a/n: In this tale of love and longing, Athos embarks on a journey to reunite with Ninon, the woman who captured his heart seven years prior. Now residing in the picturesque village of La-Roche Guyon, Ninon has embraced a new life as a dedicated teacher at a small school, nurturing young minds while raising her daughter. As Athos navigates the complexities of their past and the changes in their lives, he must confront the passage of time and the enduring power of love. Will their reunion rekindle the fleeting flame they once shared.
The frost still clung to the windowpanes, blurring the already muted winter light of Giverny. It felt a world away from the vibrant greens and sun-drenched pastels of summer. Ninon, wrapped in a thick wool shawl, stood by the frost-kissed window overlooking the slumbering gardens, the skeletal branches of the etched against the pale sky. Her gaze drifted down to her left hand, where the ruby ring Athos had gifted her last August gleamed with a deep, inner fire, a stark contrast to the muted, monochromatic landscape outside. The stone, like a captured drop of summer blood, seemed to hold the warmth of their shared afternoons, a secret promise whispered against the silent hush of winter.
Ninon glanced at the delicate gold band adorning her finger. The memory of the wedding sent a dreamy sigh escaping her lips, even though it was an arrangement, a union for the sake of their daughter.
She found herself drawn back to a small, leather-bound volume, the pages worn soft from repeated handling. Tucked within its familiar embrace was a folded piece of parchment, Athos' elegant script a balm to her soul. She reread his words.
'You magically captivated my soul. Everything inside me is anew. My feelings. My heart. Athos.'
The note, a testament to his transformative love, was carefully returned to its sanctuary within the book. A restless energy now surged through her; she needed to see him, to feel the warmth of his presence. Exiting the room, she encountered Lisette, the maid, emerging from the Salon with a broom and bucket. "Have you seen my husband?" Ninon inquired, her voice tinged with anticipation. "Yes, Madam," the maid replied with a respectful curtsy, "He went to the stables. I think he was going for a ride."
"Thank you," Ninon said, a spark of determination in her eyes. "Can you ask Antoine to saddle my horse?" Lisette nodded, her movements efficient.
A fiery bubble of emotion swelled within Ninon. As she turned to venture into her room, Aimeé, emerged from her bedroom, a sleepy question on her lips. "Maman? Where do you unicorns live?"
Ninon's gaze softened as she turned to her daughter. "Good morning, ma chérie, I think on the other side of the moon" she responded, her voice brimming with affection. "Shall we wash you and dress you, and then have some breakfast? Eggs? And buttered bread?" Aimeé nodded, her small face lighting up at the prospect. Though a maid could easily attend to her, Ninon cherished these intimate moments, finding a deep contentment in dressing her daughter herself.
Not long after they asked for the breakfast to be served in the drawing room. Ninon watched her daughter, Aimeé, with a tenderness that threatened to spill over.
"Your horse is ready, Madame," the maid announced softly as she entered the room.
Ninon turned, a smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Lisette. But I think… I think I’ll stay with Aimeé."
"Oh, Maman! Can we have a story? A real one, about unicorns?" Aimeé's eight-year-old eyes, the same deep blue as Athos', sparkled with an unshakeable belief in magic.
Ninon’s smile widened. "Of course, my darling. Unicorns it shall be." Ninon held out a hand to the girl and the settled onto a velvet-covered chaise.
And so, Ninon began to weave a tale of shimmering manes, of forests veiled in perpetual twilight, and of hooves that left trails of stardust.
Half an hour into the story, the low murmur of voices from the hall announced Athos' return. He had been in the village to meet with his foreman about the accounts. The rhythmic clip-clop of his boots on the stone hall floor, a sound as constant as the changing seasons, filled the manor.
Ninon stopped mid-sentence, leaving the story on a cliffhanger. "I need to go talk to papa," Ninon whispered, gently disentangling herself from her daughter's embrace. "And you, my sweet, can draw a princess and the unicorn while I am gone." She kissed Aimeé’s brow, leaving a lingering warmth.
As she slipped out of the room, she met Athos in the hall, where he was just shedding his riding cloak, helped by Lisette. "Athos?" Ninon began, her voice a little hesitant. "Could I talk to you in the Salon?"
He nodded lightly, his gaze somewhat distant. "Of course, Ninon."
He followed her into the grand Salon. The air in here felt heavier, more charged, than in the sun-drenched drawing-room.
