a/n: Thank you to all those who have reviewed/favorited/followed just after that short prologue. It makes me super happy, but now I pray the following story doesn't turn to crap. :) I'm feeling very 'aargh!' about it, and I don't know why.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.

Chapter includes (warning): Concented underage sex with an adult,
Note: Story starts 15 years after d'Artagnan's birth.

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

Life is Death is Dead
Chapter 1: —

The sky was a clean blue, pockmarked by the fluffy-white clouds. A rapid change from the last weeks of moist and rain. The large field was enclosed by trees. Its grass was lush and tall, a vibrant green. Flowers of various kinds and colours sprouted up throughout. Birds twittered and swooped playfully through the open-air above. It was peaceful and beautiful, a rare piece—to bad it could not last long. Nothing in the world today did.

The fifteen-year-old boy drew his sword from his belt and pushed through the grass, his left-hand grassing the tops of the grass as he approached the spaced, ambling zombies. There were seven of them, five men and two women. All in various states of decomposition. As he killed the first one, a cut to the head—always the head—the others were drawn from their mindlessness and the dinner-bell was rung. They headed straight for him, their groaning taking up a new energy. He drew his main gauche, his tongue moistening his lips as he enlarged his steps and met them.

It was like a dance, fluid, as he moved through and around them, long and short steel glinting on the light, to grow duller as dark blood painted the metal. The bodies dropped, silent into the grass, and the long drone of their noises vanishing from atmosphere.

He was left standing in a circle of various states of decapitation, panting lightly. He bent and cleaned his blades in the grass before sheathing them again. He swept a palm up his face, and ran the long, dark locks out of his eyes, surveying his work.

Seven. He'd been lucky. Their stations had been to his own advantage.

His father had taught him well, but this was how he honed the skill. He'd held steel in his hand since first he could remember, as soon as he was able to walk, Alexandre was forced to put a weapon in his chubby little fingers.

He stepped over the bodies and headed across the field to the wood, plucking an orange flower from the grass and swirling it pleasantly at his nose.

He found his way easily back to their camp, just a simple tent set up amongst the trees. Tomorrow, they would break camp and set off again.

"You're back fast," Alexandre remarked upon the sight of his son from where he sat at the small campfire.

"I got lucky," d'Artagnan replied, his fingers brushing through the soft rabbit fur as he pulled the dead rabbit from where it had been tucked into his belt.

His father smiled as he took the animal, their supper for tonight. "Any trouble?"

"Seven." He answered truthfully as he sat across from his father. Alexandre straightened at that, but his son hurried to explain. "I'm fine. The rabbit put up more trouble than that lot."

Alexandre sighed and took out his knife, slitting the back of the rabbit, before pulling the skin off in one piece. It had been nearly sixteen years since the sickness came, the world was desiccated. This was the only world the young Gascon knew, and so couldn't be as troubled by it. The elder, on the other hand, remembered when every day wasn't lived in fear. Where they weren't forced to live day-to-day, where his wife Ella was still alive. He wished, but was also glad that Charles wasn't born then, because he wasn't forced to suffer with what was no longer.

"Just because you're special, Charles, doesn't mean you should be reckless." He gutted the animal.

d'Artagnan sighed. "I know, Pa. But I wasn't being reckless. It was better that I killed them then where I could, than have them stubble upon us in the night."

"We'll be to Paris in no more than a week if we keep like we have, and we'll not have to worry for that any longer." Alexandre paused with the rabbit and buried his face in his elbow as a set of coughs wracked his old body.

d'Artagnan was silent as he watched his father in worry. It was the wet season, and Alexandre had come down with a cough for the last month. It was this fear that pushed him to the decision on the pair of them heading to Paris. He didn't tell d'Artagnan, but he knew the boy suspected.

"I still don't understand why we're going there," d'Artagnan confessed. He took the skinned and gutted bunny from his father and ran the straight stick through it ass-through-mouth and put it over the open flame. "How are we to know that Paris is even still standing? It's been sixteen-years almost."

