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"Do you remember the old days, grampa?"

"Remember them? They are a second home to me, my boy. The splendor of Paris in the spring. The sounds of carts on cobblestones, the taverns, the women; it was enough to get your mind off of the stench."

"Tell me about them?"

"Why? So you can pretend to see it? Hear it? No, boy. No stories yet. Now go; you've chores no doubt?"

Amidst a small swell of protests, the young mouse was ushered from the room. A warmth filtered through the air despite the dim moonlight slipping through a frost-tinted window pane nearby. A fire crackled and hissed near the old desk, and it's to that desk that the old mouse returned. With a sigh, he leaned back in the simple wooden chair, its varnish nicked haphazardly from years of dutiful service.

"Perhaps I remember them too well, indeed..." he mused. The elderly rodent tugged on the collar of his crude woolen pyjamas as he sunk both into the chair, and into his own thoughts. The shadows borne from the fireplace lurched and heaved before his eyes, growing more vivid, more alive, more...

"Henri! Do you know what is so great about being a Musketeer?"

The familiar voice floated through Henri's head as his eyes slipped shut and he slept.

"That's right, Henri! It's always having a sheath for your weapon!"

_ _ The night at the tavern. It was before the fight. He remembered it well.

"Your... sword?"

He'd been so timid then, so new.

"No Henri, my dick!"

The laughter of the room had been boisterous, and he'd blushed, but he had simply finished his drink and joined in with that laughter. They were brothers now, Musketeers. Music filled the room with a glow that was only amplified by the large roasting pit nestled in the middle of the common room. Duck and chicken roasted merrily amongst the coals, and the drink flowed freely. It was graduation night, and they had come to celebrate.

Nearly 50 would-be Musketeers had been admitted into the ranks today, and all 50 had come to drink away the night with song and pussy. The songs had begun to grow old, however, and all the pussy had left some time ago. The mood had grown increasingly frantic, and as midnight approached, it was clear that mischief was afoot.

Henri sat shoulder-to-shoulder along one of the large wooden benches that served as seating in the tavern, and the only thing he could smell more clearly than the sweat of his fellow revellers, was the horseshit in the stable outside. His black fur was no cleaner than theirs, however, and the drunken lilt of his voice spoke of several drinks too many. He had stumbled headlong into a political debate that, even in his state, he knew he wanted no part of.

"So they bring in these outsiders, and fill up the palace with 'em. I don't like it!" Another mouse declared boldly, his fist coming down against the table as though to punctuate his point. The boy--and boys many were, still only in their 19th or 20th year--seemed to grow angrier as he considered his own statement, "We oughta do something!"

It was here that Henri had interrupted, "Like what? The King himself has given them leave to act in place of guards."

Again the black mouse raised his voice, "Aye, Henri! And handpicked the Cardinal calls them! Handpicked by himself, no doubt."

"Careful, boy!" A new voice joined, deeper than a mineshaft. "The Cardinal is the face of the Church, and it does not like having its cheek swatted! Especially not by young upstarts!" The owner of the voice was larger than the other mice gathered to celebrate their achievement; he was older, too, the face beneath his abyssal black fur pockmarked by the caress of unknown blades. His golden yellow eyes seemed to scream from amidst the darkness of his face.

He wore the uniform of the Musketeers as they did, though his bore several marks that served as proof of commendations earned. The tabard's flowering cross was the same shimmering silver as theirs, and the crop-cut blue cloth hung against his chest and upper back like theirs, leaving the trim expanses of their well-exercised stomachs exposed. A heavy brown leather buckled belt hung askew on his hips, the male's delicate looking Epee dangling through a loop in the leather. A pair of blue briefs made from the same velveteen fabric as the tabard allowed his cock to rest comfortably amidst its soft folds. Supple boots covered their feet, wide-mouthed and drooping slightly before giving way to knee-high socks that rose from within the boots like pillars of light.

