AN: I am a lying liar that lies. I tell terrible, terrible lies about when I plan on updating. TERRIBLE LIES. I am sooooo sorry to anybody that I promised an update to over the weekend and to everyone that was tentatively promised an update in August. Wow... I have no words for how bad I am at this updating thing.

On a side note, this chapter is getting us closer to the end, so you'll only have to put up with my crappy commitment issues for a few more installments. Potentially three or four, but maybe more (or maybe less).

I want to thank everybody who took the time to follow, favorite or review the last time they were reading. It really means a lot to me (even though I don't express my gratitude through regular updates). Don't forget to follow or favorite if you haven't already, and please review when you're done reading!

Disclaimer: I still (sadly) own nothing recognizable. If this ever changes I am either dreaming, or the world is ending.

Hope you guys enjoy!


D'Artagnan's fever-stricken body jolted around the back of the wagon, his temperature steadily climbing in its desperation to fight off the infection that was set into every tear of the Gascon's flesh. His dehydration-crazed brain floated between unconsciousness and the hell that was his almost-waking moments.

He could detect the shifting of the cart as it listed from one side of the road to the other; he could sense the gentle caress of the wind as it bit at his skin with a thousand ice cold shards; he could hear the gentle voice of Porthos talking him to sleep and the cheerful jabs Aramis made in between gaps in Porthos' story; he could feel Athos calming hand as it combed through his hair, brushing it back away from his eyes like he remembered from a night months ago when Athos thought d'Artagnan had been sleeping off the poison that counted as food in the rundown tavern they had been to.

D'Artagnan floated listlessly in a state of fog, enjoying the presence of his friends and dancing back and forth around Treville's name - such a funny thing for Henri to say. He saw the letters – multicolored and moving. He watched the 'r' turn into a little hill that changed shape as each letter took their turn sliding down into the sea of 'e's at the bottom. He watched the 'i' perform a song of its own making on an oddly v-shaped lute. He watched the 't' waltz carefully with the 'l', making sure to avoid tripping on its dress.

And then he watched himself getting chased by a mob of letters, each with a blue cloak, a brown pauldron and a dangerously glinting sword. D'Artagnan viewed the letters in sporadic little bursts of time - flashes of color and fun and terror, followed by worlds of black - while he listened to the sounds of Porthos and Aramis, the feeling of Athos' fingers still stroking through his hair.

D'Artagnan's exhaustion grew as he ran from a swarm of buzzing 'v's, his delusional mind racing with the realization that Treville was a nicely spelled name. It had a nice menagerie of letters. It had a nice sound. It had a nice feel. It was a good name.

At least for a bunch of homicidal letters.


Aramis blinked away the mass of black that swirled in front of his eyes, concentrating on putting one foot down in front of the other without falling headfirst into Athos, who was walking briskly in front of him. His ears rang - a thumping tempo that broke out into a symphony every time Porthos' suddenly booming voice filled the blessedly silent night. Aramis could see the beginnings of dawn shining through the trees ahead, the light biting at his skull like an angry dog gnawing hungrily on a precious bone.

The usually fun-loving musketeer groaned quietly to himself, the prospect of journeying for the entirety of the day - more than likely at breakneck speed - making him more than a little apprehensive of the next twenty four hours. His eyes drooped as they neared the horses, his mind foggy and sluggish. Blinking rapidly he moved to heave himself up into his saddle, pushing down the nauseous feeling in his stomach as he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. D'Artagnan is more important, he chanted listlessly in his mind. D'Artagnan is more important than this little headache that I have.

Deep down Aramis knew he shouldn't be making sudden movements, let alone riding for a solid fourteen hours with no sleep and an empty stomach. If Aramis were any other person, he would have made them stay behind and recover at the inn. The medic in him knew this, the friend in him disagreed.

Aramis followed Athos from the small clearing where the three had left their horses earlier that night, the rear being closely bought up by Porthos. When they had moved out onto the wider path that lead back through the village and in the direction of Paris, Porthos peeled off the back of the line and urged his horse up to where Aramis was barely keeping up with Athos. He coughed loudly, catching Athos' attention and causing Aramis to cringe in pain at the sound.

