This chapter has been in my fanfic folder for such a long time, I finally decided that polishing and posting it might provide some incentive to get the whole story out. A Season 3 alternative, it satiates my need to see the Musketeers in a universe without Grimaud, Feron or Sylvie.

We begin in September 1636, so the trio have been going from front to front for about sixteen months. Aramis did refuse joining the others and remained at the monastery.

I'm not a native speaker and this chapter isn't beta-read, so please excuse me if there is an awkward turn of a phrase or an expression that doesn't make proper sense. Incidentally, if you know of anyone who'd be willing to commit to rather erratic, long-term beta-reading, I'd appreciate suggestions.

I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One:

Of Messages and Messengers

If he were honest with himself, the only reason young infantryman Jean Dupond made such haste to reach the captain's tent was to get out of the pouring rain – not the urgency of the message he was carrying. Truthfully, he had no idea whether the message, tucked safely inside his leather jacket to protect from the rain, was an urgent one or not; the seal on it was not an official one he recognized, but then, the messenger himself hadn't seemed overly concerned with haste. Even as Dupond sprinted over the mud towards the edge of the camp, the messenger had settled to enjoy a hard-earned meal in the dryness of one of the tents.

Chestnut hair soaked and plastered to his face, Dupond dashed into the captain's tent in his haste to get out of the torrent, spluttering rainwater from his lips as he skidded to a halt inside, at once remembering whose tent he'd barged in. But he needn't worry about a reprimand. The captain was leaning forward on both arms against a narrow wooden table, scrutinizing a well-worn map in the flickering candlelight. He did not look up or give any indication that he'd heard Dupond's entrance, and Dupond considered himself lucky for that. He might have been a new recruit, but even he knew he wasn't supposed to run into a superior's tent like this. It was a constant struggle for the young soldier: tents did not have doors to knock. Most days, he resolved to loudly clearing his throat before entering; sometimes he called out, but he did not prefer that one, as it made him feel like he was attempting to begin a conversation with the captain –something he'd rather avoid, let alone initiate. Now, he was already inside, but still found himself in the uncomfortable position of having to call out for attention.

He cleared his throat.

"What is it?" the captain growled, his voice low and impatient; and his tone as curt as Dupond had ever heard. He swallowed, unable to abate the nervousness he felt every time he needed to address the captain. Deciding to quickly get on with it, he let the flip of the tent fall, the heavy canvas immediately muffling the wash of the rain, and approached the table.

"This came for you, Captain," he informed, removing the envelope from his chest and holding it out. The captain gave the letter a cursory glance, but when he made no move to reach for it, Dupond slowly left it onto the table, next to the map. Keeping his eyes on the captain while retreating his hand, he was thinking of that time a couple of weeks ago, when he'd offered leftovers to a stray dog at the outskirts of the encampment. He'd half a mind that he could very well lose his hand for his good intent.

He jumped when thunder cracked like a whip upon the tent's cover. The captain's finger was calmly tracing an arching route over the parchment.

Feeling just a little bit foolish, Dupond swallowed.

It had been just over a week since he had been appointed –that is, wordlessly chosen– as "a sort of assistant", he liked to think of it, to the captain, after his aide had deserted when sent to a nearby village to look for supplies. Dupond himself had arrived with a group of four a month before that, when the troops they were supposed to join were massacred by the Spanish before they had even reached the encampment. The sergeant who had recruited them, now bereft of a company himself, had sent them on to join the nearest unit, which happened to be the King's Musketeers, who were marching north to serve under the command of the revered General Guillaume de Toussaine.

Prior to his arrival at the camp, Dupond had heard enough about the king's famous musketeers – Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan – to be curious about them, but until that terrible attack they'd suffered a few days ago, all he'd observed about the men –the three of them that were in the camp- had been their camaraderie. Even to a stranger's eyes the bond between Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan was visible. The men seemed to read each other's minds, communicate without words, and predict each other's feelings – frankly, it was a bit uncanny, but Dupond kept that thought to himself.

Now he stood waiting to see if Athos needed anything from him, having already learned better than to ask, but the captain might as well have turned into a statue. Leaning over the rough wood, his jaw was tight-set, unruly hair curtaining his eyes. The flicker of the candle flame cast a sickly hue over his face, filling sinister shadows into the normally shallow crevices, making him appear gaunt and older than his years. Not for the first time, Dupond felt grateful that he was not in the captain's boots. Despite the hair obscuring it, he knew that the bruised abrasion at the side of his brow still remained, as did the gash on his leg, both recently acquired in the fight. He'd never once seen Athos smile –not that smiles came with abandon to the military camp- but his mood had taken a turn for the worst since a small group of Spanish soldiers had managed to sneak into the camp in the middle of the night, even as the Musketeers were deep within French territory. They'd slaughtered three men and wounded four by the time the alarm had been raised; they had then set ablaze one edge of the camp, which had led to another man's severe injury and the loss of precious supplies. Despite the fact that the Musketeers had regained control came sunrise, the damage was extensive. Now, three days later, the most elite of the King's regiments was still reeling, and at the helm, feeling the pressure more so than everyone, was Athos.

