Porthos woke with a groan, his voice echoing in the dim light of morning. He opened bleary, bloodshot eyes and looked furtively around as he took in his surroundings. They were in some sort of outbuilding, he figured; he could smell a deep, earthy stench permeating from outside . It was a peaty, thick smell that immediately clogged his nostrils; indicating maybe a shed or a barn. Soil was caked on the floor, black and rotting, and he turned up his nose as the distinct smell of manure wafted in from a window to his left.

He groaned again, flexing his wrists. He was sat slumped against a wall, his hands encircled by thick silver chains, tethering him to the floor. 'Aramis?' He called, his voice cracking slightly. 'Athos?'

'Here,' the familiar sound of their medic called out. The weak morning sunlight had not yet reached the other side of the building, but if Porthos squinted he could just make out his friend, also slumped and shackled to the floor. 'You hurt?'

Porthos snorted, but had to concede that he was not physically hurt. 'Nah, I'm alright. You?'

'Could be worse. Could be better, though.' The larger man heard Aramis moved around a little; the clinking of chains met his ears for a few seconds before the other man cleared his throat.

'Where's Athos?'

'Dunno. I can't see him- thought he was with you.'

'No..' Porthos could hear panic in the other man's voice now. 'Athos?!" He called out, louder now.

There was a few seconds of silence before they heard the tinkling of chains rustling from somewhere in the middle of them- Porthos strained his eyes, before finally settling on the figure of Athos; he was sat, slumped against a wooden support that ran from the ceiling to the floor, pinioned, as they were, to the ground by chains.

'Sorry,' Athos muttered to them, groaning as he sat up straighter. 'Must have dozed off.'

'I've never been so glad to hear your voice, Mon Ami!' Aramis chuckled, shaking his head.

'I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not...' Athos muttered, sighing as he looked around. 'Where in God's name are we?'

'Don't know. Some sort of shed, I think.' Porthos replied, sniffing and trying not to gag.

'Outside, definitely,' Aramis nodded. 'And these bastards...' He shook his wrists, sending the chains rattling again, 'are going to take ages to pick.'

Athos sat back, trying to quell the panic in his chest. These men depended on him now, and his next moves. He suddenly looked around, eyes wide as a new anxiety pierced his stomach.

'D'Artagnan...?' He enunciated his fear, throwing the question to the other two men.

'Hasn't come back, ' Aramis answered in a dark, somber voice.

'No one has seen him since last night?' Athos breathed, eyes wide. Porthos, to his left, shook his head sadly, whilst Aramis strained against his bonds in a renewed effort to get free.

The medic swore under his breath. 'This is all my fault..' He grunted, shaking his head. 'We should never have let him go with that old crone...'

'Well,' a sweet, feminine voice suddenly cut into their conversation. Porthos straightened immediately, trying to pinpoint the woman who had just entered the building, while Athos and Aramis merely needed to look to the door that was behind them. 'That's not very nice, considering I've brought your friend back, and breakfast for you all...' She added, stepping forwards into the morning sunlight.

The three men stayed silent as she led a pale, but still very much alive D'Artagnan into the main part of the building where they all were. Athos looked him up and down, taking note of any new injury that he might have picked up.

'There now, you go and sit just here...' The woman motioned a spot next to Aramis, but still far enough away that the medic couldn't get to him while still tethered by the chains. 'Good lad.' Aramis cast his eyes over the Gascon as he gingerly sat- he didn't have his coat on any more, and there was a clean white bandage wound tight around his shoulder; it looked a decent job, and for that Aramis was grateful.

The feeling was dampened, however, as the old woman then stooped and, without a word, clicked chains around D'Artagnan's wrists- Athos watched in a quiet disbelief- this woman was old, feeble...why wasn't the younger man fighting back?

Once she was done, the old woman stood back up again, massaging her lower back.

'Here, have your coat back...' The woman continued, dropping the thick material onto the younger man's lap. 'A model patient, he was!' She smiled, a small chuckle erupting from her mouth. 'Very quiet, very good with pain...' She sighed good-naturedly, even though her comments were met with a wall of silence and suspicion from the four men sitting bound around her, before turning her attention to a wicker basket under her arm.

'Now, I've just got bread, I'm afraid, but it's fresh.' She began, taking out one loaf, encased in a white muslin-like material, at a time and dropping it into each musketeer's lap. 'I do suggest you eat it. You'll need your strength.'

'For what, my lady?' Aramis asked, hoping being polite would turn them into favour with her.

'You'll see...' She chuckled again, her laugh tinkling like his grandmother's used to when she was pretending to laugh at a joke he had told her.

Without another word she turned and walked back to the door. The door closed with a finality that made Athos very nervous. He pushed the feeling back, at least for now, and instead looked across to D'Artagnan again.

'You alright?' He asked. 'Did they hurt you?'

'I'm...fine.' The younger man replied, voice saturated with confusion. 'She fixed my shoulder, took the bullet out...' He looked across to Aramis, who was the closest to him. 'She saved my life, I guess.' The last word made the sentence sound like a question-why did they save him?

'Maybe they want us for something else,' Porthos muttered darkly.

'Like what?' D'Artagnan's voice was high, betraying his age and perceived innocence in the eyes of the seasoned musketeers.