The sight Aramis made was painful to Athos, knowing that he could do nothing to ease the journey and unable to let up on the already fast pace that he had set for the three. Athos dropped back beside Aramis, protecting his other side and making Aramis smile appreciatively at two of the three most important people in his life. He knew that he had to push through the pain of his concussion, but he didn't mind - not really - as long as he was reunited with the final member of his family.

Aramis' mind continued to play a steady rhythm of suffering.


D'Artagnan felt something wet pull him from the game he was playing with the end of his father's cloak - a nice game with laughing and smiling and enjoyment.

A nice game with knives and blood and screaming.

It was a nice game that he would never get to see the end of. D'Artagnan sapped up the wet liquid at his lips greedily, but still…

He'd missed the final seconds of his game.


Aramis could barely keep his eyes open as the day wore on and the sun rose progressively higher into the sky. He took the wordlessly offered canteen from Athos' hands, forcing himself to drink down as much of the liquid as possible without emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground underneath him. Moving to the supplies that they had retrieved from the inn and pulling out a small pouch of powder, Aramis mixed some with water in the lid and downed it in one swallow. The powdered arnica helped numb the pain that was steadily increasing as the temperature rose and his sleepless day elongated.

Athos and Porthos talked in hushed whispers off to one side, careful not to make more noise than necessary, knowing that it would cause Aramis more undue pain. For this Aramis was grateful. More than anything he wanted to be back in Paris: d'Artagnan found, life repaired and happily asleep.

It was a shame most of Aramis' dreams never came true.


D'Artagnan eyed the mouse in his stew with distaste while Fernand flipped a coin back and forth in his hands, making it appear and disappear with ease.

"The mutton's good," he said, nodding toward the mouse dangling between d'Artagnan's fingers. "You barely notice the taste when they trick you into liking it. The secret to a good trick? Making people look the wrong way. A game of sorts. You beat the record, boy. "

D'Artagnan glanced at the mouse disbelievingly. When he glanced back up, Fernand was gone.


Athos watched hesitantly as Aramis lowered himself to the ground beside the river, his head listing to the side and his eyes sinking closed of their own accord. He was pale and sweating, unable to down much more than a few sips of water and a mouthful of bread. He moved to where Porthos was unbuckling the saddle of Aramis' horse and setting it loose to join with the other two exhausted geldings that were already drinking water.

"We can let them rest for thirty minutes before we must continue on our way."

Porthos sighed at the words but nodded in agreement. Looking at Aramis he responded, "It's gettin' harder and harder for 'im to stay awake on 'is horse. The blow to 'is head must 'ave been worse 'en we thought. We've still got a few more hours before we're back in Paris and the sun's only just started sinkin'."

Athos frowned and gauged the height of the sun above the horizon. "We have no choice but to continue before d'Artagnan is lost once more. How we are even going to find him once we return to Paris I have no hope of imagining, but until then we must continue on. Aramis will tell us when he has reached his limit. Still, we must watch him closely." He paused. In a much quieter voice he continued on. "If we do not get him back I do not know what will become of me." Maybe he was selfish in wanting d'Artagnan back for the sake of his sanity, but he carried no qualms with this knowledge. Losing two younger brothers would break him.

Porthos remained silent, a frown of concern gracing his face. He watched the horses as they rolled through the grass and drank their fill. He looked at Aramis - ghostly and sleeping - his face drawn with pain. He thought of d'Artagnan, unknown injuries marring his body and abandonment in his heart.

Porthos nodded and handed Athos the canteen.


D'Artagnan killed the dog - the same dog he had raised and loved and cared for. His father smiled encouragingly.

"One should never get too attached to something that they can easily lose."

D'Artagnan shot his father.


Porthos nudged Aramis farther onto his horse, noticing him dropping off to one side as his eyes drooped. Aramis barely had the energy to direct an affronted look at him. He may feel like he was dying, but that didn't mean he was going to just topple off his horse.

