"Restrain him!"

"Why don't you try?"

Try they do. He skewers the first one straight through the heart, before the man's even had the chance to raise his sword; spins on his heel and blocks a descending blade with a cry, reaching with his dagger in his left hand to parry a third one's thrust. The crowd is looming -for crowd is what it is, the mob closing in on him- but they won't take him alive: he disengages so abruptly that, surprised, his two opponents fall into each other's space; there's a sneer, a war cry and a flurry of movement, and they're perforated, the rush of rage driving him blind. It's a fight for his life - it's a fight for his death. He won't let them take him alive.

He barely even notices the cuts from swords that get under his guard, bite into his flesh, spill his blood: he is not a man anymore but movement, desperation, sweat and blood, bound by the sheer power of instinct and the will the survive. His feet are so light they barely touch the ground; his muscles pull the weight of slashing through bodies with resignation and pride. He will not be taken alive. He will die a Musketeer, on his feet, sword in hand, head high until the very end.

They keep coming.

He's such a whirl of motion that no more than two can approach him at a time, for fear of getting stabbed or cut: there's a growing body count around him, a macabre scene taking shape before their very eyes - but for how long can he keep this up? There are more men intent on taking him than he has time or stamina to dispatch them: what they don't know is that he will throw himself onto the blade of that one last thrust, rather than allow them to take him, rather than submitting, rather than being restrained, in defeat. They don't know who the Musketeers are.

But impact and the weight of a massive bulk hitting him from behind shoves him out of that eloquent grace (who - how -) he stumbles in shock with a whoosh of breath spewing from his lungs, and he's on the ground, with the weight of someone on his legs and another's on his back and a hand presses his head onto the cobblestones with cruel delight. But it only becomes real when agony explodes in his arm - he feels the bone crack! and his sword - his sword - his sword - is suddenly gone.

NO!

He tries to kick, push up, roll over, - get free! - but he can't move; he can't move, there's too much weight, his arm is wholly on fire - a knee presses down on his back as if to squeeze the last drop of breath from his lungs, and his left arm suddenly twisted behind his back, so rough as if to snatch it out of joint. He cries out, but it's muffled: there's an incredible roar in his ears, like the wailing of a child - no no no no no - he has to - he has to -

"Enough - we need him alive!"

NO!

Then somehow he's standing upright, and he tries to kick out but the hated hands yank him back and prevent him from falling face-first onto the ground. His ankles are bound. Phantoms hands pull his arms behind him to bind them, but the pressure on his broken arm wrenches a bright scream from his mouth, and his heart vanishes from his chest for a moment as the world greys out.

...They can't take him alive.

There is only one thought: They can't take him alive.

He's shoved to the ground, on his knees with a thump and falls helplessly to his side. Men may be laughing, but his own heart is too loud. He has to free himself. He has to get out, he can't be taken alive - but the ropes are too tight -

Pistols fire.

Pistols fire and feet are pattering - there's a commotion - pistols fire - pistols -

"D'ARTAGNAN!"

Then -somehow - somehow Athos is at his side, on his knees, reaching out and turning him over, pulling his dagger in a flash and cutting the rope binding his wrists. He gasps as his arm falls loose and, spent, his head lolls, pressing his face once more into the ground.

"Are you alright?"

Athos's steadying hand is on his shoulder, but d'Artagnan can't nod or reply: every cell in his body has suddenly taken to quivering, resounding, like collectively responding to a passionate call to arms; he rolls to his side and presses his face desperately into Athos's leather-clad arm, pain having little to do with the tears that rush to his eyes.

He is not taken.

He is alive.

He is free.

He grins tremulously into the crook of Athos's arm.

Musketeers don't die easily.

I've tried to link a few of the remaining prompts with these bizarre times that we're living in, but each time I attempted it, it felt very poor in taste and I immediately wanted to stop. At times, fanfiction is a fertile ground for exploration, even catharsis, but I think it's a time to sow seeds of enjoyment, rather than more angst... And hope and love: The Musketeers have much to offer in that regard.