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alburnum: n. the living, softer part of the wood of a tree between the inner bark and the hardened heartwood; sapwood.
---
Vivienne attracts stares the moment they step foot in Paris. It takes d’Artagnan a couple days to understand why.
In Paris, everyone’s daemons are small and tame—dogs and cats mostly, but there are a lot of birds, a lot of other small mammals. A few reptiles here and there, but almost no big predators, none of the familiar shapes he’s used to back home. It makes sense, he supposes. Paris is a civilized city, the home of royalty, and daemons always reflect the natures of their humans.
To them, he thinks, Viv must look terribly indecent. Always on the prowl, ears continuously swiveling to assess their surroundings for danger, not quite grown into her paws and lanky frame.
Of course, Viv says sarcastically. The screaming mob chasing us has absolutely nothing to do with it.
Shut up, d’Artagnan snaps back, and we need a distraction.
Vivienne nips mockingly at his heels, then scans the Parisian market for a suitable diversion. There! Pretty lady with the fox.
D’Artagnan thinks for a second about arguing, but the mob is getting closer with every minute they delay. Viv bounds across the road ahead, tackling the lady’s fox daemon in an embrace that’s probably intended to be affectionate. He dashes after her, takes the pretty redhead by the hand, and gasps out, “I’ll give you five livre if you kiss me,” before sealing his lips against hers.
---
“Stop! Stop! The execution is rescinded, King’s orders!” Aramis shouts, clattering down the stairs. Rosaire swoops ahead of him, knocking muskets out of soldiers’ hands with her sharp talons.
Athos nearly collapses against his chains, boneless as the adrenaline rushes out of him.
Held in place at the end of the yard with her own set of chains, his Elle snarls and snaps and scrabbles to be allowed back at his side. Let me loose, she cries, let me tear them from their humans, see how they like it!
“Nice timing,” Athos says dryly, when Porthos hustles down the stairs after Aramis. The two of them work together to remove Athos’ shackles; when he’s free he wastes no time in moving to Elle’s side. Porthos’ Bernadette is curled around her neck like an extra furry ruff, and Aramis’ Rosaire coos soothingly down at them all. Removing Elle’s chains is tough work—or rather, the tough part is maneuvering around Bernadette, who refuses to budge and insists loudly that Elle needs her.
Looking at his Elle, with her ears pinned back and a wild glint in her dark eyes, still snarling and straining to get to the men who’d been assigned to kill them, Athos can’t say he disagrees. But they get her free, and then she won’t be budged from Athos’ side.
“Thought we’d finally shaken the two of you off,” he says, when the world is set back to rights.
Porthos grins at him, and Aramis chuckles. “Believe me, there are easier ways,” Porthos responds, and that’s when Athos notices the familiar youth waiting nervously on the steps for them, his lynx daemon hiding half behind his legs. He barely holds back a sigh.
“I’ll want an explanation, later. But first—”
“We know,” Aramis says cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go get you drunk.”
---
“Porthos du Vallon?” a man asks.
Porthos barely looks up from mending one of the few shirts he owns. Being in the Infantry for almost three years has given him a reputation—he’s big, memorable, and neither he nor Bernie like backing down from a fight—so there’s no telling who might be looking for him now. “Who wants t’know?” he says gruffly.
“Captain Treville, of the King’s Musketeers.”
And shit, but Porthos jerks his head up at that. Bernie hisses from where she’s been curled up in a patch of sunlight, scurries up his arm to her favorite perch on his shoulder. The man in front of him—Captain Treville, Bernie corrects automatically—has an almost regal posture, dressed in a clean military uniform with a stylized fleur de lis on the pauldron covering his right shoulder. A sword sits pretty on his hip, ornate hilt shining in the sun, and he’s got two pistols strapped to his back. The dog daemon at his side is fucking massive, tawny colored and rippling with muscle.
A Musketeer? Bernie wonders. What could he want?
Let’s find out, Porthos responds, setting his shirt aside to give Treville his full attention. “Then I s’pose I’m the one you’re lookin’ for. What brings you round these parts?”
“I saw you fight this morning. Impressive.”
This morning, some jackass from another regiment had taken offense to Porthos soundly beating him at a game of cards. He’d refused to pay up, instead giving Porthos a black eye and Bernie a shake courtesy of his shepherd daemon. Porthos had only responded in kind.
“He got what was comin’ to ‘im,” Porthos says. Nothing good ever comes of commanding officers asking questions about him, he learned that the hard way. Bernie winds her way along his shoulders, fur brushing the back of his neck. Her anxiety resonates between them like a living thing.
Treville shifts his weight, and his daemon huffs. “I’m not here to debate ethics with you,” he says evenly. “I’m here to ask if you’ve ever considered being a Musketeer yourself.”
“I—you’re serious?”
“I think you have what it takes, yes.” The dog daemon mutters something too low for Porthos to hear and butts her head against the side of Treville’s leg, turning to plant herself bodily in the entrance to Porthos’ tent; a guard against all outside disturbances. Treville doesn’t even glance down at her, focus remaining entirely on Porthos.
Bernie leans as far forward on Porthos’ shoulder as she can without falling off, baring needle-sharp teeth. “Why us?” she demands.
If Treville is surprised by her breaking the taboo, he doesn’t show it. Rather, he seems almost amused at her gall, this tiny marten defending her human so fiercely. “You fought that man bravely. Honorably, even if you did cheat him out of his money first. You’ll have to work hard for it, harder than you’ve ever worked before, but there’s great potential for someone with your skills in my regiment.”
“I’m not very good with a sword,” Porthos admits without shame. “And we aren’t exactly suited to guard duty.”
There’s an amused curl to Treville’s mouth now. “If I was looking for a guard, I could’ve picked any of the first ten men I passed today. I’m looking for a Musketeer.”
And the thing is—the thing is, Porthos has been dreaming of something better since he found himself in the Court. He always knew he wouldn’t be content to settle as any mere soldier; once again, he’s got the opportunity of a lifetime sitting in his lap. He just has to reach out and take it.
Porthos meets his Bernadette’s eyes with an eyebrow raised. She gives him a tiny fanged grin. Why not, she says. Let’s show the king what we can do.
The king, Porthos agrees. He turns back to Treville, who’s either got the patience of a saint or is used to people taking forever to make decisions. “Where do we sign up?”
---
Oh my god, René, Rose says, pecking at the crown of his head with her sharp little beak, I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you. What were you thinking?
The truth is, he wasn’t.
He gets up, trying not to disturb the Queen—the Queen, God in Heaven, he’s in trouble—and makes himself presentable before leaving the room. The nuns are all busy praying, and he leaves them alone in favor of checking in with Athos. Rose wings after him, tail feathers twitching agitatedly.
“I still can’t see what they’re building,” Athos says dryly, turning away from the window. He won’t meet Aramis’ eyes, and at his feet Noelle looks grumpy and out of sorts. “They could be tunneling.”
“About what you saw,” Aramis starts.
Athos talks over him, eyes flinty. “I didn’t see anything because I’ve been in here all morning. And so I couldn’t possibly have seen a thing, you understand?”
You’re in so much trouble, René, Rose hisses. She won’t come near him, lands on Noelle’s broad back instead. Her wings have been mantled since he woke up, feathers puffed up in a display of defense. That stings worse than anything, his own daemon taking sides against him.
“These walls are too thick, the garrison would be here by then,” Aramis says brusquely, suddenly upset with all of them.
Athos nods. Then, “I cannot believe you slept with the Queen,” he hisses, like it’s physically beyond him to hold it in anymore.
Aramis sighs. “I thought you didn’t see anything.”
Rose clacks her beak at him. Everyone in this damn convent got a good eyeful, believe me.
“They’ll hang you,” Athos adds, perfectly in time. “And then they’ll hang me for letting it happen.”
“More of a chance we’ll be killed here and take it with us to the grave.”
Athos crosses his arms, leans against the wall. His Noelle presses herself against his legs and makes a rumbly sort of sound. “That’s a comfort.”
His dry humor is, as always, perfectly suited to the situation. Reassuring, even if it’s not intended to be. They settle for a minute, letting the silence grow, before Aramis sighs. “So, you’re good?”
“Yeah.” Grudging, like Athos can’t believe he’s letting this go.
Aramis smiles. “Good. I should probably get back.”
“Shout if you need me,” Athos says. Rosaire alights from Noelle’s back with one final brush of wings, and swoops along ahead of Aramis down the hallway. She settles in the corner of the bedroom, staunchly ignoring his attempts to gain her attention, and Aramis is forced to hurry along after her or risk drawing the attention of an entire convent of nuns. The last thing they need right now is someone realizing there’s something wrong between Aramis and his daemon.
“Why would I need you?” he tosses back over his shoulder, but it’s all for show. They’ll always need Athos. Just, you know, not for this.
---
D’Artagnan can’t stop kissing Constance, doesn’t want to ever stop kissing Constance, because if he stops kissing her then he might wake up, might discover that this is all a dream and she’s still behind bars. Or worse, standing on that platform facing the silver knife, her Benoít squirming furiously against a wolfhound’s grip on his scruff, silent tears falling down Constance’s face.
“Careful now,” Athos says dryly. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Viv growls at him. She and Ben are twined around each other, practically sat on top of d’Artagnan’s feet, and they don’t look like they want to separate any time soon. He understands the feeling. “When you’re almost intercised, then you can talk. Until then, don’t.”
Everyone stares at her in shock.