"You have seen the same things as us, Phillipe! Perhaps more." The younger, rabble-rousing saw no issue with pushing the subject on his more grizzled senior soldier. "You call yourself a Musketeer, but do nothing!?" Conversation in the room drifted into silence. Only a few boys singing drunkenly in the corner seemed to miss that something was brewing, and continued unabashed..

Phillipe's open hand caught the young mouse square across the jaw, "Shut your fool mouth, boy! I have seen, and I've done my part when I can! What else would you have me do?" Anger rose in the older mouse's cheeks, and Henri watched in stunned silence as the senior Musketeer leaned in, "Would you have us attack openly?"

"Aye!" The simple statement drew several roars of approval. "We know of their plans through our diligence; to not act is to be as treasonous as that snake of a Cardinal!" The mood in the room changed at that very moment. The silence gave way to muttered boasts and a youthful exuberance that accompanied the opportunity to prove one's worth. The drink continued to flow, but it had already done its work well.

Nearly an hour of this passed, each angry outburst stoking the animosity of those gathered until it bubbled as hotly as the cauldron of stew hanging over the coals. The uglier things got, however, the more exuberant the atmosphere became. Camaraderie flared in spectacular bursts, and it wasn't long until even Henri was swept along with it. The cheap--but plentiful--alcohol humming in his veins powered him now, his thoughts washed away in a virulent tide of clamorous one-upmanship.

Finally, the storm they all felt brewing in their bones, broke.

"I say, enough! We are Musketeers now! Why do we sit here, pissing and moaning, when we have our skill! Our honour! And our blades!?" It was the black mouse who had first raised the topic. It was only fitting that he would be the one to lead them over the cliff. The older mouse, Philippe--the only veteran in the tavern--watched quietly, his drink raised to his lips but his eyes firmly locked on his younger counterpart.

A roar of general approval shook the dusty wooden supports of the tavern.

"To arms, Musketeers! To arms!"

There was no choice now, no moment of quiet reflection to reach a rational conclusion, there was only glory with your brothers in arms, or cowardice and shame forever after. Henri was amongst them, his blood boiling as surely as their own, though still trepidation gnawed at his thoughts like a small dog.

The roused mob of youth burst from the tavern, the sounds of their merry banter filling the night air. There was a chill about them, but the boys were wrapped in a fine blanket of high spirits and copious amounts of ale. Untouched by the frost, their voices bounced off the silent rows of run-down housing. The palace wasn't far, and the horde of loud-mouthed mice were less than stealthy.

By the time the crowd of boys had reached the gates, their arrival was expected. Well-wrought iron-bars twisted and curved artistically in eloquent designs across the length of the seven foot tall steel gates, and the moonlight pooling across the courtyard behind them gave a sense of the surreal to the young mice as they peered between the tall black bars.

A small cluster of foxes stood several feet away on the opposite side of the entryway. They stood tall, sneering at the rabble staring at them.

"No entry for troublemakers", drawled a sprightly rede fox who stood in front of the others. His voice carried a hint of an English accent to it, marking him not only a foreigner, but likely a mercenary. A single black mark on his cheek, just below his eye, gave the distinct impression of a tear-drop. His uniform was similar to the Musketeers', though the fabric was of a rich velvety red and blended well with his black boots and belt. His thin sword still hung by his side, but a black-gloved paw tenderly caressed the hilt of the weapon as though debating whether to pull it free. "Under the King's orders, no..." he paused, eyeing several of the mice caustically "riff-raff, allowed..."

The other foxes grinned and chuckled amongst themselves. They were wiry, their muscles tense and their bodies well trained from a life of despicable living in the back-alleys of Paris. Now they stood here, personal guards for the Cardinal and sole keepers of order within the palace. Their grizzled fur had been groomed into respectability, but the light perfume that was so prevalent amongst the courtiers could not hide the stink of the streets on the vulpines.

"So how about you either suck off, or fuck off." The fox's hips pushed forward in a derisive offer to taste the heavy cock trapped in his red briefs. The chuckles of the others became loud guffaws. Phillipe, however, was not laughing.

