#musketeermarch

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Musketeer March 2022 Month Prompt: Forged Family

Title: Brothers of Choice

He sighed.

"Do I even want to know?"

Read on AO3 here

[rogueholmes]

Musketeer March 2022 Day 12: Astronomy

Title: we are the dust of dust

Fandom: The Musketeers (BBC), Doctor Who

Bingo fill: “Let’s do something spontaneous.” for @anyfandomfluffbingo

Warnings: N/A

Word count: 824

Summary: The day before Captain Tréville dies, the Doctor visits him.

Read it on AO3

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Musketeer March, Day 1: Patch

When Aramis enters the room in the barracks that he’s sharing with two other new recruits, he is met by suppressed swearing and Porthos looking like thunder.

The young black man, sitting on his bunk, seems to take up the whole room with his broad-shouldered air of untouchable menace, and when he looks up, his dark eyes glittering, Aramis stops in his tracks.

“Ah…”, Aramis stutters, waves of the other man’s anger washing against him. “Is there a problem?”

In the five days Porthos has been here, Aramis has tried and failed to learn more about his new brother-in-arms. The big Musketeer recruit, about as young as Aramis, has been polite but reserved, wary even of any kind of friendly approach. During practice, he’s turned out to be an incredibly strong fighter, and Aramis suspects that, behind that impenetrable bulwark, he hides a true and good heart, but, so far, Treville’s newest adopted stray has proven immune to even Aramis’ irresistible charme.

And now something is clearly wrong.

“Did you do that?”

Glowering, the big man lifts one of the straps that fastens his fleur-de-lys pauldron to his jacket. One end still buckled, the other one is loose, the thick leather showing a clean cut that must have been executed with a very sharp blade.

“No…” Aramis steps closer, in disbelief. A Musketeer’s shoulder pauldron is sacrosanct, their most cherished piece of uniform. Each of them subtly unique, each pauldron reflects their bearer’s personality as much as it is a badge of honor worn with utmost pride.

“No,” Aramis repeats, genuinely appalled. “Why would anyone do that?”

Porthos snorts darkly. It sounds like an angry bull.

“Take a guess.”

Blinking in confusion, Aramis looks at his new comrade and waits for him to elaborate, but no further explanation is forthcoming. Porthos simply sits there, head lifted defiantly, nostrils flaring, and lets Aramis take him in, all 6’3 of him, looming even when sitting, a mountain of muscle and and sheer brute force, a dark-skinned, curly-haired–

oh…

Seeing the realization in Aramis’ eyes, Porthos snorts again. “Yeah.” That single word sounds bitter.

Aramis opens his mouth to say something, in his defense, in the regiment’s defense. But he’s heard some of the others whisper about Porthos’ ancestry, joke about his dubious parentage, and not in a welcoming fashion. While he’s never entertained similar misgivings about Porthos himself - how could he, of all people - he cannot defend his brothers; so he doesn’t.

Instead, he extends one hand, palm up.

“Give me that,” he says, wiggling his fingers at the uniform in Porthos’ lap.

Porthos curls two suspicious, dark eyebrows. “Why?”

“I can patch it for you.”

One of the eyebrows lifts in surprise. “You can?”

Aramis offers a cautious smile. He can tell that Porthos’ anger is dissipating. He can also tell that there is more hurt than anger underneath the other man’s harsh front. And that a small gap is opening in his armor.

“Yes, I’m as good as any seamstress. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” He gestures at the jacket and pauldron again. “Give me that. It’ll be as good as new.”

For a few very long seconds, Aramis sees Porthos gauge him. Head tilted, eyes dark slits, the new Musketeer pierces Aramis with a gaze full of 19-year-old mistrust and suspicion, and Aramis almost withers under that gaze, but he doesn’t look away.

To his relief, he must have stood the test, for Porthos rises and, with a grunt that may or may not signify acknowledgement, pushes his jacket and pauldron into Aramis’ arms.

“How quickly can you mend it?”

Clutching the heavy heap of studded leather, anxious not to drop it, Aramis hastens to reply.

“You’ll have it back by tomorrow.”

Face still somber, Porthos nods.

“Thank you.”

And that’s all Aramis gets, for now, since the black man grabs his weapons belt from his bunk and simply walks out of the room, straight-backed and proud.

Aramis grins.

For now, that’s good enough.

[evieswritingjournal]

27th Feb 22 Update

Story: Musketeer March day 1 (The Musketeers (BBC) fanfiction)

Today’s word count: 188

Notes: I meant to try for all of the prompts but as I have only just finished prompt 1 after only my second day of writing this month you can tell that I’m not going to be able to. Oh well. I’ll see what other random prompts I might be able to do this month.

