Author's Note-Thank you for the positive response to the prologue of this story! I'm happy so many of you are excited for this, and I am getting itchy to really delve into this. Historical fics are so much fun, but they are certainly a beast to tame.

This chapter is dedicated to one of the pinnacles of this fandom, HGRomance. It seemed fitting that since our friendship started on historical grounds with her beautiful Legend, and her support of my first historic A Favorable Wind deepened it, that I offer her this update as the first of two presents. Consider this your early treat, my friend. The other will eventually find its way here, but for now, it will only be on Street's tumblr tomorrow in honor of your official birthday. Happy Birthday, you star. Thank you for all that you bring to this fandom. You are a gift.

Many thanks as always to iLoVeRynMar and streetlightlove for their love and support and help with this story.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins; the original tale of the Three Musketeers belongs to A. Dumas.

~France, 1636~

~Peeta~

"I swear I did nothing more than kiss her, Gloss!" I gasp as the sword thrusts at me viciously. "And it was entirely her idea! She kissed me! You can ask her yourself!"

The burly blond man takes another menacing step towards me. He parries, and I suck in my stomach and lunge to my left, grunting as he continues advancing.

"You lie, fiend," he hisses. "My sister would never so cavalierly throw herself at a man when she is betrothed to another."

I nearly drop my sword. "She intends to marry another? She most certainly did not tell me that!"

I should have known better. When the voluptuous blonde had cornered me behind my father's boulangerie earlier that morning, my inexperienced lips took much coaxing from hers. She had been overly eager and her hands had roamed my body as if I were some kind of uncharted land she was desperate to claim as hers. As our kisses had continued, she had gotten a little too zealous with her moans of approval and thus, our clandestine rendezvous had not been secret for long. Unfortunately for me, it had been her brother who discovered us, which led to the quandary in which I currently find myself.

"Moreover," I exclaim, edging onto the stone arch that bridges one side of the meadow to the other over a babbling creek that swells with an influx of spring rains. It's not a long way down, but with one move the wrong way, a fall at any distance could be fatal. "Should not her intended be here challenging me to duel, defending her honor, rather than her brother? What kind of man is your future brother-in-law to leave this to your hands?"

Gloss's nostrils flare, his anger blanching his face before a deep scarlet flush usurps the chalky hue and he roars, rushing towards me anew. "How dare you speak ill of my family! You are a charlatan, Peeta Mellark!"

"You need not be concerned with me, Gloss," I reply, meeting his next thrust with a clang from my own sword. "I have no designs on your sister, this I swear to you. I am leaving for Paris in the morning, and I shall never cross Cashmere's path hereafter. Indeed, she was merely giving me a going-away embrace when she heard my intentions to leave this village."

"Paris?" he sneers. "What's in Paris for a simple baker's son like you?"

I growl and strike at his left shoulder, sliding to my right as he deflects the blow. "The Musketeers."

"You? A Musketeer?" His sword stills at his side, and he laughs scornfully. "That is the most amusing thing I have heard in days. You are not fit to hold the rapier of a Musketeer! You can barely wield that tarnished sword of which you're so proud."

"I wield it more handily than you." As if to illustrate my point, I slice the blade through the air, narrowly missing the golden locks that reach his shoulders, and his curls flounce from the gust of air my sword raises. He gasps and regains his balance, reaffirming his grip on the hilt of his sword. With a raucous shout, he charges at me again.

Nimbly, my feet crisscross back and forth behind me as I back down off the stone arch and onto solid ground again. Gloss pursues me and our swords clash noisily once more. When he lunges to his left, I seize the chance to thrust my sword beneath his, and to my relief, the weapon tumbles from his grasp, leaving him completely at my mercy. His throat bobs and his chest heaves from the shallow breaths he draws, and slowly he raises his hands in surrender, sinking to his knees. He bows his head and murmurs an audible though indiscernible prayer.

Then he lifts his chin to meet my eyes defiantly. "My future brother-in-law and my kin will avenge me."

I laugh heartily and subtly jab the tip of my sword near his throat but place no pressure on the weapon. "Now that, my friend, amuses me. Had your cowardly brother-in-law come here himself in the first place you would not be in this predicament."

"We are not friends," he snarls. His blue eyes glitter dangerously before they disappear behind his lowered eyelids. "Have mercy on me. Make it fast, I pray you."

A thundering rises beyond the hill, and I turn my head in the direction of the din. My eyes widen as four large men on horseback materialize and gallop swiftly towards us. Fear crests in my stomach at the speed and menace with which they approach, and from the renewed hope in Gloss's eyes, it's an easy conclusion to draw that these men are in fact his aforementioned kin.

