Thank you to iLoVeRynMar, streetlightlove and HGRomance for prereading and advising this story, and thanks to RoNordmann for the beautiful banner/cover!

Rest of notes to follow.

Prologue

France, 1625

Fate is a weighty word. It requires blind trust in a higher power, an acceptance that one's destiny is fixed from the moment he or she enters the mortal world and the choices made, no matter how inconsequential or encompassing, have no bearing on the course that one's life takes. It is difficult enough for adults with logic and reason to understand, but it seems unfathomable to expect a child to fully appreciate it.

Peeta Mellark was the exception. From the moment the tall man wearing the royal blue cloak entered his father's bakery, it was as if something awakened in his little five-year-old body.

The sun filtered in through the open windows, a pleasant spring day dawning. He was sitting at the counter of the bakery, sketching with a nub of charcoal while his father grabbed the first loaves of bread from the ovens. The crumbs of a croissant littered the page and clung to the corner of his mouth. He still tasted the remnants the flaky treat on his lips as he bit his lip in concentration, trying to get the bark of the oak tree that he was drawing just right. The forest just beyond the village was one of Peeta's favorite things to draw. He wished his parents would let him go there more alone. His mother was always droning on about wild animals and always insisted that one of his brothers go along with him. Peeta thought her reasoning was foolish. Most of the forest animals he had seen were far too skittish to go anywhere near humans.

The heavy oak door to the bakery creaked open hesitantly, just barely nudging the tiny chimes that hung beside the frame. His father had strung the little bells several weeks earlier when he realized he could not depend on Peeta's older brothers to announce customers when he was in the rear of the boulangerie, tending to the ovens. Peeta's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the man stepping over the threshold of the bakery.

He wasn't terribly tall, maybe a bit taller than his own father, but the plumed hat that adorned his head made him seem gigantic. The blue tunic billowed in the breeze before the door shut behind him. Peeta's eyes traced the unusual floral pattern at the center of the garment. It looked nothing like the flowers that Papa created from hardened boiled sugar to decorate the cakes they sometimes sold for fancy occasions.

The glint of silver at the man's right hip caught the sunlight, and Peeta realized it was some kind of a fancy sword—a rapier. A Musketeer! His eyes widened with excitement. A real Musketeer was in his father'sboulangerie. Peeta had only seen Musketeers at a distance when the king's processional came through the village on occasion. He quickly glanced to the man's other hip, eager to spy another weapon, and it was then that he saw her.

A small girl was clutching the man's hand, her sweet face partially hidden in the folds of her father's cloak. She was wearing a simple red dress, and her dark hair was fastened into two braids on either side of her head.

Peeta had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He stared at the girl, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Bonjour, monsieur. How can I help you this morning?" Peeta's father's voice broke into his reverie, and he dropped his charcoal to the floor. M. Mellark wiped his hands on his apron, leaving white streaks across the cornflower blue fabric as he came over to ruffle his son's blonde curls. The man removed his hat and smiled broadly at them.

"Just out for a morning stroll with my favorite girl," he started, glancing down at his daughter as she tugged on his tunic.

"Papa, I'm your only girl," she frowned. But her sparkling silver eyes told Peeta the frown wasn't a real one, and he figured out that this little girl and her papa must be quite playful together. Peeta had never seen eyes that color before. He didn't think he could create that shade of gray if he spent hours with his pastels. Even from across the bakery, they were mesmerizing.

"For at least a few more days," he laughed, twirling one of her braids around his finger. "But there is a very good chance that your maman will have a little boy, and then you'll still be my favorite girl."

"Your wife is with child?" M. Mellark grinned. "Many congratulations, monsieur. And may God keep her safe through the delivery."