Well, almost everyone.
Constance nods firmly, ducking down to haul her Ben into her arms. He goes with a faint huff, and Viv grumbles. “Vivienne’s right. I have had a very, very bad week, but it’s over now. And I think I’m allowed to kiss the man who saved me,” she says firmly, daring anyone to argue.
D’Artagnan stares at her in awe. “God, I love you.”
“Good.” Constance leans in and pecks him once more on the lips, and as she does so Ben’s fur brushes d’Artagnan’s hands. A flush of warmth runs through him, and he shudders. “I’d hate to have to break up with you after a dashing rescue like that.”
“Never,” he swears, and means it.
Viv twines around his feet, a loudly pleased rumble emanating from her chest. The expression on her face is oddly expectant.
D’Artagnan takes a deep breath. He can’t imagine a better moment, and if he’s entirely honest he doesn’t want to take the risk of something happening before he can ask. “Marry me?” he breathes.
“What?”
“When all this is over, when the king and queen are safe, will you marry me?” It feels like his heart is in his chest. Or maybe it’s just Viv, the link between them thrumming with nerves and painful, tentative hope.
Constance’s face matches the emotion clogging up his chest—like she’s just been given the most delightful surprise in the world. “Yes,” she says immediately, a gut reaction, and then, “oh, yes, d’Artagnan, yes, of course I will!”
“Thank fucking god,” Athos says.
His Noelle hits him with her great sweeping tail. “Hush, you. You weren’t any better than him when you proposed.”
D’Artagnan tunes the world out after that, because Ben leaps down to nose at Viv’s ears and Constance throws her arms around his neck to kiss him, smiling so hard it looks like her face might be permanently stuck in a look of absolute delight.
---
Their wedding is a luridly extravagant affair, flowers strewn all over the house and grounds and white cloth draped over everything. Olivier’s mother invites what feels like half of France, and there are more people in the house than he’s ever seen before. He’s pressed into a perfectly fitted suit and told not to do anything to mess it up, on pain of disappointing his mother for the rest of her life.
Anne’s dress is absolutely gorgeous, all flowing white lace and pearls. Her bouquet is a beautiful selection of forget-me-nots, and her face is positively glowing. On her shoulder, Raoul is a lovely contrast, all his feathers gleaming and perfectly in place, so dark a black they look blue in the candlelight.
They take his breath away, walking down the aisle.
The cleric clears his throat. He’s not smiling, and his raccoon daemon looks rather ruffled, but there’s a faint look of approval in his eyes—probably that his sister is marrying someone so well off. He won’t have to worry about her this way. “Dearly beloved,” he says solemnly, when Anne has reached the altar; Olivier takes her hands in his and squeezes them warmly. “We are gathered here today to join these two people in holy matrimony.”
In the audience, Olivier’s mother sniffles.
“Do you, Olivier d’Athos de la Fere, take this woman to be your beloved wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” There’s a slightly threatening edge to the cleric’s words.
Elle lets out a little huff of air against Olivier’s side; her fringed tail waves gently back and forth. Olivier feels like he can’t contain the smile creeping over his face—he feels like they’re about to burst with delight. “I do,” he says firmly, reverently.
The cleric nods. “And do you, Anne de Breuil, take this man to be your beloved husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I do,” Anne says—declares, really, chin up and a matching smile blooming. Her eyes sparkle in the light. Raoul flaps his wings once and then glides off her shoulder, landing on Elle’s back and starting to groom over her silky fur with his beak.
“If there is anyone here who knows of a reason why these two people should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Olivier thinks for a second he sees a smirk cross the raccoon daemon’s face, but it disappears before he can be sure. Elle stiffens against his leg, but Raoul says something Olivier can’t understand and she relaxes again. Aside from them, the church is completely silent.
The cleric nods, raises his hands grandly. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride,” he tells Olivier, taking a step back.
Olivier sweeps Anne up in his arms, crushes his lips to hers and tries to convey through them just how happy he is. Raoul alights from Elle’s back and flies in dizzyingly tight circles around them, Elle following him as best she can in leaps and bounds. She’s laughing, great booming barks that echo in the rafters and momentarily drown out the surrounding applause.
“You are mine, and I am yours,” Anne says breathlessly, when they finally break apart for a moment. “We will be connected now for the rest of our lives.”
---
Porthos wakes, and his entire world is pain.
He heaves off the floor howling, reaching with clawed hands for whoever is sending such stabbing pains into his leg. “What are you doing?” he growls, and only registers the creeping coldness after the lady lets go of him.
“Saving your life,” she snaps back. Her voice is rough and lovely, and bears a thicker accent than Alloman’s but it’s undoubtedly the same. “Unless you want the wound to become infected and lose your leg. Is there much demand for one-legged Musketeers?”
Porthos growls as the lady—Samara, his brain reminds him—backs away and settles on the ground at the base of a pillar. “You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I’m not a nurse, I’m a poet,” Samara informs him.
His leg hurts, but now that nobody’s pressing on the bolt Porthos’ mind is able to turn to other things. The pain wracking every other inch of his body, for instance. A glance at Samara, the way she shivers and runs her hands over her arms, the lack of daemon beside her, tells him everything he needs to know. “They’ve got our daemons, don’t they,” he says quietly. It isn’t really a question.
Samara nods, an angry little curl forming at her mouth. “Yes. Somewhere else in the building. You are lucky—you were unconscious when they took her away.”
“You weren’t,” Porthos infers. He growls, thinking of his fragile little Bernie chained up, kept apart from him, at the mercy of these Spanish bastards.
Dark fingers curl agitatedly in the folds of Samara’s dress, like they’re itching to bury in a daemon’s fur. When Porthos thinks back, he recalls seeing a daemon trotting at Samara’s heel at the exchange—a sandy-colored fox, with ears too large for his head and dark intelligent eyes—and how he’d kept unusually close during all the fighting. “Yes,” she agrees. “My Akeem fought bravely, but the guards here—they do not care for taboos.”
“They touched him?” Revulsion wars with outrage in Porthos’ chest. Bernie had been touched by another person exactly once after their mother died; a shopkeeper had grabbed her by mistake when he’d caught Porthos stealing from his wares. The contact had barely lasted a minute, but the impression it made on them was long lasting to say the least.
The idea of her being grabbed up by some Spanish thugs while they hadn’t even been conscious to know about it makes the contents of his stomach heave.
Samara carries the same anger in the curve of her shoulders, he sees.
His heart aches. Elsewhere in the building, a beech marten cries out for her human. “Someone’s gonna pay for this,” Porthos growls.
---
Marsac has a gun.
Marsac has a gun, and it’s pointed at him. There’s a look in Marsac’s eyes that Aramis recognizes from years ago, recognizes the hunting crouch that his Madeline has sunk into. They are a threat, primed to react. Primed to react to Aramis.
“It’s over, Marsac,” Aramis says softly. Behind him, Rose mantles her wings, clatters her beak in warning.
Madeline growls back at them. “It’ll never be over,” she replies, voice hoarse with disuse. “Not until we have our justice.” Involuntarily, Aramis thinks back to when times were happier, when Marsac would run his hands through her thick fur affectionately, when she’d lick at the fingers of Aramis’ gloves and only a thin layer of leather separated them from breaking the taboo. His heart hurts.
He doesn’t see Marsac pull the trigger, not really. It’s all a flash of battle-honed instinct, a twitch of muscle and a slight shift of weight. He doesn’t remember firing his own pistol, either.
Rose makes a sound of dismay as rivers of golden Dust bleed from Madeline’s dark fur, and Aramis stares at the now-smoking barrel of his pistol. Marsac staggers, wide-eyed, and would’ve collapsed to the floor if Aramis hadn’t lunged to catch him.
Oh, what have we done, what have we done? Rose cries.
Hush, Aramis orders. He can immediately tell that the wound is fatal—it’s like he told Dujon, all those weeks ago; from ten meters, it’s merely a matter of picking how you want a man to die. But he doesn’t want Marsac to die.
Aramis has never hated his instinctual ability with a gun before. He’s never wished that he were just a little slower to react, less confident in his aim. Never before has he regretted coming out of a duel unscathed. It’s a first for him, and he doesn’t ever want to feel it again.
“Be at peace, brother,” Marsac orders breathily. He can’t quite keep his eyes open, and one hand flails weakly in search of his Madeline’s thick fur. She whines, and even as Aramis watches she disappears in a whirl of gold Dust. Marsac gives one last exhale, and then they’re gone.
Marsac had been his oldest friend. Even when he turned tail and ran five years ago, Aramis hadn’t reacted this strongly. (Savoy changed them in a lot of ways, few of them for the better. Aramis hates everything about that pompous principality.)
Treville sighs and moves to stand over them, looking grave. “I’m sorry, Aramis. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Rose keens and leaps into the air, soaring out the open window in a desperate attempt to just get away. Aramis barely even feels the tug of her stretching their bond even further. It’s like Savoy all over again.
“No, Captain. Marsac died five years ago in that blasted forest,” he belatedly answers Treville. “It just took his body this long to catch up to him.”
---
“We have to leave!” Rose flutters in tight, agitated circles around Aramis’ head. “We can’t stay here, they’ll arrest us!”
Marsac gives him a long-suffering look, and his Madeline woofs. “I thought you got her to quit doing that?”
“What, the circling?” Aramis laughs. “She’s a kestrel, ‘Sac. It’s in her nature. Besides, she’s right. We have to leave.”