In haste, I pull back my sword, slide it easily into its scabbard, and rush towards my own horse. With an expert vault, I settle astride the animal's back, spur my heels into his side and hold tight as he canters off through the countryside, his pace increasing with each of my subsequent impassioned commands.

Using one hand to jam my hat down over my blond curls, I hold the reigns tightly, periodically glancing behind me. Gloss has joined the four men, bringing up the rear, and he continues to rant about his sister's honor. I knew that the pretty blonde woman wasn't worth all this trouble. Her future husband will need to fit her with a chastity belt if he hopes to keep her libidinous desires fixed on him alone. I don't even fancy blondes.

"You cannot escape us, Peeta Mellark!" Gloss's voice rings out.

We race across the meadow, parallel to the narrow, crystalline brook that meanders through the tall grasses, approaching the outskirts of the village. Darting another peek behind me, my pulse hiccoughs as I observe Gloss and his kin rapidly closing the gap between us. The furious rhythm of my horse's hooves on the worn path cannot match the wild gallop of my heartbeat as my eyes land on a sharp dip off to the side of the dirt road. Glancing ahead, I realize the dip leads to a dilapidated barn. Perhaps I can use this little detour to my advantage.

"Yah!" I tug the reigns, and my horse responds, veering right and easing his stride as he canters down the rise and I guide him into the rotting structure. To my disappointment, I hear voices. Gloss and the others are on my trail.

I am growing increasingly anxious to end their pursuit of me so that I can begin my ride to Paris. The city is a good day's ride from here, and if I continue to expend my energy—and my horse's—dealing with Gloss and his nearly cuckolded brother-in-law, it will certainly take longer than that.

Once I reach the edge of the barn and burst into the bright sunshine, I squint as the village comes into sight. My heart lifts when I see several men toiling to repair a thatched roof just ahead. A large cart stands nearby bearing rows of neatly chopped logs, and a devious smile creeps onto my lips as an idea germinates and blooms.

Giving a quick glance behind me, I estimate the timing needed for the first strike when Gloss and the other four emerge from the barn. I draw my sword, adjusting my grip on the reigns with my other hand, and I smack my sword as hard as I can against the rear of the cart. A great splintering crack precedes the rumbling of the logs cascading from their confines as they spill directly into the path of my pursuers.

Gloss reacts quickly enough to issue a command and leap from the onslaught, but two of his kin are not as lucky. Their horses rear up and whinny loudly. One lands directly on several skittering logs, throwing its rider into a nearby pile of manure. The second disobeys his own rider's frantic calls and veers left when the man leaps right, and he too tumbles from the horse's back.

I inhale deeply and continue forward, preparing for the next attack. The excitement of the whole scene has supplanted any other emotions that may have been swirling within me for the moment, and my veins sizzle with energy.

The men working on the roof thatching are using some sort of lever-and-pulley contraption to haul the hay skyward. Timing will again be critical, and as I ride past them, I count silently and lunge up, the sharp blade of my sword neatly severing the rope encircling the bales. One of the workingmen yells and utters a curse as the hay plummets towards the ground just as Gloss and his remaining two kin gallop under it. One bale scores a direct strike on the tallest rider, sending him sprawling off his horse, and the animal spirits away. Two more bales block the fourth horse's path, stopping him short. Its rider yelps and flies over the horse's head, his hat coming off as he lands hard on the scrabbled dirt.

"Yes," I breathe to no one but myself, and I dig my heels in, encouraging my horse to resume his earlier pace. Now just Gloss rides behind me, his eyes blazing with rage. Murmurs of astonishment and irritation rise above the din as I ride past, and from an upper window of a large house near the edge of the square I hear my name being called. Cashmere leans out and blows me a kiss.

Without another glimpse back at her, I tug on the reins and ride on, but as I fix my gaze on the road, my eyes go round at the sight before me. A massive rotted tree, carpeted with spongy mosses and festooned with wildflowers, arches over the road. The space beneath it is not sufficient for me to clear underneath it, nor can my horse to manage to leap over it. I have but one choice unless I fancy Gloss overtaking me and resuming the duel he had initiated in the meadow. At this point, I want nothing more than to get to Paris.

