apart, even as this coldness is progressively claiming him, slowly freezing his limbs and heart alike. It is fading, the light in Charles d'Artagnan's eyes. It is almost gone.

"Child..."

The soft breeze between them will be the only one to ever hear these words. "D'Artagnan - know this. It has been my privilege to fight by your side. It has been my joy to live by your side. And I...will mourn you bitterly-"

"Athos-"

"-for it is a cruel God that gives me brothers only to make me watch them die."

"Athos..."

"And still, I am grateful." Athos presses his lips firmly, desperately onto d'Artagnan's brow. "I am bitterly angry, and deeply grateful at the same time."

He'd made him laugh. He'd made him proud.

"Thank you, child."

An indeterminate amount of time passes. When Athos can finally find the strength to straighten, dArtagnan's eyes are closed, but there is a smile on his mouth.

Porthos and Aramis find them hours later, after the sun has long set and the stars are shining above. They sink to their knees beside their fallen youngest, draw their arms across Athos's shoulders, and grieve.

[visionsfromsoup]

The Musketeers ⚜️ + Behind the Scenes

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ppl are always v surprised at how the little king seems to love using his first minister as a climbing frame and, more importantly, how the first minister doesn’t seem to mind one bit 

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Day 10 - Aramis

Flesh hit flesh.

"Speak!"

"I don't think he can anymore," mumbled a voice in barely suppressed frustration. Booted feet shuffled on the floor.

"I won't ask you again, Musketeer."

"You leave the job to rookies, this is what happens. You could have grabbed the young one-"

"And did you see 'the young one' fight, Calvet?" the first man snarled, "Him and their leader? I'd love to see you get close when they're wielding blades."

"So this one," an eyebrow rose in the direction of the bloody Musketeer, "isn't as good as his comrades."

"This one," the first man corrected, "was distracted because he was covering his comrades with his pistols. Took out four of my men before they even reached the carriage."

"That explains the over-zealousness then," drawled the bored one. A jaw tightened, two hands clenched, and a fist slammed into the Musketeer's cheek.

"Alright, I'm not helping apparently. But a word of advice, Thibaut? Give the man a break. He's no use to anyone if he's dead."

The door closed.

And the interrogation continued.

//

Outside, two pairs of eyes met across both sides of a bolted door, a look of agreement passing between the two. One man dipped his head, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, and the other pressed his lips. At their feet on either side were bodies of unconscious men, dead or otherwise, all completely still.

Porthos's nostrils flared as he moved in front of the door, and with a loud roar, kicked it down. Men sprung to their feet in surprise and chaos ensued: pistol shots filled the room with smoke over angry yells and d'Artagnan moved in a blur as he whirled around the bodies, slashing left and right. A chair broke, glass shattered somewhere and feet pattered as one brigand got away. Athos slid away from the commotion and gave chase. The fugitive shot to the end of a corridor and swerved around with the speed of his flight when he grabbed the handrail, taking a sprint up a rickety staircase - "STOP!" Athos shouted as he ran after him, hoping to catch the man alive. He ducked at the last moment when a door was thrown open and another bandit fired at him.

"What the hell, François," the man cried, "where is Calvet?!"

"Dead! It's an ambush!"

"Surrender now, Thibaut! There's nowhere to run!"

Another shot exploded and the ball struck the doorframe right next to Athos's head, splintering wood. Athos waited only a moment before giving chase again - the man's shots were spent and the bandits now had nowhere to run. Athos caught up with them easily in a rear room at the end of the corridor. Standing in the doorway for a moment, he took in the sight of them. The men were trapped. His posture radiating dangerous fury, Athos's eyes narrowed, he took his aim and fired.

Thibaut went down with a howl, clutching his leg.

The second man cowered.

"Now," Athos said, raising his sword as he advanced, bringing the tip down to the man's neck, "Where is my Musketeer?"

//

It was the strange feeling that something had changed that pulled Aramis from oblivion. He groaned, pain rising to engulf him like flames. Everything hurt - his throat, his jaw, his whole face. He coughed.

Fingertips touched his cheek softly.

"Don't speak."

Athos?

Aramis instinctively tried to move but the ropes cut him off.

"And don't move. We're cutting you loose."

There was the swish of blades as coarse bindings were sliced through, and then hands were touching him, supporting his uncooperative weight. Porthos.

"We've got you."

"Bastards," d'Artagnan swore with feeling somewhere nearby. Aramis vaguely felt that he should say something humorous but his mind was drawing a blank. Everything hurt, even breathing did. He feared he would faint when they moved and his knees buckled, but Porthos's arms tightened around him.