"It will be held." Alexandre said without any doubt, and his son looked at him dubiously. "The King's Musketeers are an elite force. They would protect the King with their lives, therefore, Louvre will be guarded. And I'm sure they worked around the city, clearing it of the walking dead and fortifying the walls."

"You have a lot of faith in these Musketeers," d'Artagnan rotated the rabbit, he could already smell the cooking meat and his stomach growled accordingly.

"I know their Captain." The old Gascon nodded. "Treville. He's a good and honourable man. He will help us once we reach the city."

"When was it last you saw him?"

"A year before the outbreak."

d'Artagnan asked no more questions and kept the obvious observation to himself: how did he know the man was still alive? Once the rabbit was cooked, d'Artagnan took his small knife and carved the meat. They ate as the sun grew lower in the sky, until Alexandre bid his son goodnight, and retired.

d'Artagnan licked the juices from his fingers and stocked the fire, his brown eyes dissecting each shadow that grew and darkened with the fading sun, until they were all left flickering in the small circle of light from the campfire.

He lowered himself to the ground, his back to the fire a blanket pulled over him and a hand placed on the hilt of his sword removed from its sheath. He didn't have to worry about the zombies. He always cleared the surrounding area of them before they made camp

He may be able to get bitten, but Alexandre would turn just like any other.

The two Gascon's moved at a steady pace, over the next four days. d'Artagnan shouldered most of the burden of their supplies. It had been at least two years since either had ridden a horse, let alone did they have a donkey or mule in their possession.

They pushed on later in the day than usual, trying to find a good space to camp. Walking parallel to the main road. They were shivering and soaked, the rain coming down heavy and hard after one day of peace. Thunder and lightning clashed and fought in the sky. It was thunderstorms like this one, that seemed to rile-up the dead. Perhaps it was the loud noise and flashing light.

They came upon it by happy chance, and small tool shed by the side of the road. They piled into the small space, forced to leave their packs outside to accommodate them.

"Brrr!" Alexander wiped his dripping face with his wet sleeve. "It's really coming down."

d'Artagnan grinned, his dark hair plastered to his skull. "How else are we supposed to bathe?"

"Ah, the privileges of life on the road." Alexandre gazed sadly through the darkness at his son, though the boy couldn't see it. He wished that he could give the lad the peaceful and carefree life that he deserved. Hopefully, Paris would do that for him.

A strike of lightning struck nearby, light briefly flickering through the cracks in the shed, before it was followed by the loud boom.

Alexandre had turned them recluse for the first ten-years of his son's life. It had been around that time, that they crossed paths with a community of people in the town called Pinon. Two-years, they had spent with these people. Two-years of a roof over their heads, a steady meal every day. It was the first time that d'Artagnan had seen kids his own age, or younger. In had been in those two-years that d'Artagnan had been taught how to read and write. It was in those two-years that d'Artagnan got to have his childhood, as unhindered as any kid could be in what the world was today.

It was two-years before a stupid mistake on no one's part, got d'Artagnan bit. Alexandre's heart had left him then, as he spent the last days with his dying son. As soon, the fever overran his body. The sickness invading it. And then, his last breath left him. Alexandre cried as he held the blade to his son's hairline, like he'd done his wife, preparing to send him into peace once and for all. Before he gasped back into life, his eyes still brown and passionate as ever. His skin the same dark-olive. His son had not died, he did not change in death. That was the first day Alexandre realized how truly special his son was. He did not die from the bite, but thrived. He was immune to the sickness. That was when Alexandre realized it wasn't safe to be around people any more. What they might do to his son if they found out this secret.

There wasn't much room in the space, and both were forced to stay standing. d'Artagnan just managed to start dozing, when there was a ominous cracking sound all but overhead. Alexandre understood what was happening first, and grabbed his son's soaked doublet, shoved open the shed door and threw them outside. They tumbled to the ground as the tree next to the shed came crashing down, smashing the shed into splinters.

