none of them are ordinary men

. . .

It's too hot out for this, Porthos thinks as he blocks an overhead cut with his sword and jabs at the man's ribs with his off-hand. It's a muggy afternoon despite the thin cloud cover, and beneath his doublet his shirt is clinging wetly to his body.

The hit lands, distracting the man enough that Porthos can disengage his sword and send him reeling back with a strong shove from his foot. The men attacking them are hardly armored at all, two wearing only a leather jerkin over their shirts while the other four don't even have that much. Porthos envies them a little bit: against such unskilled opponents, his doublet is doing more to annoy him than protect him.

Their attackers, on the other hand, could probably have done with a little more in the way of protection. Three are already down, unconscious or at least smart enough to feign it, Porthos' kick finishes off a fourth, and the other two—

He glances around, sees Athos sending the fifth to the ground with a pistol shot to the arm, and the final man standing knee deep in the fast-running stream, holding Aramis' head underwater. In the same moment that he registers it, d'Artagnan hurtles at the final man and knocks him over, sending them both crashing down into the water.

Shit. Athos is nearer, turns at the splash and starts instinctively, but he can't do anything to help. And he knows it, too, unlike d'Artagnan.

"Get 'em tied," Porthos calls to him. "I've got this." He stomps over to the edge of the stream and bodily hauls d'Artagnan out, disentangling him from the man grappling with him. D'Artagnan seems dazed, limp and too confused to put up much of a fight, but the moment he's free of the other man Aramis rears up out of the water and punches the bandit hard in the nose.

Porthos deposits d'Artagnan on solid ground a few steps away from the bank, then goes back to help Aramis drag their erstwhile attacker from the stream. While Athos and Aramis finish tying up the surviving bandits, Porthos makes a cursory check of their bags. They've got all the trappings of robbers, and not overly skilled ones at that, but by this point it's habit to make sure they know who they're up against. He finds little of concern, only a handful of silver coins mixed in with copper and trinkets, and a pouch of extra shot for each of the men in the party. Nothing to suggest that their motive was anything more than opportunistic.

"They're clean," he says. "Just a few thieves."

"Where'd their horses go?" Aramis asks, standing back from his last truss job and pushing his wet hair out of his eyes.

"I sent them off," d'Artagnan says from his spot on the ground. He's still a little absent, but his memories are obviously coming back. "They're around here somewhere."

"Not ours to worry about, then," Athos concludes. "We'll redistribute their wealth on our way back to Paris. There are plenty there who could use it, and the garrison can always use extra supplies. Is anyone injured?" he asks, almost as an afterthought.

"I'm fine," Porthos says, then grimaces as his shirt sticks to his back in a new and even more uncomfortable way. "Sweaty as hell, but other than that."

"The water's quite nice," Aramis says with a grin. "If we didn't have places to be, I'd be tempted to spend the afternoon here."

"Ugh" d'Artagnan mutters. "Even after you almost drowned?"

Porthos goes to answer, then glances over at their captives and thinks better of it.

D'Artagnan just waves a dismissive hand in their direction. "We're going to make them forget about this anyway," he points out.

Porthos looks to Aramis, who shrugs, unconcerned, then turns back to d'Artagnan. "Aramis can't drown," he says simply. "He can breathe underwater."

D'Artagnan looks shocked for a moment, then it narrows into a glare. "Why was this never mentioned to me?" he demands.

"Not much opportunity for drowning in Paris, is there?" Aramis has his waterskin out and starts tending to the bandits, letting those that can drink from it and pouring small amounts over the wounds of those that can't. It won't do anything for their torn and bloodied clothing, but that's an easier mystery to shrug off than a musket ball in the arm.

Athos mostly stands back and watches, though when it comes time to take the ball out of the one he'd shot he helps Aramis, holding the man still while Aramis removes the lump of metal and pours some more water over the wound. It closes in minutes, healing cleanly from the inside out until there's nothing left but the faintest trace of a scar. By the time the men find their horses and return to whatever homes they have, even that will have disappeared.