[lady-sigyn]

Musketeer March 2021

Day 21: Father

A short on how Captain Treville realised that he had become a father to the Musketeers without even realizing it. Enjoy!

Captain Treville had never had children, had never had time for children, but as he stood on the balcony of the garrison watching Aramis and Athos make bets on who would win during Porthos and D'Artagnan's sparring match he realised that he already had four children.

Even if they were supposedly adults.

The four musketeers, while good soldiers and honourable men, had given Treville enough grey hairs over the years to rival those of a proud grandfather.

And they weren't even his biological children.

They were stubborn like him. Honourable and loyal. They fought for those who could not care for themselves. They always tried to do the right thing, even if it meant that they ended up in trouble.

The four musketeers did not really have any family of their own besides each other. But standing there, watching them tease each other and fight and laugh, Treville realised that they were family.

His family.

And his role as their captain had resulted in him sighing in a manner that reminded him very much of his own father when Treville had done something stupid in his youth.

[flowers-creativity]

Musketeer March Day 10 - Aramis

[visionsfromsoup]

Prompt: Ice/Cold

"D'Artagnan, no-!"

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

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

Jesus!

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

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

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

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

"S-stop-no-!"

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

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

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

"No-Aramis-"

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

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

"Ready?" he asked the Gascon.

"I'm ready."

"'ere we go."

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

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

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

Seconds ticked by...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Athos was looking at him with silent gratitude and pride.

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

[aramisinspace]

Musketeer March Day 1 - Sewing

(let's pretend this isn't a day late, shall we)

Presenting two short drabble-esqu things, my first Musketeers fic, featuring Aramis

Ft. Small Aramis (René) and Pauline

"René!"

The boy's head snapped up, "Pauline? What's happened?"

"Mamá is going to kill me." She dropped down beside René as he sat up.

In lieu of a reply he lifted an eyebrow.

"Look!" Pauline held out a colorful skirt, which upon closer inspection sported an impressive tear down one side.

René's eyes widened, "How did that happen?? And your new one, too?"

"I was…. Taking a walk.."

"Try again?"

"Fine… But, but you can't tell anyone René. Promise."

"Promise. Now what happened?"

"I was in the market, and I got sticky buns! Well a sticky bun and then there were these boys and they had a dog -"

"You went to the market by yourself? The big one?"

"Don't say that so loud!"

"And that's where you ripped your skirt?"

"I fell," Pauline moved her skirt so the scrapes on her knees were visible, "and I think it got caught on something. Can you fix it for me? Please?"

René rolled his eyes as he reached under his bed for the small kit he kept there, "You better have some of that bun left."

"Thank you!" Pauline tackled him with a hug before skipping out of the room, leaving René trying to thread a needle.

--------------------------------------------------

Ft. Aramis, Porthos and a sleeping Athos

"It's alright, Porthos," Aramis patted his friend on the shoulder, "I'll take tonight's watch."

Porthos looked from Aramis to the sleeping figure on the bed, "If you're sure."

He was not going to turn down the opportunity to sleep in his bed tonight instead of a chair or the floor, especially when Aramis seemed keen on taking up the duty of making sure their mutual friend did not meet any further trouble that night.

"I'll come back in the morning," Porthos yawned, he was more tired than he had realised, "I'll pick up your stuff first though."

"Thank you, my friend."

"G'night, 'Mis," Porthos grabbed his hat as he made his way to the door, Aramis' goodnight following him.

Porthos gone, Aramis' attention returned fully to Athos, who had not moved from the moment Porthos had set him down on the bed.

They had found him nursing a bottle of wine and decided to take him home early and spare him a worse hangover in the morning. Athos had been surprisingly unresisting, merely glowering at them from under his hat as they had relived him of the bottle and manoeuvred him out of the tavern. Aramis suspected that he was not drunk yet and this was him letting them help him, in his own way. Either that, or he was completely wasted.

He did not seem to notice as they divested him of every last bit of leather and metal and was asleep almost instantly as he made contact with his bed.

His breathing seemed regular and the room was warm so, for the moment, Aramis was left with nothing to do. He was not tired enough yet to sleep, but he also was not going to leave Athos alone.

Looking around he noticed a small heap of fabric tossed onto a small chest. Closer inspection found it to be a shirt. A shirt with several rips in it.

After a few minutes of searching, Aramis located the needle and thread he knew Athos kept and, after lighting another candle, began sewing up the rips.

The motions were familiar and before long the shirt was mended and Aramis felt relaxed enough to try and sleep.

