The Two Musketeers

Rating: PG

Category: Alternate-Universe, Drama, Romance

Part of an intended series. I decided it was time to try my hand at one of those delicious historical AU's, with one of my personal favorite themes…

Disclaimer: Dumas and Lucas, I do beg your pardons.

Note: I don't speak French. So if any of the names of people (which I basically pulled out of my butt), or anything else, seem "un-Frenchy" or off somehow, I'm sorry.

Summary: A dashing young man arrives in 17th-century Paris seeking his fortune as a King's Musketeer - sound vaguely familiar? - and meets up with his handsome captain…

Feedback: Oh, baby, YEAH! Hit me at telanu@xoommail.com

"Young, but extraordinary." Those were the words most often used to describe the newest addition to the ranks of His Majesty Louis XIII's Royal Musketeers. A bare three months ago, a shining young god had dropped into Paris seemingly from nowhere with a letter from an aristocratic father that gained him immediate entrance into the elite corps.

Jacques d'Obienne had been greeted with wary scorn at first. The Musketeers were not so much an armed force as a family, and any initiate had to prove himself before gaining acceptance as one of their number. Suspicion had greeted the arrival of this gilded youth and whispers had run amok about young whips who could get anywhere on papa's say-so.

D'Obienne had not been overly bothered. Instead, he had set about wiping away all traces of disappproval with his own ingenuous brand of charm and his iron courage, the first of which endeared him to the ladies and the second of which earned the grudging respect of the Musketeers. He feared no man and never hesitated to take on a duel of honor; he was generous with his friends and when he was in a tavern the wine flowed freely. When he chose, he was surrounded with the best of female companions: women both of wit and great beauty.

This combination guaranteed him a charmed spot in Parisian life, yet he usually preferred to remain with his companions in the corps, on guard duty or playing at a game of dice in the guardroom in the afternoons. "I came to Paris to be a Musketeer," he said once, "and that's what I plan to be." After those three months had passed, he had the friendship and respect of every one of his comrades.

Except for one. The Captain of the Musketeers, for some reason, seemed to hold a grudge against d'Obienne that no one could explain or erase. No matter how hard the young cadet practiced at swordplay, riding, wrestling or even archery, a cold gleam of disapproval still shone from blue eyes as hard as diamonds. The lips of the Captain would thin beneath his graying moustache as he glared at the young man over a hawklike nose, and proceeded to bark out a rebuke or correct a tiny mistake.

D'Obienne was mortified and the Musketeers were mystified over the whole affair. It was painfully obvious to all of them that, since his arrival, the young man had worshipped Captain Gonne. Of course, they all did, so this was not unusual. Victor Gonne was like some hero out of the pages of myth: appointed in his youth by the King's father, and now serving the current King in the same capacity as Captain of the Musketeers. He was a huge man, towering over everyone in court, inspiring awe with his sheer physical presence, and he wore dignity wrapped around him like a cloak. He was also devastatingly handsome, with chiseled features and well-defined muscles, but had never been known to exploit that quality. Louis XIII himself had once said Gonne was, in sharp contrast to his philandering subordinates, "as chaste as a monk."

The Captain had no equal in swordmanship, bravery or cunning on the battlefield. It was small wonder his Musketeers treated him like a god. D'Obienne was no exception, and it wounded him deeply that his Captain seemed to dislike him for no apparent reason.

"I don't understand it, Geraint," he said mournfully to one of his friends and fellow Musketeers as they sat watching a game of tennis. "Have I done something to offend him? Perhaps he had cause to take insult once from a member of my family? Though I am sure I have heard of no history at all between the Obiennes and the Gonnes."

The other young soldier shrugged, his eyes never leaving the game. "I don't know, Jacques. We're all at a loss. Just be thankful you are counted a friend among us - it is quite unusual for us to take to our bosom one without the Captain's favor."

D'Obienne cocked his head to one side. "But he likes everyone else in the corps, doesn't he?"

Geraint nodded slowly. "They don't last long if he doesn't. Your case is quite the unusual one, I must say."

D'Obienne tried not to gulp. "Do you think he'll try and transfer me?"

A snort came from his companion. "On what grounds? Remember, mon ami, you've made a sensation here. You're a devil of a swordsman and your behavior has been exemplary. If you were moved to the Guards or elsewhere, the King himself would be asking questions. The Captain can't just say he doesn't like you."

