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“Show some compassion, and at least let the women and the Dauphin go.”
Constance feels grief the moment Marmion begins his ascent towards Aramis. The musketeer’s words were simple enough—reasonable even—but it’s already clear Marmion is not a man of reason. With his request, Aramis sealed his fate. And Constance grieves, because she’s never had time for false hope.
It doesn’t keep her heart from stopping the moment she recognizes the sound of a window shattering or hears Porthos’ distressed cry of his friend’s name and d'Artagnan’s disbelieving shout.
Chaos erupts before Constance is even certain Aramis’ body would have completed its descent.
Porthos is a storm of anger on the balcony above them, stronger and louder than d'Artagnan’s struggle that ends with harsh blows to his torso. Constance stands without thought, grief giving way to her own anger as she moves to the men holding d'Artagnan down. She has no weapons and she has no delusions about her strength compared to their captors’, but she needs to move—to fight. A man grabs her from behind and she struggles instead of relenting. Anger fuels her adrenaline until her elbow finds a sensitive target and the man releases her long enough for her to grab the nearest pistol.
For the briefest moment, she has the upper hand. Her aim is steady, strong, and the man in front of her looks frightened.
For the briefest moment, she has hope.
Still, she’s hardly surprised when she’s overpowered again and facing down the barrel of the pistol she had just held in her hands. D'Artagnan’s call for her is overrode by the sound of Marmion firing a warning shot with his pistol.
Distantly, she’s aware of Marmion talking, of him explaining that he has felt the same as they all do. I too know the anguish of bereavement. Her focus, however, is on the pistol aimed at her heart. On the way d'Artagnan is still struggling to protect her from the bullet that is set to kill her.
On the struggle from the balcony above them as Porthos is dragged away, leaving them with one less man who can fight.
“You do not cower from a fight?”
Constance blinks, carefully pulling her gaze from the pistol to the man who holds their lives in his hands. She doesn’t remember him descending the stairs, but he’s there in front of her, waiting expectantly for an answer.
“No.”
“Even when you cannot win?” he asks, looking genuinely interested in her answer.
Constance catches d'Artagnan’s gaze, tries to find her cue in his desperate eyes, but finds nothing except pleading. Please don’t die. Please forgive me. Please stay alive. Please. “There’s always hope,” she says, ignoring the way the words taste like a lie.
Aramis is dead. Porthos is gone. D'Artagnan and Rochefort are too outnumbered to ever hope for the upper hand.
There is no hope.
But Constance will not die willingly.
Marmion studies her for a beat. Another. Then nods. “Take her to the cellar.”
D'Artagnan’s angry shout follows her as she’s pulled away. “You will die for this.”
“Not yet,” Marmion counters easily.
Constance stops struggling as she lets d'Artagnan’s conviction strengthen her. She curls her hands into fists to stop their shaking and ignores the fear that lingers at the edges of her mind.
There is no hope.
But she has been wrong before.
:: :: ::
“Constance?”
Porthos makes to reach for her then stops short when he seems to remember the rope around his wrists and the two men keeping him from struggling. The rope connecting them by their bound hands hangs low as he steps closer to her. “The others?” he asks, giving a half-hearted tug on his bonds which sends one of the men at his side stumbling forward.
“Alive.”
Another of their captors sneers, “for now.”
It’s worth the burn of rope against her wrist when Porthos fights. It takes four men to subdue him again, and Constance finds satisfaction in the startled fear she sees from the one man left to restrain her. “You won’t succeed,” she taunts.
The man doesn’t respond, just pulls her forward. She stumbles over her skirts for a moment, straightens, and then finds Porthos’ gaze.
He nods.
:: :: ::
As soon as the cell door slams shut, Constance begins to strain against her bonds. The metal cuffs around her wrist are unbreakable, but they were made for a man’s hands. If she can twist her hand just right and tug, she should be able to pull her hand free. It’s still a tight fit and she can feel the rough edges of the cuff cut through her skin as it meets resisting bones that refuse to contort to a smaller shape.