“What did you think you would achieve by dueling the girl’s father, anyways?” Marsac asks.
Aramis starts stuffing clothes in a worn sack, avoiding his best friend’s eyes. “I was fighting for her honor,” he says slowly. The words hurt fiercely as they leave his throat, but it hurts more to keep them in.
Madeline laughs at him, tongue lolling, thick stumpy tail waving back and forth. They’d settled early, Marsac and his daemon, and had been the only friends who hadn’t shunned Aramis when his own Rosaire refused to settle for a few years after. For that, if nothing else, he owes them.
“More like you were fighting for the right to keep fucking her,” Marsac says, and laughs.
“Marriage,” Aramis says tersely, “is about more than making love to a beautiful woman.”
Marsac shrugs, like it doesn’t make much of a difference to him either way, and hands Aramis a last shirt to pack. “Where will you go now? You can’t become an Abbé, that’s the first place they’ll look.”
“I’ll…”
Aramis stops dead in his tracks. Sensing his rising distress, Rose makes a soft noise and lands gently on his shoulder. The reality of his situation is slowly sinking in.
Dueling is strictly illegal. Aramis had known that when he tricked the old retired warrior in the village into teaching him (and Marsac) the fine art of swordplay. He’d known it, too, when he’d challenged Isabelle’s father to a fight for her hand in marriage. He just…hadn’t thought it was that important.
“I’ll go to Paris,” he says at last. “Might as well make use of my new skills, right? King just formed a new company of the army—his personal guard. I’ll become a Musketeer.”
Marsac considers him heavily for a few minutes, then exchanges a look with his Madeline. She chuffs something at him, too low for Aramis to hear, and gives a slow wave of her tail. “Then we’re coming with you,” Marsac tells him finally.
Rose caws at them, and alights from Aramis’ shoulder to resume her circling.
---
D’Artagnan, Viv says, wide eyed, I feel…
She trails off without finishing, but d’Artagnan understands. There’s a heaviness, a weight in his bones that hadn’t been there when he woke up this morning. You think—?
Vivienne twitches. An unfamiliar feeling resonates down the bond, a strain they’ve never felt before. It’s never been hard for Viv to shift forms. I do, she says wonderingly. I think we’re settled.
Settled. D’Artagnan reels at the word. Gascony is wild country, and it’s people tend to settle young—he remembers overhearing his parents talk about other cities, where the average age of settling was fourteen, and thinking that was so old to know your soul’s shape—but this. This is practically unheard of.
They’re only nine years old.
Are you sure? he asks, because maybe she’s wrong, maybe they’re just going through a phase. (Viv’s never been wrong before, but there has to be a first time, right?)
She huffs at him, swipes at his legs with an overlarge paw. Of course I’m sure, you fool.
And, well. That’s that, right? D’Artagnan studies her, curiosity bubbling up inside him. Vivienne’s settled as a lynx—it’s a form she’s taken before, usually when they’ve gotten into fights they can’t win easily. She’s got thick tawny fur and a bobbed tail, dark spots running in lines down her back. The tufted tips of her ears are black, matching the dark sheen of intelligence in her eyes.
She looks young, still, adolescent at most. Relief trickles down his spine; they may be settled, but they’re not done growing yet.
What does it mean, your shape? he asks. Viv’s always favored predators, coyotes and feral cats and raccoons—she’d once spent a month as a wolverine, he recalls—and it’s not like wild daemon forms are uncommon in Lupiac. d’Artagnan’s father’s Adalyn is a grey wolf, and his mother’s Mahout is a mongoose. Gascony is farming country, but it’s people are roughened by work and by life, and their daemons reflect their struggle to eke a living out of the land.
Viv twists her head to look herself over, just as curious as he is. I think it means no one can tell us who we should be.
---
Athos wakes up with his head pounding and Elle’s discontent rumbling only making it worse. “What—stop,” he says thickly, waving a hand about the bed in hopes of finding her without looking. Her fur is stiff and coarse, unfamiliar under his fingers, and Athos flinches away from her without thinking.
“What are you doing here, you need to leave,” Elle says tersely. The low tone of her voice does nothing to conceal her hurt at his reaction.
It’s the words, as much as anything, that make Athos sit up and take notice. The room spins hazily around him—finally had enough to drink last night, it seems, though the pleasant numbness refusing to last until morning is a bitter shame—and Elle is standing defensively in front of his bed, legs braced, ears pinned back.
There are men leaning to either side of his doorframe.
The one on the left is tall and broad, dark skinned. His leather jacket is studded, and an embossed pauldron has pride of place on his right shoulder. The marten daemon on his opposite shoulder beams at Athos, whiskers twitching, and thwacks her human with her tail.
In contrast, the man on the right is slender and olive-toned. He has a finely-trimmed goatee and bright eyes, and is clad in a long leather tunic tied with a blue sash under the veritable armory of pistols and knives at his waist. His daemon isn’t immediately visible to Athos, but the way the man keeps glancing out the window indicates that she must be just outside. Some kind of bird, then, probably too large to fit into the room.
Neither form is the usual shape a Musketeer daemon takes—and they are both Musketeers, of that Athos has no doubt. If the pauldrons hadn’t given it away then his vague recollection of seeing the two sparring in the garrison courtyard would’ve been enough—but then, Athos can’t really speak on the matter, considering what’s happened to his Elle.
As if on cue, she thumps him in the thigh with her tail. Hard.
“What,” Athos tells the men emphatically. With the one word, he means who are you? and what is your purpose here? and, most importantly, who in the blazes sent you?
The taller of the pair laughs, loud and booming, and nudges his companion. “Good mornin’, sunshine,” he teases.
Athos does not know this man well enough to be teased before he’s had his first drink of the day. He doesn’t know this man at all. His flat stare conveys this most important fact without words.
The grin slowly fades, but the man’s marten daemon rolls her eyes and hops to the floor. “As I said before, I’m Bernadette,” she introduces herself loudly, “and this is Porthos.” Her human gives a cheerful wave.
“And I’m Aramis,” the other man says with a grand bow and sweep of his plumed hat. “My Rosaire’s around…somewhere. You’ll meet her later.”
“Athos,” Athos grunts. He struggles to his feet, looking for the bottle he’d left sitting out last night.
Elle thumps him again.
“What?” he asks her roughly, seizing the neck of the half-drained wine bottle. “You can introduce yourself. They obviously won’t mind.”
Elle glares at him, eyes piercingly blue in the morning light and her fur starting to rise. “Just because I can doesn’t mean it’s polite to. Not all of us have drowned our manners in terrible wine, you know.”
“Fine,” Athos sighs, then waves a hand for the two men’s benefit. “She’s Noelle. Now, what are you doing here?”
“Treville sent us,” Aramis says with a broad grin.
“Excuse me?”
Porthos chuckles. “We’ve got a mission. Your first, right? Apparently the good captain didn’t think you’d take too kindly to a formal briefing, so he gave us our orders last night. Told us to pick you up in the morning and head out for Chartres. C’mon, let’s go.”
It doesn’t seem like an initiation prank, but Athos eyes them suspiciously. “Why wouldn’t Treville have told me to expect you?”
“Top secret mission. Very hush hush,” Aramis says easily. “Can’t tell you a thing until we’re out of Paris, King’s orders.”
If it came from the king, Noelle murmurs uneasily. Her stance has softened, but now she glances between them all with more than a little disquiet.
Athos swears in his head. Profusely. Then he starts hauling together all the supplies that he’ll need for a long journey, the kind of journey that comes with being a Musketeer. At least three bottles of wine go in the bag with his rations and bedroll. The cloak he dons, along with his brand new hat and weapons belt.
“That’a boy!” Porthos cheers, scooping up his Bernadette and turning to usher Aramis out the door. “We’ll meet you outside with the horses.”
(Athos finds out later that while the mission is both very real and very secret, Porthos and Aramis’ reasons for waking him up so abruptly were not. It seems that his (reluctant) new partners have a crude sense of humor. Well, Athos tells Elle as they settle in for the long ride to Chartres, we’ll just have to come up with an ingenious method of revenge. That, or somehow ditch the two more experienced Musketeers on the road back to Paris and complete the mission all by themselves.
Elle’s low bark of agreement lightens his mood considerably.)
---
Porthos runs on his own for three months after his mother dies. In that time, he and Bernie become masters at filching just enough to survive. There are other street urchins that they run with, stay with for a night or two when they’re hard-pressed for a warm corner, but for the most part they’re on their own.
Bernie’s the one who makes them go to the Court of Miracles. Before, they’d stuck mostly to the docks and back alleys of taverns, picking up scraps where they wouldn’t be missed and trying to escape the notice of the adults around them.
When the winter hits, though, Porthos gets sick and Bernie is beside herself. “We’re going,” she insists, flowing into her grumbly brown bear cub form and batting at his leg. “You need help, medicine, something.”
So they go. The Court inhabitants hiss at them passing by, or bang pans together with an awful clanging noise to alert others, and though he tries to put on a brave front Porthos is terrified. Bernie changes into a wren, flutters up to his shoulder, and resumes her normal marten form, whiskers twitching.
And then she appears, blonde hair a tangled mess and gleaming, wearing a dress made of shimmering black fabric scraps. A bird daemon zips along after her, flicking between forms so fast he looks like a mirage. There’s another boy trailing after her, dark skinned like Porthos, daemon a mangy-looking cat, but Porthos doesn’t pay him nearly as much attention. “Oy!” the girl calls. “Who’re you?”