[capitaineathos]

Musketeer March day 2 is up! ^-^

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29801925

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Musketeer March 2021 Day 1: Sewing

"I am afraid that this will require stitches," Aramis declared solemnly.

Louis sniffled, barely holding back his tears. "Will... will it hurt?"

Read on AO3 here

[stridingseer]

Musketeer March Day 2 - Ice/Cold 

In which I offer you a dread filled fic at 200 words! Please accept my (late) addition. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794428/chapters/73355709

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Penance

Swords clash around Athos, and he thinks that he is too hungover for this kind of noise, but it’s not like he has a choice. A rapier comes at him and screeches against his own, steel on steel, and it’s a good thing that he knows how to do this in his sleep. Even with a monster headache and bile rising in his throat, he moves his feet like a dancer, twirls around his enemy, and his sword arm guides his blade on muscle memory and instinct. By the time his brain catches up with his body, he’s standing above a dying man, his rapier buried in guts and muscle, and Athos pulls it out with a nasty slurp.

Around him, the skirmish is still ongoing, three other Musketeers still engaged with badly trained but ferocious Huguenots. Athos’ eyes are drawn to the new recruit who joined the regiment only a week ago, a few months after Athos. He’s young - a boy, really, no more than eighteen or nineteen, and his dizzying speed makes Athos - only twenty-two himself - feel old.

He’s young, but oh, he’s good.

Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he’s using both with ambidextrous proficiency. His style is elegant with a flourish, and although Athos thinks that his theatrics cost him in efficiency, the young man’s quicksilver reflexes make up for that flaw. As he drives his opponent backwards, long black curls whipping about his pretty face, Athos has the impression that he’s watching a cat play with its prey. It ends with a quick slice along the Huguenot’s carotid, and he falls, blood spraying across the Musketeer’s new uniform.

When the man is on the ground, a scarlet pool spreading around his head, the recruit does something surprising: Blood-spattered, he wipes at his face, then he kneels beside his dying foe and crosses himself. One gloved hand on the gurgling Huguenot’s chest, his lips begin to move, and from where Athos is standing, he thinks he hears Latin - a prayer.

As the other two Musketeers finish their duels, Athos continues to watch the lad - Aramis, his wine-drenched memory offers. With an expression as solemn as it was almost gleeful before, he recites old words of mercy and, as the dying man’s chest stills and his twitching stops, the young soldier reaches up to to close his eyes. He seems completely absorbed by what he’s doing, as if it was a ritual of utmost importance, a show of respect. Then he gets up and reaches into the folds of his shirt to pull out a pendant he wears around his neck - a wooden crucifix, Athos recognizes. He kisses it with reverence and tucks it back out of sight.

Athos steps closer.

“Do you always pray for those you kill?” he asks laconically.

“Do you not?” Aramis asks back, a provocative glint in his eyes.

Athos chuckles darkly. “What’s the use? Prayers are not going to help anyone who’s just been dispatched to Hell. Or were you praying for your own forgiveness?”

“Take your pick,” the young Musketeer says, his face breaking into an enigmatic smirk.

“Athos!!”

Whatever is happening behind his back, whatever his shouting fellow-soldier sees coming - Athos is too slow or too drunk to whip around in time.

Luckily, Aramis isn’t.

The pistol in the recruit’s hand comes out of nowhere, and the ball whistles past Athos’ ear and over his shoulder a split second later. A grunt and the sound of a dropping body tell Athos that Aramis’ shot hit home, and when he’s finally managed to turn, he sees one of the Huguenots dead on the ground, this time for good. Blood seeps lazily from the hole in his forehead where the ball entered his skull. The man’s eyes are frozen wide in surprise; a pistol, cocked and ready to fire, lies beside him.

Athos swallows.

I need to stop drinking.

He sees his approaching Musketeer brothers exhale in relief. They nod at him and at Aramis - a quick acknowledgement of Athos’ luck and Aramis’ competence. To be on the safe side, they proceed to check the other bodies. No one wants another, potentially deadly resurrection.

Embarrassment throbbing somewhere underneath his headache, Athos turns back to Aramis. The young soldier is already reloading his pistol and sporting a contented grin.

“You’re welcome,” he says merrily.

“I didn’t thank you,” Athos shoots back and isn’t entirely sure why. Something about this cocky recruit is making him bristle.

“No, you didn’t,” Aramis says easily. “But I heard you generally don’t talk much, so I’ll simply assume you’re silently grateful.” He stops, scrutinizing Athos with dark, intelligent eyes. “Unless you aren’t and would’ve preferred a bullet in your back. Curiously, I’ve heard the others say that you-”

“THANK you,” Athos cuts him off, glaring at Aramis. He really doesn’t want to discuss the rumours about his alleged death wish with that novice.