I take a deep breath and steady my feet as I gauge the rapidly-closing distance to the tree then I carefully bring my legs up to stand on my horse's back. Balance has never been my forte, but I say a silent prayer, prepare to jump and just as I reach the felled tree, I leap onto it, take one quick step, and launch myself onto my horse as he reappears from under the log. The landing is hard, and pain shoots through my groin, but relief washes over me as I turn to regard Gloss. He is wobbling astride the back of his own horse, but his timing is not as impeccable as mine; when he jumps onto the log, he misjudges the speed of his horse, and the animal has already passed when he springs down to remount it. He bounces near the rear of the horse and slides down, landing with a thud. I release the breath I had been holding, and my face breaks into a triumphant grin. Gloss rises, brushes the dirt off his breeches, and shakes his fist furiously at me.

"You best not show your face in this village ever again, Peeta Mellark!"

I remove my hat and bow sardonically as best as I can manage astride my horse. "Oh, I shall, Gloss. And when I do, you shall be bowing at the feet of a famous Musketeer!" I replace the hat on my head, smirk, and gallop off through the countryside with the wind whipping my curls, and my white shirt flapping in the breeze.

Paris, here I come.

~Katniss~

"Catnip, I told you, this is a bad idea."

"Shut up, Gale." I wrap the tattered canvas cloak tighter around my frame and hunching down into a ball. "No one will know that I am here unless you are caught talking to a cluster of barrels. And then it's just as likely you'll earn a trip to the asylum. So leave me and go into the courtyard."

Gale lifts the edge of the fabric, and I see his grey eyes peering out from underneath the brim of his plumed hat, directed at me in typical scorn. "When will you get it through your thick skull that there is no way in hell that you can do this?"

"When Hell freezes over," I reply. "So no time soon. Now go."

The cloak flaps down and drapes me in darkness anew, and I hear his exasperated huff and heated mumbles as his footsteps fade. My nose twitches and I feel a sneeze coming on from the stale, musty aroma permeating the cloth around me. I inhale sharply and fight the tickle, but it overcomes me, and I pray no one in the vicinity hears me.

I don't need a reminder of the danger that should befall me if I am caught skulking around on the grounds of the king's castle, but Gale's stubborn determination to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny falls on deaf ears as usual. Why should he be the only one to wear that cloak and wield the rapier of the Musketeers when both our fathers gave their lives all those years ago, and it's merely Gale's fortune that he was born with the right genitalia between his legs?

Gale was two years older than I when an assassination plot against the previous king—our current king's grandfather—was successfully carried out, and his father and my father were killed in the ensuing melee. Together we watched our mothers mourn their fallen husbands and endure the vicious gossip that implied one or both of our fathers were in on the heinous conspiracy. At the time, I knew not the details, but it infuriated me that my father was being slandered without a means to defend himself. He should have been permitted to rest in peace, and we were denied the right to properly mourn him.

Gale was even more incensed; he did not take his father's death well. He has always been quick to anger. As a child, he took it out on his younger brothers, but as he got older, he nearly always channeled his rage into dueling.

We both did, really. For me, it was a natural outlet for my aggression, not to mention a means of feeling close to my father with him no longer on this earthly plain. He had always wielded his rapier so masterfully, and had taught me the proper way to hold the weapon at a very young age despite my mother's protestations that it was not a ladylike thing for me to learn. I further honed my skills play-dueling Gale, and it is why I am so confident that if given the chance, I could out-duel most men, even those twice my age and my size.

A commotion rises as a brief trumpet processional plays and then all grows quiet. I strain my ears so I can catch everything that will be revealed to the assembled Musketeers.

"Messieurs." The sharp timber of the Comte de Crane's voice reaches my ears loud and clear. I struggle to raise the image of Cardinal Snow's écurie before my eyes as he begins to speak. I have only seen the man once, and all that I recall is the elaborate beard that I suspect he only grooms in such a manner so as to obscure the large scar that dominates the left side of his face.

"Thank you for gathering in such a prompt manner. I am afraid that I do not have better news to relate to you, mes frères. It is to my great distress that on this morning I must announce to you the official disbandment of the Musketeers."

He sounds not the least bit distressed. I imagine he is fighting to suppress a smirk on that scarred face of his. There is an immediate roar of protest and shouts of anger resonate from the assembled Musketeers, which I know to be a number near two hundred. A litany of questions ring out, but one is repeated by a multitude of disparate voices:

"Who will protect the king?"

"This was not a decision that was arrived at hastily, messieurs," Crane continues. "His Royal Highness consulted at length with Cardinal Snow and this remains what is best for all of France. War with England is inevitable, and so there shall be a more pressing need for the services of virile, able men such as yourselves. Your Majesty the King will greatly appreciate your loyalty in defending all of France, and not just him in this most dire time. For the present moment, Cardinal Snow's personal bodyguards will assume the additional duties of protecting the king."