"Whoa!" d'Artagnan gasped as he rose to his knees and then his feet from the mud, and saw the smouldering, smoking tree trunk snapped in half. He turned and held out his hands to his father. "That was close."

They both watched, as despite the rain, the smoulder turned into a true flame and the tree caught fire.

"Get the packs," Alexandre said. "If you can."

d'Artagnan nodded and turned to the wreckage, searching the debris of wood for their supplies. Finally, he spotted the shine from one of the buckles on one of their packs buried beneath and entanglement of branches. He took off his soaked and heavy cloak and hung it off a branch next to him. He bent and reached through the branches. His fingers just brushed the material. Straightening, he started to break the branches, sawing at the larger ones with his knife before breaking them by hand until there was a reasonable enough space. With both arms, head and shoulders, he plunged into the space, the rain pounding at his back.

"Charles!" Alexandre screamed as he saw the first walker as lightning struck. But d'Artagnan didn't hear and continued to contort between the branches of the tree to get at their packs. Alexandre drew his sword and killed the first, only to realize that there were more following. He got out his main gauche as he slashed at one, then stabbed another through the eye with his dagger as it came nearly on top of him. All while he backed towards his son. "Charles!"

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan shouted as he felt his father grabbing at him. He cried out in surprise and then pain, as he felt teeth tear into the flesh of his lower right hip, under the ridden-up hem of his doublet. He struggled from the tree and stumbled backwards, falling into the zombie that had taken a bite out of him. He twisted around as it clawed at him, and buried the knife in its ear. "Pa!" he screamed as he jumped to his feet. He pulled out his sword and took out the zombie in front of him, spinning and searching for his father.

He ran to the old man as he grappled with two walkers, using one to shield himself from another. d'Artagnan came up behind his father and thrust his sword, kebab-ing the pair through the skulls. Alexandre sighed in relief, slumping back tiredly against his son as they pushed the two dead from his sword.

Alexandre coughed as he turned to his son, only to have d'Artagnan cry out a second time at the zombie that came up behind him and bite the nape of his neck. There was a loud crack, almost like another tree cracking in half, and the zombie's head exploded. Both spun towards the muzzle flash in the rain.

There were six men, draped in heavy and dark cloaks, and hats. All sat astride horses. Alexandre edged in front of his son, as d'Artagnan resisted the urge to inspect at the festering bite wounds, and instead, kept his grip on his slick sword. It had been a miracle that pistol had gone off in this rain in the first place.

The man in front dismounted as the man next to him and they slowly approached the father and son. Stopping several feet in front of them. All d'Artagnan could see of leader was the blue eyes under the brim of his hat and above the edge of the dark bandana that covered his face in the flickering of the fired tree.

"Thank you, kind sir." Alexandre spoke politely, nodding his head lightly to their savoir. "You've saved us from our deaths."

The man nodded. "I am Athos of the King's Musketeers!" he swept aside the cloak on his right shoulder and revealed the scarred leather Fleur-de-lis pauldron there.

"Musketeers?" d'Artagnan repeated. Those were the men that his father always mentioned. "W—" Alexandre's hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying anything further.

"It's very nice to meet you. I've heard the Musketeers are honourable men."

"The boy," he turned his gaze to d'Artagnan. "He was bit."

d'Artagnan shifted uneasily behind his father and tightened his grip on his sword.

"He was not." Alexandre said smoothly. "Because of your interference."

The Musketeer shook his head. "I saw it." And he raised a second pistol from his belt.

"You are wrong, sir!" Alexandre shouted, moving in front of his son fully. "My son is fit and healthy!"

He shook his head. "I saw it! He's infected. He has to be put down."

"Leave us, at once!" the Gascon demanded, stepping forward.

The horses under the men shifted and snorted at the report of the shot.

"NO!" d'Artagnan screamed as he caught his falling father to the ground. "Pa! No!" he pushed his hands to the gushing wound on the man's stomach. Alexandre's moan of pain was swallowed by the rain.

"Charles," he rasped, staring up into his despairing son's eyes. "Son—Sur... vive..." and then his breath stopped, and his eyes became blank.