“…Constance? Constance!” Porthos’ voice only breaks through when he tugs on the chains, wrenching her hands apart with startling speed.
“Porthos, stop,” she snaps. “I almost had it. I can get myself free.” Their positions on either side of the stone pillar makes escape harder, but for a moment she’s grateful she can’t see his face. She knows him well enough to know he is disappointed in her actions.
“At what cost?” Porthos demands, not giving her any slack, forcing her hands to stay at her sides. “You were whimpering in pain. What were you doing to yourself?”
“Pulling my hand free of the cuffs.”
“And mangling yourself in the process, no doubt.”
“It’ll heal. It’s worth it. We need to get back up there. Marmion intends to kill all of them. I won’t let anyone else die.”
She’s imagining it, she knows, but for a moment she thinks she can feel Porthos’ angered growl vibrate through the pillar. “Aramis ain’t dead,” he decides, as if he has any say in the matter.
Constance wants to reassure him that he’s right, but she’s already accepted Aramis’ death. She’s not in the correct mindset to offer him any false comforts. Instead, she remains quiet, waiting for Porthos to release her arms so she can continue to work for their freedom.
“Sacrificing your hand is not the way we get free,” Porthos says, reading her mind too easily.
“Why not? I get free and you can reach one of those hooks on the wall to pry the chains off. You can overpower the guard—”
“I need you whole and able to fight, Constance,” Porthos interrupts, emphasizing his words with a small tug on the chains. “You’re a fighter. It’s why Marmion locked you down here with me, yeah?”
Constance swallows and nods, not trusting her voice for the moment. Porthos can’t see her response, but he continues as if he did. “You’re smarter than this. Alright?”
When Constance nods again, Porthos gives the chains another tug. “Say it.”
“Alright, Porthos. Alright.”
She doesn’t move when the tension in the chains is released. Porthos is trusting her to keep her word, so she will. D'Artagnan is trusting her to stay alive. So she will. Their lives are in danger, so she will fight.
Until the end.
:: :: ::
They quickly run out of alternate options for escape, but Porthos refuses to let silence fall over them. He seems to believe the silence will be their undoing, and Constance can’t be certain that he’s wrong.
“Court life isn’t what you would have expected, is it?” he asks, while Constance frowns at the wall across from her. The hooks along the wall are no longer a viable option. She is too short to reach them, and Porthos cannot reach one without damaging her shoulder.
“I didn’t have expectations,” Constance admits, wiggling her already raw wrist, still half-certain she can make her hand slip free by simply willing it smaller. “I just knew I had to say yes, for my own sake. And now, even with this, I don’t regret it. The queen trusts me—respects me.”
She doubts the sudden tension in the chains is a coincidence nor is it a response to her statement. Porthos knows exactly what she is still attempting to do to escape. “Your husband is a fool,” he says, instead of reprimanding her.
Constance can’t help the sudden chuckle, not expecting yet not surprised by his words. “I wasn’t speaking of my husband.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s true. Only a fool wouldn’t respect you.”
“Even d'Artagnan?” She asks then regrets it.
She doesn’t mean for it to slip out. Not really. She and Porthos don’t know each other as she knows the others. She and Athos share a history that pre-dates d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan once shared her bed and—if she’s honest—still shares her heart. And she and Aramis share a secret that he has taken to his grave.
Though, if they live through it, she and Porthos will now share this cellar and the fears she let play with her mind.
“That boy loves you,” he says without hesitation, and even now it comforts a part of her to hear it.
Still. “That’s not my worry.”
“You don’t think he respects you?” the disbelief an almost tangible thing in his tone. “He respected you long before he ever realized he loved you.”
“He called me a coward,” she admits, not realizing until that moment just how much d'Artagnan’s words months earlier still hurt her.
“I don’t believe it,” Porthos says, but it’s less a statement against her and more against the man in question. “When we get out of this, he and I are going to have a long talk about his lack of intelligence.”
Despite herself, Constance laughs. For a moment, she’s utterly grateful that it is Porthos with her instead of the others. “Thank you,” she says finally.