"Petulant swine!" The large mouse pushed his way to the front of the crowd, a flintlock pistol in his hand. The weapon lowered, the male's eyes gleaming with intended murder. When the hammer fell, smoke puffed from the mechanism in a hissing burst of light and sound. The fox could only gasp as the hot metal slug slid into his belly and came to rest somewhere between his stomach, and kidney.

"_Unnnngghh..."_the male clutched at his wound, looking down in surprise. The pain was yet to come, but the heat and weight of it brought an almost sensual groan of disbelief from the lanky fox. The others dispersed, cries and curses blending together as the four surviving vulpines turned and ran for the safety of the palace itself.

"ALARM, ALARM, ALA---NNnngggaaahh!" Another fox fell as a pistol shot struck him from behind, sending him flying facedown to the ground with a short cry of surprise.

Phillipe had thrown his pistol away after the shot had been fired, far too drunk and angry to go through the tedious steps to reload it, but he had not been the only mouse to bring one. Shots fired through the gate like a series of firecrackers, gunsmoke wafting in the air as a barrage of iron pellets chased down the fleeing foxes.

The first fox to have been shot was on his knees as his comrades fled, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath while comprehending the blood gushing down his body. "Merde.." he muttered, falling to the harsh cobblestones to writhe out his final moments of life. In that time he watched as the Musketeers--their bad idea now past the point of no return--clambered up the gate and began to pour over the top. They rushed past him, a couple jumping over his pain-wracked body as they hurried after the three remaining vulpines.

As the final mice moved past him, one stopped to look at what they'd done. The fox was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and his body writhed with a gentle intensity that gave the impression of a lover trapped in the pleasure of their beloved's touch. The mouse's sword slid from its loop in his belt, and quickly found itself sliding into the downed fox's upper belly. The point pierced his flesh with ease, the thinness of it like a needle puncturing his tender gut.

Another--final--moan slid from the fox's parted lips. His body arched up into the blade that had entered him. Head rolling back as his ass left the ground, the slain guard's cock erupted in a blast of cum that sent it streaking across his belly. The vanquished fox's legs spread and his body trembled. It was hard for the mouse to tear his eyes away from the proud shaft blowing its load so impotently. Besting both his own growing lust at his first kill as a Musketeer, and the alcohol burning in his veins, the young mouse turned and ran to catch up with his friends.

Two more of the foxes were cut down by sporadic fire as they ran, one struck in the shoulder and spinning as he fell, and the other hit in the small of the back. He fell to his knees, clutching the exit-wound that had torn from his stomach and sent a streak of blood splashing across the cobblestones in front of him. He didn't have to wait long as the Musketeers caught up to the two downed males.

The first took a sword to the back, the razor-pointed epee sliding into, and through him, to leave its bloodied tip jutting from his chest.

"Ah! Ngggaaah...!" It was less a scream, and more a strangled moan that ripped from the fox as he clutched helplessly at the weapon sticking out from him. His blue eyes were wide, and his ass clenched tightly in the soft grip of his velvet briefs as he found himself ended so brutally. His lips parted and his body thrust forward, as though trying to remove itself from the blade. The weapon slid free only a few seconds later, and the male's body jerked as he fell forward to land gracelessly facedown. It twitched twice even as the Musketeer that had killed him cleaned his blade on the dying fox's tabard.

The second was little more of an afterthought to one of the boys running past him. Flat on his back and cradling his injured shoulder, the fox lifted his good hand clumsily as though to ward off the young male towering above him.

"Mercy, please!"

The mouse's sword slid into his guts, and the fox could only hiss as he grit his teeth to keep from screaming. It was a casual kill, the blade piercing deep before being pulled out smoothly and its owner continued to run. The fox fell back, blood pooling beneath him as his body convulsed from the mortal damage it had just taken; though the wound was small, it was no less fatal than one larger. The fox's head rolled back, his hips lifting slightly as a rumbling moan of despair accentuated the thick stream of cum firing through his velveteen briefs. His cock and balls were put proudly on display for their farewell performance, coating their dying owner in humiliating musk.

He died shortly after--long after the mice had charged past him uncaringly--his head turned to the side, eyes staring into the darkness of the courtyard and his tongue hanging from between his blood-tinged lips.