I stifle a snort of disdain. The Cardinal's corps cannot possibly number more than fifty. How can a small group of men provide the same protection that the experience that nearly five times that of trained musketeers offers? The reasoning is beyond ludicrous to me, but King Boggs is a kind, mild-mannered, well-respected man, and I begrudgingly admit that he would do nothing less than what he feels is best for his people and his country. If he discussed this with his counsel, it must be what he feels is necessary.

But the lingering grumbles of the Musketeers and the dark oaths that manage to reach my ears in my concealed location incite a wave of panic in me: if there are no more Musketeers, how am I to become one? How am I to fulfill a destiny that no longer ceases to be?

"This is unacceptable!" a voice rings out. "We took a vow!"

"And now you're being relieved of that vow," Crane barks.

My curiosity simmers over and I push back the cloak just enough to shift my body so that I can peer between two of the larger barrels. My new vantage gives me a perfect view of the balcony from which Crane speaks, though he appears little more than a miniature to me at this distance. He is dressed all in black from head to toe, including a showy black plumed hat not unlike those the Musketeers wear, but naturally it's even larger.

I scan the courtyard, my eyes flitting over the scores of Musketeers standing and staring up at Crane. Though most of their backs are to me, a few that stand relatively close to where I am concealed have their heads lowered together conspiratorially, and I can see the ire smoldering in their poisonous gazes. If looks could kill, the Comte de Crane would be plunging off that balcony one hundred times over.

"Messieurs, it seems that many of you are not getting the message. The Musketeers are no more. You are ordered to remove your tabards, leave your rapiers and return to your homes to await orders from the king. Anyone who chooses not to follow these three simple commands will be arrested and charged with treason. It is that simple. We have no tolerance for traitors."

I swallow at the menacing tone that affects his final sentence and then hold my breath, waiting for someone to make a move. I am so transfixed on the scene before me that I do not even register the cloak being roughly pulled from me, and Gale's rough hand on my shoulder.

"Catnip, we have to go. Now." He hauls me to my feet and seizes my hand.

As he drags me off, I catch sight of the flames licking up a massive pile of sticks and straw, a pyre igniting in the center of the courtyard. The first Musketeer approaches the inferno, deliberately yanking his blue tunic from his body and tossing it onto the fire. He drops his rapier with a resounding clatter on the stones, and silently, the remaining Musketeers begin to follow suite.

All but Gale.

As we run from the palace, I hear the clear, condescending timber of Crane call out, "That's right, messieurs. One for all and all for one. Merci. Cardinal Snow thanks you, and all of France shall owe you a debt of gratitude."

I clutch desperately at my billowing skirt with one hand, the other firmly held by my best friend, and I notice he still wears his Musketeer tabard and his rapier is still at his side.

"Gale…"

He hauls me behind the small chapel just to the west of the palace, and I struggle to catch my breath as he first yanks off his hat and tosses it away, then pulls off his tunic and wads it into a tight ball. He shoves it at me.

"Put this under your gown. Now."

I gape at him, my brows knit in confusion. "H-How?" Motioning to the tiny waist my corseted gown emphasizes, I hesitate to obey his order. "I don't think that it will fit."

"Do it, Katniss."

I bite my lip and lean down, lifting the full skirts of my gown and positioning the lumpy garment under the dropped waist as best I can. I wrinkle my nose at the sight. I know that it should appear that I am with child, but no one in his or her right mind would venture a glance at me and think an actual human baby would be this misshapen.

"Gale, what—"

He cuts me short again. "Later," he admonishes me. "We need to get to safety. They'll be looking for me."

"You didn't—"

"Katniss!" he hisses sharply. "Enough. We'll talk when we get to a safe place."

I press my lips together and fall mute. The fact that Gale used my actual name not once but twice, not to mention he does not even attempt to gest at my preposterous appearance, indicates how severe he feels the danger is. I draw another gasp of air and my lungs begin to sear from the effort of taking breaths, no easy task given the restrictive corset beneath my gown.

Gale is much taller than I, and his strides are easily twice the length of mine. Plus I have to cradle the faux bump beneath my dress so that Gale's tunic does not slip down between my legs. I snicker at the thought; it would be the closest that I shall ever come to childbirth, and no doubt the easiest.

I am wheezing heavily when we finally slow to a brisk walk once Gale decides we are an acceptable distance from the palace. Gale reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly, giving me a weak smile, and he gestures to my mid-section. "I'll take that back now."

Exhaling loudly, I grin and smash my fist into the bundle, and it's easily wrested from above my navel, landing with a soft swish at my feet. I kick it towards Gale with a gentle nudge. He retrieves it, flounces it out in front of him, and tucks it under his arm like a parcel.