“Treville is lying to me about my father,” he says in response, and Constance starts then frowns, trying to understand his reasoning behind the confession.
When she does, she tugs on the chains in rebuke.“I thought you said we were going to survive this.”
“I did. We will,” he assures, sounding slightly surprised by her words.
“Then do not turn this cellar into a confessional. When we are free, you can explain how one of the best men you know could lie to you about something so important.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Porthos says, almost indignant.
“I believe you,” she assures. “My disbelief lies in the fact that I now know that the regiment has two men who lack intelligence.”
It’s Porthos’ turn to laugh, and Constance drops her head against the pillar—
It’s then she hears her salvation, and the elusive hope becomes obtainable again. The small clink of metal against stone sparks an idea that she’s almost ashamed to admit she didn’t think of earlier.
“Porthos?” she asks, reaching up for the knot of hair at the back of her head. Her companion grunts in response, allowing her enough slack to reach her hair unrestrained. “Can you pick locks?”
“Sure, if I have a lock pick.”
“How about a hair pin?”
She can’t see him smiling, but can hear it in his response. “What was that about lacking intelligence?” he jests, and Constance bares the shared mockery with her own smile.
“Better late than never.”
:: :: ::
The plan was to stab the guard, but when the time comes, Constance can only hit him over the head with the hook Porthos pulled from the wall. The guard drops like a stone and she fleetingly realizes she’s probably still killed him. But then Porthos is grabbing her hand, and she has other priorities.
“I saw a staircase down the hall. It should keep us out of sight long enough to ambush a few more of them,” Porthos says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket as he speaks and moves them forward. Without asking permission, he brings her hand up, gripping her by the forearm, and ties the handkerchief around the raw and slightly bleeding marks on her left wrist.
He says nothing of the injury, and Constance doesn’t bother with an apology (or a thank you).
Together, they continue down the hall then up the stairs. Porthos subdues the next man they encounter, handing her the knife he steals from his body. They now have two knives between them and the hook that Constance has yet to let go of.
She is no soldier, but even she knows they are woefully outmatched.
Still, she tucks the hook into her skirts and grips the knife with determination. She has a weapon. She has Porthos. She has hope.
Before they reach the top of the three-levelled staircase, Porthos pulls them to a stop. “Stay behind me,” he instructs. “Watch my back.”
“I will.”
He smiles tightly, dropping a hand to her shoulder for a second before reaching lower and pulling the hook free from her skirts. He gives her a mock salute with it then turns and climbs the remaining steps. The hallway at the top of the stairs is empty, but Constance knows they aren’t alone. Porthos does as well, if his hesitation is any clue. There are rooms and hallways all along the passageway each capable of hiding another of Marmion’s thugs. What worries her the most, though, is the open room at the other end of the hallway. Even from a distance, Constance can tell the one window inside it is open. It’s not a helpful observation, but she still notes it, recognizing the fact that if anyone is inside the room, she and Porthos will have nowhere to hide from them, standing as they are.
Seemingly unworried by the open room, Porthos moves them along the wall to their left, pressing her into the first closed doorway they come to. They wait a moment in silence, listening for any hint that their presence has been noticed, and then he pulls her along to the next closed doorway.
When they finally reach an open doorway he stops just at its edge. She can’t see in from her spot behind him, but she sees him straining his neck to study the room beyond. After a moment, he steps back, grabs her hand, and moves her forward. The room is empty.
Perhaps the entire floor is empty.
He stops at the next open doorway, and only takes a second to study it, stepping back before a full second has passed. Carefully, he guides the two of them back far enough that he can speak to her in hushed tones. “I’ll distract him. You get him with this,” he says, gesturing to the knife in her hand.
“I…” Constance hesitates then nods, her hand suddenly clammy where it grips the knife.
“Or,” Porthos offers, “You distract him, and I stab him.”
“Yes,” she says immediately then hands the knife to him, ignoring the fact that he’s already carrying one. His hand tightens around hers for a moment before he gestures her ahead.