“Porthos,” he says, and coughs. It gets caught in his throat, rattling around his lungs harshly, before finally subsiding.
The boy glares at him, a challenge sparking in dark eyes. “Haven’t heard of you, then. What’s your business here?”
“Now see here!” Bernie snarls, growing as big as she can and leaping nimbly to the ground as Porthos doubles over in another coughing fit. She takes her bear form relatively often—it’s her favorite after the marten, and if she’s shifting at all it’s usually to protect him so a bigger shape is helpful—but he still watches her with amazement. “You’re no better than us cuz you live here, with other thieves who’ll look out for you if they’re kind. You’re still a street thief, same as us.”
The cat daemon yowls something offensive and stalks closer, but Bernie holds her ground.
“My boy’s sick,” she says sternly, “and you will help him.”
Porthos can barely believe it when the cat grumbles her acceptance, the other daemon finally landing on his girl’s shoulder. “Right then,” the girl says, giving him a gap-toothed grin. “I’m Flea, and this is my Éloi.” The bird caws at him. “Don’t mind Charon or Yasmin, they’re a bit overprotective.”
The boy, ‘Charon’, scowls at him.
“C’mon, Bernie,” Porthos mutters, scooping his daemon up and feeling her shift back to a marten as he does. “You know you can’t do that anymore, right?”
“Why not? It got us what we needed, right?”
He shakes his head, holding in another ragged cough. “Yeah, but…”
“But nothing.” Flea sidles up next to them, stroking Éloi’s iridescent feathers. “That was seriously impressive. I mean, you gotta be, to stick on the streets for so long. She talk to everyone like that?”
Bernadette flicks her tail in a warning against Porthos’ neck. “Only if I think they need it,” she sasses the girl.
Éloi laughs, a throaty croaking noise, and mumbles something to Flea. Ahead of them, Charon’s shoulders tense, and his Yasmin yowls. They lead Porthos inside one of the buildings, following a twisting maze of passages deeper and deeper until they are emptied out into a surprisingly affluent room. “Welcome,” Charon says, that spark still in his eyes, “to the Court of Miracles.”
---
Porthos roars with anger, flexes his muscles and struggles to pull out of the grasp of the men restraining him. There’s a burlap hood over his head, and the only reason he isn’t fighting harder is that Bernie is tied in there with him. He can feel her soft fur against his cheek, feel her tiny body trembling.
He’s led down a set of twisting hallways, and if he hadn’t known it was impossible he’s almost think—no. That part of his life is over, he’s not going back. He’s come too far in the intervening years, even if the events of last night are all a big blur.
“Porthos, don’t do anything stupid,” Bernie says, muffled.
He makes a faux-wounded noise back at her, loving and hating that she knows him well enough to predict his next move.
“Of course I do,” she retorts sharply. “I’m you, remember? Well, the better-looking half.”
“Shut up!” their captors exclaim in eerie synchronicity.
Porthos growls.
He’s shoved roughly to his knees, shoulders straining with the pressure against them. Then the hood is ripped from his head, and Porthos blinks the world back into focus.
The throne room is as familiar to him as his own quarters in the barracks. Not much has changed since he left, it seems. The furniture, what little there is, is the same ramshackle cobbled together set, and the sunlight streams through the cracked windows in familiar patterns. Only the shrouded figure in the center of the room is different, a silhouette as known to him as his own but…jarring, in this context.
Porthos doesn’t realize what his brain’s putting together until he sees the scruffy cat at the man’s feet.
“Charon?” he breathes, disbelieving.
Charon smiles at him, slow and charming as molasses. “Welcome home, Porthos.”
Normally, he’d bristle at the description—home is Bernie’s fluff against his neck, is Aramis’ bright laughter and Athos’ dry wit. Home is a seat around a fire with his brothers, is sparring in the garrison under their captain’s watchful eye. Lately, home is a boy with a lynx’s soul too, mingling with the others that already inhabit the chambers of his heart. Home is not the Court. Not anymore.
But this is Charon, one of his oldest friends, and from Charon he will ignore the sting of assumption. Porthos lurches to his feet, hauls Charon into a rib-crushing hug. God above, it’s good to see him. He and Bernie might have left the Court for the army, but they never forgot where they got their start. “It’s good to see you, brother,” he says.
Bernie scampers off his shoulder to the dirt floor and greets Yasmin with as much affection as she can hold in her tiny body, chattering away excitedly in daemon-speak. So excited is she, so relieved is Porthos to see his friend thriving, that it takes him a long moment to see the reluctance in Charon’s return embrace, the stiffness in Yasmin’s lanky frame.
“Who died and made you king?” he asks, in lieu of acknowledging it. A half-frown plays about his lips. At his feet, Bernie stills.
“And who let this old rag in here?” a familiar voice calls from the doorway.
Porthos feels like he’s in a dream. He turns, knowing who to expect but not believing it until he sees her face. “Flea,” he breathes, the relief rushing sharp through his chest.
Bernie strains their bond nearly to its limit scrambling over to them.
Cawing at them loudly, Flea’s Éloi spreads his glossy crow’s wings and glides down to meet her halfway. He, at least, is as excited to see them as they are to see old friends. (Family, once, but not anymore. They’ve made a new family for themselves now, and they won’t leave him to hang. Porthos has little faith to give a god, but he believes whole-heartedly in his brothers).
“Get over here,” Flea commands, and when he steps over to her side she smacks a kiss to his cheek. Quickly followed by the smack of her palm. “That’s for not visiting. Or sending any letters.”
“How d’you know I learned to read?” Porthos queries with a broad grin. It’s so good to see her.
Éloi cackles at them both, one wing batting at Bernie’s laughing face. Flea smiles, brief but genuine. “You were always going places, Porthos. You didn’t belong here.”
“Still don’t mean I learned to read,” he retorts, but dips his head. She’d seen it, known and accepted what it meant, even if Charon hadn’t. Just like he’d known in return that she’d never leave with him.
No, Flea and Éloi were in their element here. They were so much better than half the scum populating the Court, but that didn’t mean this wasn’t her home as much as the garrison had become Porthos’.
Her eyes crinkle, Éloi fluttering back to her shoulder. His glossy black feathers match the ragged sweep of her dress, stark against her intricately braided blonde hair. “Come on,” she says. “We should get you out of those clothes before someone mistakes you for a gentleman.”
He laughs at the dirty twist she puts on the last word, enchanted like always, and waves to Charon as he follows her out the door. Charon isn’t quite quick enough to disguise the flash of disquiet in his eyes.
It curdles unease in Porthos’ stomach, and he hasn’t gotten this far in life without learning to listen to his gut.
Something’s up.
---
Aramis is away on a mission to the South of France when his son is born. This is, unequivocally, a good thing according to Athos’ Noelle, who has taken to scolding him for his actions as much as she scolds her own human. Really, if it didn’t come at the cost of both Athos and Noelle being continually angry with him, he’d applaud his skill at getting them to open up.
But regardless, Aramis is not in Paris when news of the birth of the new king breaks. This means that his headlong dash to retrieve his horse and get back to the Queen’s side goes unremarked upon, save Noelle’s crushing snark and the way Rose keeps pecking at his hands.
Porthos and d’Artagnan don’t seem to have noticed that anything’s wrong, and both of them are notoriously unable to keep their mouths shut if they think they’ve figured out a problem. Athos, though—Aramis risks a glance in their leader’s direction after they’ve stopped to make camp for the night, only to find a pair of steely eyes glaring back at him. After a moment, Athos moves to sit beside him.
“That was foolish,” the older man says gravely. “We are several days ride from Paris. Even if you had left when you first heard the news, what would you have accomplished? To draw attention to yourself and risk the failure of our mission. We are meeting this informant tomorrow, Aramis.”
Aramis sighs, letting his head hang. “I know, Athos. I am sorry.”
He can feel Athos’ gaze on him for several minutes more, assessing, before the man huffs and stands again. Athos makes himself busy on the other side of camp for a while, until he settles down on his bedroll with a bottle of wine and Noelle curled close at his side. Porthos and d’Artagnan have also bedded down for the night, leaving Aramis to stare gloomily into the fire by himself.
If you had gone, Rosaire says slowly, swooping out of the tree she had been perched in to land on the log Aramis is using as a backrest. I would not have followed.
I think that would’ve drawn even more attention.
She gives an avian sort of shrug. Maybe. Maybe not.
The idea of separating from his Rose is not such a new one. Aramis’ mother had been a witch, her daemon a regal heron capable of flying many miles away from their village without pain. She had taught Aramis as much as she could of the magic of daemons, but cautioned him against trying to Separate on his own. There was a trick to it, she said, a ritual that once completed let you travel as far as you wanted while still being able to feel your daemon like it was right next to you. Done incorrectly, however, you could rip your soul in two and never be able to put it back together again.
Aramis hadn’t ever wanted to try. The idea of his Rosaire being able to fly away and never come back had terrified him as a child. Even as one of the King’s soldiers, they hadn’t ever needed to Separate for a mission. Not until Savoy.
We should’ve done it right when we had the chance, Aramis muses. He doesn’t know if Rose is even listening to him. She’s been mad for so long, it’s become a permanent thorn in their bond. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much.
Rose cocks her head at him. For once, it seems, she’s deigned to pay him attention. Her eyes are sharp and beady in the firelight. I think it would hurt either way, at least a little. We aren’t meant to be apart.