"Merci." Still holding the little girl's hand, the Musketeer crossed to the counter and set his hat down. Peeta swallowed hard; the girl was now standing just several feet away from him. Her lovely eyes were even shinier up close. They reminded Peeta of the stuff that leaked out of the thermometer his father used when crafting bonbons that his brother Rheume had broken last month. How his mother had shrieked and carried on, yelling something about poison and stupidity and earning Rheume a few good swats with the leaven spoon.

"Do you see anything you want, chérie?" The little girl stood on her tiptoes and peered at the rows of baked goods displayed on the counter. Peeta watched her grey eyes widen as they settled on the plate of pain au pommes.

"Is that the bread with the apples, papa?"

"Ah, milady has a sweet tooth?" M. Mellark winked at the little girl. She raised her chin.

"My maman loves the apple bread, monsieur. Papa, we should get one for her."

Her father chuckled softly. "That's my Katniss, always thinking of her maman," he laughed. "We shall take one of those, s'il vous plait."

Katniss, Peeta thought. Her name is Katniss. He thought of the delicate lavender flower that grew along the banks of the lake just beyond the forest. He knew what he was going to draw tomorrow.

"Peeta, wrap one of the pain aux pommes for the mademoiselle." Peeta nodded at his father's instructions and hopped off his stool, retreating to the other side of the counter. He selected the largest fruit-filled croissant, grasped it between the pastry tongs and grabbed a sheet of the heavy butcher paper in which the Mellarks wrapped all their breads. He folded the edges neatly as his father taught him and secured the bundle gently, careful not to crush the treat.

"Why don't you choose something, mademoiselle?" M. Mellark offered kindly. "It's my treat, a thank you for all that your brave papa does to keep our country safe."

Those enchanting eyes widened and Katniss looked up to her father, seeking permission. The musketeer laughed and tugged on one of the girl's braids. "Allons, chérie, go on." She smiled and her gaze flitted from basket to basket and scanned the shelves until it lingered on the oversized flaky buns just beside where Peeta sat.

"What are those?"

He dropped his charcoal when he realized she was speaking to him, her sweet little face watching him expectantly. "Oh, these are my papa's famous pain aux fromages. They are stuffed with cheeses and herbs." Peeta lowered his voice. "He tells no one the secret of what herbs he uses."

"I like secrets," Katniss smiled. "I will have one of those, s'il vous plait."

Peeta carefully scrutinized the lot of buns, chose the largest one and handed it to her with a shy smile. Her little fingers brushed his as she took the pastry from him, and his hand tingled where they briefly touched. She thanked him and shuffled back to her father's side while he counted out some coins in his palm. The musketeer paid his father and thanked them again, and clutching his daughter's hand, Peeta watched them exit the boulangerie until he could no longer see their retreating shadows through the small window.

"Peeta, mon fils, did you see that man?"

He wrinkled his small nose up at his father. Of course he had seen him. Was his father daft? They had spoken to the Musketeer and his beautiful daughter. It wasn't as if they were apparitions like in the stories Rheume told him in the dark of their room at night to try to frighten him.

"Yes, Papa. He was a Musketeer."

His father nodded. "Musketeers are the bravest, most selfless men in all of France. They are sworn to protect the king. They lay down their lives if necessary."

"I want to be a musketeer one day, Papa."

M. Mellark chuckled softly and tousled Peeta's unruly blond curls. "Perhaps someday, my child. But not everyone is destined to be a Musketeer. The world needs all kinds of men. Some will fight to protect their country, and some will knead dough and bake bread, which is what I must do right now." He tightened his apron strings and walked to the rear of the bakery where several loaves were rising on the sills.

Peeta gazed at the plate of pain aux fromages and closed his eyes, picturing the pretty little girl again, and then his mind saw the glinting metal of the rapier.

He would not be punching dough and making pastries when he grew up.

He would be wearing the blue cloak and plumed hat and protecting the king.

He would be a Musketeer.

It was several years later on a sweltering hot summer day when his father asked him to choose several loaves of bread, some pastries, and a few cookies and carefully wrap them to be placed in a large basket.