'Probably money.' Athos sat back, resting his head against the wooden pole his was tethered to. 'It's always money with people like them.'

'Probably a ransom demand will be given to Treville, or even the King, no doubt.' Aramis muttered quietly, flexing his wrist against. The bread, still warm in its cloth covering, made him feel very hungry. 'You think they would...poison the bread?' He asked lightly as his stomach gave an almighty growl.

'They fixed the lad's shoulder, saving him from catastrophic infection and almost certain death.' Athos reminded him. 'I highly doubt they would poison the bread.'

Aramis let out a breath as he tried to work out how exactly to eat the damned bread without using his arms.

Before he could put his plan to the test the door opened with a tumultuous bang, and the sound of leather boots on stone permeated the air. Each man tensed as the figure stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed against his chest; it was the man with the red coat from the night before.

'Morning, lads!' He called his voice already grating in Athos' ear. 'I trust you all slept well.' He paused, as if waiting for the men to answer him.

'Hm,' he huffed, like a petulant child. 'Suit yourselves...' He muttered, before giving each man a proper look. 'Oh, look...' He chuckled, spying the bread in each of the men's laps. 'She made you breakfast, did she?' His voice was high and childlike as he spoke. Again, none of the musketeers spoke; they all merely sat in a forced silence, staring the man out.

'She never makes me breakfast...' His voice turned sour now. He stooped down and grabbed the bread from Aramis, looked at it for a few seconds, before dropping it onto the dirty floor and standing on it, squashing it into the soil and mud, '...and I'm her bloody son!'

He kicked the now useless bread into the corner of the room, before walking a few paces to his left and stooping to Athos now. Again, he took the bread, looked at it for a few seconds, before this time grasping the loaf and, with both hands, tearing it apart into halves and quarters before throwing the bits into the middle of the room.

'I do so much for this damn family, and what does she do?!' He cursed, his face almost alight with fury. He stopped his tirade for a second, breathing deeply to calm himself down. 'Well, don't worry..' He muttered, voice almost dripping with a kind of anger that Aramis had only heard in the most dangerous of prisoners and murderers he and the others had ever come across.

'Soon, they'll know what I'm really capable of...' He looked down at D'Artagnan, as if only seeing his for the first time. His eyes roved over him, before settling on his wound.

'Did she make it all better?' His voice was high again, mockingly so. He chuckled deeply and suddenly, without warning clasped a hand onto his shoulder, his thumb right in the middle of his bandage. D'Artagnan's face melted into an expression of agony as he cried out as the man squeezed, until red started to appear on the white of the bandage. Aramis roared in anger, desperately trying to break the chains. 'Leave him alone! He shouted.

'Don't want you to get too comfy, do we?' The man muttered as he stepped back, a mad glint in his eye. He turned to Aramis, who was now breathing heavily with the exertion of trying to break his chains. 'Very good show, but these chains were forged by my grandfather, and they've never let him down.' He told him.

'Who are you?!' Aramis yelled, trying to throw himself forwards, 'what is this?!'

'It's a game.' The man simply said, a horrible smile spreading across his face. 'And you're the playing pieces!' He looked across at the men, before sighing as they still all said nothing.

'You city people don't know anything, do you?' He chuckled, before shaking his head and sighing. 'What season is it right now?' His words were met again with silence. This time, however, it seemed to make the man angry.

He stepped forwards to Athos, bound against the wooden support strut, before kneeling down in front of him. A slap to the face caught the musketeer off guard. 'What season is it?' He repeated.

Athos remained stoic, his mind whirring as he tried to think two steps ahead of the man. Another slap to the face echoed inside the room- Athos let out a breathy, deep laugh, his eyes dancing with anger as he felt his cheek begin to sting.

'What season is it?'

'It's Autumn.' Athos finally replied, voice dark.

The man sighed, shrugging. 'Well, yes,' he conceded, 'but what other season is it?' Another slap, hard enough to throw Athos' head to the side.

'What season? ' another slap, harder again. Still Athos said nothing.

'Come on, city boy- what season only really matters in the country?!' The man shouted into his voice, before catching his face with a backhanded blow.

'H-hunting season.' Athos finally said, a dark feeling sinking into the pit of his stomach as he said the words.

Aramis momentarily forgot to breathe as the realisation suddenly dawned. Hunting season.

'Very good!' The man crowed, before standing up and looking around. 'It's hunting season. And you-' he looked around at the musketeers, '- you're the quarry.'

His words were met with a deathly silence. The sun was well and truly up now, sending sunlight casting down onto the shocked, disbelieving faces of the musketeers. This time, the man seemed to revel in the silence- without another word he stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

There was a long, pained silence, as each man tried to digest the man's words. It was Aramis who finally broke the silence. 'Remind me never to move to the countryside.'

His words were met with a strained smile from D'Artagnan, a small snort from Porthos and a roll of the eyes from Athos.

'What are we going to do, Athos?' Porthos muttered.

'I...' Athos swallowed, looking around him for something, anything, to unpick the locks. 'I'm thinking.' Was all he could say. He tried not to let his voice betray him, but he knew it already had. How was he going to get them out of this?

Thank you for reading!

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