Constance straightens her shoulders and strides forward, standing boldly in the doorway and smiling at the man she finds inside. “Fifty sous, and I’ll take you to Heaven.” Behind her, she hears Porthos muffle a snort.
“What are you doing here?” the man demands, standing from his stool and stomping towards her.
“Marmion let me go. I wanted to explore,” she lies badly, stepping backwards as he moves forward. There’s enough distance between them for Porthos to easily move in once the man reaches the doorway. With a hand to his mouth and a knife to his gut, the man is subdued quickly. Porthos drags his body inside the room then further into an adjacent room, and Constance follows, taking back her knife.
She keeps her attention on the open doorway as Porthos makes quick work of stripping the man of any weapons. The distinct rattle of keys draws her attention for a moment, and she looks back to see Porthos smiling at her, jingling a set of keys from one hand, a pistol in the other. “He was guarding someone,” he whispers.
Constance nods to the door behind him then holds out her hand for the keys. He lays them in her palm and stands, watching her back this time. Beyond the locked door, she thinks she hears panicked breathing, and she prays it means she isn’t about to be ambushed. Her knife in one hand and the key in the other, she unlocks the door and carefully eases it open.
The feminine cry of surprise is all the confirmation she needs that the room beyond is safe. With Porthos’ sturdy form at her back, she hurries inside and smiles at the shaken forms of Her Majesty and Marguerite. “You’re alive,” she blurts, continuing forward until she has both women in her arms. They cling to her gratefully, burying scared faces into her neck.
She feels Porthos move past them and only registers the cries of the Dauphin once they have stopped. Almost reluctantly, she pulls back and nearly laughs at what she finds.
Behind the queen, Porthos has picked up the Dauphin as if the infant were something to examine. He is holding the child in front of his face, frowning at him as the infant reaches for him, the small hands patting at Porthos’ nose and eyes, before settling on his beard. “You’re a brave boy, your highness,” Porthos declares, talking around a hand that is splayed just outside his mouth.
“Much like his loyal Musketeers,” the queen agrees as Porthos settles her child into her arms. “Is the King safe?”
“As long as d'Artagnan still draws breath,” Porthos promises, though none of them can be certain the young musketeer is even alive.
He moves back to the doorway then freezes, tension in his shoulders that speaks louder than any warning. Without prompting, Constance moves to his side, her knife held tightly as he raises his stolen pistol. He gestures to the open doorway, and she finally hears it. Heavy footsteps headed directly for their room.
Porthos risks a glance over his shoulder at Constance. “Hide them.”
She obeys, directing the two women and infant back into the room that had been their prison. “Stay. No matter what you hear.”
“Constance?” Marguerite bleats, but the queen hushes her and nods.
Constance closes the door on them just in time to hear the footsteps approach the doorway. She drops a hand on Porthos’ arm, wordlessly asking permission to do what she’s already planned. He blinks in surprise at her request then nods, cocking his pistol and standing in wait.
Carefully, she stumbles out of the open doorway and pretends to be surprised by the man before her. “Please, let me go. Please!”
“How did—?”
Porthos drives a knife through his heart before he can finish the question.
The stench of blood is stronger than it was with the last man, and Constance swallows her sudden nausea. There isn’t time for that. Still, the nausea and unease command her focus long enough for her to miss the new arrival until the man is standing in the open doorway.
Her knife is up before she recognizes the leather doublet and messy hair. It isn’t until Porthos says his name, however, that she believes what she is seeing.
Aramis smiles as he steps inside the room, bloody and slightly pale, but alive. Very much alive. “You died,” she says as Porthos moves to grip his friend on the shoulder.
“Nearly,” Aramis agrees, accepting the pistol Porthos hands him with a small nod.
“Told ya,” Porthos teases her with a wink, but even Constance can see the relief in his eyes. Despite his conviction otherwise, he had still doubted—still feared.
