a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.

Note: So, this is the (finally) last chapter. Finger crossed! Originally it was part of the last chapter, but I ultimately decided to separate them.

Chapter includes (warning/spoilers): violence, blood consumption.

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Your Death is My Life
Chapter 10: —

d'Artagnan inhaled sharply, gasping, sucking in oxygen like a desperate man, before the panic cleared from his mind and he settled down a little. He didn't need to breath anymore, so when he didn't and he forgot, panic seized him as he remembered exactly how painful and scary not being able to breath had been.

He wondered how he could so easily forget that he was a vampire. Being undead wasn't usually something someone forgot. But all he remembered was his death and then his undeath. He was entirely shocked to find himself waking up kind of alive, but Constance was there—Constance was here.

He'd been bleeding to death into the ground beneath him, the piece of wood that Aramis had yanked from him left him like a free flowing tap, and then Milady had exploded on him, filling his mouth, his wounds, covering him—and he'd died... and woke up three days later as a vampire. Milady had become his maker after all; in her attempt to kill him, she had saved his life.

But it was a life he had given up on. Constance's question rang through his head; will you hide behind death or face it? Which one did he choose?

He didn't feel the same, like he was an entirely different person.

His heart was like a dead thing inside his chest, a heavy weight. A still stone that had no function but to remind him exactly what wasn't beating life through his body. But Constance had told him that a vampire's heart still beat, a slow single beat once a day.

When he felt it, and he did feel it, that first time—it was like a sledgehammer to his chest and it had scared the life out of him.

His expressive brown eyes, so sensitive; were now turned red and filled with hunger, his stomach was an empty pit; the burn in the back of his throat, the hunger was maddening and needed to be sated.

He felt amazing, especially after he fed. Invincible. He was afraid of himself. The damage he could do, the pain he could cause—it was frightening. He hadn't wanted to be weak anymore, defenceless—but now he was too powerful.

Milady's house had become his. Her 'day-bed', his. Everything, his.

He hadn't seen the Inseparables since, but he hadn't dared to leave the house either, refused to leave. He couldn't trust himself, with the hunger that he had felt, that he used to muse idly at when he was a dumb human wanting to be a vampire.

Constance had babied him for a while; she knew that this hadn't been a choice for himself, just like it hadn't been one for her. But the wallowing Gascon needed a firm kick in the rear now. He was a grown man and he needed to stop hiding.

Night fell and d'Artagnan awoke, hungry. It seemed it was a constant state, the burning in the back of his throat that could only be washed away with a splash of blood; the gaping hole in his stomach that seemed to go gallons deep and could only be assuaged by the hot, bubbling blood filling up his gullet until he was ready to explode.

Constance had been bringing him food like he was the secret pup in the barn and after dinner she'd come and feed him scraps from her plate. He was being pathetic, he was pathetic—but he didn't know how not to be pathetic and not sink his fangs into every human's throat so he made the conscious decision not to go out and come across any of the hapless creatures.

He occupied his time during the night to repair the house. Back when he was human and his life had everything to look forward to, his parents in accompany, he'd helped build a new barn for the farm with his father by hand. They'd made their own lumber from trees from their own property. d'Artagnan used the tall pines from out behind the house in the forest. His vampire strength accounted for more than two men and he finished the job in no time.

And now he had nothing to distract himself with. He was left with his own thoughts like he was that night in the garrison cell—and all the decisions after that lead him to where he was now.

Thankfully, Constance arrived soon after, saving him from himself. He was ready to run his head through a wall just for something to do and distract himself.

"Good morning, d'Artagnan." Constance told him with a blue sparkle in her eyes.

d'Artagnan lit up at the sight of her. Even with her just standing there in the old, rundown house, made it look brighter. Of course, the vampire woman had done some down-and-dirty redecorating those three days he was in transition—for which he was grateful—like taking down and burning all paintings of forget-me-nots.

She set the basket that she had been holding on the side table as she removed her cloak. Though she did not feel the cool of the night, it was a habit that was never thrown away, like many things. d'Artagnan's eyes were dragged from the beautiful vampire and to the cloth-covered basket, his gaze lasering beneath it to the lovely jars of blood that she had brought him.

He looked at it with red eyes, his body tense. He fought the want to snatch the jars from her.

Constance saw the look in his eyes. "The hunger will abate, d'Artagnan." She removed the cover and picked up a single jar, the red contents sloshing inside, so appetizing to the baby vampire.

His extended fangs gnawed on his lip, but he forced his eyes to her face even as the scent prevailed him. "Even after I just finish feeding, I know it's only a matter of time..."

She held out the jar and he reacted instantly, flitting in front of her before the blink of a human eye. She raised a single brow at him and he turned sheepish.

"Sorry." He took the jar from her, slow this time and twisted off the lid. He lifted the rim to his lips and tipped it back, his eyes slipping closed. It was cold. It wasn't fresh. The jar contaminated the taste. He loved every drop of it. He was like a starving animal at a mud puddle—he didn't care, it was all he knew.