"Slowly now," Porthos grumbled with an odd mix of anger and concern, "Slow an' easy."

For no reason at all, Aramis wanted to laugh.

Later on, he wouldn't be able to recall if the journey to the campsite had been slow or easy. He had vague sensations of a fire crackling deep in the night, the fresh smell of earth under his cheek, and the soft hush of leaves high over his head. Porthos talked, and d'Artagnan put questions, and Athos, as ever, was a powerful presence, joining with quiet, occasional inputs. Aramis smelled cooking fish, distracted as Athos wove a bandage around his wrist. He sipped cool, clean water as Porthos supported his head. And he finally slipped into oblivion under the cloak d'Artagnan draped over him.

He was safe.

[visionsfromsoup]

Day 8 - Favourite female character

The silence was slowly killing her.

Outside the window, spring was in full-bloom - sure, there wasn't a single tree or even a patch of greenery in the cobble-paved street below, but above the surly façades of the crumbling buildings the sky was a glorious blue screaming with joy. Leaning against the windowsill and craning her neck to see the heavens above, Constance's chest heaved with a great sigh. What she wouldn't give to be home now! - her home, where Father and Mother lived, with its little garden and the old cherry tree...The cherry tree. The thought brought tears to her eyes.

A moment later, she tapped her foot angrily and twirled away from the window. How unfair! Why did she have to do house-sitting when Bonacieux spent the entire day -and sometimes the night- outside? "It is temporary," he had said at the beginning, "until we've earned enough to hire a maid, and perhaps then I'll have an apprentice who can take care of the business while I'm out. Until then, I'm sure you'll be able to handle everything splendidly, dear."

That was just over a month ago, when she'd arrived here as the new mistress of the house. To be fair, she'd expected a daily stream of customers, listening to Bonacieux talk, whereas within the last two weeks, only three people had come to the house for the merchandise. Constance had begun to wonder if her husband was not being entirely realistic about the prospects of his business.

A knock on the door diverted her from her reverie. She smoothed her skirts and tossed her curls back as she hurried downstairs. Thank God. At least I'll hear a human voice.

The voice she heard, to her luck, was a deep, and delightfully rich.

"Mademoiselle," a well-dressed man tipped his hat at her and Constance saw a strong jaw covered with a well-combed beard, and beautiful blue eyes.

"Can I help you?" And it is 'madame'.

"This is the Bonacieux house?"

"It is?" She raised an eyebrow, surveying him from the step above.

"I am Athos - of the King's Musketeers," he said politely, "Captain Tréville's directed me here." He'd hesitated for a moment after giving his name, as if he weren't accustomed to it. He also didn't speak like a commoner at all - he was surely a nobleman. Constance blinked.

"I'm sorry - what did he direct you here for?"

The Musketeer slightly frowned. "I was given to understand Bonacieux is a cloth merchant."

Constance lifted her chin. "Yes?"

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "I could talk to Monsieur Bonacieux myself."

"My husband is out at the moment," Constance replied a little coldly, clasping her hands in a dignified manner, "I'm sure I can help, Monsieur, if you'd tell me what you need."

She saw the further narrowing of his eyes at her title, because in the full month she'd been married, not one person had addressed her as 'madame' at first meeting yet. Everyone took her to be a new maid and it was driving her crazy.

Hesitating for a few moments, Athos then assented by giving her a half-bow.

"Very well, Madame - I need material for a Musketeer uniform."

"Oh."

Finally something clicked in place. Hadn't Bonacioux said something about having made a great deal some weeks ago, something to do with the Musketeer garrison? "Yes," she said, a little excited now, "please come in!"

She stepped aside to let him pass, but Athos did not move. It took her a few moments to realize that she had pressed her back to the wall and was holding the door for him as if she were the maid. The Musketeer, perfect gentleman he obviously was, was waiting for her to precede him inside. Flustered, she turned and entered the dimly-lit hallway, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Follow me, Monsieur," she instructed as if nothing had happened, and gathering her skirts, took to the stairs. She pushed the door open to the large back-room they used to store the merchandise and entered. Now... There was the blue woolen cloth for the cloaks... The uniform, though - she knew it was leather, but what colour and quality?

"Monsieur?" she called distractedly, surveying the browns and blacks with a frown, "What colour is your uniform supposed to be?"

She'd seen Musketeers only a few times before and all she could recall was their blue cloaks.