Constance lets out a small laugh, ignoring the tearful quality of it. Aramis’ smile slips slightly as he studies her. For a moment, she’s ashamed. She just helped Porthos kill four of Marmion’s men and saved the queen with little more than sweaty palms and simmering fear. Now though, faced with the resurrection of Aramis, she feels closer to collapsing than she has since being locked in the cellar.
Understanding dawns in Aramis’ eyes. Carefully, he rests a hand against the back of her head and pulls her towards him until her face is against his chest. The embrace lasts only a moment, Constance’s free hand gripping then releasing the belt at his waist, but when they both stand apart she feels stronger.
Aramis is alive. Porthos is beside her. The queen is still alive. They have hope. True hope.
“We have to get the queen to safety,” she decides, moving away to let Anne and Marguerite out of their room.
“Aramis?” Marguerite startles as soon as the doors are fully open.
The musketeer offers her a weak smile in response, and Constance frowns. She knows the look in Marguerite’s eyes.
She also knows the look in Aramis’ eyes.
Neither are compatible—nor are they important for the moment. “You two lead,” she orders, gesturing the musketeers ahead with a wave of her knife. “I’ll watch over Her Majesty.”
If Aramis notices the way she deliberately places herself between him and Anne, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he offers the monarch a brief bow and leads the way out of the room. “More will follow, when your friend fails to return downstairs,” he says, not bothering to motion towards the bodies they are leaving in their wake.
“The courtiers?” Anne asks suddenly. “Are they safe? They were brought up here with us.”
Porthos exchanges a look with Aramis then holds up the keys. “Any idea which door to open?”
:: :: ::
It takes Aramis a full minute to calm the three hysterical courtiers, once they are freed. It takes only a few seconds for Porthos to order them all into silence and hand the man, Henri, a spare knife, reminding him to aim the pointed end away from his body.
Solemnly, the group trails behind Porthos and Aramis as they descend the stairs Constance and Porthos had only recently climbed. At different points, Constance feels Marguerite grip at her skirt, until she finally reaches behind her and tangles her hand with the young woman’s. The queen has more control over her fear, but Constance knows it’s there, threatening to overwhelm their ruler.
They make it to the main floor without incident, and Constance can smell the outside from where they stand. Around the next corner is their exit. One of the courtiers looks ready to bolt, but her fear of Porthos is currently greater than her need for escape.
Aramis turns to Constance and hands her the pistol, exchanging it for a knife. “Keep them safe.”
She nods then prays as Porthos and Aramis step out into the entrance and confront the men who stand between them and freedom. It lasts only a few minutes and they are both back, gesturing for them to hurry.
“Hide amongst the trees,” Aramis orders as they stand just outside the doorway. He has a new pistol in his hand, no doubt stolen from one of the men he just subdued. “Do not leave until one of us comes back for you. Understand?” he asks, speaking directly to Henri, who nods eagerly, still gripping the knife as tightly as ever.
“I’m staying with you,” Constance says before either musketeer can suggest otherwise.
“We know,” Porthos says.
“We wouldn’t dream of arguing,” Aramis adds, offering her back her knife.
“Liars,” she states, but when she cocks the pistol in her hand the two men smile.
They watch long enough to make sure the queen and her courtiers are safely hidden before turning back to the building.
A distinct whistle halts both musketeers as they are about to step through the entrance. Constance turns with them and almost cries at the sight. Captain Treville, Athos, Milady, and a half a dozen other musketeers are quickly descending the hill alongside the observatory.
“You’re not dead,” Athos says in greeting, as the group stops before them.
“Not yet,” Aramis agrees. “And you, my friend, have wonderful timing.”
“You’re welcome,” Milady interjects. “Now can we please move along. I assume you have not saved the king yet.”
“No, but the queen and the Dauphin are hiding amongst those trees.”
Treville looks where Constance has pointed and directs a few of his men to find her. “Get them to safety.”
The rest of the party finally continues inside, led by Milady. Constance doesn’t bother questioning their chosen leader nor does she grace Athos with a verbal answer when he suggests she stay behind. She simply holds her pistol tighter and marches in front of him until she’s shoulder to shoulder with Porthos.