Constance watched him carefully as he drank, waiting for the precise moment to give the Gascon the kick in the rear that he needed. She waited exactly on his last mouthful... "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis will be here shortly." She informed him.

He did a spit take at her news, splattering the dusty floor. There was nothing delicate about it. He made a desperate sound at the back of his throat as he watched the old wood soak up the spat blood like a dry wasteland sucking up a single morsel of water like a sponge; but he refused to humiliate himself in an attempt to salvage the last dregs.

He jerked to her as her news completely struck him from his blood-high. "What?" he exclaimed, eyes widening in horror. "I'm not ready!"

Constance gave a soft sigh, but didn't roll her eyes. "It's been over a month, d'Artagnan. You can't hide away forever. We've been speaking, they want to talk with you."

He shook his head rapidly. "Why would they even want to see me, after all the trouble I've caused? They haven't come before, why now?"

Constance took the jar from his white-knuckled grip before he could shatter it and set it back with its full brethren. She took the Gascon's trembling hand and guided him to sit on the salvaged, broken chaise lounge that Athos had crashed through.

"They've had a lot to think through after that night, and I told them that you needed time to adjust." She said from next to him, still holding his hand.

She didn't feel cold to him, like Milady had when he was human. She felt warm (while she'd told him) that human's ran hot. He liked the feel of her hand entwined in his own, delicate, yet with such strength—a strength that had saved them all that night.

"I know what it's like to be forced into this life. But you can't hide from it any longer. You can't hid from yourself, it's impossible."

"It's not anything that I expected." He admitted.

"Life never is, d'Artagnan." She cupped his cheek gently.

He leaned into the touch. "Why do you even bother with me?" he whispered, his eyes closed.

"Dummy." She flicked his forehead and he blinked at her in surprise. "It's called love."

He looked back at her in shock, but her gaze was steady and unwavering. Everything in him suddenly softened and relented. He gently cupped her pale cheek, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the flesh softly. "From the moment I first saw you…" he breathed.

Their attention was averted by the sound of hoof beats approaching, and d'Artagnan was tense all over again as they stood.

"They're here," she said needlessly, turning to look at him, "Are you ready?"

His lips were pressed tightly as he shook his head. She could see his extended fangs biting into his lips. Who knew three men could smell so good? Constance gripped his hand as they mounted the porch.

"You are," she told him. "Control the urge, resist. Because that's all it is—an urge, d'Artagnan. You've just feed, you aren't hungry."

He tried to focus on her words, but the were overridden by the sounds of the Musketeers' heartbeats. He could actually hear it and it made him excited—it made him bloodthirsty.

The flow of their blood beneath their flesh was like music to the new vampire's ears. They hardly stepped foot into the house before d'Artagnan snarled, his lips curled to reveal his fangs, his irises red as he lunged—Constance had told the Inseparables that this might happen; they were ready for it, but it was still a shock; she told them not to do anything, that she would take care of it—So Constance grabbed him, ripping him back and slammed him against the wall with enough force to leave an inward splinter.

d'Artagnan pulled himself from the wall, shaking his head lightly as if waking from a daze. His fangs retracted and his eyes faded to brown. He looked at them, aghast. "I am so sorry!" he gasped. "You're the first humans I've been around since I turned and I—"

"You can't isolate yourself," Athos reprimanded him and d'Artagnan blinked at him in surprise, that was not the reaction he was expecting.

"What?"

"Constance has been keeping us informed of your progress as a vampire, d'Artagnan. You've hardly set foot from the house, you've been drinking from jars of blood," he gestured to the basket beside Aramis. "You've had no contact with human's and have no control over yourself. You haven't been adapting to you new body, your new life. And I have to say, after the bravery and strength you showed—this was not what I was expecting from you."

"I—" he didn't know how to respond, because it was all true. He was acting the child and ashamed of it.

Athos continued after a moment, "We've been talking with Constance and Captain Treville for a bit now—"

"Deciding my fait." d'Artagnan knew, he'd been waiting for this moment. "Whether you were going to let me live... or kill me." Perhaps that was part of his anxiety, why he was having such a hard time adjusting, because was there even a point to accepting himself as a vampire if he was just going to die anyways? And he knew that if they decided that that was what they were going to do, he wasn't going to fight them.

"Yes." Athos seemed to be the one elected to do all the talking.

"And?" he wasn't sure what answer he wanted to hear and that would say a lot about his state of mind.

Athos glanced to his two brothers, and they both nodded their agreement. He looked back to d'Artagnan. "We would like you to join the Musketeers. On a trial basis, mind you. But we want to start training you."

It took the vampire a moment to process the words. This was clearly not what he was expecting. "But you don't... have vampires in the Musketeers." d'Artagnan mumbled finally, confused and in shock. That was one of the things that gave them such a reputation.

