Let's see about the riders, shall we? ;)


The horses were noisy and eager as they stomped even deeper into the woods. D'Artagnan watched them go with a deep and saddening sense of loss. He hadn't even said goodbye, had only spurred them in the right direction, used them for his purpose.

Did that make him a bad person?

He didn't know and he didn't want to. He crawled closer to the boulders, crouched lower over René's body and waited.

He noticed that René was warm to the touch. He noticed that his own wound was burning, his leg swollen and red. There was a lot of blood, his and René's, and it mixed and dripped and ran to the ground. They were leaking onto the forest floor; they were damaged and broken, but they both still were, which was a lot more than he had dared to hope fpr.

And he waited.

And he drifted.

He snapped to attention at the first signs of someone nearing, hardly supressing a grimace when a group of three riders came closer.

The second one of the trio was clearly their captor. In front of him was a huge, gruff-looking man that was inspecting the ground carefully and leading the little troupe. D'Artagnan watched intently as the man suddenly stopped, looking a lot like someone struck by Porthos. His meaty face reeled and frantically searched the ground for something it didn't seem to find. He turned back to his two companions, shrugged and dismounted on the same exact spot d'Artagnan had only minutes before.

"What is it?" the captor asked, joining his friend on the ground. "Is something wrong?"

"The prints," the man said by way of explanation, and d'Artagnan recognized his deep voice as the one that had been arguing with the captor at the fire.

"Do they end here?"

"No. They just get shallower." The man whirled around and pointed to something d'Artagnan couldn't make out. "See those? Their distinctive shape indicates that the horse was heavily burdened, carrying either a lot – and I mean a lot – of food or two people. But here," he pointed to the soil closer to where d'Artagnan was hiding, "they change. The horse suddenly got lighter."

"What does that mean?" the third man spoke up for the first time. He was skinny and small, in that regard not unlike the captor himself; he had black hair and a slouched figure. D'Artagnan could make all that out from his hiding spot. Did that mean that they would be able to see him, too, if they happened to look in the right direction?

He sure hoped not.

"I just told you."

"Maybe they ate all the food?" the captor suggested, looking bemused and serious.

The big man snorted. "You really are as stupid as you look," he mocked.

"I'm at least trying to figure this out!"

"Well, stop. I already know what happened."

D'Artagnan swallowed, his throat as dry as sand. The saliva wouldn't go down and he felt the sudden urge to spit it out, but stopped himself.

"Enlighten me."

The burly man moved back to his horse, looking pretty smug in his conviction. He lifted his chin, his shoulders wide and huge. "They dismounted," he said confidently.

The captor frowned. "And just why would they do that?"

"A horse that burdened? It wouldn't have lasted much longer. It was probably half dead already. It needed to rest, otherwise they would have had to leave it behind. So they continued on foot."

"On foot?" the captor protested. "And why on Earth would they continue on foot?"

"If you knew anything about horses, you wouldn't be asking me this."

The guy looked at the ground and then back up, determined. "What if – and just humour me now – what if they dismounted and stayed here? What if they didn't go on?"

D'Artagnan's tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth, his breaths too loud in his ears. How was it possible that they didn't hear him existing?

A deep laugh boomed through the trees. "Don't be ridiculous," Burly said. "There are still the prints of two horses in the soil; they wouldn't have let them both go. That would be plain stupid."

"Or brilliant." The captor inclined his head toward the ground. "Tell me, are there any human footprints?"

The other man sighed. "No," he confessed begrudgingly. "But there wouldn't be. The soil here is dry. They could have moved about without leaving a trail."

"Besides," the third man chimed in again, "both of them were seriously injured. I don't see how they could possibly survive without the horses."

Slowly, d'Artagnan was starting to see the problem in that, too.

"Exactly," the big man agreed, satisfied with the new supporter he had gained. "And we're only wasting time standing around and chatting. Let's find them and kill them and get it over with. Let's get back home and move on."

The three men remounted, some more willing than others, and rode on, loyally following the trail. D'Artagnan exhaled deeply enough to shrink to what felt like half his former size. He leaned his back against the boulder behind him, utterly enfeebled, and slid all the way down to the ground. His leg complained at the change of position, but he didn't let himself rest for long. Instead, he pulled himself up only moments later, one hand on the cold stone for balance, and picked up the last remaining bag of food. Then, he hoisted up René, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

René groaned and opened his eyes, not lucid but awake.

"We have to move," d'Artagnan told him, even as he tried to find the motivation himself. It couldn't be that far anymore, he reasoned – they had been riding for a while. They had covered quite a lot of ground. Paris had to be near. A day's walk away, maybe? Could it be more than that?

"How far?" René asked, once again reading his mind. D'Artagnan smiled bitterly.

"Not far," he said vaguely, because it was the only thing to say. He pushed his body forward, one limping step and then another, and felt René put all his remaining energy into keeping his footing. It had to be an enormous effort, because he started sweating after only a few steps, even though the night air was cold on their hot faces.

D'Artagnan tried to choose his path well, ever mindful of where he planted his feet. It was time to prove the bandits right. It was time to move about without leaving a trail.