Then why do you stay away? He whispers. It is a question he has wondered for five years, but never been brave enough to ask.
The breath hisses out of her, and her wings resettle anxiously. I am afraid, Aramis, she tells him just as quietly, though there is no one awake to hear it. I am afraid of what will happen if I do not.
---
“You’re welcome,” Princess Louise of Mantua tells him the last time he sees her.
He’s a bit confused, because he’s just realized that she’s the assassin they’re searching for. And why would he be thanking her? “For what?” he calls after her, Viv already bounding ahead to chase after her fox daemon.
A fox, exactly like Constance’s Benoít except he’s a sleek gray where Ben has streaks of gorgeous red fur. D’Artagnan really should’ve known—a fox is hardly a suitable daemon for a princess, let alone a future Queen.
The assassin’s tinkling laugh echoes through the catacombs.
After she’s been caught between cells in the catacombs, d’Artagnan meets Athos’ gaze with his own. Something wordless passes between them, or maybe their daemons, because Viv yowls and Noelle barks, and Athos nods to him solemnly.
“Go,” he says, like a benediction, and d’Artagnan takes off running.
The last thing he expects to find in an antechamber off the queen’s wing of the palace is M. Bonacieux, panting against the floor with a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. So much so, that all he can do for a minute is duck back out into the hallway, lean against the wall and breathe, trying to understand how this had happened.
Come on, you idiot! Viv yells at him from still inside the room. He’s bleeding out and you’re just going to stand there?
D’Artagnan feels conflicted. This is the very thing he’s been wishing would happen for months—for Constance’s husband to stop being a thorn in the side of their love—and yet, now that the moment is upon him he feels nothing but regret.
If you’re so regretful, come here and try to save his life! Viv shouts.
And that, that voice is what finally gets him moving. Vivienne’s his conscience, his light in the dark, and where he sometimes loses his way she never even falters. D’Artagnan ducks back inside the antechamber and tugs his gloves off, wrapping them around the crossbow bolt to stem the blood flow.
Jacques Bonacieux glares at him, nothing but hate in his dark eyes. “This is your doing,” he hisses. Blood bubbles up between his lips, and d’Artagnan feels panic rising in him.
Viv steps away for a minute, picks something up delicately in her jaws, then pads back to them. When she gets closer, d’Artagnan sees that she’s retrieved Bonacieux’s mantis daemon from where she’d undoubtedly been flung in the attack. She’s a fragile thing, golden Dust sloughing off her thin little limbs as she shivers, and when she’s placed on Bonacieux’ chest she immediately curls up in the hollow of his throat.
“Eveline,” Bonacieux breathes, relief coating every syllable of her name. His eyes flutter closed, and then open again as pounding footsteps crash against the flagstone hallway outside. His gaze finds d’Artagnan’s again, and a sneer curls his lips. “I curse you,” he says with all the dying breath left in his body. “And my hateful wife. You will never find happiness again.”
Porthos and Aramis appear in the doorway in the same moment Bonacieux’ head thumps back against the floor. D’Artagnan lifts his head wearily, the man’s final words echoing in his ears. Viv licks his fingers in reassurance. Curses aren’t a real thing, d’Artagnan, she says, watching Bonacieux’ body like she thinks he’ll suddenly come alive again. Just the bitter words of a bitter man.
What if they’re not, though? he wonders.
Viv rubs her head against his hand, her fur warm and thick and tenderly familiar. Then we’ll learn how to be curse breakers.
---
Catherine meets him at the door, which is…odd. His brother’s fiancé has long harbored a crush on him, but she believes answering doors is beneath her, a servant’s job. Her weasel daemon trots along behind her, looking distinctly harassed. “You need to see this,” Catherine says gravely. If he didn’t know better Olivier would say her world had just ended.
What could’ve happened? he asks Elle as they follow Catherine through the manor; she’s leading them the long way around to his father’s study, which has sat in dusty disuse ever since the man died several years ago. Elle just shrugs at him, unease showing in the way her fringed tail is held stiffly behind her.
He sees Thomas’ body first.
All the air leaves his body in a rush. If he makes a sound, it doesn’t reach his ears. Olivier’s world is ending before his eyes, and he doesn’t understand. “What happened?” he thinks he asks, but he’s not quite sure. It’s like looking through a tunnel, everything small and at a distance from himself.
“She did it,” Catherine declares, the need for bold vengeance dripping from her voice.
Olivier follows her accusing finger across the study, and he swears his heart stops dead in his chest.
“Anne?” he says, disbelieving.
She just scowls at him, writhing against the servants who are holding her captive. “It was self-defense, nothing more. He attacked me,” she says vehemently.
“Liar!” Catherine shouts. “My Thomas would never!”
Raoul screeches indignantly, pinned against the rug by a pair of dog daemons, both smaller than Elle’s broad form. Anne twists again, manages to get one hand free for a second and raises it to him pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to,” she tells him. “Olivier, please.”
He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Elle is whining, sniffing at the dusty remains of his brother’s daemon. Everything about her seems to droop, from the angular point of her nose to her long wavy tail. Catherine is shouting, and Anne screams back at her, indignant fury in her eyes. Olivier doesn’t know what to do.
“Enough!” he yells, firmly enough to shock the entire room to silence. It doesn’t make anything better. “Enough,” he says again, gentler. “Take her to the cellar. She’s to be confined there until we can ascertain the truth of this matter.”
It’s what his father would’ve done.
The servants lead her away with more force than is strictly necessary, and Anne’s accusing eyes are locked on Olivier the entire time she’s taken from the room.
---
It’s raining, the day he meets Anne de Breuil.
Olivier is seventeen, and has taken over several of his father’s duties regarding the townsfolk that live on their land—including greeting the cleric who’s just moved here. And his young, beautiful, unwed sister.
Her daemon takes Olivier’s breath away. He’s got enormous wings with dark glossy feathers, a sharp beak and glittering black eyes, and he caws down at them from his perch in the corner of the room. Noelle is just as entranced, stepping closer to talk to the raven in the strange language of daemons.
The cleric himself is not nearly so interesting, but Olivier greets him politely, introducing himself and turning an inquiring eye on the young woman standing to the back of the church. “My sister, Anne,” the cleric says with a dismissive wave of his hand. Anne curtsies, and the sunlight streaming through the window catches on the dips and planes of her face.
She’s radiant.
“Milord,” she says demurely, and the raven daemon flutters to her shoulder on silent wings. He tilts his head at them, assessing.
“Please, call me Olivier,” he stumbles to answer, and “this is Noelle.” At his side once again, Noelle waves her fringed tail.
Anne smiles slightly. “Raoul,” she replies, gesturing to her raven. Their eyes glitter in the same way, he realizes, the same kind of uncanny intelligence lurking in their depths.
The cleric clears his throat awkwardly, and his raccoon daemon twitches her tail. “Well, as much as I appreciate you coming down to visit, Milord, we do have a lot to accomplish today. Will we be seeing you and your family at Sunday Mass?”
“Certainly, Father,” Olivier replies.
The de la Feres have never once attended service in Pinon. They will be now, if Olivier has anything to say about it.
He allows himself to be escorted to the door, and steps back out into the rain regretfully—he would’ve much rather stayed and talked to Anne some more, but if he ignores the rules of hospitality there’s no way it won’t get back to his mother. Olivier gives her a regal bow through the open doorway.
When he looks back from halfway up the street, she’s still standing there. Anne lifts her hand in a half-wave, and Raoul flutters his wings.
Elle makes a low noise of amusement. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“Hey,” Olivier says defensively. “You liked them too.”
---
Porthos’ earliest memory is of his mother, her voice lilting and smooth as she sings him to sleep. On the streets it is cold and uncomfortable, and his belly growls with hunger more often than not, making it difficult to truly settle down for the night. The only thing that calms him enough to sleep is her singing, feeling Bernadette curled up with his mother’s Célestin against his chest as her voice washes over them all like the sweetest blanket.
At five years old, he and Bernadette have no concept of taboo—don’t understand that you aren’t supposed to talk to another’s daemon, let alone touch them. Célestin is a pine marten with a dappled summer coat, bright eyes glinting with intelligence as he lectures them in survival on the streets of Paris. His fur is always warm against Porthos’ cheek, and brings with it a dizzying feeling of comfort and love.
Porthos’ last memory of his mother is when she’s weak with fever, shivering, her eyes glazed over. He’s nicked several blankets over the past few days, in a desperate attempt to keep her warm, but nothing’s working. Célestin huddles against her chest, unwilling to move out of touching distance, and every shudder that wracks his mother sends gold dust shedding from his coat like a shower of water.
“Be strong, my son,” she whispers. “You’re meant for something great, you just have to find it.” Porthos clutches at her hands, sobbing, screaming for his mum not to go; Bernadette shifts into a puppy and noses her cheek, whimpering. She breathes her last, and in her final moments she meets Célestin’s eyes and smiles.
Célestin disappears in a whirl of the gold dust he’s been shedding for days, and when Porthos recovers enough to look there isn’t anything left of the tiny marten.
Bernadette shifts into her own marten form, then, tawny with a white underside and beady little eyes. She doesn’t shift again unless she needs to, to escape whatever danger they’ve found themselves in, and when Porthos is eleven she can’t shift at all.
---
Aramis and Marsac are sparring in the garrison courtyard, deliberately showing off, when the new recruits are shown around. Madeline is pacing around Marsac’s feet, ears perked forward and playful growls rumbling from her jowls, while his Rose sways on Aramis’ shoulder to keep her balance.
