He had been feeling slightly bad for two days, but D'Artagnan said nothing. He wanted to prove his worth to these Musketeers wanted to give a good impression. Make sure they knew he was more than just a boy - he was a warrior, as tough as any of the others. He could withstand rain, heat, explosions and still mantain himself upright. He was a man, a strong man and he had to make everyone know, make everyone realise he could be a valuable asset for the team. Not just some Gascon that tag along, but someone who had earned his position.

D'Artagnan wanted to prove that he wasn't just a boy. He was a man.

And complaining about an upset stomach, or about how the world seemed to spin every time he did a sudden movement or how strangely cold he felt didn't seem a great way to earn his companions' respect.

So he kept quiet. And he'd been doing well so far, nobody had noticed anything strange about him. He was careful to speak as much as he used to and move normally even though sometimes he needed to be slower not to sway. This would probably go away with some rest and a good night's sleep anyways. He just had to last until nightfall, find a nice room and sleep it off. Because of course, they had to be away on a mission the week he felt the worst in his life.

They were supposed to stop some bandits that attacked in a desserted road on a small village near Paris. Just wait behind some trees for the bandits to appear in the road and catch them by surprise. Because surprise is everything. But after some time in which nothing happened, D'Artagnan was finding it more and more difficult to simply keep his eyes open, keep himself upright.

"You all right there, boy?" Aramis asked on his left.

That dreaded word again.

"Of course I am." He snapped and looked at the road with renewed resolution. He was going to do this, he was going to excel in this and have the others congratulate him on his swift action and bravery. That was what would happen, nothing else.

They stayed like that for a while longer while D'Artagnan tried to ignore how heavy his limbs were or that terrible feeling that his meagre breakfast could make an unwelcome reapparance any time. No. He had this under control. He could deal with this and so much more. And he had a mission – which he would fulfill. No unimportant ailment would stop him.

Time went by. They saw some carriages and some horses. It was strangely warm that day (even though D'Artagnan felt cold) and they were silent, to avoid being discovered. The air was clean and silent, it felt as though they were trapped in time. As if the world was turning slower than usual. As if everything were moving at an unusually calm pace. It was dull – until it wasn't.

Until everything accelerated too quickly and too much.

The bandits were a group, there was seven of them. They were seven and attacked a carriage with three people in it. The musketeers jumped to end the assault and catch those criminals once and for all, quickly, sliently. It should have been easy – they had dealt to with many more assailants in more adverse conditions than those, it really should have been over in a mere matter of minutes, without too much damage. But the musketeers hadn't counted on the these men being so skilled with swords, or in the irritating powder that some of them had and, when close enough, they threw in their foe's eyes.

Aramis had been the first victim of the damned powder. He'd won over that damned bandit, he'd made the masked man drop his sword – when the criminal reached for something in his pocket and suddenly, and for a very terrifying moment, he couldn't see. He couldn't see anything, and he panicked. After that terrifying moment, Aramis started seeing through teary eyes. He saw a figure getting further, and fast. The damn man was getting away, running away, while he teared up and tried up to get all that powder out. Still a bit teary, Aramis started running after the man. He was not going to get away after that.

The others weren't being excessively lucky, either. Athos had seen one of the bandits escape as well, while he was busy fighting another two. He got the first one disarmed relatively easily but then another one appeared to defend him and this man was so much better. He almost disarmed Athos twice and while he did so the first man also ran away. And there he was, in a seemingly unending sword fight with that masked bandit, getting more and more tired. Not good.

Porthos had had a bit of better luck, because the terrible powder those men wore missed his eyes and he was able to stop and immobilize of the bandits and shoot another while he meant to attack him from the back. It hadn't been an easy fight at first, because the bandit was skilled, but eventually he managed it. The bandit was stopped and so he went to check on the people of the carriage (who were luckily unharmed, even if they were quite shaken) and on the other musketeers. This was a completely different situation.

Aramis was running and swaying at the same time, running in a lot of different directions, as if somehow he couldn't see what he was doing, while the bandit he was chasing got away from him - fast. And Athos was fighting another one of them, but he didn't seem to have the upper hand. Porthos went to aid him and the fight was over in no time. At least that part was over.

The two musketeers were soon joined by a panting and bright-eyed Aramis, still with some tear tracks from the powder, who still saw his friends blurred and weird but at least there.

"You managed to stop three of them, that's something. Let's hope D'Artagnan has been as lucky as you. Where is he?"

They looked around, but he wasn't anywhere.

One of the women of the carriage spoke.

"The boy that came with you was fighting another of those men, I think they went towards the trees, towards the forest."

"Merci, Madame." Athos said, and all three of them sprinted in the direction she had indicated, while calling the younger man's name. They had been so engrossed in the problems they'd had, in those mighty fighters, that they hadn't seen anything beyond their foes.

"D'Artagnan!"

He could hear them faintly, calling his name. And he wished to go to them, badly. He wished they would come and tell him everything would be all right. Because right now, he was panicking, the world appeared to be melting around him, it had become just shapes and colours that made no sense.

"D'Artagnan!"

"He...Here."

The musketeers swiftly ran to the place where they heard the choked voice of their friend.

And they finally found him, laying in the grass, red staining the green, with a huge stab wound on his stomach and bright eyes. He was clutching at the wound with bloody hands and trying to look at his friends who were there, they were finally there, but everything was so terribly unfocused and the pain was too great.

"Oh, no..."

They worked fast binding the wound, but the boy was choking on his blood, and why was there blood on his mouth? The situation looked pretty dire. They were in a road, miles away from the nearest village and D'Artagnan was losing clour fast. Aramis noted with distress that he was running a fever too. Damn. He should have noticed something before. This was only going to make things more complicated.

"Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

D'Artagnan tried to speak but his mouth tasted like blood and he didn't even have strength to get the words out.

"So-sorry. I just wanted to... I just..."

But his eyelids were too heavy and darkness started to take him.

"No, no, no, stay awake!"

The world disappeared.

"Stay with us!"

A/N: First venture into the fandom, hope it wasn't too bad. I just love D'Artagnan so much, I had to whump him. Hope you enjoyed!

Reviews give me life and encouragement to continue! ;)