"May I?" Athos asked and walked into the room to survey the fabrics himself. Constance instinctively put a little space between herself and the Musketeer, and took the opportunity to inspect him further. There was something peculiar about this man.. Something - she didn't know what, but all of a sudden, she relaxed. It was startling, this feeling of safety in the company of a complete stranger - and Constance's curiosity piqued.

"I'm assuming you're a new Musketeer?" she ventured prettily. He nodded without diverting his gaze.

"Congratulations." It was a litte awkward as the man didn't seem particularly inclined to conversation - though why would he be, she was just the cloth merchant's wife! - but he could be the only person she talked to besides Bonacieux all day and she didn't want to pass up the chance.

"This will do well."

Athos placed a hand on the best-quality black leather. His eyes surveyed the shelves around the room next, and he moved towards the buttons without being shown to them. He picked plain round ones with the manner of a man well-accustomed to having his garments tailored to his own taste. His current attire, simple and perhaps a little worn, was nevertheless made of best quality cloth. Constance felt proud of this observation. At least she'd picked up something about the business this past month.

"Alright, take a seat while I cut these out for you."

She appraised him with a tailor's eye to assess how much fabric would be needed, and set to work. She found him on his feet, staring into the fire when she returned to the parlor with the packages in her arms.

"Here, monsieur."

"Thank you, madame. What do I owe you?"

"Oh..." She had no idea. She clasped her hands again and replied in that dignified tone, "My husband will settle it with the Captain, Monsieur." She'd completely made that up on the spot but felt a thrill of triumph when he accepted this answer without question. Packages under his arm, he put on his hat and tilted it at her again at the door.

"Madame."

"Good day."

She watched him disappear in the crowd with a sigh and closed the door.

She pouted.

If possible, the house had become even more dull.

[visionsfromsoup]

Just for the record: He‘s looking at Porthos.

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A (late) entry for musketeer march day 5 - Athos

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Day 5 - “Athos”

"You said... your name was Athos?"

The voice was frail, the question itself tremulous. A feeble hand twitched on the blanket as if to reach out, but desisted. "Forgive me... Do I know you, monsieur?"

"Forget Athos, Madame. Olivier. Remember?"

"Olivier..." The old woman tested the name on her tongue as if calling on her memories. "Olivier.." Her blue eyes widened. "Oh!"

He smiled, covering her hand with his. "Indeed, dear Madame."

"Oh, but..! How handsome you have become! You.. sweet child..."

Athos's smile grew as he squeezed the woman's fingers, tilting his head to give her a better view. In the next room, beyond the curtain in the doorway, Aramis, there upon his friend's request, was listening silently.

"How come you to be here, how did you find me? Ah, Olivier... A lifetime, child-!" she coughed, "A lifetime!"

He sighed, smile fading. "A life... Indeed."

"But you look different now," she noted, frowning as she took in his uniform, "And you are not in Pinon?"

"No. I am no longer the Comte. I serve in his Majesty's regiment of the Musketeers now."

"You're not the Comte-?" she looked affronted, prompting Athos to shake his head.

"My father has died many years ago."

He waited patiently as she took her time, trying to process this information. She was wheezing slightly at each breath, watching him keenly.

"You're a... Musketeer now?" she said at last, "A solider?"

"I am."

She smiled, looking at him with something like maternal pride. "You, dear child... have gotten your own way."

"In the end," he affirmed quietly, nodding. He did not tell her what it took for him to find himself where he was.

"Good-" she gasped as her breath hitched and she jerked forward a little, clutching at her chest. Her daughter, until then sitting quietly in a corner, rushed forward. The old woman doubled over in a coughing fit; Athos rose and watched until the commotion subdued. Then he pursed his lips and pulled the young woman aside.

"Has a physician seen her?"

She shook her head, her eyes on the ground. Athos retrieved his coin purse, took her hand and placed it in her palm. "Call one. Buy coal and blankets. Is there anything else you need?"

The woman seemed amazed at this unexpected generosity; after a few moments of astonishment, she shook her head. Taking his hat under his arm, Athos turned. "I'll come again tomorrow, Mademoiselle. Good day."

"Athos..."

Athos stopped at the sound of his name, dragged in with a difficult breath. The old woman did not open her eyes. She was remembering. "Athos. That was... the family name.." A smile passed over her lips as she looked contended, a piece of memory falling into place.

Athos and Aramis left the poor house and stepped out into the night.

"So," Aramis said after several minutes, glancing at his friend, "your Christian name is 'Olivier'."

"An astute observation," Athos muttered.

"Well, of course," Aramis returned, then sobered, and gently patted his friend's back. "You're doing right by her, Athos."