The edges of Paris were just coming into the scenery around them, the small farms becoming denser and the road widening into a street large enough for two carriages to pass beside each other comfortably.

Porthos peered through the darkness, hoping to see some sign of their young friend.

"We will find you. We will find you, d'Artagnan."

Porthos barely caught the mumbled words to his left. Looking over, he saw Athos staring just as intently into the dark night, scanning for their lost companion.

Henri pulled the worn brown hat farther down his face, obscuring his eyes and casting a shadow across his features. The longer he managed to go unrecognized the more chance he would have to confront Treville. Hefting d'Artagnan's limp body higher in his arms, Henri approached the gate of the garrison, stumbling slightly and making enough noise to draw attention to himself. The boy was still alive, which boded well for this meeting. Treville would yell and ask questions and make demands, but only after he was sure that d'Artagnan was receiving the best possible care. That was when Henri would strike.


Henri let out a shout, alerting the guards on night watch of his arrival. Leveling their weapons at the odd mass stumbling forward in the dark, they advanced until the distinguishable shape of a haggard old man trembling under the burden of a limp body could be made out. Rushing forward, the two guards - one short and bulky with a curled mustache, the other slightly taller and older with graying hair and sagging wrinkles - carefully took the burden off of the unknown man. Panting, the man straightened out his back and smiled charmingly at the two guards.

"Thank you," Henri gasped out between breaths, gulping in the night air. His breathing returning to normal, Henri bowed and continued talking. "I didn't know where else to take him. Found him just lying in an alley back over there." He gestured wildly behind him. "He mumbled something about musketeers. Said his name was d'Artagnan. Not really sure what he was talking about, but I thought I should bring him here. He's obviously hurt." Henri rang his hands anxiously in the air, fretting over the body in the smaller musketeer's hands. "Can you help him? You can help him, right?"

Henri almost didn't notice the furious look that passed between the two guards. They spoke back and forth in quiet, short sentences, turning and walking quickly away from Henri into the compound. Henri had to trot after them to keep up, slipping inside before anyone could tell him not to. The smaller of the two guards moved toward the light that rested upon one of the tables in the open yard, laying the body down and moving d'Artagnan's hair away from his face to be able to see the features more clearly. Despite the trauma that d'Artagnan had been put through in the past week, he was still distinguishable underneath the layers of blood and dirt.

"It's him, Ignace. Get Treville."

The older man, Ignace, turned and moved swiftly toward the staircase leading up to the balcony around the upper level of the building, taking the stairs two at a time. Henri hung off to the side, hiding in the shadows and waiting for the captain to come down from the landing where he was talking in hushed whispers with Ignace. His cloak swishing with each step, Treville burst down the stairs, anxious and more than a little agitated. He moved over to d'Artagnan's motionless body, checking for a pulse.

"Why haven't you got a healer yet?" he snapped to the slowly forming group that had since arrived to see what the problem was.

"Sir, it's d'Artagnan. Should we not be reporting his presence to the magistrate? He deserves no healer," the shorter musketeer bit out.

Henri jerked in surprise. What had his nephew done since he had last seen him?

Treville visible reddened with anger, the light from the lamp throwing shadows off his face. "Report him the magistrate? My God, what have I gotten him into? No, of course we will not report him, Devin." He moved to tower over the musketeer. "Now, you are going to tell the healer that he is needed immediately and I am going to do everything I can to save d'Artagnan's life. Are we clear?" Devin's head jerked angrily in the affirmative. Turning to the crowd Treville raised his voice to be heard above the chatter. "Once d'Artagnan's fate is settled, be it good or ill, we are all going to have a long discussion about the many hardships that I have recently given to our young friend."

Hefting d'Artagnan into his arms, Treville shot Devin on last stern glance, sending him racing toward the gates and the healers.

Henri saw his chance and he took it.


