D'Artagnan
The sensation of cold woke him. He pull out a hand to reach a blanket or rather he tried to as pain exploded in his side and made him to come to a standstill. To focus solely on breathing through the pain as he was taught. Too many times in his short life that lesson was repeated. When the fire in his side subsided to a dull throbbing he opened his eyes.

Leaves. Red and brown and gold leaves were what he saw. He did not remember how he got there. Carefully he moved his head. There was fog above him and nearly inscrutable tree branches. His memory slowly started to return.

There was a foggy afternoon. There was a mission. It was not a solitary mission.

Where were his brothers?! D'Artagnan fought the urge to get up quickly as it might lead to loss of consciousness. Instead he lifted himself a little on his elbows. He took his whereabouts. A misty forest. A steep slope. There was something with this slope. He began to be quite sure that he fell from it. He could even distinguish the traces of his fall left in wet leaves and mud. But still he had no idea which events had led to it.

There had been a mission. The mission had been successfully completed. Musketeers were returning to Paris in good moods especially that Comte D'Abrun to whom they delivered message had invited them to spend night in his estate. Soft clean beds, warm rooms, tasty breakfast… Just little pleasures.

So distant now and unimportant.

They had nothing valuable on them so nobody should have had any reason to attack them. The Comte even did not give them any answer. And no sane bandit would attack musketeers. The ambush took them by surprised.

'Porthos!'- Athos shouted with anguish. The shout followed by a shot. D'Artagnan glanced at the direction where Porthos was fighting with three men only to see one of them holding a pistol. The scene played before his eyes like in slow motion. Porthos stumbled and went down, blood trickling down his face. This glance cost younger musketeer dearly as one of his opponent managed to past through his defense. He felt the sting of the blade followed by warm wetness.

So why was he there, in that forest? ALONE. Only now, with his memories, he was able to register the pain of the wound in his arm. He did not remember when or how he received the injury causing fire in his side. It had in common something with the horse, with the struggling on the horse... His memories were as foggy as that cold afternoon. Maybe evening?

The furious ride. Sound of hooves. Angry shouts. And the shot. The flare of pain.

So it was a shot wound. Bad.

D'Artagnan assessed the distance to the nearest tree. He begun to move tediously towards it. It took ages but finally he managed to sit supported by the trunk. He draw a dagger from his boot… Why he did not have his sword?! He looked around frantically by nowhere saw his weapon.

One step at time – he reminded grimly and took a part of his shirt. After several minutes of fighting against pain, he managed to bind the wound as tightly as it was possible for him. He must have fainted sometime during that operation as when he became aware of surroundings he felt a warm breath on his face. His sweated hair were gently nibbled. He opened his eyes. It took time to focus his sight enough to look into beautiful brown eyes of his mare. She sniffed and anxiously touched his cheek with her black wet nose.
'My girl... '- D'Artagnan mumbled
She was his salvation if only he had enough strength to mount her. First two trials finished with young musketeer lying semi-conscious near hooves of his horse. D'Artagnan did not really remember how he managed to reach her back. He knew only that he heavily leaned to her neck barely able to breathe from exhaustion and pain. When finally he opened his eyes he had the impression that it was darkening. He knew that the night in the cold without the wound properly tended to might be his last. He could not give in not knowing the fate of his brothers.

D'Artagnan made his horse to move, without really picking any direction. Maybe his smart mare wound find the way to her comrades, to his friends. All the young musketeer could do was not to fall from her back. Too late he thought about his saddlebags and some medical kit there. For now they were as good as non-existent.