Chapter Text
She was sixteen the first, and last, time she and Philippe snuck out of the palace to go to the garrison.
Philippe had struck up a friendship with some of the musketeers assigned to the palace guard; a friendship that came with perks.
He knew when the D’Artagnan would be away and the garrison less supervised. And it hadn’t taken much to convince her.
“It’s just a small gathering, Marie,” he’d said.
“A few drinks. Some friendly conversation.”
She knew it was a lie. They both had.
***
The garrison had been alive that night.
Music echoed off the stone walls, laughter filled the air, and wine flowed like water.
It was wild, messy, and exhilarating.
Marie, who had never been drunk in her life, had finally discovered why people took to drinking so easily. It was fun.
Philippe, off-key and louder than anyone should be allowed to be, had joined in with the musicians. His rendition of a bawdy ballad had most of the men in tears of laughter.
Meanwhile, Marie danced. Whoever could keep up with her was welcome to try, but few succeeded. Why did people bother going to boring palace balls when this was an option?
Then, of course, came the shooting contest. Because what else did one expect at a musketeer gathering?
Bottles, fruit, even a few boots, anything they could balance on a poor volunteer’s head was fair game. Cheers and laughter erupted with every successful shot.
And then there was Philippe. Pointing a musket at her. A bottle balanced precariously on her head. She said a silent thank you to her old dance tutor for developing such fine posture.
If they had been sober, they both would have realised how staggeringly stupid they were being. But they weren’t. And that made it all the more thrilling.
***
To everyone’s surprise, including her own, Marie had proven to be an excellent shot. A fact she loudly and repeatedly reminded the entire gathering.
“Better than half of you lot!” She boasted, twirling her musket in her hand with a grin far too smug for someone who was half a dozen drinks deep.
“If you’re so good, lets up the stakes.”
A musketeer name Gaston had stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Shoot this apple off my head.”
“Easy.” Marie didn’t hesitate.
But then he held up a piece of fabric.
“Blindfolded.”
Marie blinked. Sober Marie would have said absolutely not. But drunk Marie?
“Alright. You’re on.”
They shook hands, and Marie took her place.
Gaston stood with his back against a post, the apple perched atop his head. Marie raised the musket, her finger hovering over the trigger.
“MARIE-JOSÈPHINE! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?”
Shit.
A deathly silence fell over the garrison. The music stopped. The laughter died. Marie’s heart sank.
For a moment, she considered leaving the blindfold on. Maybe if she couldn’t see Aramis’ face, she wouldn’t see how utterly furious he was.
But no. That wasn’t going to save her. She slowly lifted the fabric from her eyes. There he was. Aramis. His face was a mask of pure, unfiltered anger. D'Artagnan and Constance close beside him.
“Upstairs. Both of you” He pointed over to Philippe
His tone deadly.
“Now.”
Neither of them dared to argue.
"The rest of you, clean up this mess!" She heard D'Artagnan shout to the garrison.
They stumbled their way into the captain’s office, the haze of wine giving way to a sobering realisation-
They were in so much trouble.
Both of them sat down on the bench like schoolchildren awaiting punishment, their heads bowed, avoiding eye contact.
The door slammed behind them.
Aramis stood there, arms crossed, eyes like a storm ready to break.
“I don’t think it’s really that ba-“
“Do.Not.Speak.”
Philippe shut his mouth.
Marie’s head had started to spin, and sitting down only made it worse.
“It’s a good thing I was the one who noticed you were gone and not your mother.”
Aramis’ voice was tight, laced with barley restrained fury as he paced the room. The movement made Marie’s head swim even more.
“What were you thinking?!”
He stopped in front of Philippe, who suddenly seemed far less confident.
“Brining her here? She is your sister, Philippe. You’re supposed to protect her! And what do I find? Her a second away from blowing a man’s head off!”
“I wasn’t going to blow his head off!” Marie managed to mumble, her voice a slurred attempt at defence.
Aramis’ gaze shifted to her.
“I taught you better than this, Marie. If the King or your mother could see the shame you are bringing to this family with your behaviour. How could you be so careless?”
The disappointment in his voice hit harder than any reprimand ever could. Her chest tightened, and she could feel the sting of tears building.
Philippe was on his feet before she could process what was happening.
“Don’t you dare speak to her like that! You’re not our father!”
Silence.
The room froze. None of them moved. Marie looked up to Aramis- and the pain she saw in his eyes broke her heart.
The room spun faster. Too fast. Her stomach churned.
“I… I really don’t feel well…”
Aramis was by her side in an instant. The anger melted away, replaced by concern.
“Do you feel like you might be sick?”
Marie could only nod weakly.
“Don’t move.” Aramis was up and over to the door.
“Constance!”
Moments later, Constance was at Marie’s side, bucket in hand, her expression a mix of amusement and sympathy.
“Oh sweetheart… the wine finally catching up with you?”
She placed the bucket onto her lap.
"Philippe, other room. Now." Aramis opened the door again, as Philippe dragged his feet along the floor.
"Leave the door open a bit. The air will do her some good." He stopped to look back at Marie.
"Go on, she's in safe hands. See to your other one." With Aramis and Philippe gone, Marie slumped her head on the edge of the bucket as a form of pillow.
“Did someone have too much to drink?” Constance teased her. Marie barley had time to nod before the inevitable happened.
The next ten minutes were the worst of her life. Every time she thought the sickness had passed, it came back with a vengeance.
Constance held the bucket and rubbed her back, whispering soothing words.
“Does this happen every time?” Marie felt completely drained.
“Not every time.” Constance gave her a small smile. “You’ll learn to pace yourself.”
“I’m never drinking again.”
“That’s what they all say.”
She heard two pair of boots making their way into the room.
“How’s she doing?” D’Artagnan leant against the wall watching the scene before him.
“She’ll be fine. Just a bit too much over indulging. Sylvie at home?”
“She decided she didn’t want to deal with an angry Aramis on this occasion.” Athos replied.
“Athos? No go away.” Marie tried to raise her head. “This is already embarrassing enough.” She really just wanted to go to bed.
“She defiantly takes after her father.” Athos stated in a bland tone. D’Artagnan tried to disguise his chuckled into a cough as Constance gave him a look of warning.
Marie who had started to drift off had fortunately missed the exchange. Constance gave her shoulder a little shake.
“Come on, lets get you cleaned up a bit.”
Constance wiped her face with a cool cloth, and for the first time that night, Marie felt something close to relief.
“You know, Constance…” Marie mumbled. “You’re really beautiful. I hope people tell you that all the time.”
Constance laughed softly.
“Are you just saying that because I’m currently wiping sick off your face?”
“No!” Marie tried to look indignant but failed miserably. “I mean it. I miss having you at the palace… and I know Mama does too.”
“I’ll try to visit more. I promise.”
“Please do.”
Once she had been made more presentable, Athos helped her to stand keeping a hand under her arm to steady her. The room was spinning a little less than before.
“Come on trouble maker. Time to get you back to the palace.” Athos helped her out of the office and into the hall. Marie could hear Philippe’s voice, quieter now, and Aramis.
As they approached the room, she could see that Philippe had been crying. Aramis said something softly, then pulled Philippe into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
For a moment, Marie forgot how terrible she felt.
“Are we ready to depart.” Athos questioned. Aramis stepped back from Philippe giving him a firm pat of the back.
“We’re ready. Is Porthos downstairs with the horses?” Aramis questioned.
“Porthos is here too?” Marie looked up at Athos.
“Of course, Your Highness. He was excited to see how well you would handle your wine.”
Marie let out a groan. Maybe being drunk wasn’t as fun as she first thought.