Chapter 1

"All for one..."

At first sunlight they came for him. As if he still had any fight left in him there were two of them, plain guards with iron-clad clubs at their side. Another two joined them at the end of the corridor, falling in on either side.

The days in his cell and under interrogation had worn him down, instilled a pallor that left him looking sickly, with purple circles under his eyes, dark locks tousled and crusted with blood that had flown from cuts that marked his face and forehead. Relentlessly they marched him on and he felt ashamed at the state of himself, sweating at the exertion of a few steps, stumbling to the point where one of the men had to keep him from crashing into the wall and even supported his arm as they ascended a short flight of rough hewn stone steps. That they had insisted on keeping his hands tied didn't help his balance, either. Or his pride.
No wonder then, that he stumbled again, over the threshold into the early morning light. But this time he shook away the hand that was meant to steady him.
These steps were his to walk on his own.

A crowd filled the courtyard with agitated noise, despite the small hours. And they had brought out a contingent of the Red Guard in his honor, which, in turn, brought a bitter smile to his dry and cracked lips.
But behind the red coats that formed a corridor straight towards the stand, he saw only blue. The yard was full of musketeers. All of them had come to bear witness.
A lump of ice constricted his throat but he stealed himself and put one foot in front of the other as they looked on. Before the platform that had been erected in the night - the fall of the hammer had accompanied his vigil - the guards fell back. A hooded figure stood motionless, waiting beneath the gallow where a lenght of rope was prepared. As he lifted his gaze towards the elevated stage, he realized that there was a little balcony right above their heads, and it was occupied in grandeur.

Of course. Neither King nor Queen would grace this event with their presence. They had probably taken the court to Fontainebleau for a few days or on a hunt, out of Paris in any case, until the matter was...dealt with.
And deal with it he would. Gladly. That's how he had become the King's first minister and most trusted advisor, after all.

Cardinal Richelieu was ensconced in an almost throne-like chair, covered in a crimson throw edged with pelt against the early morning chill. His bony fingers had just lifted a delicate cup to his lips, which he lowered again, turning his head to Milady de Winter at his side, beautiful and pale, a neutral...even distant look on her face as she exchanged a few words with the prince of the French church. At his other side another woman had her gaze fixed on her pale hands that clutched a long forgotten cup. Someone he had wished for all the wolrd would not be there and yet had hoped to see for one last time.
Like a shot, the beat of a drum rang out over the crowd and she raised her eyes in surprise and inevitably found his.

Whatever he had hoped for in this encounter, his wishes were denied.

Hate washed over him, anger, uncredulity and disappointment where he once had found admiration, understanding, laughter and ...but all that was gone.
This was his punishment. This was his personal hell. Thus, he locked his gaze to hers as he took the steps, one by one, in time with the steady beating of the drum. Still turned towards the balcony, he never broke eye contact while the executioner fastened the rope about his neck with deft and practised moves. Finally, it was she who averted her eyes. Eyes that he might just have imagined held shining tears. He nodded slightly, more to himself than to anyone else and turned from the balcony to face the crowd one last time.

"Any las' words?" He couldn't tell if the executioner had aimed for such a sneering tone or if his strangely pitched voice was the result of the black leather mask and cap that covered his head a little too tightly. He straightened himself and looked out over the courtyard, ignoring the weight of the noose around his neck, the dull throbbing of cracked ribs, the constriction of his hands, awkwardly bound behind his back.

"They haven't come" he realized. "They're not here to see how it all ends." A violent shudder ran down his spine, almost brought him to his knees in despair, but he proudly threw back his head to disguise it, to not let anyone see his weakness. And after all, he should probably be thankful they hadn't shown up, for the veneer of his strengh was wearing thin. For now, for a tiny moment he felt like himself again, felt a little of the courage and bravado that he had worn oh, so naturally and that had gone so well with the blue cape and the signature leather armor. And the hat. Oh, what he wouldn't give to still wear the hat. Or a clean shirt instead of the torn and soiled rags that clung to him.