Peeta obediently followed orders, and just as he was placing the last of the croissants in the parcel, his sight landed on the cheese buns. He selected four large buns, wrapped them and added them to the basket.

"Would you like to join me to deliver this?" his father asked gently. He shrugged, but then nodded more emphatically. It would no doubt be stifling to walk into the village or the outskirts of town—he had no idea where they were going. But the bakery was hotter than Hell itself, and a break would be welcome.

His father called his eldest brother to come tend to the shop until they returned. Hadrian was just ending his formal apprenticeship and Peeta knew he could be trusted. But Rheume—he was another story.

Peeta walked at his father's side, their quiet footsteps disturbing the dirt and kicking up dust in the stagnant air. They passed the other shops of the village and eventually came to a modest little enclave of cottages, each one tidy and neatly kept, but far smaller than Peeta's own humble home. His father approached the third house on the left, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles gently on the warped wooden door. Peeta's gaze wandered to a cluster of dandelions growing beneath the small front window, but when the door opened, his heart lifted and a smile stole across his face.

It was the little girl with the dark pigtails, though taller, and she was just as lovely as he remembered her. But those sparkling grey eyes were no longer like polished stone; they were more like tarnished silver and furthermore, they were swollen and red, and her mouth turned down in the saddest frown Peeta had ever seen.

"Bonjour, ma petite." Peeta's father bowed and gave Katniss a sympathetic smile. "May we come in?" She nodded dumbly and stepped aside, her gloomy eyes avoiding theirs. Peeta's heart ached for her; he just wanted to see that smile back on her pretty face.

But as he followed his father into the home, he understood at once. Soft sobs came from a blonde woman on a chair beside a simple wooden casket, cradling a toddler with matching blonde curls. The child slept peacefully, her thumb in her mouth, unaware of the mourning going on around her. The woman glanced up and her eyes went round and she startled at the sight of Peeta's father. The little girl in her arms stirred but did not wake.

Peeta listened as the woman quietly greeted his father, and they spoke in hushed tones for several moments before the woman glanced at him and gave him a small smile, and Peeta waved half-heartedly.

He tried not to look in the casket, but his curiosity got the best of him and when he glanced over, he first saw the familiar blue of the Musketeer's tabard, as he now knew they were called. Then he recognized the handsome face of the Musketeer and his chest constricted. The reason for the sorrow etched on Katniss's face was clear to him now: the girl's father was dead.

His father spoke with the Musketeer's widow for several more minutes before he gave her an awkward hug since Katniss's little sister still slumbered in her mother's arms, and then he grabbed Peeta's hand. As they exited the house, Peeta looked over at the dandelion patch and was shocked to see Katniss sitting under the window, her back against the house, arms wrapped around her spindly legs, weeping into her knees. The wracking sobs and hiccoughs hammered at his heart and he yearned to go wrap his arms around her and hug her and tell her it would be okay—even if he suspected it would not. He could not imagine life without his father.

"Come, Peeta," his father scolded. "Let her mourn her father in peace. It is none of our business. We paid our respects to Claire."

The plaintive tone in his father's voice as he spoke her voice raised his curiosity anew, and he gave his father a perplexed look. Peeta may have only been a boy, but he understood there was more to this than honoring a fallen Musketeer.

His father knew it as well. As they began the walk back to the boulangerie, he cleared his throat. "I was in love with that woman when we were young. She was a beautiful lady."

Peeta's eyes widened and he stared at his father. "What happened, Papa?"

His father chuckled ruefully. "She fell in love with another man—the Musketeer you just saw in his casket."

"What happened to him, Papa?" Peeta asked.

"I did not ask Claire that. It would have been inappropriate to pry in such a time, mon fils. All I know of her husband's death is what I heard in the bakery the other morning from several of our customers."