Blind fury tore through the teen. "You killed him!" he screamed at the two men still standing there. "Why?!" he pushed the old man from his lap and jumped to his feet, sword clutched in hand. "I'll kill you!" and he lunged for the nearest man. He ran the second man through, and the leader turned and ran for his horse. "I"LL KILL YOU ALL!" d'Artagnan screeched, kicking the man free of his sword and running after the horses, even as they men spurred them away fast.

d'Artagnan was finally forced to turn back as he quickly lost sight of them in the rain and distance. He turned and ran back to their camp. The horse of the man that he had killed was still there, abandoned. And his father was rising to his feet. For a brief moment, d'Artagnan had the childish thought that his father was alive again, but seconds later it came crashing down. He ran to the old Gascon, tackling him to the rain soaked ground.

He sat on its chest, his boney knees pinning its arms down, and his palm pressed to its forehead. Tears blurred his gaze as he stared down into his father's old, wrinkled face—its teeth snapping hungrily at him. His deep brown eyes were too bright.

d'Artagnan's hand shook as he gripped the dagger in his hand. A howl of sorrow ripped through his body and left his throat as he stabbed his father behind the ear. The creatures movements stilled and d'Artagnan was left gasping. He was forced from his grief, as he was grabbed from behind by the bandit that he had killed.

He grasped the wrists and flipped the zombie over his shoulder. And with a cry of rage, he planted his heel at the creature's throat, pinning it there to the watered ground. He saw red as he stomped the walker's snapping and snarling face. He stomped it until he felt the bone break beneath it, he stomped until it stopped its struggle, he stomped until the thing beneath his foot didn't resemble a face any more.

The corpse beneath his feet, the first human he had ever killed.

d'Artagnan looked up into the gray and darkened sky, the rain pelting his face heavily, blinding him. He howled. Even the thunder couldn't drown him out.

Charles,

He dug a grave at the side of the road. With his bare hands, with an edged rock, his knife. The ground was soaked with rain, the normally packed dirt made soft mud. The cold rain hammered at his tired body, the lightning and thunder shook the ground and split the air. Night slowly turned into grey skies of the coming sun smothered behind thick clouds. He was shivering and shuddering so badly that he couldn't keep hold of the slick rock. His fingers were numb, like he wished his heart could be.

He had grave-robbed his father, sobbing fresh tears over the old. The hot track's blazing over his frozen face. The rain finally stopped as he dragged his father through the mud and into the hole, the best he was able to do with the state of the ground and his desperate tools.

It wasn't the kind of burial that his father deserved. Alexandre was a great man, he deserved to be honoured, but d'Artagnan wasn't able to give him that. The thought hit him hard as he pushed the surrounding mounds of mud onto his father's corpse, and he staggered back onto his arse when finished.

Son—

He had stared up into the fleeting sky for too long, and forced himself back onto his feet. He needed to get the packs. Anything that they had ever owned was in those packs. He worked for a couple hours, sawing away those bigger branches, until the simple thought hit him. Dig. So he dug underneath the tree and its branches and pulled out the packs.

He was shivering and exhausted, soaked and cold to the bone. His bite wounds burned like fire. He claimed the abandoned horse that had decided that the distraught boy was better company than being alone in the woods with eaters. He strapped their packs to the saddle, along with its previous owner's belongings and led them the way they had been coming and the way the Musketeers had ran.

His father was dead, buried in the ground. It had been Musketeers who had done this. Alexandre said that Treville was a good and honourable man. If his men were out murdering the very sparse humans in existence, than d'Artagnan could only think that the Captain was dead.

Survive...

For the first time in Charles Xavier d'Artagnan's life, he was alone.

Milday sat upon the crumbling wall of the ruins outside of Paris. Her legs were crossed primly and swung over the edge, just out of reach of the groaning, grasping walkers below. Idly, she flicked pebbles at the creatures as she waited for her goons to report back to her. Upon her close examinations of these creatures, she had discovered that they didn't blink. Even as she struck one in the eye with the pebble, it just kept on scrambling for her.