There had been a time, early in his training, where her weight had thrown him off, made him an easier target. Now, it’s like she’s another extension of his being, predicting attacks and telling him where an opponent’s weak spots are.
Now, Rose’s head swivels to watch the new recruits instead of Marsac, and Aramis wonders what she’s found that’s so interesting.
Look, she says, nudging him. The big one on the end.
Aramis follows her gaze. ‘Big one’ is an understatement. The man in question is huge, with broad shoulders and meaty hands. He towers at least a head over the rest of the recruits, and his dark skin gleams in the sun. In contrast to his wide frame, the man’s daemon is rather small. A marten if he’s not mistaken, and Aramis abruptly remembers what little daemonology he’d picked up from his mother.
Martens are not soldiers’ daemons. They’re too small to be effective in a fight, but they’re fiercely loyal and extremely vigilant. A unique combination, to be sure. Aramis looks forward to finding out the recruit’s story.
A week later, he learns the man’s name for the first time. “Focus, Porthos!” he hears Treville shout, and Rose perks up like someone tugged at her tail feathers.
“Porthos,” Aramis says slowly, rolling the name around on his tongue. It fits, he decides. “I like it.”
Of course you like it. You want to be friends with the lunatic, Rose chides. But she likes it too, Aramis can tell. She likes them.
---
Viv is pacing excited circles around d’Artagnan’s legs when Constance comes around the corner of the street, Benoít a stately presence at her side. Their eyes catch on the departing figure in the distance, and drop into matching scowls. Viv bounds over and licks an affectionate line up Ben’s face, but the mood doesn’t dissipate.
“What did she want?” Constance asks lowly.
D’Artagnan is too ecstatic to take much notice. “She just gave me the money to compete!” he says, holding the purse aloft like a trophy. It might as well be, with what it can gain him.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have taken it,” Constance tells him.
“Don’t worry, I can handle her.”
“Are you sure about that?” She sounds angry. Ben’s fur is standing on end, making him seem much larger than he really is.
Viv anxiously licks at his face, the red ruff around his neck, but she doesn’t say anything to d’Artagnan. He doesn’t know what to make of that. “There’s no need to be jealous,” he says, reaching out to try to console Constance.
She slaps his hand away. “There’s no need to be an idiot!”
Why can’t she see that this is his best chance—his only chance? “And who else is just going to walk up and hand me thirty livres?”
Ben makes a low sound, like he’s in pain, and something flickers in Constance’s eyes. But—“No one,” she says finally, defeated.
D’Artagnan nods, his point made, and strides off into the house to put his entry fee away. He only notices that Viv’s stayed behind when the distance between them threatens to send him to his knees, wracked with pain.
---
Slow down, Viv complains.
Her least favorite part of being a Musketeer, d’Artagnan reflects with amusement, is probably all the travel. All the horses of Gascony are used to daemons keeping pace with the humans astride them, and d’Artagnan’s mount is no different. But Vivienne isn’t used to the long distances they’re traveling now; countless days spent traveling across the country on missions for the king. It wears on her, where Athos’ Noelle might be able to run another dozen miles before needing a break.
We were shot yesterday, she tells him indignantly.
D’Artagnan rolls his eyes as they approach the meeting place, reining his horse in to hold the line. To his left, Captain Treville is a solemn figure, Aramis and Porthos faux-scowling at either end of the procession. There’s a single flash of tawny fur in the distance, and d’Artagnan feels inexplicably reassured.
Milady steps out from behind a tree as they slow to a stop, horses snorting and stomping the snowy ground. Her raven daemon—d’Artagnan has never learned his name, and he doesn’t want to—has his wings half extended, making him seem even larger on her shoulder. They are dangerous, undoubtedly, and d’Artagnan swears he won’t underestimate them again.
Viv prowls a couple steps closer as he dismounts, ears pinned back. She thinks she’s won.
Good thing we’re here to tell her different, he responds, letting one hand come to rest threateningly on the hilt of his sword. His pauldron is proudly displayed for all to see. A Musketeer to the end.
Treville clears his throat, and his mastiff daemon paces up to claim her place at his feet. D’Artagnan still doesn’t know her name; nobody does. When he’d first come to Paris, he’d asked the men of the garrison and received the same answer from all of them—a shrug. Apparently, she keeps to herself, doesn’t even interact with other daemons. The moment at his commissioning was just a fluke.
“So Richelieu’s finally given me up,” Milady says regally. She doesn’t look surprised.
Treville nods. “Milady de Winter, you are under arrest.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” she tells them, eyes locking on d’Artagnan specifically. “I’ve already won. Athos is dead.”
Have you? Viv says, but it’s in an undertone. The men remain silent. Porthos and Aramis dismount, smug grins threatening to break out over their faces, and once again d’Artagnan’s eye catches a flash of amber fur moving through the trees. The silence turns expectant.
The raven daemon hisses at them, and Milady’s face falls.
“I should’ve guessed,” she says, when she’s turned around to face Athos.
The man’s face curls into a parody of a smile, full of teeth and menace. “We seem to have a particular talent for resurrection,” he agrees. At his feet, Noelle is silent, watching Milady with a hunter’s gaze.
The men draw their pistols, wary, looking for the slightest hint of deception as she steps around Athos like nothing can touch her.
“Shoot me,” she taunts, and her daemon launches himself upwards. “You’ll never see Constance Bonacieux alive again.”
D’Artagnan sees red, and before he realizes what’s happened Viv has leaped into the air. She brings Milady’s raven daemon down shrieking in pain, and kneads her paws into his twitching wings with a menacing snarl. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you,” he threatens.
Athos steps between them with his hand raised in warning.
Milady laughs through the pain. “Young love. It’s so touching, don’t you agree?”
Viv unsheathes her claws, and d’Artagnan can feel the moment she starts to draw blood. It causes Milady’s breath to hitch, and her demeanor to turn serious again.
“I told you there would be a final reckoning between us,” she tells her ex-husband quietly. Then, louder, “Treville! I’ll have her waiting at the Rue St Jacques in an hour. Send no one else. Now tell your dogs to let me go.”
Treville’s weight shifts behind them, and his daemon growls. “d’Artagnan,” he calls finally. The captain’s voice is weary.
We are not dogs, Viv snarls, claws flexing in reflex. She doesn’t want to let the other daemon go.
D’Artagnan is full of fear and anger, both emotions battling for dominance in his mind. No, but we are soldiers. Come on, Viv. For Constance.
“She’d better be there,” Vivienne snarls aloud, reluctantly trotting back to d’Artagnan’s side. The raven lurches into the air, rising as fast as he can to get away from the threat on the ground. D’Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief, and pointedly doesn’t meet Athos’ eyes when they gather up the horses.
He already knows everything Athos wants to say.
---
The first thing any noble child is taught, after their letters and numbers, is how to control their daemon. It isn’t proper, after all, for a little Comte or Comtesse’s daemon to go gamboling around the house like they belong to some street performer, flitting between shapes and putting on a show. No, a Comte’s daemon must always be on their best behavior, seen but not paid attention to—and most importantly, never, ever heard.
Olivier and his Noelle struggle with this more than their younger siblings.
Part of it is because they are the oldest; Olivier’s parents have heaped a large load of responsibilities on his shoulders, and he sometimes feels like he’s suffocating under the weight. When she feels like Olivier has been sitting quietly for too long, Noelle will drag him from the house so they can go on adventures in the old apple orchard, or take a walk down to Pinon. Sometimes, they’ll just go exploring in long-unused wings of the manor, stirring dust into the air with every step they take.
The rest of it, however, is simply because Noelle’s favorite form is a mongrel puppy, entirely comprised of long floppy ears and enormous paws and a tail that doesn’t ever stop moving. She has others, of course—is particularly fond of a sleek furred cat with sharp claws and a nimble-footed fawn—but the puppy is the form she returns to, time after time as the months fly by and they get older, closer to settling, closer to being adults.
(Once, and only once, when Thomas reaches out and touches Noelle by accident, something surges inside of them along with the blinding pain. Thomas recoils as soon as he realizes what’s happened, of course, and when Olivier can breathe again he sees that his Noelle is larger than ever before, broad barrel chest and stiff tail rippling with tawny fur, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. Every line of her is uncompromising, feral; for a second he doesn’t even recognize his own daemon.
Later, Olivier tells her that she can’t ever take that form again. Wolves are the daemons of dangerous people, unstable people, and no one has ever heard of a Comte with a wolf daemon before. She grumbles at him, but eventually subsides. It wasn’t exactly me, anyways, she mutters. Not quite right. I wouldn’t have taken it unless you needed me to.)
---
Porthos watches the new recruit from across the garrison, eyes narrowed. Bernie’s a bristly lump of fur on his shoulder, and Aramis slouches against the table next to him.
“You’re doing it again,” Aramis says. Today’s one of his good days, then; on bad days, Aramis is pale and sullen and can’t be bothered to talk to anyone. Not even his daemon, currently perched high above them in the captain’s rafters.
Porthos grumbles wordlessly to himself for a minute.
It’s Bernie who answers him, tense, watching the recruit’s hulking daemon with apprehension. “It’s not right,” she says, “daemons don’t take forms like that naturally. Something happened to them.” To solidify her statement, Porthos nods and growls again.
“Like me?” Aramis asks tentatively. His Rosaire hasn’t come down from the rafters for three days, not even when Aramis calls her. It hurts Porthos’ heart to see his friend fighting with such a large part of himself.