"Forward, boys!" Phillipe had taken charge now. A raucous cry carried with it the freshly minted group of Musketeers' acceptance of his assumption of authority. "We fight to the King's room! Let us be done with this politicking and show him the truth!"

The final fox had made it into the palace, and the boys followed in pursuit. They had already slain 3, and had lost none of their own; the perceived invulnerability of youth had become reality in their drink-addled minds. The looks on their faces, and the spring in their steps were of those playing an exciting game, rather than soldiers seeking to fight their way through a garrison of well-trained sword fighters.

That changed quickly, however, as they breached the doors. The foxes were waiting.

The shadowed night gave way to a well lit corridor. Marble statues stared stoically from their niches in the gilded walls. Above hung chandeliers, their wispy light dancing across the tiled floors. Nearby the corridor ended in a long regal looking staircase, the steps the width of the hallway, and made from the same marble tiling as the floor.

The stairway was awash with lean bodies. The foxes stood in several ranks, their swords drawn and pistols aimed towards the mice.

"Back, back!" The first mice through the door let out the cry to escape, but those still coming in from the dark were too lost in their own adrenaline-laced thoughts to react in time. The stairway erupted in a fog of gunsmoke as nearly two dozen pistols fired simultaneously.

Young lungs emptied themselves in short cries and gasping moans as their well-trained bodies were pierced by the metal slugs. The first boys through the door stood no chance, and even as missed shots ricocheted and chipped at the marble flooring, their bodies trembled and collapsed to the ground.

One of the boys--a mouse with white fur, marred only by splotches of golden colouring--clutched at his belly as blood gushed through his laced fingers. The illusion of invulnerability was gone; in the depths of his brown eyes, the realization of his own impending death yawned darkly. He barely had time to come to terms with it before he fell face down onto the floor, blood spreading from beneath his body even as he convulsed and twitched.

The others jumped over him, fear agitating their already agitated minds, and pushing them harder towards their goal. Half a dozen delicately attired bodies writhed on the floor just inside the doorway, some sliding their booted feet across the tiling as they moaned and clutched at their penetrated bodies.

One of them lifted his blood-soaked paw upwards as his brothers ran by to engage the enemy, his fingers curling desperately as he lay on his back, knees raised and cock raging in his briefs. Humiliation bloomed in his thoughts, displacing the confidence he had felt only a moment earlier. He was dying! Like this? After all he'd done to make it into the Musketeers? A hole in his chest marked the spot where a metal slug had made its way into his lung, and already blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he fought for his next breath, and the one after that, and another after that. Even as his vision faded, he felt the tacky warmth of cum filling his briefs, his cock oozing placidly before finally erupting in a back-arching wave of pleasure that ushered the young soldier into death.

Henri leapt over the body of a convulsing youth, the fallen mouse's raised arm falling as a final rattling breath escaped him. Henri's epee had been pulled free as soon as he'd heard the first volley of pistol shots, and watched as the first mice to have entered the hall crumpled to the floor.

"Pour l'honneur!"

The cry from an unseen fighter bolstered Henri's resolve, and he--with the others--charged the front ranks of grinning foxes.

The clash was brutal in its own way, though there was a sense of gracefulness to it. The epee was not a weapon of strength, but one of finesse. Though bodies collided in an effort to simply upend their opponent, the fight quickly became one of footwork and agility. The fighters paired off, and soon all began a primal dance for survival.

Even as Henri parried and stepped away from his opponent's attacks, he became aware of the fight around him. A mouse nearby had already been disarmed by a simple swirl of his opponent's blade, his epee clattering to the floor seconds before the fox's weapon slid into the young rodent's unprotected belly. Even the killing blow came with its own style and fluidity. The fox's body lunged forward, his front leg bent down to better propel him as his blade sheathed itself in hot flesh.

"Nn-Ngggah!" The mouse's despair escaped him in a struggling cry. He pressed forward into it, his head rolling back and eyes clenching shut even as a look of visceral triumph spread over the vulpine's pointed muzzle. When he pulled his weapon free, the mouse fell, legs spread and hips pumping up into the air even as thick cum sprayed across his bloody bellyfur.