"You'd be the first." Aramis spoke for the first time. "But it's something we're willing to try, if you are willing as well."

d'Artagnan stared at them open-mouth before shaking his head. "But why me? Why... why not someone who has more control, who deserves it? Your trust?" Aramis narrowed his eyes. "You should just kill me—" he shook his head, shrinking in on himself.

Aramis had his pistol out and fired even before Constance could react. The wooden silver-tipped bullet buried itself in the young vampire's stomach.

"Aramis!" Athos and Porthos shouted in surprise.

d'Artagnan cut off his own cry of pain as he dropped to his knees, his arms wrapped around his blood-soaked middle. This was an old pain, an almost familiar one—Milady's hands stabbing inside of him—but this was much worse. It felt like hot iron was pushed into his flesh.

"d'Artagnan!" Constance cried in alarm, but in a flash she was at Aramis, knocking the pistol from his hand and pinning him against the wall with a single hand around his throat; her blue eyes red and fangs extended in her outrage. "Why did you do that?"

Aramis didn't fight her and Porthos and Athos made no attempt to removed her, (the only way they could succeed was if they staked her). He was lucky she hadn't just snapped his neck there and then without asking the important question for her protectiveness of the newly turned Gascon, but she was sharper than that.

"If he wants to die, I will grant him the favour. But it has to be a true want, and not a coward's hiding place." Aramis told her, his firm voice made only slightly strained by her ministrations.

Constance's fangs retracted and her red irises slowly faded back to blue as she searched his brown eyes. There was no true ill-intent towards the Gascon, not even after finding out that he was responsible for the attempt on his life in the alley, and then the whole "Charles" ordeal. No, this was a genuine intent, if a harsh one.

Her gentle prodding and imploring of the Gascon vampire hadn't been truly working, perhaps this was the firm boot in the rear that would drive him back into the world—for this truly was his hiding place. She slowly lowered the Spaniard to the floor after finding what she needed. She didn't apologize as she stepped back and turned from Aramis, she went passed Porthos and Athos who turned to Aramis, and knelt beside d'Artagnan.

"What the 'ell, Aramis?" Porthos grumbled as the other man straightened himself out.

Aramis shrugged. "I was thinking on my feet."

He scoffed. "I 'ardly think thought was involved."

"You're lucky she didn't tear your throat out." Athos had to agree, but there was amusement there.

"Constance is a intelligent woman," Aramis said. "Let's see if he is as well."

d'Artagnan whimpered as she pushed him up straight from his hunched position. She lifted his shirt. The bullet would was giving a slow, but steady flow of blood. It would continue to do so and not heal as long as the bullet was in there. Without waiting permission, she dug her fingers into the wound.

After the initial grunt, he bit back any other sounds, cringing at the feel of her fingers digging inside of him. But as soon as she pulled it out and flicked it into the lit fireplace where it sizzled in the flame, he gasped in relief. It only took a moment more for the wound to heal itself and all that remained of the transgression was the blood and bullet hole in his shirt. He grimaced at its state as Constance rose to her feet and he followed.

He felt awkward as he looked from her to the Inseparables to what must have seemed like silence to the three humans, but was buzzing with noise to the two vampires. The fire crackling and popping, the s=sounds of their hearts and their blood and their breath, every single shift, the crickets outside—all of it. He felt more like a chastised puppy than pissed at being shot and wanting to rip their heads off and drink from the fountain of blood in return.

"I—I don't—" he stopped and straightened. "I would like to become a Musketeer. I know that I've lied and deceived you all and don't deserve this chance that you're giving me—but I promise to give you my life. Whatever that may be worth."

The Inseparables shared another look, another silent conversation that only they knew the subject. d'Artagnan had seen it enough times as 'Charles' to be jealous and know he could never know someone well enough to have that—but maybe that would change.

Athos finally gave their answer. "Come to the garrison in three nights. And we'll take it from there."

D'Artagnan nodded, despite the daunting task of them wanting him to go into a crowded city filled with walking meals. But he wanted this and he would prove to them that their trust was deserved. But there was one thing he was hoping to resolve right now:

"Please don't shoot me again?" d'Artagnan asked (like it was a normal thing). "I know I heal and everything, but it still hurts. A lot." He rubbed his bloodied stomach.

Aramis stared straight back at him. "Not unless you deserve it."

d'Artagnan sighed, but nodded. He supposed it was the least he deserved. They were giving him a third chance, one that he wasn't sure he even deserved. But he would take it as it was offered to him, he would earn their trust no matter how long it took. And all the while not eating them—a feat in itself.

A Musketeer... this was a life that his father would have been proud of.

[end]

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Well, that was bloody exhausting to write. Please tell me I didn't flub it. I found it tremendously difficult to write d'Artagnan as a vampire, but I extremely wish that it somehow worked in the end. I know some of you disliked the idea of d'Artagnan becoming a vampire, or were uncertain on the matter; though in the very beginning that wasn't my intention either, that was just the path seemed to take. I hope you liked it anyway, thanks for reading and for all the fantastic reviews! Each and everyone of them is like a single pearl on a necklace, precious, every single one of them. Yay!

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