She’s not a musketeer, but she has a mission to complete.
:: :: ::
They’re barely down the corridor, before Aramis’ prediction proves true. Marmion’s men meet them around the first corner—and none of them look surprised. They’ve discovered the dead bodies Porthos and Constance left. They are ready to fight—to draw blood.
Before Constance can think to aim her pistol, she finds herself bodily moved to the back of their small party. The only thing that quiets her protest is the fact that it is Treville who guides her to safety and orders her compliance. Stay. Do not engage.
He turns away from her and into the fight, oblivious to the frown she gives the musketeers’ backs. She obeys, however. Stays safe—protected.
Useless.
She helped Porthos rescue the queen. Just the two of them. Equal, if not in skill then at least in assumed rank. Now, though, she has to yield to the experts. If they are to save the king, her place will remain behind. No longer watching their backs, simply staying out of their way.
Her new position at the rear, however, is the only reason she catches Milady breaking away and heading for another empty hallway. Without a backward glance, Constance follows.
Milady offers her little more than a sharp frown as they move towards a closed door. “Don’t get killed,” she orders with no hint of concern—her order similar yet so very different to Treville’s. “Athos will find some way to make it my fault.”
Constance doesn’t bother responding. They are at the door, and Milady has already turned away to focus on the room beyond. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Constance can hear the clash of swords and grunts of dying men some distance behind them, where they left the musketeers. Then—
“No!”
She is grateful to see even Milady flinch at the sudden shout.
“He does not understand yet,” the voice—Marmion's—continues, softer but still loud enough to be heard through the door. “He has not suffered our fate.”
Constance shrugs at the look Milady tosses her way. She cannot tell if the older woman is looking for an explanation for Marmion’s words or a suggestion on how to proceed. Either way, Constance has no answers. Marmion is unstable, which makes his words unclear and his response to any attack they may create uncertain.
She is not a strategist. She does not know how to proceed in a way that will guarantee the king’s safety (and d'Artagnan’s). Especially d'Artagnan’s safety, she allows herself to think selfishly. She is no less loyal to Their Majesties than the musketeers, and yet…she is. Less loyal, that is.
She will save the king for the sake of France and Her Majesty.
She will save d'Artagnan first—only—always for the sake of her heart.
Her hand tightens around her pistol as she hears Treville’s approaching footsteps. “Stay in the back,” he hisses at her, repeating his earlier words. “Stay safe. That was your command.”
“Reprimand her later, Captain,” Milady says, before Constance can defend herself. “Let’s rescue the king first.”
:: :: ::
The attack happens with a quick precision that leaves Constance hurrying to catch up. Marmion’s dwindling force is no match for the musketeers—and the king is secure before Constance even enters the main chamber. Ahead of her, Rochefort and—thank God—d'Artagnan stand bound but seemingly unharmed. She adjusts the grip on her knife, intending to release them, but pauses as a retreating figure catches her eye.
Using the fighting as a smoke screen, Marmion has ducked around a door frame and out of the room without catching the attention of the musketeers. Constance is moving before she has fully thought it through. Her knife slides smoothly across the floor, with a sharp flick of her wrist, stopping just shy of d'Artagnan’s feet. She barely catches the wide-eyed look he aims her way, but does not miss the words that follow her out of the chamber, “No. Constance, no!”
Down to one weapon, Constance holds her pistol at-the-ready. She understands, in the back of her mind, that she is confronting a man without backup. That she is, once again, ignoring Treville’s orders.
Stay safe.
She has not been safe since she stepped into the observatory. She will not be safe again until Marmion is subdued.
The man in question makes it down one full corridor before she catches up, ordering him to halt with all the authority she can muster. He does, but the smile on his face tells her just how little he respects her authority. “Still fighting?” Marmion’s smile turns sharp, eyes dark with madness. “Still so determined to prove your loyalty.”
Constance aims her pistol for Marmion’s chest. “Their Majesties deserve loyalty.”