Another mouse went down as he found his weapon knocked upwards by a well-practiced flick of the fox's thin blade. Defenseless, the boy could only watch in horror as the victorious vulpine finished him by stabbing his blade right into the mouse's bellybutton. More blood flowed, and soon, more mouse-cream spilled from another dying cock.

Henri had learned well during his training, however, and he had no intention of ending his life here on the palace stairs. The fox he fought was skilled, but his footwork was sloppy. The stairs proved an obstactle, and even the fox's higher position on them served him little advantage. Stepping up higher, while at the same time circling around his opponent, Henri sent several short combinations of thrusts, slashes, and feints towards the struggling fox. All it took was a single mis-step on the fox's part, and the mouse would have his kill.

It came quickly. The fox's boot missed the step as he turned to keep the mouse from flanking him. His ankle twisted, and his free arm pinwheeled as he sought to maintain his balance. Henri struck with the speed of an adder, his body lurching forward as he pierced the fox's svelte body several inches above his bellybutton. The fox grabbed for the weapon that had killed him, but his balance was gone now, and he fell. Gravity pulled him off of Henri's weapon, leaving a streak of blood alone the finely-honed blade. Crashing down onto the steps, the slain fox rolled, crying out as he tumbled and cajoled his way to the base of the stairs.

Broken bones and battered flesh aside, the fox met his death well, gritting his teeth as his lower body remained on the stairs, and his upper-body on the floor of the hall. Henri watched as that impotent rush of cum marked his victim's body, red briefs a mess of sweat and sweet cream even as their owner died. He was but one of many now laying motionless amidst the fight, and Henri quickly tore his attention away.

As the personal battles concluded, those who remained standing sought new opponents, and it wasn't long before Henri was beset once again. He backed up as the fox--taller than the last one, and covered in plush grey fur--hammered at his defenses. The larger male wielded his weapon as though it were a whip, snapping it down at Henri several times. Unused to such an attack, Henri stumbled at first, and felt a line of fire crackle along his cheek as the thinly edged blade cut into his flesh.

"First blood, mon petit ami" scowled the fox.

Though gloveless, the fox's paws were a sandy colour that gave the illusion of leather, and as Henri snapped the breadth of his blade across one of the cocky fox's hands, the vulpine no doubt wished that's what they were. He hissed in pain instead, nearly dropping his sword as he fell back a step to recover. It was a costly mistake however, as the mouse pressed his advantage.

Nearby, a grey and black spotted mouse clutched at a blade that had been plunged into his lower chest. Just below the ridge of his ribcage, the weapon speared right through the boy's tender guts before jutting from his back to the right of his spine.

"Tino, no!" The shout from some faceless acquaintance of the soon-to-be deceased mouse was lost amongst the furor of clashing swords, sordid deathcries, and victorious gloating. The mouse didn't hear it, his mouth gaping open and his eyes fixated on a chandelier even as the blade that had killed him was pulled free. One arm hooked around the bannister of the stairway as he fell, groaning as he went. Tino died still clutching it, as though trying to pull himself back to his feet. One leg buckled under him, and cum rolled down his thigh as it seeped from beneath the distended fabric of his briefs.

Henri saw it happen.

His opponent did not.

Forcing the vulpine back, Henri allowed himself a savage grin as his opponent's foot caught on Tino's outstretched leather-clad foot. The look of surprise on the grey fox's face was almost as good as the grimace as Henri's weapon plunged deeply into his left hip. The blow was not fatal, but it was enough to force the fox's body into a rigid stance that screamed of the agony racing through him.

_"Grrrgh!"_The half-snarl, half moan, was the last sound the fox made before Henri's weapon slid free and buried itself into the bleeding fox's heart. The larger male's body spasmed as he was killed, chest pushing forward and tail smacking against Tino's cooling corpse. Blood bubbled around Henri's blade as dark heart-blood began to leak out and soak through the fox's already red tabard.