The younger man bowed his red-gold head. "I wish I knew why he doesn't like me."

Geraint shrugged. "Doesn't like your women friends? I don't know. The Captain has such…peculiar ways. He reads the Bible more than a priest, I'd wager. Seen in Mass every Sunday."

D'Obienne arched an eyebrow. Mass was not a habit of his, or even an occasional gesture. He'd hardly even glanced at a chapel since setting foot in the city. Was that the problem?

"Well…that's good, isn't it?" he ventured. "It can't help but…um, give him a clear mind for commanding, that sort of thing. Living a clean life, that is." *Something I might want to try, then,* he thought ruefully. *And yet…some of my fellows behave so much worse and he seems to esteem them…I do not understand.*

Geraint gave him a long, pensive look. "How long have you been here? Three months and a half? In that inverval, not once has the Captain smiled at you, or given you kind word, and yet you defend him." He grinned. "You are truly a good man, sir."

D'Obienne felt his face flush at the compliment, but returned it with a smile. "Only as good as the company I choose to keep. My thanks."

Geraint darted a glance away from the game, up to the balustrade of the Musketeer's headquarters, and stiffened slightly. "Don't look now, but the Captain is standing up there," he murmured, and then, "I said, *don't* look, Jacques. He was looking at you. He - now he's looking at both of us and he sees me watching him! Stand up, man, and salute!"

Galvanized into action, d'Obienne immediately leapt to his feet, turned, and saluted a bit clumsily in tandem with Geraint. He looked up into the craggy face of the Captain, hoping for some spark of approval to appear at last, but Gonne only nodded briefly at them both, rounded on the heel of his boot and stalked back inside the building. D'Obienne sagged.

Geraint observed, "He dislikes you, yet he constantly observes you. Take heart from that, at least. When you do something spectacular in service of the King, he's sure to notice."

D'Obienne wasn't too sure about that.

It was perhaps a month later when the new Musketeer returned to the guardsroom from a very trying practice session with Bernaloux, one of the company's most seasoned swordsmen. D'Obienne now had several new bruises, not to mention aches and pains in a variety of places, but he knew he had learned quickly and well, Bernaloux having pronounced him "a spry young fox."

He spared a moment to be grateful that Captain Gonne had been absent from the salle that day. If anything, Gonne's opinion of him seemed to worsen by the day, instead of rise as d'Obienne had so fervently hoped. Still, the young man had cause to think there was at least a reason behind his leader's displeasure; for some while now Captain Gonne had been keeping unusually to himself, spending less time in the salles and guardsroom, and entertaining fewer parties in his own salon. The Musketeers whispered worriedly among themselves, while the Cardinal's Guards preened in triumph over the Captain's inexplicable funk.

*So perhaps it's not me he dislikes,*d'Obienne thought rather hopefully. *Perhaps that is merely a symptom of his melancholy, and I came at an inopportune time. I remember he began to withdraw only shortly after I arrived in Paris; surely our Captain must have greater matters on his mind than one young idiot.* It was reassurance of a kind. He stripped quickly and lowered himself into the tiny tub of water that a lackey had prepared. While not cold, the water was not exactly comfortable, and he hurriedly rinsed the dust and grime from his body.

He was rising from the tub and gathering the rough towel to himself when he heard the ring of bootsteps entering the room. He sloshed around in the tub and found himself face to face with Captain Victor Gonne, who had stopped upon entering the doorway.

Feeling an absolute fool, and a naked fool at that, d'Obienne nevertheless bowed as graciously as he could manage. "Captain," he murmured politely, hoping fervently that the blush he could feel wouldn't work its way past his neck.

Daring to look up, he saw that the Captain seemed turned into a block of stone, and his heart sank.

Yet the man still stood there, staring at him, with no expression on his face until d'Obienne's embarassment had melted into confusion. "Can I be of service to you, sir?" he asked.

At that, Gonne's eyes snapped wide open and he took a step back. A flush stained his high cheekbones, and without a word he nodded sharply, turned, and left the room. D'Obienne stared after him, his mouth slightly agape in astonishment - then he heard his comrades coming in, and he quickly left the tub and dressed.

The Two Musketeers

by Telanu (telanu@xoommail.com)