But still, there he stood, dashing despite the cuts and bruises, tall and proud like the soldier he had always wanted to be, gathering his thoughts, willing to make it count. Suddenly, he felt the urge to tell them all. Tell them why he had done what he had done, that he hadn't had a choice, that it wasn't his fault; he wanted to scream at them that he was innocent and that it was all… but then he heard the cardinal cough delicately and , without even thinking about it, turned to look at him. Slowly, emphatically, the cardinal shook his head, but it was the old man's thin smile that caught him unawares, cut him like a dagger, tearing open a gaping hole in his chest that threatened to swallow him whole.

He mustn't.

Nobody was ever to know why, or it would all be forfeit.
So he opened his mouth to plead forgiveness instead, entreat them to remember him as their loving brother in arms, not as the vile thing he had become to them, but in that instant he saw the first of his brothers, the first musketeer turn his back on the stand, on him, then the second, the third…
and as each of his comrades turned their back on him, the traitor, his courage withered, his shoulders dropped and his gaze fell to the ground.
Beaten.
Broken.
Slowly but surely, the executioner reached for the leaver that would operate the trapdoor and deadly silence descended upon the crowd in the courtyard, safe for the crashing drumroll that reverberated in the windows of the surrounding building.

„..and one for all" the traitor whispered, as the trapdoor suddenly swung away from under his feet.

Colors and shapes blurred into one as he felt himself falling, turning but , impossibly, he caught her gaze again and held it, for the longest instant, registering – at last – the disdain melting from her eyes and anger, hurt, fear and finally…sadness and an overwhelming love flashing across the face of the woman he loved with all his soul. Falling, he wanted to scream her name, but no sound would leave his lips.

It had been an exceptionally hot day in the Gascogne and the boys were bone-weary from working in the fields and in the stables. He was still supposed to hone his fencing skills in the quieter hours before sunset, but he had snuck away in the end, even though he suspected his father knew where they were going anyways and tolerated it quietly. The lazy little river turned a sharp corner around the rocks, the steep cliff that had formed at the hillside, the dark water just barely deep enough for their intent. It was foolish. It was beyond dangerous. It was their greatest dare. It was glorious. And, as always, it was he who jumped first, after a short run to gain momentum and deliver his body at a safe distance from the jagged stones.
A few paces and he was off, arms spread wide like one of the hawks that circled above them in the clear blue skies and he felt, as always, that if he just flapped his arms, once or twice, he'd surely grow wings and fly away and surely, as always, gravity claimed him and he fell, fell without a sound since he was oh, so brave, fell swiftly, silently, like a smooth stone towards the cool river and shapes blurred into one as he felt himself falling. The rush of blood in hie ears mingled with the sound of wind, words, laughter, faces and scenes flashing before his eyes, faster than the frantic beating of his heart. How could there be so much time in such a fleeting instant, such a wealth of memories and pictures contained within mere moments, he had wondered every time. And every time he had tried to hold on to those images, had tried to decipher them, maybe even glean a sight into his future from those apparitions that he could have sworn he had never seen before.
It always took his breath away, that flood of thoughts and always, always, the impact took him by surprise.

The sudden violent stop made him gasp, a sharp pain at the base of his skull had sudden darkness fall before his eyes and D'Artagnan knew no more.

Remarks: Sooo... this should probably go at the beginning of the whole thing, but I am pretty new to writing instead of "merely" enjoying what you amazing people put up here, so please bear with me :3
1. Chronology: I imagine this story to be set right between the last episode of the 1st season and the first episode of the 2nd season. That being said, I have to admit that I am a huge Musketeers fan, but mainly from the books and movies, the BBC Series being a late addition to the set but nevertheless a great one.
What does this mean for the story? It is written with the BBC Musketeers in mind (no, they don't belong to me and there is no infringement intended) but the story might not be true to canon eventually. Please appologize, but I'll try to make it worth your while!
2. Though this reads like "Tragedy", *spoiler alert*, it won't be! Although I still need to find the proper place for the amount of comfort the musketeers are going to need after this ride.
3. Rating is "T" for safety, but I don't plan on it going up. Advise is greatly appreciated though, should you feel I need to put any other markers on the story. Thanks!
4. My first story! *squeee* I will try to update regularly but I can't promise anything. Reviews might help speed things up a little, you know, as in knowing someone is out there, hanging onto the pictureque little Gascon cliff I left here.

So long!