He looked at her in his calm, stoic manner. "Is something in the matter?"
"Yes...and no," Ninon stepped forward, her heart thrumming an unfamiliar rhythm. She reached out, taking his hands in hers, her touch meant to be comforting, a bridge across the unspoken. "Your note," she began, her voice trembling slightly, the words catching in her throat. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "Do you… do you really…?"
Athos' gaze softened, the lines of concern on his face melting away as if touched by the very magic of the unicorn stories he had in his own childhood. He looked at her then, not as the mistress of his household, nor as the mother of his child, but with an intensity that stole her breath.
"Yes," he said, his voice low and resonant, like the deep hum of the earth. "I do." He searched her face, his thumbs gently stroking the back of her hands. "I fell in love with you," he confessed, the words a revelation, a confession he seemed to have held captive for a long time. "I cannot pinpoint the moment, the time of day, or even what it was that first… but I did. I fell in love with you, Ninon."
Ninon's eyes now welled with an emotion that had surprised her. The sunlight, which moments before had seemed merely pleasant, now felt like a beacon. The weight of the unspoken, of the polite distance they had maintained, began to lift, replaced by the overwhelming, dizzying possibility of something new, something deeply, wonderfully real. The tears, when they finally fell, were not of sadness, but of a joy so potent it felt like a blessing.
The vast cavern of the Louvre, usually a sanctuary of quiet reverence for Ninon, felt particularly overwhelming that morning. She'd spent weeks dreaming of this space, this position, the custodianship of so much human history. Now, standing on the threshold of that dream, her stomach fluttered with a nervous excitement.
Claire, her new assistant, a whirlwind of efficiency with a crisp, clipped tone, was already navigating the labyrinth of Ninon's impending day. "Good morning, Dr de Larroque," Claire began, her voice a low hum against the distant echoes of the museum. "Your schedule for today is as follows..."
Ninon, still taking in the scent of old paper and polished wood, nodded, trying to absorb the details.
"First, you have a meeting with Dr Charles Vallon. Egyptologist from the British Museum."
Ninon's brow furrowed. "Right. That should have been tomorrow," she said, a slight edge of confusion in her voice. She'd specifically blocked out tomorrow for this meeting, having earmarked today for initial acclimatization. Claire offered a small, apologetic smile. "He is waiting now - because he has to fly out to Egypt tomorrow."
The urgency in Claire's explanation cut through Ninon's slight disorientation. "Ah. Of course. Well, that changes things. All right. Uhm - show him in." Ninon smoothed down her skirt, a sudden surge of professionalism pushing aside her lingering awe.
Claire stood, her movements economical, and disappeared through the heavy oak door. A moment later, she reappeared, her posture signaling the arrival of her charge.
A man followed her in, tall and broad-shouldered, short dark hair and eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual glint of curiosity. He carried himself with an easy confidence. He offered a polite, "Good morning, Dr de Larroque," his voice resonating with a deep timbre.
Ninon rose from her desk, intending to offer a formal greeting, but as he stepped fully into the light, her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, and for a long moment, she could only stare, a single, disbelieving word escaping her lips. "Porthos?"
The man blinked, a faint smile touching his lips. "Excuse me?" he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Ninon felt a flush creep up her neck. She quickly recovered, forcing a smile that felt unnervingly brittle. "Uhm - you just reminded me of someone," she stammered, waving a dismissive hand. "Nevermind. Nice to meet you, Dr Vallon. Please, sit down."
As Charles Vallon settled into the chair opposite her desk, Ninon's mind reeled. Porthos. The name, the face, the sheer, undeniable presence of the man before her... it was an echo, a phantom limb of memory from a time she dared not dwell on too deeply. The man she had met the day before, the one who had materialized so unexpectedly in the dimly lit halls of the museum, was not a figment of her imagination after all. But this man, this distinguished Egyptologist from the British Museum, was unequivocally not the swashbuckling Musketeer she had encountered in the dusty taverns of 17th-century Paris. This was a modern man, a scholar.
Yet, the resemblance was uncanny. The same powerful build, the same robust laugh that she could almost hear echoing in her mind. It was as if time had folded in on itself, bringing a familiar spirit into a new, unexpected form.
