Chapter Text
D’artagnan flicked his hair back behind his ear and tried to pull his focus back, again. He was tired and sad and angry and just wanted to find the man who had killed his father. The emotions swirling through his soul were distracting him from focusing his powers on his true intent. The wispy tendrils of magic wove around him lazily shimmering in the darkness waiting to do his bidding.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep cleansing breath. Opening them, he gracefully passed his hands, palm down, over a deep violet charoite orb, light passing through the crystal in smoky puffs until an image began to show itself. He smiled wryly, of course, this Athos would be in the most populated city in France. Exhaling slowly, he released his hold on the magic that shimmered in the orb, his dark eyes watching as the light of his power slowly disappeared into a single bright point and extinguished.
Sinking to one knee in front of the table, D’artagnan thanked the God and Goddess for their assistance, and dismissed the elemental guardians before he reached over and extinguished the burning candle by pinching the wick between his fingers. Standing, he lifted the corners of the black velvet cloth that covered the edge of the table and folded them respectfully around the Orb.
He patted the velvet bundle lovingly before slipping it into his gear. Until yesterday, this orb had borne his father’s magic. Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered the many times he had watched his father summon information through the crystal. His father had been a powerful witch. A good witch. They had a home in Gascony but Alexandre D’artagnan believed in sharing his skills and powers. He believed that magic was a power that should be used, not abused and went out of his way to help other witches defeat evil. That had been his downfall.
Witchcraft was outlawed in 17th century France. However, it was common knowledge that there were witches and demons. Many believed that Cardinal Richelieu, the country’s First Minister was a demon, but as he was also the most powerful proponent for eradicating the Craft in France it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever discover the truth. Under Richelieu’s iron fist, he guided the King, known as the Royal detector of magic, and used the King’s powers to help the demonic underworld to flourish as the advocates for pure magic were forced underground and into hiding.
Alexandre D’artagnan, however, refused to stop sharing his skills and powers. He did whatever he could to help other witches defeat demons. He shared whatever knowledge he could to fledgling witches. He travelled the length and breadth of his homeland teaching his son and strengthening the light magic of his countrymates. He had long believed he had been marked for a magical assassination, but Alexandre would never turn down a plea for help.
D’artagnan had been blessed with the sight, that’s what his papa had called it. D’artagnan had considered it more of a curse when he was stricken with a debilitating headache and the image of evil happenings in his head. D’Artagnan had known it was coming, he had begged and pleaded with him to stop, or at least keep a low profile. At papa’s refusal, D’artagnan had done the only thing a good son could do. He had become his father’s apprentice and protector. Even that hadn’t been good enough.
He had been caring for their horses when his father had been confronted by a witch hunter. By the time D’artagnan had smelt the crackling sulphur of a magical strike on the air, it was already too late. The bright orange flash that followed the scent had made his blood run cold. He couldn’t make his feet move fast enough to run as his mind wanted to, but as he rounded the corner of the Inn, he saw his father prostrate in the middle of the muddy street, a pool of crimson pooling beneath him. Skidding to a halt at Papa’s side D’artagnan pulled his father into his arms and held him, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks as he watched his father struggle to live. For the first time in his life D’artagnan wished he had inherited some of his mother’s powers, maybe he could have used them to do something, anything, to save his father.
“Who did this, Papa?” D’artagnan begged.
“Athos.” Alexandre breathed.
He lifted one hand clumsily to touch his son’s face, saying goodbye with words his lips could no longer form. With his last burst of strength, he pressed his palm to his son’s and felt his powers transferring from him to his apprentice. His soul eased with the transition of his magical knowledge, Alexandre’s smile was fleeting as he drew his last breath. D’Artagnan fell forward against his father’s chest, sobbing his sorrow at losing his beloved father.