She just waited as four men rode across the only bridge when there were six previously, before three dismounted and started killing the walkers at her feet. Their leader, Gaudet, approached, still upon his horse, as his men teased the last walker away, and played with it between them like a pack of bullies upon a runt.

"Well?" she questioned.

"We came across a promising pair, a man and a lad. The boy was bit, I killed the old man under the name Athos." Gaudet said. "If he's the one, you're husband will be surprised that he should have been looking over his shoulder."

Milady smiled and leapt nimbly down from the wall. "Then I shall have to meet our young lad and see him further enticed to the task. If he survives the bite, than we have finally found our quarry. The Cardinal shall be very pleased."

Survive...

d'Artagnan could feel the fever taking over his body. He felt groggy and foggy, as he dragged his feet onward. He was too out of himself to feel the human-eyes watching him, tracking him. He wanted to collapse. He needed to find somewhere to hold up. Somewhere to clean his bite wounds. Somewhere to let the fever take him, and hope that he overcame it.

He'd thought of camping up in a tree, it wouldn't be the first time. But then that would leave the horse vulnerable to the zombies, and he needed the animal if he had any hope of making it to Paris like his father had wanted.

"Ahhh!" The horse's skitter of startlement jerked d'Artagnan to confused attention. "AHHH!" his eyes widened at the high-pitch shriek of fear. "Help! Somebody! Please!"

d'Artagnan ran, his feet moving absent his brain, and with a energy reserve he thought he'd already exhausted. He shoved through the wet brush and uneven ground. He paused for only a brief second to take in the desperate scene in front of him.

The owner of a scream, a dark-haired woman, was balance precariously on top a pair of fallen trees, three walkers surrounded her, grabbing tirelessly through the branches at her ankles, clawing. Their hungry teeth snapping for the close flesh.

d'Artagnan drove his sword through the back of the head of the closest zombie, the blade coming out its eye. He pulled it free and grabbed the second one, pulling it from the branches. It changed its target and snapped at him. With a cry of exertion, he brought his sword overhead and killed the zombie with a downward stroke.

He panted, and struggled to free his blade from the creature's skull.

The woman let out a shriek as the last walker managed to grab her ankle and dragged her down, crashing to the ground. d'Artagnan abandoned his sword and leapt over to the other side of the tree, and tackled the zombie from the woman as it was about to take a bit of her pale flesh. He drove his knife up under the zombie's chin.

The green-eyed woman grasped the tree branches in shield and support as she watched the young teen stumble to his feet and waver as he looked back at her. He waved his hand non-threateningly.

"Don' worry. You're safe now." He promised in a heavy voice.

"Th-thank you. I—"

d'Artagnan's world was suddenly dumped on its side, as some invisible force of the fever knocked him over the head. He dropped to the ground on his side by the dead zombie he'd just killed.

Her eyes widened and she scrambled to his side, grabbing him. "What's wrong?" She jerked back at the blood that saturated his side back. "You're bitten!"

"No." d'Artagnan mumbled in denial as his eyes flickered. He tried to stay awake, to fight the fevered pull. "It's not what you... think..." and then his world was gone.

"Hey. Hey!" Milady shook the teen harshly, but the only response was a moan. "He's out!" she called into the empty woods. "Get him onto the horse."

The man who had stayed behind to keep an eye on the teen, and another man from the same group on horseback, appeared from where they had been hiding in cover during the entire act and picked up the slight boy.

They threw him over his stolen horse's saddle, and rode the mile and a half back to the ruins that stood almost a mile outside of Paris.

Nursemaid was hardly a caring creature inside of her, but she had a job to do, and so she did. He was young, but if the boy could survive the bite, than what did his age matter?