They rested a lot and limped a lot, stumbled, fell, ached and cried. Dawn came about. Another morning passed with no hint of Paris. Noon passed, too, and the path d'Artagnan had chosen led the two Musketeers out of the woods and into the clear. The afternoon dragged by sluggishly, and the Gascon found his vision greying more with every hurtful step, but was determined to keep up the effort.

Suddenly, without warning, they stumbled upon a street.

D'Artagnan stopped dead in his tracks. The weight on his shoulders got heavier instantly. He suddenly felt the ground coming closer and landed on his backside, letting René slump over unceremoniously.

He looked at the commotion through burning eyes, unable to comprehend. He sat. There were horses and carts and people all around; they were moving this way and that, some angry and some not, some happy, some sad, women, children, men, old, young small, big, fat, thin – it was like Paris.

But it couldn't be Paris. His brothers were nowhere to be seen.

Someone came over to them and asked if they needed help and he said one single word, Paris, and then another man came and offered them a ride. Or at least, d'Artagnan though he did. The man looked at him questioningly, the sun caught in his fiery red hair. He was small and kind.

D'Artagnan said, "Paris?"

And the man answered, "Yeah, Paris."

D'Artagnan said, "But that Paris?"

And the man said, confused this time, "There only is one Paris."

D'Artagnan turned away, shaking his head, and said, "Is it the right Paris, though?"

And the man frowned and said, "I'm pretty sure it cannot be the wrong one. Come with me, I have a cart. Paris isn't that far, but you can rest a little on the way there. Does that sound okay?"

D'Artagnan only nodded and let himself be led over to a wooden waggon with two horses standing in front. He didn't ask what had happened to René, mostly because he was fairly sure that the nice farmer had loaded him onto the cart, too. He was pretty certain that his fellow Musketeer was lying next to him at that exact moment, but he didn't feel like he could shift his head even a little to confirm the suspicion. Besides, if he made one wrong move, this whole fantasy could break and crumble and disappear – and then, what would he have left?

He closed his eyes and sighed. He was calm, but he wasn't happy or relieved or satisfied. Because he knew this was a dream, and he knew he would wake up soon enough.


He heard a voice.

"Hey! Hey, where shall I drop you off?"

He grumbled and sighed. The ground under him was hard but comfortable.

He heard a smack and suddenly his cheek was stinging. His eyes shot open. Not because of the pain – he had developed a certain immunity to that –, but out of a deep sense of surprise. Kind men weren't supposed to slap people. Much less kind men in dreams. They were supposed to exist and play their role and then send you back to reality.

Was this reality?

"Sorry," someone said and the redhead appeared in the middle of d'Artagnan's very blurry field of vision. "But I couldn't wake you any other way. What happened to you, anyway – you look like you're going to die if you don't sleep a few months straight."

D'Artagnan merely shook his head and a bit of the farmer's enthusiasm faded.

"Right. Well, where do you wanna go?"

D'Artagnan thought. He knew this was supposed to be an easy question, but the facts were all addled up in his mind into a mass of confusion. He squinted and looked at the man.

"Paris," he croaked.

The farmer frowned worriedly. "We already are in Paris," he clarified slowly. "Don't you remember? You know, I offered you a ride and you accepted. I want to know where in Paris you want to go. Believe it or not, this town is pretty big."

D'Artagnan tried to think around the furious pounding in his head, but it was to no avail. There was no way he could concentrate, and so he simply said the first place that came to mind.

"The Musketeer garrison."

Home, his brain supplied belatedly, choosing that moment to drown in an unexpected flood of melancholy. D'Artagnan felt a single tear glide down his cheek – the last one he had. He had used all the others up, but this one was special. This was the tear that welcomed him home.

"The Musketeer garrison?" the farmer marvelled. "Why in God's name –"

"Could we just go, please?" D'Artagnan's voice was broken and sore. The farmer nodded and got the cart moving without having to be told twice.

D'Artagnan saw the familiar streets drift by, noticed the details. It all looked just the way he remembered; dirty and bustling and full. It reeked and it was loud.

He loved it.

He fell asleep or passed out, but when he opened his eyes once more, the cart wasn't moving.

And before him, rising up into the sky in the most beautiful shape d'Artagnan had ever seen, was the garrison. It bathed, quiet and disciplined, in the evening sun, a safe haven in the middle of Paris's packed streets. Safe.

He had forgotten that the word even existed.

Someone was suddenly hurrying toward them and a whole group of people – Musketeers, brothers – gathered around the cart. René was hoisted up and brought to the infirmary and d'Artagnan wanted to watch him go, wanted to see him well cared for, but someone else demanded his attention. He looked into grey eyes and found himself longing for green. Or brown. Not this.

"Aramis?" he asked. "Athos? Porthos?"

"Come on," the Musketeer insisted, trying to get him to move. "We'll talk about it later."

D'artagnan sighed, the world spinning around him.

"René?" he queried, not because it was one of the hundred things he wanted to know, but because it was the one thing he had to know, before –

Well, before. Before everything. Now.

"He's being taken care of," the Musketeer reassured. "He'll be fine. But you won't be if you don't relax and let me help you."

Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

He'll be fine.

Nothing.