Peeta had heard the fevered buzz of conversation just yesterday morning that the king had been assassinated; the entire country was in mourning for their slain monarch. Several of the gossipy women who came by the bakery frequently had said there were rumors that one of the king's own men—a Musketeer—may have betrayed him. But an older man who was missing nearly all his teeth had hushed the women immediately, harshly telling them to mind their own business and not to speak ill of the deceased. Two Musketeers had also lost their lives in the siege, and Peeta now knew one was Katniss's father.

It was a sobering realization just how dangerous being a king's bodyguard could be.

But it did nothing to quell Peeta's desperate wish to join the sacred esprit de corps when he turned sixteen.

On the contrary, it reignited it.

From her place slumped under the window of her house, Katniss Everdeen watched the kind-hearted baker and his son walk away hand in hand, and she drew a shuddering gulp of air into her lungs before another torrent of tears fell into her lap and were absorbed by the fabric of her dress. It was not fair. She would never again hold her father's hand. She felt a sudden welling of anger towards the handsome young boy who had given her that cheese bun years ago. His father baked bread. Her father protected an entire country. And it had cost him his life—no matter what anyone said about him failing to do his job.

She hadn't understood when the messenger had knocked on their cottage door two days earlier and delivered a large parchment scroll to her mother. Her mother's piercing scream had actually shattered a clay pot on the shelf nearest to the door, and she had collapsed in a heap and did not rouse again until the elderly woman in the cottage adjacent to theirs had waved a bouquet of foul-smelling herbs under her nose.

It was not until the four men arrived at the cottage bearing the wooden box and she laid eyes on her father's lifeless face that she finally grasped the reality of that scroll: her beloved papa was dead. The grey eyes so like her own were hidden by closed lids that would never lift hence. The Musketeers—her father's sworn brethren—all addressed her mother and removed those black-plumed hats and bowed solemnly before turning to her and bowing gently. One of them, a man who was not that much taller than her mother, had dark hair and grey eyes like hers and a very ruddy complexion. He gently cupped her cheek and placed his hat on her head, the large headpiece sliding down over her eyes as he offered her his condolences.

The oldest-looking of the men assured her mother that they would be taken care of and spoke many nice words about her father, cautioning her mother about the vicious rumors that could circulate about the circumstances of the deaths and the murderous plot against the king. The fact that anyone could even think her father would do such a thing infuriated Katniss and heated the blood in her veins.

"I will avenge your death, Papa," she whispered, eyes trained up on the hazy blue summer sky. "One day, I will make you proud."

It would not stop Katniss that she was female and thus would not be permitted to seek such a position. Once she put her mind to something, there was nothing that could stop her stubborn, irascible soul from achieving her goal.

One way or another, she would find a way to don that blue cloak.

She would be a Musketeer.

A/N-So this prologue was originally part of the Fandom 4 LLS collection back in September, and though most of those stories posted in December, I have been waiting to post this prologue for two reasons. 1) I needed to make more progress on my other WIPs before I began posting this new historic, as antsy as I have been to do that, and 2) I wanted to post on 1/1/14, since my first fic, A Favorable Wind, posted on 1/1/13. I like synergy, what can I say. (For those of you who have the collection, my other submission will not be posted in the near future. I am aiming for late Spring for that.)

As you can see, this story is based on the classic tale of The Three Musketeers (I watch the Chris O'Donnell one over and over again, cause that man gives me Peeta feels) AND I've fused in the concept behind Shakespeare in Love. That will unfold eventually.

Windfall and Crash My Party will be updated soon, and I have one last bday gift coming in the very near future for one of my very favorite people.

2014 will bring us Mockingjay Part I (ow my heart already hurts) but if you are looking for a great MJ AU I highly recommend "Random Reality Shifts" by Wake by the River. I'm always hesitant to read MJ AUs until they are complete, but this one sucked me in. Give it a try.

Thank you for reading. Happy New Year everyone. Thank you for the follows, favorites, and reviews that you showered me with in 2013. I am beyond grateful for the support. I look forward to hearing what you think of this one...~Court~