Now this chapter is much more up my alley for writing. I hope you guys like it as much as I liked writing it.

Why do we whump poor D'Artagnan? The poor boy deserves a break, but I can't give it to him in this story.

Anywho, enjoy!

A few weeks past, and D'Artagnan was beginning to feel sick of his forced confinement to the pallet in the kitchen. Every time he would try to get up for a reason other than the toilet Porthos would push him back down with some sort of offhand comment, Aramis would worry and then say a prayer for D'Artagnan's health to guilt him back into bed, and Athos would growl and behave like a mother bear with a thorn in its paw: grumbling and angered, but concerned nonetheless. It was honoring to know the men had begun to care for him so much so quickly, but D'Artagnan was itching to get out of the apartment for some fresh air. Also, he had a handkerchief to return and some sweet words to give to Constance. Love, or rather his chance at love, was way more important than the pain that still radiated from his left shoulder and the healing hole in his flesh.

D'Artagnan waited until the musketeers had gone on their watch to slip his feet into his boots, place his sword at his waist, and make his cautious way out of the apartment. He was just about to open the door and was still shrugging on his jacket when Planchet burst in. The door caught D'Artagnan's chin with a crack. The next few moments were of Planchet worrying over his young master and D'Artagnan cupping his face in his hands. Until D'Artagnan got a wonderfully wicked idea.

"Planchet!" D'Artagnan barked, and the round man snapped to attention. "I will forgive you this once if, and only if, you do not breathe a word of my leaving to the others. You do, and I will never forgive you."

It may have been childish. It may have been slightly idiotic. But D'Artagnan was now quite confident he would be safe from Porthos, Aramis, and God forbid, Athos from finding out he had escaped their healing clutches. And with his threat, he walked out of the house and down the road, his pace slow but his head held high. He was finally out of that blasted house, and the brisk cool of fall made him feel alive when he breathed in its chill.

He started up for the palace with an ambling gate, cautious not to pull the almost healed tear in his side and not to knock his shoulder into any passerby. It took an agonizing amount of time to reach the palace as compared to D'Artagnan's pace on a normal day. He clenched the handkerchief in his hand a bit tighter. C.B. Those initials were what kept his steady pace aimed at the castle. It was also a bit of a shock to find out how weak he had let himself become over the past few weeks. He was supposed to be having grand adventures and learning life's lessons, not playing the invalid and playing of the empathy and pity of his newfound friends. Perhaps he was simply a burden on them, he certainly was a burden financially. But what if they simply let him stay because he had been injured under their watch and felt guilty.

The past few weeks D'Artagnan had harbored these thoughts and they had cooked with the fever in his mind, becoming darker thoughts and leaving him unsure in the presence of the other musketeers.

D'Artagnan finally made his way to the servant's entrance, concealed along the side of the grand palace. He knocked three times, and waited. Soon, a man not much older than himself opened the door and revealed a revolting orange outfit of King Louis XIII's ugliest livery. Suppressing a grimace D'Artagnan asked for Miss Bonacieux and the man bounced away with the orange feathers in his cap bouncing as well.

D'Artagnan dearly hoped that orange was not going to be made fashionable by the king. It was horrendous on most people and most definitely did not suit himself. Fortunately D'Artagnan didn't have to contemplate the horrors of the color orange as the man came back, and the pretty face of Constance peered around the many feathers.

"Good afternoon, Miss Bonacieux. I trust you are well?" D'Artagnan smirked at the brief look of surprise on her face at seeing him up and about, but nonetheless stepped forward and offered her arm.

"May we stroll a bit? I was just feeling the need for a breath of fresh air."

"Certainly, my lady."

They both enjoyed putting on airs in front of the other man, who's ears had begun to turn red as his filthy imagination came up with his idea of 'a breath of fresh air'. D'Artagnan would have to fight him later for Constance's honor, but for now he was content to stroll with her and laugh at the man's expense. He was wearing orange, for God's sake.

He lead her down the path to the gardens where late flowers were in bloom and from there she took charge of their path, leaving his mind to stay focused on their conversation and keeping himself upright. D'Artagnan could feel his energy draining away and cursed himself for it. He had only been upright for an hour at most. He had to push the thought of falling out of his head, lest he do trip and not be able to get back up again.

"You left something in my apartment, I can only assume I am doing something that pleases you," D'Artagnan offered her the handkerchief, and she happily accepted it back.

"Maybe you are not so pleasing as amusing," She smiled devilishly and D'Artagnan felt his heart skip a beat at that smile.

"But amusing things are dropped quickly, and you are happy to see me still."

"Or maybe you still amuse me yet with your antics."

They turned again, but this time they turned into a path that was regularly patrolled by the Cardinal's guards as the path lead to his quarters. Neither noticed where their feet had take them, but two black and red clad soldiers did and their hackles raised.

"Oi, isn't it a bit late for you two to be out!" One called mockingly.

D'Artagnan shifted his weight and his fingers traced the hilt of his sword. His eyes glinted at the challenge. Beside him, Constance rolled her eyes and prepared to back off.

"Look, the boy wants to play soldier! Tell me, young whelp, can you handle a blade? Or did you nick your father's to impress your girl?" Both of the soldiers burst out laughing and D'Artagnan drew his sword. On a regular day he was sure he could have beaten both of the men easily, for they were arrogant and lazy. However, today he was not at his best, and exhaustion had settled into his bones. He prayed his fever wouldn't come back after this outing.

The men stopped laughing at the slithering sound of steel and drew their own blades, now angered by D'Artagnan's impudence. Both men charged and D'Artagnan sprang forwards to meet them.

He dodged under one sword and blocked the other from slicing his head off. He could feel his side tearing and the rough movements of his body jostled his shoulder painfully. Gritting his teeth, D'Artagnan kicked out at one of the soldiers who had his arm raised in a skull-crushing blow. His boot connected with the soft belly and the man fell as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air.

The other soldier proved himself much better with a sword than his companion, and had the exhausted boy dancing on the tips of his toes to avoid his blade. D'Artagnan caught the soldier's blade with his own as he blocked it and slid forwards, meaning to pass and gain the open ground and leave the soldier with nowhere to run. The soldier, however, was one of the Cardinal's men, and so played by dirty rules. The man reached back and aimed a punch at D'Artagnan's nose. With quick reflexes D'Artagnan managed to avoid the blow that would have broken his nose, but caught it on his injured shoulder.

Pain, utter pain ripped through D'Artagnan and he broke the first rule of swordsmanship for the first time in his life. He let go of his sword. The clatter of the metal on the path was soon followed by the soft thud of his body, though he couldn't remember when he stopped telling them to stand. All that mattered was the pain that was tearing through him. A high keening sound filled his ears, and it took him a few moments to realize the sound was coming from himself.

"What did you do?" The guard he had kicked had evidently found out how to breathe again and he hissed at his partner.

"I just hit him. I swear!"

"He's wearing a musketeer's jacket, you know we aren't allowed to fight with them."

"And nobody will know it was us if we leave now!"

The two men hurried away from D'Artagnan, who was trying desperately to keep his arm attached to his body for it felt like it was being torn away slowly and painfully.

All he could hope was that Constance had gone to find help, whoever it might possibly be. He had noticed her missing while he was fighting the two men, and as he pulled himself to lean against the strong branches of the hedge he could only hope she had found help quickly.