"Thank you for your observation, René."

"Are we on a first-name basis now?"

"You tell me."

"Tell me... Have I ever told you about a priest friend of mine who took a pilgrimage to Mount Athos in 1617?"

"No, but I have a feeling you are about to," Athos returned with a long-suffering sigh.

"It is a good tale. Now, in the spring of 1617...."

The two friends joined the evening bustle on the Rue Fontaine and their voices mixed into that of the crowd.

[visionsfromsoup]

Prompt (alternative): Tears

She'd wept as a girl of thirteen, frightened and homesick already, put inside a carriage and the door closed on her, she'd caught the eye of her mother from the window and given a wave right before turning his head away so they didn't see the tears in her eyes. As the carriage had started moving, she'd clenched her fist around the fabric of her dress, squeezed her eyes and bit hard on her lip until she could suppress the urge to weep, swallowing down the sobs stacked in her throat. Across from her in the opposite seat, her chaperon and lady-in-waiting were watching her with faces as if carved out of stone.

She'd wept into her pillow on her first night at the Louvre.

Louis had discovered the tear-tracks on her cheeks one day, not too long after they'd consummated their marriage. Only a young man of fifteen himself, he'd stood there looking extremely awkward, at a loss of how to behave at the presence of his weeping queen. The memory makes her smile fondly now. Sobbing, she'd reached for his hand, feeling lost and just in need of someone to hold her, and his face had changed; the indecision had vanished and he'd approached and hesitantly gathered her to his chest. She'd clung on and let herself accept the safety of his arms, because there'd been no one else. He hadn't said a word. And when her tears were finally subdued and she'd composed herself, she's asked him to accompany her on a walk in the garden. He'd readily complied. She still remembers that day bathed in sunshine, the first time she'd felt hope in her heart that she could be happy here, the Queen of France.

She hadn't loved Louis the way a woman would hope to love a man. She knew well that Louis did not love her either. But throughout their years of reign, despite the bottomless distances that had always stretched between the two of them, in some ways, he had still been her best, closest friend.

Even after enduring four years of slights, frosty looks and barbed remarks, now that he was gone... she felt his loss keenly as she sat gazing out of the window, her moistened eyes wandering over the paths they'd strolled countless times arm in arm. God forgive her; there'd been times when she'd almost forgotten the real father of her child as she'd watched Louis play with their son. God forgive her - her most fervent, most devoted prayer - and Aramis.

She closed her eyes.

I will never be able to forgive you, Anne, he had said.

He'd never asked for her forgiveness for his many dalliances.

And yet, as she sat here all alone in her mourning dress, not only a week after his burial... it all felt like somebody else's life. All the heartache she'd suffered because of him felt distant, foreign and unimportant now. A new era had begun.

For her part...

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

I forgive you.

She forgave him everything, with all her heart.

She wiped away the last of her tears for Louis XIII, the last king of France. Rising, she caught sight of a figure freshly donned in blue robes, and smiled.

[visionsfromsoup]

Prompt: Ice/Cold

"D'Artagnan, no-!"

Water splashed over the surrounding layer of ice as the Gascon dove into the frozen lake, leaving a trail of weapons belt and doublet behind. Aramis followed in a sprint along the edge without breaking stride, leaving Porthos to dispatch of the last of their assailants.

"d'Artagnan!" he bellowed, "Athos!"

Jesus!

Rather than stopping to watch, he ran towards the horses and led the animals to the edge of the lake, undoing the reins on one of them and crept closer to the hole Athos and d'Artagnan had disappeared into. Christ. His breath clouded before him as he exhaled harshly, his heart thumping in his chest for reasons other than the recent fight. Come on, come out- "Athos! d'Artagnan!"

"Aramis!" Porthos had approached, looking from Aramis to the lake in search of their friends. "They didn't--"

"One of them dragged Athos in - d'Artagnan went in after him. Porthos, no-!" He yanked Porthos back when the other man instinctively made to run over the lake. "We need a fire, as quick as you can-"

A dark head broke the surface with a mighty roar and an arm shot out of the frigid water, the hand desperately grappling for purchase. As if the conversation a second ago had never happened, both Aramis and Porthos broke into a run.

"S-stop-no-!"

For the second time Aramis yanked at Porthos to stop him and threw the reins in his hand towards the hole in the lake. "Catch it!"

"I c-can't! Athos, he's-" d'Artagnan was trembling too much to string together his words but his predicament became clear when they saw the second head bobbing just over the surface next to him. In the bleak morning light, with his eyes closed and his face pallid, Athos looked dead.

