Disclaimer: Anything you recognise isn't mine.

There had been missions before, of course, but d'Artagnan couldn't help the feeling that this was his first real one. The others, he had completed as an outsider. Now he was a recruit. A Musketeer recruit.

And this was normal. Every recruit had to go through it.

In the front two musketeers, in the rear two musketeers – none of them being the Inseparables, thank God – and in between five of the newest members of the garrison. They were carrying a letter or a message of some kind to a duke somewhere. No one knew the details, because the details weren't important. Important was that they were finally out in the field, finally doing what they were supposed to.

He was riding alongside René, a boy that was a few years older than him and had been a recruit the longest of the five of them. He was tall, well-built and, all in all, a textbook example of a worthy soldier; muscular but slim, kind but strict, and, at least going by the rumours d'Artagnan had heard, brave but not reckless.

As if guessing that the Gascon was thinking about him, René turned around and glanced casually in his direction, openly displaying his dissatisfaction with the situation. "Why did they have to drag us out here?" he muttered angrily. "I had a lot of better things to do at the garrison. I have to train if I want to become a good Musketeer."

Unsure if he was supposed to answer, d'Artagnan settled for a mumbled reply. "This is training."

"What was that?" René queried, then looked closer at the dark-haired boy. "Hey, I know you. You're the fourth in the Inseparable Trinity. How does it feel to be their newest pet?"

"Not a pet," d'Artagnan protested, feeling his rage rise and trying futilely to contain the burning fire, just the way Athos had taught him.

Everyone can speak and scream, his mentor had told him. But not everyone can control themselves not to. Only a wise man can master his fears and anger.

And while d'Artagnan wasn't necessarily wise, he intended to be one day.

René laughed. "We'll see about that." The remark set d'Artagnan's teeth on edge, but he was still attentive enough to know it was supposed to do just that, and therefore decided not to react. After a while, René seemed to lose interest and spurred on his mount, moving closer to the front of the group and leaving d'Artagnan behind to dwell on his thoughts.

They travelled quickly, only letting their horses rest for a few minutes every now and then and not even stopping for lunch. When the afternoon was already slowly drifting into an early evening, they noticed a town in the distance. Even their tired mounts seemed happier all of a sudden and galloped toward the houses in a last burst of energy.

It didn't take long for d'Artagnan to realise that something was off. The streets were bustling, which wasn't necessarily an unusual occurrence at this hour, but there was something in the frantic movements of the people running around that made him force his horse ahead without regard to the Musketeers by his side, and jump out of the saddle as soon as he had passed the gates and reached the first streets.

Sword in hand, he moved closer to the commotion. He spied carefully around a corner and caught his breath.

Houses were burning. A few people were still running or crawling about, but many of them were lying on the ground, motionless. It looked like a battlefield with normal villagers, mothers, children in the role of dead soldiers. A heavy stench was in the air and it was a stench d'Artagnan was much too familiar with; smoke, blood and death all mixed into one.

He felt the unimaginable urge to scream his throat raw, but commanded himself to try and conquer the fear.

Twenty or so bandits stormed out of a near house and by his weak hideout. He had to duck back behind the wall, like a coward who was watching disaster unfold, unable to help. Somewhere in the distance, the ground rumbled, sounding like an explosion had been set off.

There were probably more bandits, scattered all over town.

Thirty, forty, how many in total?

He released his breath and it drew a cloud into the hot, stale air. They couldn't hope to fight so many and win. He knew they were Musketeers; they weren't scared of anything, they didn't back off. Ever. But maybe this time they should.

He pushed his head back forward and watched on, his gaze roaming about, calculating. It wasn't a big town, more like a village, actually. Was that good or bad? Could they use it to their advantage? There weren't many people left. Good? Hardly. But it wasn't entirely bad either. With less lives to protect there was more they could do …

He almost didn't hear the two horses come up behind him. As he spun around to either greet or fight them, he was met with two familiar riders and quickly adapted to the new development.

"You have to ride back!" he yelled over the roar of the fire and the screams in the distance. "You have to warn the others! There are too many to fight!"

Villers, an elder Musketeer, nodded and whirled his horse around without question. He rode away, quickly swallowed up by smoke and the general chaos. The other animal stood still, its rider already climbing to the ground.

"What about you?" René asked, his blue eyes regarding the Gascon warily. "You just gonna let these people die?"

D'Artagnan shrugged uncertainly. "Would you believe me if I told I had a plan?"

René shrugged, too. "Since I don't have one, I would probably go with whatever you're about to do. Even if it is stupid."

D'Artagnan smiled and nodded, determined as always. But before the pair could make another step, someone screamed, someone grunted and two people – who were probably bandits – were storming in their direction. Swords crossed. The clang of metal drowned in the noises around them and d'Artagnan felt his muscled burn from the strain of keeping the blade away from his exposed throat. He whirled around, then brought his own weapon down on his adversary. He watched the man crumble to the ground and already found another man running toward him. He wanted to engage, but two muscular arms caught him around the waste and held him tight. His sword was ripped away and he was suddenly totally defenceless.

Looking to the right, he found that René was in a similar predicament, two burly men holding him from behind and a third pressing his sword to his throat. He decided to take his eyes off his fellow Musketeer, and instead found them landing on another gruff face, staring him down.

They were surrounded.

A man came through the circle of bandits, clapping his hands mockingly. D'Artagnan could see him through the blurry air, but couldn't hear a sound.

The man smiled. His lips parted and his voice boomed, over the fire and over the bombs, "Well done. You two have knocked out two of my men. I could train you. You and I will be great together."

D'Artagnan's ears rang. He found that his voice wasn't working and he suspected that neither was his brain. What did the man mean? Why would he assume that d'Artagnan would ever work for him? Didn't he know anything about him?

But of course he didn't.

Something came down hard on his head and made his world go black.