D'Artagnan was floating in one of his increasingly rare semi-conscious states. Each jostled step ignited fiery tingles throughout his limbs; tingles that honed in on his broken bones and broken flesh and burnt through any semblance of comfort. The voices around him faded in and out - always familiar, always eliciting dread from deep within. He couldn't quite place why hearing the familiar sounds of the garrison around him was a dangerous thing. He didn't quite know why he was more afraid of being locked in the arms that carried him than he had been the whole time he was with Fernand. D'Artagnan wasn't sure where his true fear stemmed from, but he knew that he needed to get away. He would remember, he told himself. It would come back to him when he could think clearly and move properly and breathe correctly. In the meantime, he needed to wake up.

D'Artagnan fought against the blanket that hung over his mind, trying to command his limbs to listen to what he wanted them to do. He channeled all his efforts into moving the arm that was draped precariously over the shoulder of the man that was holding him: the arm that was keeping him secure in his position. He heard a soft voice whispering to him: Treville speaking with his face under water. He heard an even less coherent shout: Henri yelling from a thousand leagues away. He heard panic: a handful of voices sharpening into a hundred.

The obvious commotion stirred d'Artagnan's frazzled mind into a state of terror, his body rushing with adrenaline. He shoved, forcing every last bit of his strength into just waking up and moving. All he wanted to do was break free from the grip that held him in place.

They're coming for me, they're coming for me, they're coming for me.

Who was coming for him? He didn't really know. All he was aware of was that he needed to get lost before he got caught. He needed to make it out of his prison place before he was hung for his role in the slaving. He needed to go before Fernand caught up with him and carved more pictures. He needed to hide before Bernard tried to impress Fernand again with a bucket and some water.

He needed to be gone before Athos could see what depths he had fallen to.

It all happened in an instant, d'Artagnan's senses not up to par with the world around him. The watery bang of the gun. The feeling of spinning away from his once secure position. The ripping of metal tearing through his side. The sense of dropping from a high perch. The sting of a new gaping wound that melted in with all his other aches as he hit the ground.

The shouts, the screams, the yells.

D'Artagnan wasn't sure if he had been the one to move or if the person carrying him had landed him in this position. If he was being completely honest with his fever crazed mind, d'Artagnan wasn't sure of much anymore. He wasn't sure if he was on the ground or underwater or in the air or in heaven. He wasn't sure if he was alive or if he was dead or if he was dying. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be dead, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to be living either. He wasn't sure where he was, or what he was doing, or who was around him.

The only thing d'Artagnan was sure of was that being shot was not nearly as painful when it happened a second time.

It was a peculiar thing to learn, considering that a person had to live through not one but two bullet holes to get to this conclusion. It wasn't a very interesting thing to know. Not very useful either and… was it getting cold outside? D'Artagnan made out the muffled sounds of shouting, his mind heavy with increasing exhaustion. He'd sleep for a few moments and then he would see what all the commotion was about.

Just a few moments…


The three brothers trotted their horses toward the center of Paris, heading in the direction of the garrison. Aramis bobbed dangerously on his horse, listing to one side precariously. Athos and Porthos flanked him, nudging him back into place every time he moved off of center.

Athos' dread was growing with each passing hour that they were behind d'Artagnan and Henri, not knowing what was going on in front of them. He urged his horse on a little faster, drawing the last ounces of strength from the animal.

The streets around Porthos were familiar, getting more and more well-known as they neared the garrison. He nudged Aramis slightly to the left, earning himself a sharp look that was accompanied by a pained moan. "We're jus' abou-"

The harsh ring of a gun echoed through the quiet of the Paris night, bouncing off the edges of the buildings around them and amplifying in the empty space.

Athos and Porthos exchanged frantic looks with each other over the head of Aramis who was forcing himself to keep his meager rations inside his stomach.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos breathed into the night, launching his horse even faster toward the noise.

Aramis pictured their closest brother - hurt, alone, abandoned, bleeding - dying on the cold ground of Paris' roads. His stomach rolled at the thought, his mind sang with pain, his ears rang with the sound of the gun and he promptly emptied his stomach over the side of his horse.


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