Dupond had just decided to silently retreat and put an end to this yet another awkward moment in the command tent when the man suddenly spoke.

"Where is the messenger?" Green eyes flickered towards the envelope before rising to Dupond's face. Dupond blinked.

"Sir?"

"The messenger, Dupond. Where is he?"

"I – suppose he's having a bite of something, sir. Resting."

"Resting," Athos repeated, a mute chuckle rattling his shoulders. A chill crept into Dupond's chest upon hearing the hopelessness lacing that voice, but before he could think of what to say, Athos continued, pushing himself away from the table. "And how old is he? A boy?"

Dupond started to feel like he was missing something that must have been obvious. His heart-rate was beginning to pick up.

Athos's eyes were bright as he pointed a finger to the table where the envelope lay.

"You do not take letters from the messenger," he said, his voice firm, but without much heat. "You bring the messenger directly to me. He should not have released his courier to you or anyone else; in war, the fewer hands a message changes, the better. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dupond replied, forcing himself to not lower his eyes.

"Next time a messenger arrives, you bring him to me, not his message."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Taking his chance, Dupond swiftly turned on his heel and made for the flap. He was going to give that messenger boy a piece of his mind –if he could get to him without slipping in this blasted mud or drowning in this rain! – he cursed under his breath and looked up sharply as he saw someone approaching from the opposite direction. It was d'Artagnan, the brim of his hat half-concealing his face, but Dupond wouldn't confuse him with anyone else, even if it was the first time he was seeing the other man wearing a hat. The Musketeer frowned as he walked past Dupond and spoke loudly to make his voice heard over the rain.

"How's the captain?"

Dupond opened his mouth to reply, but found that had no idea what to say. Grumpy? Working? As usual? Luckily, d'Artagnan did not stop to wait for his answer; instead, he flashed a knowing smile and continued on his way to Athos's tent. Dupond did not linger to watch. He had some choice words for the messenger – and some wise advice too, courtesy of Captain Athos. He had a feeling the boy could use it.

They had come by way of the river.

Rimbaud, throat slit, bled to death before he could make a sound. Thevenot, found with a cloth over his head, strangled. Pinchon, run through with a sword, straight through the heart.

They had died quickly, without suffering much. But the knowledge brought no comfort to him.

He should have posted guards on the riverside. Instead, guilt now sat in his stomach like rocks along the river bank, embedded in grating anger. What was the point of it? There had been no reason to expect an attack; let alone to expect Spaniards swimming up the river under cover of dark, weapons held high above their heads, quite as night creatures, to infiltrate their camp. A mere group of nine, against the entire regiment of the king's musketeers. What was the point? They had to have known that none would survive the night.

They had done significant damage, but, simply put, it was not serious enough to be worth the lives of nine men.

Frustration simmered in his veins, sending hot, violent pulses through his head. He should have posted guards on the riverside. A costly oversight on his part, as captain of the regiment, and the lives of three good men were now smeared gray against the walls of his conscience.

He could only pray that the delay in reaching Toussaine's camp would not have serious consequences.

When d'Artagnan entered the command tent, it was to find Athos standing before the table, one hand on his hip as the other pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were closed.

"What, Dupond?" he asked quietly.

"Sorry, not him."

Athos cracked open one eye upon hearing the Gascon's voice, the other reluctantly following suit as his hand fell from his forehead. "d'Artagnan."

"Captain." He stood in a semi-formal manner of attention, which would seem rather awkward had it been from any other soldier who did not share the level of brotherhood the two enjoyed. As it was, in the past year, d'Artagnan had easily developed a manner in Athos's presence which befitted both their respective ranks and their friendship. Athos would not have recognized the subtle shift in his own demeanor in turn, but an undetectable note would lace his voice, an additional layer slipping beneath his open gaze, in subconscious response to his friends' deference.

How the rank of captain fitted him like a tailor-made coat was oblivious, perhaps, only to himself.

"What news of supplies?" he inquired, his attentive gaze taking in d'Artagnan's appearance and relieving him of any suspicion of hurt or trouble during the brief mission. The Gascon, along with three other comrades, had been tasked with visiting nearby villages in the hopes of replenishing the regiment's food supplies.

"We secured about half of what we need," d'Artagnan reported succinctly. "The men are unloading the cargo as we speak; Aubin is overseeing it." He removed a piece of paper from his pocket as he spoke, holding it out. Athos's eyes quickly skimmed over the list Aubin, the musketeer in charge of the regiment's supplies, had given to d'Artagnan prior to the Gascon's departure two days ago.

"This is not enough to cover our loss," he declared, his voice completely toneless.

"No, but this is all the villagers can spare. Both Poiseul and Bonnecourt were hit by the Spanish recently, presumably by the same group we fought. People barely have enough grain to survive."

"Yet we have to reach General Toussaine's camp in two weeks, and if we can't get our supplies here, we certainly won't be able to do so in Lorraine."