"d'Artagan, listen," Aramis said with forced calm, "You have to let go of Athos to catch the reins. It'll only be a moment - you won't lose him."

"No-Aramis-"

"d'Artagnan." Aramis spoke softly now, locking eyes with the Gascon. "You can do this. You'll catch him, and we'll pull both of you out."

The indecision lasted a moment longer before d'Artagnan gave a jerky nod. Aramis glanced at Athos's limp figure in worry before turning to Porthos and nodding.

"Ready?" he asked the Gascon.

"I'm ready."

"'ere we go."

The leather straps flew in the air and fell right next to d'Artagnan's head with masterful accuracy. A look of pain flashed over the Gascon's face right before he took a huge breath, and two things happened at once: d'Artagnan heaved himself out to grab the reins with a cry of exertion, and Athos slipped under water.

Porthos dug his heels in the muddy earth as the strap tensed. Aramis's eyes were fixed on the hole in the lake, his breath held.

With a firm grip on the leather now, d'Artagnan dove back in.

Seconds ticked by...

... and he came out with Athos held close to him.

"Hold on now!" Porthos shouted, and started to pull. Rather than standing idly by, Aramis let go of the breath he'd been holding and left Porthos to pull his friends out of the water; he ran to the horses and set to unloading the blankets and arranging the supplies to tend his friends. Only a few minutes later he was helping d'Artagnan over to dry ground with an arm around his waist, and Porthos was dragging the unconscious form of Athos onward.

"I'm fine - I'm f-fine - look over Athos! Athos-"

"Don't worry, we have you both. Sit." Aramis sat the Gascon down with his back to a large tree and set to divesting him of his garments. "Porthos?"

"On it." Porthos was removing Athos's sodden clothing as well. His teeth chattering, d'Artagnan attempted to lean forward to remove his boots but was too uncoordinated; Aramis shook his head and gently pushed him back. "Stay put."

Five minutes later, both men were wrapped in all the cloaks and blankets the four Musketeers had had with them; Porthos was sat next to d'Artagnan with his back to the tree and had Athos in his arms, rubbing life back to the limbs.

"Why's he-" d'Artagnan gasped, still shaking to pieces, "-not waking up? He was in the water - only a minute - longer-"

Porthos shook his head, having no answer, but before Aramis returned from gathering food for a fire, the swordsman had already begun showing signs of returning to consciousness, groaning and beginning to shake.

Soon enough, they were sat around the glorious heat of a fire.

"Remind me never the take this road again," d'Artagnan mumbled grumpily, leaning closer towards the flames with a shiver, "especially in winter."

"As soon as you discover an alternative," Porthos grunted beside him. d'Artagnan glanced over at Athos in concern and pursed his lips before turning his eyes to the fire again. He had lost his father in an inn at the edge of a frozen lake, just like this one, exactly three years ago. He'd been thinking of him when the bandits had attacked. His heart shook with a chill that had nothing to do with his recent activities when he recalled the moment he'd thought he'd lose Athos to the waters of the lake. He looked up in surprise when he felt the grip of a hand on his shoulder.

Athos was looking at him with silent gratitude and pride.

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. In a moment, his heart was warmed, and it was only his limbs that were cold again.

[visionsfromsoup]

In. Out.

He is fine. On the mend.

In.

She shouldn't have watched. Out. In retrospect, a thought never to be voiced aloud: she really wished she hadn't watched. The blood... In -  "Oh, for God's sake!"

She shot to her feet, the finger she accidentally pricked flying to her mouth. She sucked on the tiny droplet, the other arm subconsciously wrapping around herself.

"Really, Constance, what's gotten into you? Fussing over a little wound - he's a Musketeer, so get a grip!" Thus berating herself, she picked up the work she'd just put aside and sat back down. Needle in.

The tiny piece of metal slid easily in and out of the soft cloth in her hands, the rusty brown thread trailing it down underneath. Out, and the red came back to the surface like a swimmer coming up for air. The drops of blood with each new puncture on d'Artagnan's side - really! - she'd chosen an unfortunate color to work with tonight!

In...

To be fair, d'Artagnan had not made a sound. But his jaw had been so tightly clenched that Constance thought it probably gave him trouble now. Then again.. That would be the least of his worries, wouldn't it, with that ugly wound in his side?

"How is it coming along?"

Her head whipped around at Bonacieux's curt query, who had stuck his head in through the door and was frowning at her. Constance schooled her expression into a smile, locked her eyes with her husband's, and bit the thread off.

[visionsfromsoup]

Musketeer March

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