Bernie hums. “Yes. And no.”
“Different sort’a trauma,” Porthos translates.
As though sensing that they’re talking about her, the daemon in question swivels her great head around and stares at them with piercing blue eyes. Her fur is thick, especially around her neck, and her muzzle is long and pointed. Two hundred pounds of killing machine, in short. And she’s a part of the garrison with them.
The new recruit is contained, reserved. He stinks like the worst sort of tavern in Paris, but his swordplay is the best Porthos has ever seen and he can take orders as well as any man. In fact, if it weren’t for his daemon, Porthos wouldn’t have any reservations about him.
Bernie bites his ear. That’s rude.
What? You don’t like them either, he grouses back.
No, but I’m reserving final judgment until we meet them.
Porthos feels alarmed at the very thought.
The table vibrates as Aramis thumps his elbows into it, distracting Porthos before an argument brews. “So what if he’s seen some rough times?” Aramis asks, blithely ignoring the incredulous looks directed at him. “No, I’m serious. We’ve all been through some shit. Why else would we be here, as King’s men? What makes this one any different?”
“I dunno,” Porthos says.
And he doesn’t. All he knows is, wolf daemons are dangerous and anyone who’s got one is to be treated equally as such. That had been one of the hard and fast rules of living on the street.
Aramis narrows his eyes at them. “You’re making assumptions,” he accuses, which is unlike him. Above them, a bird’s rattling call echoes out of the rafters. His Rosaire, agreeing with him from afar.
“What are you suggesting?” Bernie chuffs at them, leaping down to the tabletop and staring up at both of them with dark eyes.
“…we should give them a chance.” Aramis holds up a hand to stall their protestations, a mulish expression on his face. “Listen. The captain’s taken a liking to him, right? So we should get to know ‘em, keep an eye out. Maybe they aren’t as much of a threat as you think they are.”
Porthos grunts, turning the idea over in his head. He looks down at Bernie, who shrugs as best she can and chirps. It’s a better idea than anything we’ve come up with.
Fuck. “Okay,” he says, reluctant.
---
“Take him!” Constance insists, and Aramis feels swooping panic in his gut. There’s no time—he squashes it ruthlessly, sets his sword down on the little bed in the corner and accepts the squirming bundle Constance passes over.
“Oh, hello,” he says, instantly charmed. “So you’re the one all this fuss is about.”
Rose flutters in through the open window, alighting on Aramis’ shoulder and cooing gently at the baby in his arms. Oh, he’s lovely, she agrees.
Baby Henrí takes one look at Aramis’ daemon and starts to wail. His tiny unsettled daemon, previously tucked into the blankets with him, shifts forms rapidly—mouse then rabbit then kitten and back to mouse—and mewls up at them.
That sense of panic comes back immediately. “He’s crying,” Aramis says helplessly.
“Sing; he likes that,” Constance offers, her back turned. At her feet, Benoít whines and curls his tail around her ankle, ears flicking to track the commotion in the next room over.
Aramis’ mind is curiously blank. Suddenly, he can’t recall any good songs that would soothe crying children; can’t recall any songs at all, actually. Rosaire cuffs the back of his head with her wing impatiently, then leans down and sings to the boy.
Her voice is lilting and carries the tune perfectly, so perfectly that Aramis is almost distracted from his shock. The first time Rose has spoken to someone else since they were young, sixteen and foolhardy in love, and she’s singing to a baby who probably won’t even remember it. The tune is one they’d half-forgotten, something Aramis’ mother used to sing, but it does the trick.
Baby Henrí immediately settles down, blinking up at Rose with wide brown eyes.
“It’s a gift,” Aramis tells Constance, when she looks back at them over her shoulder.
She smiles at that, but her face quickly sobers. “There was a woman here,” she says worriedly.
“We know.”
“It was, ah—” Even now, Marie de Medici probably returned to the palace and safely out of earshot, there’s a certain unwillingness to speak her name aloud. As if doing so could summon her straight back here.
“We know.”
Constance is looking more and more flustered by the second. “She said that—”
“Yes, the grandson, we know,” Aramis continues lowly, not daring for a second to interrupt Rose’s singing if it’s going to keep the baby happy.
The glare Constance sends their way is fearsome. “Is there anything you don’t know?” she asks, in a dangerous sort of voice. Benoít snaps his jaws on nothing but air, muttering lowly. Aramis is long accustomed to daemons speaking in his presence—Porthos’ Bernadette has never believed in that particular taboo, and Athos’ Noelle seems to think scolding her human where others can hear has more of an effect than doing it privately—so he just smiles while Constance frowns in disapproval.
“Believing it is the hard part,” Aramis says. Rose lets her voice trill off into nothingness with a rustle of wings, clearly torn between pride at getting the baby to calm, and shyness at singing in front of others.
The curtain being jerked aside breaks the still atmosphere before Aramis can reassure her. “Give me the baby, now!” A man declares roughly, the coyote daemon at his side snarling.
Constance grabs up Aramis’ sword before he can suggest she take the baby back, stepping protectively in front of Aramis and his precious bundle. The man slashes and stabs, knocking her around the room—but someone must’ve taught Constance a few things, because she parries blow after blow and keeps a firm grip on her sword the whole time.
Finally, the other man knocks her back into the corner. His coyote cackles menacingly, head held low to the ground and flashing her teeth.
“Have you got this?” Aramis wants to know. Because she’s not winning, but she’s certainly not losing either. Who do you think taught her how to fight?
Who else? Rose scoffs. d’Artagnan hasn’t stopped smiling for two weeks now.
Constance seems to find some hidden well of resolve, because her shoulders stiffen and a rather vulpine smile crosses her face. “Absolutely,” she says, like there’s no alternative, and advances on the man threatening them with sword outstretched.
Benoít bounds ahead, somehow gets the coyote daemon by the scruff of her throat, and shakes like a wild thing.
Rather than being fazed by her daemon’s vicious attack, Constance moves with it, stabs the man in the arm then slashes low to the floor, swiping his feet out from under him. A disarming blow knocks his sword across the room, and Aramis watches with his mouth wide as Constance slashes his face open.
The man rolls across the floor and does not move, his coyote daemon dissolving into golden streaks of Dust that pool on the floor and cling to Benoít’s fur, suddenly not the sleek civilized daemon of a Parisian woman but a wild creature, untamed and unfamiliar.
Constance pants for breath.
“Good work,” Aramis praises her. He’d always known there was more to Madame Bonacieux than it appeared, after the way she’d come storming into the garrison chasing a man she hadn’t even known a day.
Constance smiles tiredly at him for a second, still trying to regain her poise, but the reality of the situation sets in before Aramis gets his answer. “What are you waiting for?” she cries harshly, ushering him out of the room. “Agnes is still outside.”
Rose nips at his ear, alighting from his shoulder with a soft cry. Aramis watches her fly out the window, feeling her worry for the boy they’ve both been charged with protecting like a stone in his chest. Sighing, he goes to reunite the baby with his mother. More than anything, he thinks, they have to be kept safe. He won’t let anything happen to them.
---
Rochefort had been going to kill the Queen.
Today has been something straight out of his worst nightmares, but somehow this is the last straw d’Artagnan can handle. He’s already called the right of vengeance for Constance, and his brothers have agreed. All he has to do is claim it.
Viv stalks forward, eyes fixed on the scales that flash out of Rochefort’s pocket as he moves. As soon as d’Artagnan knocks his enemy to the floor she moves, darting in and then out with something small and wriggling clenched in her jaws.
Rochefort howls in outrage as Viv plays with her catch, pretending to let the other daemon go before scooping it up in her paws again. D’Artagnan feels remarkably similar, dueling the other man into a corner and letting the Comte think he has a chance of winning.
There isn’t a chance. There was never a chance.
His sword pierces flesh. A deft flex of his wrist and the leather strap holding Rochefort’s eyepatch falls to the floor, letting them all see the damaged flesh underneath. Aramis makes a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a shout of outrage.
Rochefort stares up at d’Artagnan, and there is nothing humane in his face. Just crazed determination and outrage at being foiled in his plans. It makes his stomach turn.
Plunging his sword into Rochefort’s heart feels something like mercy, something like vengeance. Something uncomfortably close to both at the same time.
Behind him, Viv makes a disappointed noise. Rochefort’s daemon has dissolved into golden Dust beneath her paws.
---
Olivier lets his wife hang and he burns with guilt.
He cannot bring himself to witness it. Noelle does, his wonderful loyal daemon, so much stronger than he is, but he turns away and watches the sun go down on their lives together.
Anne’s Raoul shrieks; as the noose tightens his voice cuts abruptly off. Olivier feels sick.
That night, he dreams of accusing eyes and hands around his neck. He chokes on nothing, feels panic and rage and helplessness swell up inside him. His hand reaches for Elle, but she isn’t sleeping by his side like usual. The room is dark except for the thin stream of moonlight coming through the window, and Elle’s golden fur is camouflaged by looming shadows.
Still half asleep, with the memory of the hanging tree playing behind his eyes, Olivier imagines his daemon turning on him for what he did to Anne. A flash of white in the dark, splay of sharp claws against his side—he’s heard stories of it happening before. No one would realize until morning. No one would miss them.
Elle groans in pain.
The guilt is rising now. Olivier can taste it like lead on the back of his tongue. In the end, it had come down to choosing what kind of man he wanted to be—one who upheld the law, or one who let his personal commitments come before his professional. In the end, it had come down to getting justice for Thomas.