“I was not speaking of them but it doesn’t matter. Shoot.” Constance pulls back the hammer, imagining d'Artagnan offering instruction from a half-step behind her. Remembering Porthos’ proud smile as she’d helped him subdue Marmion’s men. “Prove yourself,” Marmion says.
The pistol is steady. Her aim is sure. She could do it. She could end his life—end the nightmare he created. Behind her, a whistle echoes down the corridor. For a moment, she mistakes the sound for a bird outside a nearby window—then she remembers and understands. Her pistols stays steady, but she knows she will not take the shot.
Oblivious to the significance of the distinct whistle, Marmion continues. “Your conscience will be clear,” he assures. “You cannot kill a man who is already dead.”
Finally, the sound of distant footsteps grows louder, and Marmion understands the confidence in Constance’s stance. He glances at the man approaching Constance’s back then at her pistol. “Pull the trigger,” he says as if the newcomer is of no consequence.
“You will hang for your crimes,” Athos states, standing at Constance’s shoulder. “Dead man or not.” The last is said with a wry look towards Constance, earning a smile from her. His pistol is held at his side, sword held just as casually. In a moment, she knows he could aim and kill the man in front of them. For now, however, he is relying on Constance to keep Marmion in his place.
“I won’t hang,” Marmion argues, disinterested in the unspoken trust Athos is showing Constance. “I will never make it past Rochefort. He will see that I’m dead before I leave this place. My death is, of course, more important to you king than my arrest. Rochefort will do what it takes to gain his approval. So,” he shifts, standing tall, shoulders back, offering a human target for Constance’s pistol, “make your decision: you or Rochefort.”
Constance knows Athos has already made a choice before he even meets her gaze, but she is still pleased to see him seek her opinion. She nods. Athos aims his pistol. And Marmion falls with the resulting gunshot.
“Rochefort does not need more praise.”
“The man already thinks too highly of himself,” Constance agrees, lowering her pistol and mirroring Athos’ half-smile.
Athos studies her lowered pistol then her face. “You did nothing wrong,” he says suddenly. “Taking a life—”
“Athos,” she cuts him off. “I do not need you to reassure me when I don’t kill someone.”
“Fair enough.” He holsters his spent pistol then reaches for her bandaged wrist. Constance is surprised enough to let him hold her damaged appendage in a loose grip, having forgotten for a moment that she was ever injured. When he asks to inspect the wound, however, she pulls her arm back.
“I’m fine,” she says, offering him her pistol instead, so he can holster it to his weapons belt—a feature her own outfit is sadly lacking. “Porthos saw to my wrist already. He has also already criticised my actions, so you can save your breath,” she adds before the look in his eyes can manifest into a lecture. “It may not have been the best course of action, but it was the only thing I could think of at the moment. We didn’t know you were coming to save us. I had to protect the queen and the Dauphin—and d'Artagnan—if I could.”
“Is this how you escaped your bonds?” Athos asks, gesturing to the bandage. He doesn’t have to ask how she came by her injury. The answer is evident enough on her other wrist. Even without struggling to pull her right wrist free, the chains still left red marks and the hint of a bruise against the delicate skin.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Athos nods. “It means, at some point your intelligence got the better of you and you found another means of escape.”
“Athos?”
“Yes?”
“Enough.”
“Of course.”
:: :: ::
“Marmion?” the king demands as soon as he sees Constance and Athos. By now, he and his musketeers have made it to the observatory’s entrance. D'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis and Treville all stand around their king, guarding him against any remaining threats. Rochefort stands to the side, close enough to look loyal, yet far enough away to be unable to bodily protect the king, should the need arise.
Milady, Constance notes, is at a much further distance from His Majesty.
Constance doesn’t have the energy to even fake sympathy for the woman.
“Dead, your majesty,” Constance answers the king’s question, offering a small bow of her head. She wants to move to d'Artagnan’s side, or even Porthos’. She wants to be back at her room at the palace, away from duty and the priorities of her position.
Instead, she stands beside Athos and waits until their monarch has dismissed them.