"Gale, why didn't you throw your tabard onto the fire and leave your weapon behind like the others? What's going on?" I ask gently.

His eyes have taken on a molten glaze to them, and I know him well enough to comprehend this is a sign of his temper flaring. "I am a Musketeer, Catnip," he retorts. "And I'll be damned if that sycophant Crane will strip me of my life's blood. I swore to protect the king, and that is what I shall do. Now come along. We need to go warn the other two."

~The Chambers of Cardinal Snow, Paris~

"What shall we do with this, Your Eminence?"

Cardinal Snow turns from where he has been pacing just inside the open doors that lead to his balcony. When his eyes land on the enormous tapestry held between two of his guards, his lips curl into a devious smile. "Burn it."

The two guards exchange a glance, shrug and shuffle towards the fire roaring in the hearth of Snow's private chambers. With a grunt from both, they heave the flag bearing the Musketeers' insignia and motto onto the greedy flames. Tongues of orange and black lick at the heavy fabric as it catches fire, devouring it slowly until it is nothing but a pile of ash.

Snow resumes his pacing, his eyes scanning the scene through the billowing curtains. From his chambers he does not have a direct view of the balcony from which Crane is addressing the Musketeers, but he can hear the voice of his écurie well enough if he lingers just inside the doors.

He does, however, have a perfect view of the sprawling courtyard, and as his eyes dart among his guards, clad in red tunics, intermittently positioned amidst a sea of blue-cloaked Musketeers, he idly fingers his cross. He is fraught with anticipation as to how the assembled men will take the shocking revelation that they have been relieved of their duties. Part of him yearns for them to rebel and resist so he can have them all imprisoned and wash his hands of them in one fell swoop. That would make his plot even easier to carry out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the first Musketeer approach the pyre. The man's attention is clearly directed at Crane, and he rips his tunic from his person and flings it onto the fire. He drops his rapier beside the conflagration, and with a flourish he turns and hastens past his sworn brothers.

The smile spreads on Crane's lips as one by one a pile of blue fleur-de-lis adorned tabards join the first and are consumed by flames. The stack of rapiers grows as well.

He drops the cross back against his chest and steeples his fingers before him. Excellent. Though he would have relished the chance to arrest everyone and have a processional to the chopping block in two days hence, a relatively peaceful surrender is equally reassuring. Things are progressing just as he planned.

After several pregnant moments, he hears footfalls on the stone and turns to see Crane and two more of his guards enter his chambers.

Crane removes his hat as he approaches and reaches for Snow's hand. He bows as he brushes his lips over the gnarled knuckles. "Your Eminence."

"I trust that there was no rioting when you made the proclamation, Captain Crane?

Crane straightens and returns his hat to his head then clears his throat and strokes the point of his beard thoughtfully. "They were certainly taken by surprise, Your Eminence. After some initial discourse, yes, most submitted to the order."

Snow's cold blue eyes glitter dangerously. "Did you say most, Captain? Not all?"

"No, not all," he agrees begrudgingly. "There are three."

"Three what?"

"Three Musketeers who are unaccounted for." He motions towards the two guards who flank him, one of which holds a large parchment roll.

"We dispatched several men to go in search of them. We are awaiting their return, Your Eminence," the taller of the two guards declares.

Snow purses his puffy lips and crosses to the open doors, pulling them shut with a clatter. "You are dismissed," he barks to all of his guards. The two near the hearth and the two beside Crane move swiftly. "Close that chamber door behind you!" he adds with a sneer.

Deliberately he walks to Crane and lowers his voice. "There are to be no loose ends this time, Captain Crane. Need I remind you just how high the stakes are?"

"I understand," he replies simply.

"It would be a shame if the search party cannot produce these three errant Musketeers, wouldn't it?" He leans in and extends a finger, tracing the line of the scar curving along Crane's cheek just above the skin. "I would hate to have to give you a matching set, Captain." His mouth lifts and mimes slitting his throat. "Or perhaps worse. Take care of them."

He spins on his heel, crimson robe whirling behind him as he stalks from the room.

Crane exhales shakily and walks purposefully to a large oak table where a brass candelabra stands, bearing three white candles. He adjusts them in the cups and with a fluid motion slices his rapier through the air. As he pushes the point of the sword to each candle, they fall to the table in succession. "Haymitch. Finnick. Gale."

He sweeps the severed candles to the floor and stomps viciously on the third, which splinters into waxy shards.

"I will not allow another Hawthorne to get in my way this time," he vows.