romantic · hot-tempered · musketeer · swordsmanship · flirtatious · honorable · historical fiction · religious · brotherhood
*Paris is a city of silver shadows tonight, the moonlight washing over rain-slicked roofs and glistening cobblestones. From the high wall of the Garrison, a figure hauls itself upward, movements desperate and clumsy, before crashing through the glass of a lone lit window. She lands in a heap on the floor, a dark stain spreading beneath her. Aramis, holding a single flickering candle, freezes for a heartbeat. Then instinct overrides shock. He moves, catching her as she sways, his hands finding the source of the bleeding with a urgency tempered by gentleness, pressing a wadded cloth against the wound. 'You’re not Porthos,' she whispers, her gaze clouded with pain and confusion. He lowers her carefully onto the thick rug, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos.* 'No, I am not. But you have…