The rumour had come from the small community that managed to survive all these years in Pinon, even after their Comte had abandoned them. Athos had kicked her from the same embrace after he found out that it was her who had killed Thomas. Milady had survived, growing up as she had, she was far from defenceless. She'd killed her first man when she was fourteen. She slew her way back to Paris. Still married, Athos thought her dead, eaten by the biters, and Milady sought revenge from under Cardinal Richelieu's robes while enacting his agenda.

It was almost four days before the fever broke.

Milady had watched as he slowly became weaker, his breathes shallower. She looked down at the sweaty and fevered, handsome face of the youth with sour disappointment. And was finally left to deal with the fact that it had just been a rumour after all, or they had the wrong Gascon boy.

"A pity." She murmured as she rose a knife above his stilled body. "What use you could have been, if you hadn't been bitten. Your skill—I could have used such a soldier. Oh, and were you to grow into a man..." she brought the knife down with force.

d'Artagnan gasped and coughed, suddenly coming back to life. Milady let out a yelp and barely had time to divert the striking blade. She quickly tucked it away as he blinked his eyes open and looked around the faint light of the sun that stroked through the crumbling stone room where they resided.

Confused by his surroundings, not remembering how he'd gotten there. His eyes widened as they landed on the woman staring at him in shock, and he jerked up and scrambled away.

"Who are you? Where am I?" he demanded.

Milady gave her head a little shake and swallowed. "I—you saved me, remember?" She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that the Gascon had actually survived his bites. For years they had been searching for such a person. And now he sat before her. Her expression was genuine as she looked across at him; excitement, wonder.

There was a quiet moment as his brown eyes flickered across her face, and then he nodded. He could vaguely remember a woman up a tree. That must be her.

"I found your horse on the road." She continued to spin the tale. "And I soon found this place."

He nodded, silent still. His eyes darted around the room, taking everything in, and seeing that his weapons belt was next to the blanket that had been his bed, in easy reach. "Thank you." He finally told her with great sincerity, and she gave him a small smile in return. "Where are we, exactly?"

"Abandoned ruins near Paris."

He straightened at the mention of the city. "Paris?"

Milady nodded. "It's some more than half a mile away, perhaps. Were you heading there?" she feigned ignorance.

He swallowed at the sudden emotion that welled inside of him, and looked away as fresh tears pricked his eyes. It had been his father's idea. Because his cough hadn't been getting better, d'Artagnan knew, though Alexandre had tried to hide it.

"Mm-hmm. My father and I..." he said faintly and found he couldn't say anything more.

But she nodded and gave a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry." She murmured, knowingly. She briefly wondered now, if perhaps the boy's father was immune to the virus as well—but these thoughts were all but useless now, now that the father was dead.

Finally, allowed himself to shift back onto the blanket from the cold dirt floor. He still felt shaky and weak from the fever. And his two bite wounds would still cause him hindrance for a while longer like any wound.

There was a flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his recent fever, but everything to do with the sharp green eyes that were fastened to him. "Why?" he eventually asked her in confusion. "Why did you try to save me, when bites always change the person? Why risk yourself like that for no reasonable reason?"

"You saved my life," she answered. "I thought that I owed you something, at least."

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. "I did not think people like you still existed in this world. How have you survived?"

"What about you?" she asked in return. "You ran to help me, even with the state that you were in. You didn't know what you would find in those trees, but you came to my aid anyways."

"What is the point of being strong, if you don't defend the weak." He said, repeating something that Alexandre frequently told him growing up—and then his eyes widened as he realized exactly what he'd said. "Not offence meant, Mademoiselle."

She gave him a tight smile and looked away. "Technically, it is Madame."

"Oh, I apologize." He said quickly. "You're husband is gone as well?"

Milady shook her head. "As much as I may wish it!" she said with a forcefulness. His eyes widened in shock. "I am sorry, I—" she turned away. "My husband is a cruel man. I met him when all this sickness first started. It was the end of days, and we married quickly without getting to know each other. He protected me, kept me alive all these years. But if I had know the kind of man that he truly was, I never would have bound myself to him." Faux tears brimmed her green eyes. "He carries authority within Paris, and uses it to lure people into a sense of security before he pilfers and beats or murders them. He went out today with his men to do such things on any innocence he might pass on their way to a safe haven in Paris, and I used that to my opportunity to escape from him."