It’s his fault Thomas is dead. He brought Anne into their lives, and Anne killed his brother. But it’s also Olivier’s fault Anne is dead.
The shadows shift beyond his bed, and Elle moves in the darkness. Her silhouette ripples, grows in time with the emotion swelling in his chest. It feels like something is breaking inside them, and he gasps as his daemon steps into the faint moonlight. She’s not the familiar spaniel shape Olivier knows and loves, not anymore. No, his Noelle has suddenly taken on the form of something much bigger, much more dangerous. Has changed, over ten years after they settled.
Olivier, she rumbles, voice deeper, tinged with panic.
No, he thinks. Not Olivier. He’s not worthy of the name. Olivier died with his wife at the hanging tree. He is someone else. Noelle’s new shape can only reflect this.
He reaches out a tentative hand to stroke her fur, flinches at the tactile confirmation of everything his eyes are telling him. It’s impossible. Daemons don’t change. They can’t change. They’re a reflection of a person’s soul, and without his daemon how will he know who he is?
Noelle stares at him, hurt flashing in her eyes. Who are we, then?
I don’t know.
---
Porthos stares at the portrait of his ‘mother’ that the Marquis gave him. Rage bubbles up inside of him, and it takes a long moment to tamp it back down again. He isn’t a little kid anymore, and he wishes all the people he respects would stop lying to him. Aramis, Athos, Treville, the king—Belgard is just the last in a long line of people who’ve lied to him to further their own damn agendas.
Bernie nudges his hand insistently, tiny claws scratching at the portrait. That’s not fair, she says. Aramis and Athos don’t have ulterior agendas.
How do we know? Porthos asks darkly. His world is reeling, upended. He feels like someone took away the gravity. Everything is a lie.
Sharp little teeth sink into the meat of his thumb, and Bernie glares up at him. They are our friends, our brothers. The only reason they’d lie to you is to protect you.
Porthos looks at her again. That sounds suspiciously like an apology. You know something, don’t you? he accuses. Something I don’t know.
I know a lot of things. Many of them you aren’t privy to. Bernie sniffs pretentiously.
Tell me?
What? No! she says. Her tail flicks agitatedly.
Porthos smiles weakly. His daemon is always guaranteed to cheer him up, even if it’s just a little. Bernie, he wheedles, stroking the rich brown fur along her sides and at the base of her tail. Her favorite spots, guaranteed to get her squeaking with delight.
Bernie laughs at him and scampers away. Nuh-uh, she insists. Daemon secrets. I’m not allowed to tell you anything.
Not even a little hint?
She nods definitively, then scratches at the portrait again. So, we know Belgard is a lying bastard. What’re we gonna do about it?
Porthos looks at the beautiful woman painted, her daemon a sleek little blue jay. She’s radiant, even in slave garb, but she’s not his mother. The idea of being tricked with some cheap trinket ignites fury in his veins. We’re gonna catch him at his own game, he says finally, and Bernie grins.
---
((ATTENTION: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE TO FOLLOW. IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE MENTIONS OF SAVOY, SEPARATION FROM YOUR DAEMON, OR THE DISTINCT POSSIBILITY OF ARAMIS IN A FUGUE STATE, PLEASE SKIP THIS SCENE.))
Gunshots rend the air.
Aramis lurches awake to dying screams from the men around him. The fire has burned low in the night, casting looming shadows into the air. A musket fires from only a few feet away and he lunges for his pistol, fingers seeking out the comfort of the familiar grip.
Everything is chaos by the time he makes it to his feet. Half of the training party lies slaughtered in their beds. The other half is fighting for their lives. He catches a glimpse of Marsac, raging against their attackers with nothing but his sword in hand. Madeline sticks close to her human’s heels, snarling at anyone who gets too close.
Rose? he calls, terrified when she isn’t immediately at his side.
A bird’s hunting cry echoes through the din. I’m here, René, she says, appearing out of the gloom. Her voice is low and furious. She’s got a man’s terrier daemon in her talons and it’s howling, bleeding golden Dust all over the campsite.
Relief rises up in him like a tidal wave. He fires his pistol, watches a man sink to the ground with blood bubbling from his lips. There’s no time to reload, so Aramis goes for his sword.
Normally, he enjoys the intricacy of swordplay, the swift parry and riposte. Now, though, it’s all hacking and slashing. He’s fighting for his life.
Rose swoops around him the entire time. Her wings are silent, her talons deadly. Aramis underestimates an opponent just once, lets the man get too close. Rose eliminates the problem by barreling into him with claws outstretched. The man drops to the ground, screaming and clutching at his face.
But it’s not enough to stem the tide. Too many ofhis men already dead, not enough left to fight against their attackers. There’s no end in sight.
We’re going to die here, Aramis realizes.
Someone gets in a lucky shot from across the campfire. The musket ball grazes Aramis’ temple, stunning him enough that he drops to his knees. He blinks, hard, shaking his head to try and clear it. Something sticky drips down into his eyes.
Rose screams as their attackers swarm around him, daemons lunging for her with snapping jaws. “No!” he protests weakly. He can barely see what’s happening; the world spins and he can’t catch hold of it again. Horror rises in his throat. “No, Rose!”
Something bites down on his outstretched arm. Not canine jaws, and bigger than a dog. In the hazy light from the campfire, it almost looks like a leopard.
Agony rushes through him, and Aramis screams.
It takes him a moment to realize that the ache isn’t coming from his arm or the dull pounding between his ears. No, this terrible, pervasive pain is Rose’s, something fragile strung between them as she batters her wings against the night sky. Get away, she shrieks, we have to get away!
Their bond thrums as she strains against it, pushing the limits of distance to their utmost.
Aramis struggles to his feet. His sword has fallen to the ground; he picks it up with numb fingers and prepares to fight to his death. Rose, he says gently. Everything feels distant and untouchable.
We can’t stay here!
The leopard daemon doesn’t keep holding him. It seems taking his arm in her jaws was just a reflexive attack. Aramis turns his sword on her, gets in a good slash across her haunches before her human looms out of the darkness. He’s immediately at a disadvantage; it’s hard to keep a blade from burying itself in his gut.
There’s another jolt against the bond, like a giant is plucking at the string between man and daemon with clumsy fingers.
Get out of there, René, Rose says hysterically. Her voice is faint in his ears, distant. Aramis wonders distractedly how far away she is. You have to leave, right now.
We can’t abandon our men, he tells her. His opponent is stronger than he is, even without the head wound. Aramis twists his wrist deftly and manages to score a hit against the man’s exposed back. It gains him much needed relief from the assault, and Aramis stumbles off to regroup, to find any of his men still left.
‘The bond between man and daemon is a delicate thing,’ his mother’s voice whispers to him like he’s in a dream. ‘If you’re not careful, you could rip your soul in half.” His soul doesn’t feel like it’s ripping, exactly, but Rose’s wings push her just a couple meters further away from him and something jolts between them, displaced. Aramis’ perception of her dulls, like trying to walk with a limb filled with pins and needles. It doesn’t hurt so much as it echoes in his mind, dissonant resonance. A buzzing in his ears that won’t go away. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
Come back, he calls after her. You’ve gone too far and I can’t follow. Come back to me.
If Rose hears him, she doesn’t respond.
Before he can find the rest of his Musketeer brothers, he must black out. When Aramis wakes he’s leaning against a tree, the cold seeping into his bones. The side of his face is tacky with congealed blood, and every muscle in his body aches. There are bodies lying in the snow, too many to count. Marsac’s familiar silhouette is staggering away from him into the woods, and Rose is nowhere to be found.
---
“You defended your captain with great heroism today,” the king says. “I admire loyalty more than any other virtue. Please kneel.” Beside him, his swan daemon clatters her beak in approval.
“Get on your knees, before he changes his mind,” Athos mutters, too low for anyone else to hear.
Dizzy with hope, d’Artagnan fairly falls to his knees. Vivienne is a little more graceful about it, but only just.
King Louis draws his sword. “I hereby commission you into my regiment of Musketeers.” The press of his sword is so light it can barely be felt through his leather jerkin.
D’Artagnan can barely breathe for the excitement, the relief, coursing through them. Viv echoes the emotions back at him tenfold. Athos steps forward to help slide the embossed pauldron onto his arm, and the proud clap of approval to his back is almost fatherly.
“May you serve us always with the same distinction that was witnessed today.” The formalities over with, the king retreats back into the throng of nobles, but d’Artagnan can’t be stung over the quick dismissal. He’s riding high on the victory of battle, the achievement of everything he’s wanted since he first came to Paris.
He staggers to his feet, turns to hug each of the men responsible for getting him here.
“Well done, we’re proud of you,” whispers Aramis.
Porthos gives his great booming laugh, threaded through with his Bernadette’s chatter. “Knew you could do it, pup.”
Athos doesn’t say anything at all, just gives him a relieved smile that conveys everything. Noelle brushes against Viv’s side, steadying the lynx when her paws threaten to give out.
“Well done, d’Artagnan,” Treville says. D’Artagnan finally turns to his new captain—his new captain!—and is shocked to realize there are tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m proud to have you under my command.”
“Both of you,” his mastiff daemon says regally. Her voice is deep and lovely, and she towers over Viv when she moves to touch noses with the lynx.
It takes d’Artagnan a long moment to realize that the stares from the crowd are for once directed someplace other than his Vivienne. When he does, he can’t hold back the grin.