The younger man tilts his head and narrows his eyes, as if in thought. Then his expression morphs into a bright smile, and he glides into an elegant bow, doffing his hat with a flourish.

“You’re welcome, brother.”

Taken off guard, Athos lifts an eyebrow. He’s not sure whether he wants to strangle the cocksure youngster or smile along with him. His attitude is both confusing and disarming. Or perhaps Athos is simply too hungover to see through Aramis’ smooth veneer.

Before he can come up with anything else to say, Aramis has walked past him and knelt by the man he just killed to repeat the earlier ritual. In deep concentration, he doesn’t seem to notice the other two Musketeers ambling past him, shaking their heads.

“What’s up with him?” one of them says to Athos, pointing a thumb. “Is he a priest or a Musketeer?”

Good question, Athos thinks. Whatever Aramis is, one thing is sure: He’s a bloody good shot. And he’s going to drive Athos crazy.

(For those of you who prefer reading and commenting on AO3, here's the link:)

[evieswritingjournal]

9th Feb 22 Update

Story: Musketeer March day 1 (The Musketeers (BBC) fanfiction)

Today’s word count: 39

Notes: I might have written more if I hadn’t been watching the women’s snowboarding halfpipe final in the Winter Olympics. Then again if I hadn’t been watching it and needing something to do with my hands I might not have written anything at all!

[lady-sigyn]

Musketeer March 2021

Day 6: Swords

So I wrote this based on an idea for an oc/Athos or Athos/Reader story a few months back. And upon seeing this prompt I thought it would work perfectly. This is my first reader/athos fic, and if you're not into that it's okay. Also I am aware that there are many grammatical errors. Enjoy!

"You are possibly the worst I've ever trained," Athos grumbled as he circled yn, expertly twirling his sword.

Yn began to push herself off the muddy floor, "thanks for the encouragement".

"I'm here to train you, yn," Athos paused as they repositioned themselves into their opening stances.

"I hadn't guessed ," she grunted as their swords clashed.

Their duel was rough and definitely unladylike as yn ended up on her ass, waist deep in mud, as her sword clattered to the side for the fifth time that day.

"You know, maybe I'm just not cut out for duelling. We both know I'm much better in a physical fight," Yn pointed out as she stood up.

"She's got a point there," Porthos, her sparring partner for the past month, pointed out from where he sat on the sidelines.

Aramis sat next to him, cleaning his pistol, laughter in his eyes.

Athos gave a long suffering sigh as he began to pack away his sword. Yn was good. She was smart, agile and fast. Yn certainly wasn't a bad shot, and she was good in a knife fight. However, her dueling abilities matched those of a young child.

And if she were to act as personal guard to the Queen herself, yn would need to improve, fast.

"I take it duelling is not going too well?" D'Artagnan asked upon his arrival to the garrison's courtyard.

The image he was met with was unforgettable to say the least. Yn was doing her best to clean off all the mud on her legs, while trying not to lose her grip on her muddied sword, which was not going well.

Athos had mud stains on his shirt, although they were far fewer than yn's, and he could not have looked more exhausted if he tried as he stowed away his sword.

Porthos was barely containing his laughter at what was no doubt the most ridiculous duelling lesson he had seen yet.

Aramis was the only one out of the four to look slightly sane. The sun shining against his hair like a halo. And for once he was the one staying out of trouble.

"Whatever," Yn started sarcastically, " could have given you that idea, D'art?"

D'Artagnan began to laugh, setting off Porthos who now sat gripping the wooden table like a lifeline.

Yn ignored them as she complained about how she would never get the mudstains out of her pants.

And walking in on this disastrous scene was Captain Treville. He felt a warmth flood his chest as he observed the chaos before him.

Yn had only been there for four months, four months in which she gave the Musketeers absolute hell, but she had helped these soldiers, these good men, to find a moment of normalcy in a time where they barely had any peace.

Yn may have been something different. Something wild, with her feral smile and innocent eyes, but she had the potential to be a good soldier and an even better Musketeer.

Granted she ever learned how to use a sword, correctly, of course.

[flowers-creativity]

Musketeer March, Day 6 - Swords

(Many thanks to @scionofqueens for the screenshots and the editing help 💛!)

[visionsfromsoup]

Day 5 - “Athos”

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

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

"Forget Athos, Madame. Olivier. Remember?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My father has died many years ago."

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

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

"I am."

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

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

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

"Has a physician seen her?"

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

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

"Athos..."

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

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

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

"An astute observation," Athos muttered.

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

"Thank you for your observation, René."

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

"You tell me."

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

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

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

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