Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*

The first military camp at the Spanish border stretches out over acres; it is sweltering hot, muddy, and can be heard – and smelled – from miles away along with the clap and dull thuds of cannon. What they could possibly be shooting at besides some hillsides or farmsteads Athos cannot guess, but if there’s one thing he has learned on previous campaigns it is that the waste of shot, men, and time is not only encouraged but often required of war.

The first horse from the garrison’s column shies and breaks ranks when they are still two miles away, spooked by a distant bristle of musket fire; by the time the collection of filthy tents has hoved into view mounts are shrieking and plunging at random, the panic flattening ears and widening eyes as they toss their riders, teeth bared and panting, into the muck. It takes half an hour to calm them as the officers wait as quietly as they can manage, allowing jeering infantry to pass them by; then Roger’s front hooves slip sideways, Aramis’s horse squeals, and there’s only one thing for it.

There is a reason, it turns out, for a Musketeer’s prized accoutrements and fashion choices beyond vanity. d’Artagnan grumbles about making use of Constance’s first marriage gift to him – a silk-embroidered scarf which he’d prefer to keep next to his own skin rather than that of his horse – while Porthos’s bandanna, Aramis’s sash, and Athos’s scarf have seen this duty many a time.

In the end, their entrance into the camp is the quietest of the long afternoon. Blindfolded, their treasured mounts follow them so docilely one would almost think them tame; with Roger’s breath hot and trusting on the back of his hand, Athos can only hope that tomorrow will be as peaceful.

*