"There is nothing to be found, Athos," d'Artagnan put, shaking his head. "There are only women and children in the villages, and old people. They're already starving without us squeezing them dry."

Athos gave him a pointed look. "Unless you suggest we settle here and grow our own grain, I don't see an alternative." He coughed slightly before allowing a small sigh to escape from his lips. "What of the sutlers?"

"I sent Petit and Simon with them to Choiseul and told them to meet us there in four days' time. There's much better change of finding grain there than here."

"Then let us hope that is the case," Athos agreed, nodding his approval. "With luck, Porthos will be able to recover the missing wagon as well. If not.. we will have some difficult days ahead."

"Not worse than what we've already been through," d'Artagnan returned. Athos could not help a nebulous quirk fleeting across his lips; the Gascon's resignation to the possibility of 'hardship', regardless of its precise definition, was a comfort in itself. "Is there any news from Porthos?" d'Artagnan inquired.

"None yet."

"They're supposed to return tomorrow, yes?"

Athos gave him a nod. Porthos and a small group musketeers in his command had been given four days to backtrack the route that would, had it not been presumably diverted, seized or destroyed by the Spanish prior to the ambush, bring an expected supply wagon to the encampment. Porthos and his men were tasked with neutralizing any remaining Spanish threat in the area in the vicinity of the camp and to try to find traces of the lost wagon. The recovery of the wagon would at least mean they could postpone the need for rationing a while longer; tempers already flayed and the mood as bleak as the weather among the musketeers since the attack, Athos would much prefer not having to add to their misery.

His aimless gaze fell on the letter on the table, lying where Dupond had left it, untouched. Looking at it properly for the first time, he noticed the simple, unofficial seal; picking it up with a frown, he turned it over and saw his name - merely Athos - in a large, simple cursive. A personal letter? From whom? He broke the seal and looked to the signature.

The letter was from Treville.

As Athos's eyes scanned the brief message and reached the last line, he blinked, and went back to the beginning for a re-read. And then, slowly, unexpectedly, a small smile smoothed away the creases around his eyes.

d'Artagnan's own lips curled at the sight of that minor miracle. "What?"

With a sparkle in his eye, Athos handed out the letter for him to read, and it took ten seconds for d'Artagnan to scan the contents and raise disbelieving eyes to his friend. "Is this possible?"

"It is from Treville."

"Yes, but..." Leaving the letter back onto the table, d'Artagnan's hands slowly rose to rest on his hips.

"You're not glad?"

"What - of course I am glad." d'Artagnan blinked again, and Athos's frown deepened.

"d'Artagnan, this is great news. This is excellent news."

"It is." d'Artagnan nodded, readily agreeing with Athos's assertion, and then, he began to grin. "It is excellent news. Athos, this is wonderful!"

Ah, there was that old saying about the sou finally dropping.. Funny that it had never been the normally sharp, open-book Gascon to make Athos think of it before. He chuckled, this time with genuine mirth, and the two friends instinctively moved towards each other, arms raising to clasp the other's shoulders in a rare, precious moment of shared joy.

And then, the nervous throat-cleaning of Jean Dupond was heard from the entrance. Athos rolled his eyes as he let go of d'Artagnan.

"What, Dupond?" The lad stood with one foot inside the tent, looking like a used mop dripping water around where he stood.

"Sir, I brought the messenger."

"What messenger?"

"Err.. The one that brought the message, sir."

"What did you bring him for? You already brought his letter to me."

Dupond's wet face had begun to contort into interesting shapes. He opened his mouth as if to reply, comically resembling a fish out of water for a second, blinked, and closed it again. Athos let out a long-suffering sigh.

"For God's sake, Dupond, don't stand there in the rain - take your messenger and go sit somewhere dry. Did you tell him what I said?"

"I - yes, sir, I did. The fewer hands a letter changes, the better. I told him."

"Good. Now get out of my sight. And find yourself a hat."

"Yes, sir."

As the sort-of-assistant disappeared once again, Athos looked up to find d'Artagnan grinning.

"Where is the poor lad going to find a hat here?"

"Where did you find one?" Athos returned, cocking his head at him even as he moved towards the wooden chest in one corner of the tent, opening it and retrieving a bottle.

d'Artagnan looked at the damp hat in his hand as if just remembering the latest addition to his uniform. "This? I stole it."

"You did not."

But d'Artagnan only grinned, white teeth flashing as he stepped closer and patted his friend's shoulder. "You may have just encouraged one of your men into theft, Captain. Nice. Not long now until you have a mutiny in your hands."

"For which I'll have you to thank for," Athos glared.

"What will you do? Court martial me?"

And he left the flap swishing in his wake, still grinning as he left.

Athos shook his head as he removed the cork from the bottle and reached for a cup. For the hundredth time since becoming captain, he found himself thinking the same thing: it wasn't going to be this war, but Porthos and d'Artagnan who'd be the undoing of him.

Now, he could add Dupond to that list as well.

Thank you for reading. It would be lovely to hear what you think.