Their conversation began smoothly, focusing on the details of the Egypt project, the potential for collaboration, the shared passion for ancient wonders. Ninon found herself listening intently, her professional facade firmly in place, though a part of her remained hyper-aware of the man before her, the lingering ghost of a past life. She asked about his research, his discoveries, his particular fascination with the Ptolemaic period. He spoke with an infectious enthusiasm, his eyes alight with the thrill of uncovering secrets buried for millennia.
As the discussion delved deeper into the intricacies of ancient lineage and the movement of peoples across continents, a question, seemingly out of the blue to Charles, but born from a deep, unsettling curiosity within Ninon, surfaced.
"Dr Vallon," she began, leaning forward slightly, her gaze fixed on his. "Your family name... Vallon. It's not a common name in England, is it? Do you by any chance have... ancestors from France?"
Charles Vallon's eyes met hers, and for a fleeting second, Ninon thought she saw a flicker of something akin to surprise, or perhaps just polite acknowledgment, in their depths. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that momentarily erased the phantom musings from her mind.
"Indeed," he confirmed, his voice steady. "I do. My family has roots in the Loire Valley, dating back centuries."
■
The polished oak of the Académie d'Armes de France gleamed under Athos' gaze, a testament to centuries of dedication. He ran a gloved hand over the smooth surface of a dueling sabre, its weight familiar, almost an extension of himself. The certificate, bearing the proud crest of the Académie and the inscription “Maîtres d’Armes,” felt weighty in his inside coat pocket, not with paper, but with the culmination of a journey he'd only embarked upon at Ninon's gentle urging. Leisure was a concept that could grow stale, he very much agreed with her.
The test had been a rigorous affair, a dance of steel and wit that tested not just physical prowess, but the very soul of swordsmanship. He'd moved with a fluidity that belied his centuries, each parry precise, each riposte an echo of battles fought and won when France was a very different land. The examiners, heads of the fencing world in Paris of 2027, had been awestruck. They spoke of a grace, a mastery, a fundamental understanding of the art that transcended modern techniques. He'd simply smiled, a private, knowing smile, and accepted their accolades. To reveal the truth, that he had once ridden with the King's Musketeers, that he had sparred with men whose names were now etched in history books, was impossible. The secret was his alone to carry, a phantom burden from a bygone era.
Stepping out into the crisp Parisian air, a modern marvel of electric scooters and sleek automobiles whizzing past, Athos pulled his smartphone from the inner pocket of his meticulously tailored coat. He found Ninon's contact and initiated the call, his voice, still deep and resonant, carrying a note of quiet triumph.
"Ninon," he said, the familiar French lilt present, though with a subtle accent that even modern phonetics couldn't quite erase. "It is done. I am… a Maître."
A delighted gasp, bright and clear, came through the line. "Athos! Oh, mon amour, I knew you would. They are all singing your praises, I hear. Such skill, they say, such an… anachronism of grace!" She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "I am so very happy for you. It is good that you have this, this anchor in the present."
Athos chuckled softly. "An anchor, perhaps. Or a reminder of what was. But it is done, as you wished." He paused, the bustling sounds of the street a stark contrast to the quiet satisfaction blooming within him. "And you, my dear? You sounded… as if you had something else to share."
There was a beat of silence on Ninon's end, a subtle shift in her tone that made a familiar prickle of apprehension run down Athos' spine. It was a sensation he hadn't felt since facing down a duel with a particularly ruthless cardinal's guard.
"Yes, Athos," Ninon said, her voice now hushed, almost conspiratorial. "Something quite… extraordinary." She took a breath. "The other day, when you thought you saw a… a ghost near the Louvre? You didn't, my dear. It wasn't Porthos himself, of course. But it was… a descendant of him. Dr Charles Vallon. An Egyptologist."
Athos stood frozen, the vibrant life of Paris blurring around him. Dr Charles Vallon. An Egyptologist. From England. The words swirled in his mind, a dizzying vortex of impossibility. A descendant. Of Porthos. He was stunned, utterly and completely stunned, his ancient heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His carefully constructed calm, the professional veneer he'd so painstakingly cultivated, began to crack. He opened his mouth to speak, to demand more, to process this impossible revelation, but no sound emerged. The sheer, overwhelming amazement had rendered him speechless.
a/n: this time travel fanfic follows Ninon de Larroque and Athos travelling through time by unusual magic of the full moon. After Ninon had to return to her time in 21st century, she leaves Athos behind, but Aramis sends him with a help of a witch to 2026, to be with his love. How will Athos cope in the 21st century. Will love endure the chasm of time?
