armedagainstlove | (no subject)

New to Paris, Athos is still learning the intricacies of a city after living so long in his home, removed from so much. And yet, he cannot go back there. There is death all around. He wonders, at times, how Catherine does it, but then, he has his own ways of coping and they resoundingly involve alcohol and plenty of it. Tonight has been no different, but after his third bottle, his directions grow muddled. The other Musketeers had left for their own devices (he recalls the big one citing a card game and the charming one leaving with a woman) while the others had merely ignored him.

And so, he has tried to follow the Seine back to the garrison.

He makes it to Rue Rivoli, but then doesn't recall whether he ought to be turning left or right. Eventually, he crosses a bridge and ends up in a quaint little courtyard in a place that smells of dyes and textiles. There is a seemingly comfortable pile of straw in the corner that Athos stumbles towards, clearing his throat as he curls his bottle in and beds down in this stranger's home. Surely they will take pity on him, if they were to find him.

If not, then he supposes it will only be one more reason that Paris will not work for him.

Threaded | Flat

There was a Musketeer in the yard.

Had she not gone out of the house in search of water, a pitcher on her hip as she headed out the short distance between her door and where she and her neighbors shared a well, it would have been a fact Constance would have been left in ignorance of until at least the morning.

The coming winter was still some months away and yet, the bite that hung in the air at that late night hour had her pausing mid-step before she could turn away and leave the blue-caped figure in his straw bed. Instead, she stepped closer, her pitcher held against her chest as she moved with all due caution due to a strange man outside her home. Even as she could practically hear her husband's voice in her head telling her that she was being foolish, that a Musketeer could only mean trouble and certainly more than the effort it would take to so much as check to see that he was still breathing, Constance steeled her shoulders and continued on.

"Monsieur?" she called out, her voice tentative although her progress did not stall. She came to a stop beside where he lay and tried again, "Monsieur?"