The king smiles, surprise a fleeting expression on his face as he reaches to grip her arm for a moment. “You have my thanks, Madame.”
“It is your musketeers who deserve your gratitude, sire,” she carefully corrects him, nodding to Athos. It isn’t much, but if it will shine a positive light on the musketeers, Constance will gladly offer it.
“Nevertheless,” Louis says, waving his hand as he seemingly dismisses her words. “Treville tells me you helped save my son and queen. Perhaps she was correct in choosing you as a companion.”
Constance hears the backhanded compliment in her monarch’s statement, and judging by Porthos’ frown and d'Artagnan’s sharpened posture, she is not the only one. “Thank you, your majesty,” she says as careful as possible, grateful when Louis’ attention shifts to the man still standing at her side.
“Perhaps next time, Athos, you could accompany us from the onset,” he suggests, his light tone doing little to hide the fact that he is issuing an order instead of offering a suggestion. “As grateful as I might be for Marmion’s execution, I would have been more pleased had it occurred sooner.”
Athos offers the king a small bow in agreement, before gesturing the party outside. He and Treville take the lead and Constance hesitates a moment so she can remain at the back of the party alongside d'Artagnan.
It’s Porthos, however, who moves to her side first. “Next time,” he orders, expression hard with delayed worry, “wait for backup.” He gestures to the bandage on her wrist. “There’s always a better solution, yeah?”
“Next time,” she agrees unsure if the idea of a next time frightens or excites her.
Satisfied, Porthos nods and takes a step back, pulling d'Artagnan forward. He pins the younger man with a look equally as challenging as the one he’d aimed at her then turns and walks away.
They’re alone then, standing almost directly in the doorway of the observatory. Constance makes to lean against the door frame behind her then stops and reaches forward. “d'Artagnan—”
“Constance,” he interrupts, meeting her reach halfway. He’s trembling, she realizes—or maybe she is. “Constance. I—” he starts then stops, his grip on her hands flexing in time with his stumbled words. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I’m sorry.” He tugs gently and she falls into him, melting against him.
“I love you.”
:: :: ::
It’s a full day later, when Constance remembers. Nothing prompts the memory. One moment, she’s walking beside the queen as they navigate some of the palace’s gardens (the queen has insisted on outdoor activities since she woke that day, the idea of staying behind closed doors unacceptable) and the next moment, Constance hears Porthos’ words in her head as clearly as if he had been standing beside her.
“Your Majesty,” she says, gaining the queen’s full attention. “May I have the afternoon for a personal matter?”
Anne agrees easily, dismissing Constance with a knowing look. Her Majesty isn’t the only one fighting worries that day. If only she knew the worries Constance was leaving to fight weren’t her own.
She makes it to the garrison easily then stalls at the entrance, unsure of how to proceed. Part of her is eager to seek out Treville and demand answers. It’s the part of her that hasn’t quite stopped trembling from her time in the observatory—the part that feels as if she is still required to pull a trigger and end Marmion’s life. She never fired her pistol, despite her willingness to do so, and she finds herself still waiting for the command to shoot.
“Constance?” Porthos’ voice interrupts her thoughts as he steps out from the stables. His eyebrows are raised in curiosity while his hands rest easily at his weapons belt. “Everything alright?”
Constance squares her shoulders and focuses on the other part of her—the part that has stopped trembling. The part that is determined to face the possible next time smarter than she had this time. “We’re free of the cellar,” she says as he steps close enough for them to speak in quiet tones. “Do you still want to tell me about your father and Treville?”
Porthos’ eyebrows manage to climb a fraction higher in surprise before he calms and finally smiles. His whole demeanour softens, and Constance feels herself relax in response. It’s not gone completely—not yet—but as he offers her his arm and guides her out to the streets of Paris where they can speak within the privacy of a bustling city, she feels her trembling ease a bit more.
She and Porthos still don’t know each other as she knows the others—not truly (not yet). But, they now share memories of that dark cellar and their uncertain escape. It’s not a solid foundation for strong friendship, but Constance has gained more from less.
Porthos is beside her.
She has hope.