■
@sassywren @darknightfrombeyond
Athos' fingers traced a gentle path along Ninon’s arm, a silent exploration of familiar comfort. Her head rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing counterpoint to the swirling thoughts in her mind. They drifted back to a sterile, brightly lit room of yesterday morning.
"You are pregnant," the GP had said, her voice calm, her eyes fixed on the blood test results.
"Pregnant?" Ninon had echoed, the word feeling alien on her tongue. Impossible! She was meticulous about the pill.
The GP had offered a gentle explanation. "You had the flu recently, Madame de Larroque. And you used acetaminophen to manage the fever. Unfortunately, that medication can reduce the effectiveness of the pill."
Ninon had exhaled, a slow, shaky release of breath. Relief, surprisingly, washed over her first. She was happy about the baby. Truly happy. But then, a subtle tremor of apprehension followed. How would Athos react?
He had been… distant, lately. For the past month or so, a quietness had settled over him, a shadow that even the warmth of their shared apartment couldn't dispel. The jarring reality of his life in 2026, a temporal leap that had once seemed an adventure, was now a heavy weight. He missed his fellow Musketeers with a ferocity that pierced Ninon’s heart. Even the unexpected financial security, a consequence of Aramis’ ingenious, albeit complex, scheme with the Sienna bank, which had rendered him wealthier than he’d ever been in the 17th century, seemed to offer him no solace. If anything, the newfound ease only amplified his internal struggle.
He hated this feeling, this melancholy that clung to him. He had confessed to her sometimes, in quiet late-night whispers, his voice laced with frustration. He loved Ninon, she knew that with a certainty that transcended time and circumstance. She was his present, his future, the only constant in this bewildering new world. But the past, the ghosts of his brothers-in-arms, still held him in a powerful, sorrowful grip.
And Ninon couldn't help but wonder how this unexpected pregnancy, this tangible tie to a future he hadn't planned for, would land in the heart of a man grappling with the echoes of a glorious, irretrievable past.
She inhaled inwardly and propped herself up. Her delicate fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The skin was cool beneath her touch. He turned his head, his gaze, usually so sharp and piercing, was softened by a weariness she knew all too well. Ninon leaned in and kissed him, a kiss filled with tenderness, a love that was all consuming. When she pulled back, her eyes, usually sparkling with a playful light, now held a depth of emotion he hadn’t seen before, a mixture of apprehension and incandescent joy.
"I have something to tell you," she whispered, her voice a little rough, a little trembling.
Athos felt a familiar knot of apprehension tighten in his chest. Her eyes, usually so full of playful mischief and sharp wit, now held a depth of feeling that both intrigued and concerned him. "What is it?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, a touch of worry tinging his tone.
There was no other way to tell him but blurt it straight out. "We are going to have a baby."
The words, heavy and blunt, struck Athos like musket balls, each one leaving him reeling in their wake.
His eyes widened. He looked back at her, then sat up in the bed abruptly, the sheets rustling around him. There was something akin to disbelief, a profound confusion etched onto his handsome features. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally, a soft, incredulous sound escaped him. "A child?" he muttered, the word foreign, almost alien.
"Yes," Ninon breathed, her own eyes starting to water, the dam of her emotions threatening to break. The joy, the fear, the sheer overwhelming wonder of it all was etched on her face.
He looked at her again, truly looked. He saw the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor of her lips, the profound emotion radiating from her. And then, something shifted. The heavy curtain of his grief, the relentless shadows of his past, began to recede, pushed back by a force he hadn't anticipated. A raw, unexpected smile spread across his face, wide and genuine. His own emotions began to swirl, a cascade of feelings he hadn't known he possessed.
Without a word, he reached out, his hands gently framing her face. He drew her closer, and then, with a tenderness that came from the very core of his being, he kissed her. It wasn't a kiss of passion, nor of comfort, but something far more profound. It was a kiss of awakening, a silent promise, a bridge between the sorrow of the past and the breathtaking, hopeful unknown of their future. The moon seemed to shimmer more brightly sprawling its magic over them.
While the city of Paris slept, a new life, a potent balm, was beginning to bloom, ready to mend the hollow spaces within Athos' soul.