When he's done, Aramis turns to look back at d'Artagnan, who seems content to stay where he is until the effects of the water wear off. "Shall I take care of this, then, or would you like to?"

D'Artagnan grimaces, but shakes his head. "They'd enjoy it too much," he says, only half joking. He looks a little shaky still, but he manages to push himself up and walk over to where the six men sit bound. He sinks back to the ground in a crouch in front of them, and with a finger turns each of their chins so that they're looking straight at him. Once they meet his eyes, they can't seem to look away from them, not even to blink. Out of habit, Porthos lets his gaze drift a bit to the side – not enough that he can't see what's happening, but just enough to be safe. Aramis and d'Artagnan both insist that there's nothing to worry about, but still. He figures it's a better habit to have than not.

In his peripherals, he watches d'Artagnan compel the men to forget about this encounter. Calmly, yet firmly, he explains that their horses had run off and that they need to go and find them, then get on with their business and think twice before attacking anyone else on the road. He stares them down, one by one, and one by one Porthos sees their faces start to pale and crease with discomfort. Once he's satisfied that they've taken his instructions to heart, d'Artagnan releases them with a blink and stands up again, leaving them where they sit.

Athos and Aramis make short work of untying them, but they make no move to get up; by the time the effects of the compulsion wear off, they'll have no memory of how they came to be here, no memory of the men they attacked, and no memory of the injuries they sustained. They'll find their horses and go home, rattled and confused and stripped of their stolen goods, and with any luck they'll be shamed enough by it to keep from returning to their trade.

Musketeer horses are well enough trained not to bolt at the sound of a gunshot, so within a few minutes of releasing the men the four of them are mounted up and ready to be off, pockets a little heavier for their encounter. Even d'Artagnan's riding, which is unusual but understandable. He usually avoids it when possible, since horses don't seem to like carrying him for too long and he doesn't tire the same way a normal man might after days of walking. None of them do.

Then again, none of them are normal men.

As is their habit when approaching the city from the east, they detour through Chareton, pausing at a bend in the Marne as it runs through a gentle woodland on its way to join with the Seine. Aramis refills his waterskins, the ones carefully but discreetly marked to be used only for healing, and offers to rinse out everyone's shirts in the cool water. D'Artagnan takes him up on it but stays well away from the water, stretching out in a patch of dappled sunlight to let the last of the effects fade, while Athos predictably chooses to keep his on and stay in the relative shade.

After a few moments of consideration, Porthos decided to follow Aramis' unspoken suggestion. No one will find them here, not with Aramis at his home waters, and the day has only gotten hotter. So Porthos strips out of his clothes, tosses his shirt to Aramis but leaves all the rest on the ground, and changes.

For a moment it's worse, thick fur trapping the heat much as his doublet had done, but then he launches himself off the bank with a gleeful howl and hits the water with an explosion of spray, tackling Aramis and knocking him almost to the bottom. Underwater, Aramis laughs, and ruffles the fur between Porthos' ears. "I guess I should know to expect that by now," he says, voice as clear as it is in the air.

The fur makes him buoyant, so it's hard to stay down for long, but the water is clear and cool and the riverbed is sand and smooth pebbles in this spot. Eventually, though, he lets Aramis up and heads for the surface, shaking his head enormously once it's clear. Then he just floats, paddling idly against the current and doing the occasional barrel roll to make d'Artagnan laugh.

When he finally clambers out, cooled and refreshed, he makes sure to shake as much spray onto the other two as possible – out of the river, it won't do them a bit of harm, and besides, it's just too damn hot out.

. . .

I woke up today with a mighty urge to write some supernatural musketeers, so here we are! I had a lot of fun talking about this with Malin, so I might end up adding this to my collection of half-baked au ideas.

there was a long of hand-waving and fudging involved in this, as to who does what and why, but as far as I'm concerned Porthos is a shape-shifter/werewolf, Athos is a vampire, Aramis' mom is a Naiad, and d'Artagnan is a fae changeling.

sorry for slamming y'all with updates after a year but I'm having a good time