And So It Begins Musketeers Pre Season 1

Chapter 29

Athos had had no time to consider the consequences of his actions. It was a simple choice between allowing the bomb to explode inside the palace or, risking his life to save the King – not really a choice at all. Deep inside, he could tell himself he had been saving the King of France, but really his first thoughts were of Aramis, Porthos and, of course, Treville. When he had seen the Captain walking towards him, his only thought had been to get the bomb as far away as possible from those who had cared for him.

For an instant, he felt as though he was suspended in mid-air. He still gripped the table, though his assistance was no longer required. In fact, his survival cried out for just the opposite – now he needed to create as much distance as he could between himself and the deadly creation. Not for a second did he doubt his instinct, and not once did he consider what would happen if in the next few minutes no bomb exploded, making him guilty of the inexcusable destruction of the Queen's birthday cake.

The table began its final descent to the ground, several feet below. Athos groaned as he bounced off a particularly large carving which adorned the edge of an inconsiderately placed window frame. Somewhere amidst the chaos inside his head, he was aware his subconscious was yelling something about those uncomfortable protrusions, but it was not until his shoulder encountered a second one, and extremely painfully, that he perceived their use. Falling through the air, the killer confection a mere inch below him, he grabbed at the next gargoyle with both hands. His body jolted, and he felt both shoulders scream in complaint as his descent came to an abrupt halt. His sockets held, and for a moment he hung there, suspended as though time itself had frozen.

Then a sudden roaring filled his ears, and the object he clung onto with such desperation began rising into the air – with Athos still attached. Flames shot past him, and he felt as though he were being burnt to a cinder. Perhaps this is what hell feels like, he thought. Without warning, he began to drop with increasing rapidity, notwithstanding the fact he was clutching at a rather heavy stone gargoyle at the time. Athos closed his eyes – so was this the end? So be it, at least it had been an honourable end. Perhaps at this final moment he had not disgraced the name of de la Fère, perhaps he had done something to make his father proud. A sudden excruciating pain – then nothing.

Milady had watched Athos and the cake disappear out of the window, but she did not wait around to discover what happened next. She possessed a heightened sense of self-protection and was acutely aware that staying in the ballroom was a very bad idea, and that she might be of use to others should she stay, did not register on her conscience at all. She was mindful of the many secret passages within the Louvre – many sources of information could be uncovered lurking between the walls and rooms of so great a political hub. As she hurried down the stairs within one such corridor, she pushed open a heavy wooden door to find herself in a lower storeroom. The room held casks of ale and such like, nothing of interest. Without pausing, she hurried up a short flight of stairs, to find herself in the quiet of the palace grounds.

Only now they were no longer quiet. Screams echoed from the floors above and, as she stared skyward, she was aware of flames shooting out from the ballroom window several floors above. But that was not what interested her. She grabbed a sconce from the wall and rushed to the spot where man and cake must have landed. No one had yet considered attending the scene, and she drew in a deep shuddering breath as she spotted a dark blot on the ground within the beam of her small flame. The surrounding area was littered with blobs of gold and white, small crumbs, all that remained of the magnificent cake. She forced the sconce into the ground and knelt beside the still form.

Athos was lying on his back, his position relaxed, as if he had simply laid down and gone to sleep. She paused, frozen for a moment, not knowing what to do. She had waited for this moment, fantasised about it, but now she felt helpless – this was not the sense of euphoria she had so often imagined. Reaching out, she touched his brow. Still warm, but then he had ceased to breathe but minutes ago. Her own breath, still warm and alive, hitched in her throat, and a small sob escaped. Tentatively, she brushed the hair back from his face and looked over the broken form. Large shards of glass stuck out from his legs and torso at horrific angles, the light from her torch reflecting upon them, making it seem as though small fires burnt upon him, dancing in the darkness. The hand at her side felt warm and wet and, as she lifted it to her face, she realised his blood was running freely over her fingers. It dripped from their tips to the white snow that still lay in the shadow of the walls, pooling beneath the dark head of curls, as his life's blood ebbed away into the cold ground.