( Cold )

I decided on a last-minute title change from "Night Watch" to "The Four of Us Together", which emerged from the text and seemed to fit the eventual 'theme' better (it was watervole who clarified to me years ago the difference between the *plot* of a story and what it was *about*, with titles very often arising out of the latter). It may also appeal to the target market better, though I'm not holding my breath for that.

And as usual I suppose I shall need a summary of some sort before I can actually upload it...

The Four of Us Together

In a winter wood, one young Gascon and three of the King’s Musketeers sleep and stand watch by turns. D’Artagnan is cold but content. (Very early Series 1)

There was a tree root digging into d’Artagnan’s back, and his neck was stiff where he’d wrapped both arms around himself for warmth. High overhead, through the interlaced branches, the moon was moving painfully slowly towards the mark he had set for himself, when his watch would be over. His head began to nod forward, and he caught himself with a jerk.

Here, then is the first fruit of my crackfic crossover: eventual length 9800 words, a little longer than estimated. (And weirdly enough I actually had an idea for something that turned out to use the BBC versions of the characters, even though I was under the impression at the time that it was the siege of La Rochelle -- if I'm going to write that one I probably need to do it quickly before it fades, because that really *will* be a one-shot, and ironically probably a good deal more saleable to the fandom at large...)

Meanwhile this one is going to need a summary of some sort, which I had forgotten all about :-(

Little Gentlemen

A starving street musician is sent by a kindly benefactor to find refuge in a stately home now inhabited by a crowd of boys: a crackfic crossover in which Louisa May Alcott's "Little Men" meets the world of Dumas' "Twenty Years After", and Athos finds his true vocation in the upbringing of the young.

Chapter 1 — A New Arrival

In the last of the evening light an ox-cart came slowly along the road beyond La Vallière, the heavy beasts and their driver alike weary and powdered with dust. But the day’s work was almost over, and the oxen lifted their heads, nostrils flaring as if at the scent of water, as they approached the familiar homeward bend up ahead.

“Here, lad.” The driver lifted his long goad, not unkindly, to nudge the shoulder of the ragged boy perched astride the rear beam of the cart. A jerk of his chin indicated the pair of entrance posts they were passing, and beyond them a long white house in the distance, half-glimpsed in the growing dusk. ( Read more... )