The fox was dead before he hit the floor, his eyes wide and the shock still fresh in them. He sprawled across Tino's body, hanging precariously on the stairs as though ready to slide down them at the slightest touch. His tongue hung from between his lips as his sightless eyes stared back down the stairs.

The frantic fighting had begun to ebb as bodies began to pile up around the stairwell. The foxes were taking the worst of it, but there were too many blue tabards amongst the dead for Henri to feel anything but despair; why had they done this? The alcohol's grip had loosened amidst the adrenaline-laced insanity which had engulfed the last fifteen minutes. Henri himself had killed two, and why?

It was as he stood over the motionless body of the grey fox that the mouse began to ask himself these questions, but the answer was not some profound revelation, nor entirely satisfying. The only answer that came was a heavy blow to the back of his head. It felt like someone had slugged him with a heavy stick, but as the young mouse's eyes rolled back in his head, and his body fell forward, he found himself decidedly unconcerned with what had actually done it.

Henri landed atop his second victim--and poor Tino as well--just in time to hear Phillipe shout an undirected apology, as though he hadn't realized who he'd just struck, but knowing full well he'd struck someone. Henri's mouth worked soundlessly, as though trying to accept it, but darkness took him before the words could form.

The fight was over by the time Henri awoke. He still lay atop the fox, but both the dead vulpine and Tino had grown stiff and cold. There was no greeting as Henri slowly pushed himself to his knees. His head ached, and as he reached to touch the hard lump on the back of his head, he could feel dried blood caking his hair. All around him lay the fallen, their bodies tangled and bloodied, waiting to be disposed of. The moon still shone outside, but the sounds of fighting had disappeared as surely as any survivors of the skirmish.

Had they won? Groggily Henri looked over the field of dead swordsmen. Phillipe was missing, as was the mouse who'd first roused them to this ill-fated course. Perhaps it was the pain in his head, but for the first time that evening Henri felt his thoughts grow lucid. Untainted by adrenaline or alcohol, the realization that treason was not to be excused because of a theory of maleficence amongst the Cardinal's guards.

What choice did he have now?

Henri fled. Slow at first, the mouse's lumbering gait grew quicker as he stepped over the bodies of his comrades and foes alike; he fled into the night, ignoring the corpses along the way as he scrambled over the gate once more and disappeared into the streets of Paris. He outran his poor choices, the consequences, and death, but his shame kept pace with him every step of the way.

Only later had he learned that Phillipe had indeed reached the King's chamber. Bloodied, the battle-crazed Musketeer had all but accousted his own Monarch, who had awakened to find a blood-splattered madman railing about conspiracies.

Phillipe was to be executed a week later. The others who had not fled were killed on the spot, their night of glory becoming their final night of life. Phillipe escaped prior to his execution, however, and no sign of him was ever found.

Henri was never questioned, though every day he spent amongst his new brothers was a reminder of how he had shamed them. He had lived. He had grown. He won victories. He took the lives of the guilty. He had achieved glory. All of it tainted with regret.

And now, he awoke with a start.

The fire burned low in the hearth, the faint dreams of his youth fleeing into the darkness that encroached on the small room. Hands trembling, the elderly rodent sighed, adjusting his pyjamas once more before rising to his feet; the small cot that lay against one wall was calling to him, inviting him into its embrace for another night of troubled sleep.

"Too well, indeed..." the mouse murmured, as though his train of thought had not been interrupted at all by the impromptu sleep.

It derailed only when the knock on his door came, a low thudding knock that crashed with the finality of destiny come full circle.

Henri stopped, looking to it. Considering it. Finally, it had come, as he seemed to know it would... finally...

The door's latch snapped as a heavy weight pushed into it, cold air rushing in from a hallway lit only by moonlight. But the shiver which ran down Henri's spine was not caused by the cold, but rather the shadow that stood in the doorway.

"Henri", A familiar voice began. "You look well. Come, let us talk of the old days... of honour, and cowardice"

Henri smiled despite himself, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue that stretched beyond the physical.