"What kind of authority does this man hold, to wield over such people?" d'Artagnan asked in horror. It was an automatic response in him to place a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

Out of sight, Milady allowed herself a wicked grin before she turned to him, weepy. "He holds a place within the Musketeers, the Captain's Lieutenant." She whispered.

He paused. "A Musketeer?" It had been Musketeers who had killed his father. A group outside of Paris that had come upon them on the main road to the city. "What—" he had to pause to control himself of the reawakened fury that returned to layer on top of his grief. "What is your husband's name?"

"Athos." She said. "Do you..." she trailed off at his expression.

"Athos?" he hissed. "Athos is the man that murdered my father." He pushed to his feet with the fresh rage. "I vow to kill this man! He deserves to die! Murdering and stealing from people trying to survive and find safety, abusing you—he does not deserve to breath this air upon this spoiled earth!"

"You can't leave now!" she protested in surprise.

"He does not deserve to take another breath!" he growled, and bent to pick up his weapons belt. His head grew lightened and he wavered, suddenly off-balance.

Milady grabbed him and helped him sit down. "In your state..." she gasped, her hands still upon him, "You can't. You need at least a couple days to recover your strength."

He panted in frustration at such a hindrance.

Her peck on his cheek startled him. "Thank you." She gently pushed his down.

He flushed at such attention and looked away. Not in his life had anyone treated him as such.

This time, she kissed his lips. "If only I'd been able to marry a man like you." She whispered wistfully. "I've never met anyone kinder or stronger."

"I'm just doing what any real man might." He turned his head and looked at her.

She was such a beautiful woman, despite how un lady-like her appearance. Her appearance was dishevelled, her pale skin dirty, her hair unkempt from her previous encounter wit the zombies. The most beautiful woman he'd ever lain his eyes on.

He felt prideful of the things she was saying of him. And when she leaned down and kissed him for a third time, he felt himself being peeled back by her. He reached up, his fingers curling around the nape of her neck beneath her hair and pulled her on top of him—gaining confidence as she continued to kiss him. She came more than willing.

It had been such a long time since she had such a young and handsome lover. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, she was sure. But he looked the man. He was tall and lean, his body tone and defined of muscle made by a person on the constant move. If anything, he was almost too skinny.

D'Artagnan had never kissed anyone before, not a girl or a woman alike. He'd been too young to be interested in girls when he and his father stayed in the Pinon camp for those two-years. And afterward, he'd been too busy surviving and looking after his father to think much on it.

And right now, he didn't think about it. For once, he didn't want to. He wanted his mind to just stop, his heart to do the same. And so he focused on this woman and the pleasure that she gave him. He focused on this brief moment in time where he didn't have to remember that his father was dead, that he would be forever alone in the world again, that soon he would have Athos blood covering his hands.

She lay against his uninjured side on the blanket by the fire afterwards. He'd turned his anger and want of revenge into a passion directed towards her that had left her breathless and headless. The only other man able to make that of her, was Athos.

d'Artagnan had become headless as well. He lay with her, listless. He was liquid, calm and smooth. He'd never felt such pleasure in his entire life.

"How is it possible?" she murmured in wonder as she stared at the bandage wrapped around his lower torso. "I've never heard of anyone surviving the bite before."

"Mmm." Was his wordless response as his fingers mindlessly traced the curve of her hip. "Neither have I, besides myself."

She leaned up on her elbow and watched as his doze turned into sleep, his hand stilling on her waist. She smiled. Gaudet would have already gotten word to the Cardinal by now, him and his men having been outside in the shadows d'Artagnan's entire fever.

There was such possibility for the teen to complete the task of riding her of Athos, but once the Cardinal found out about the boy, he'd be eager to get the subject into his hands. Of course, Milady's curiosity was almost overwhelming as well. But still, it was a pity to waste such potential.

True to form, d'Artagnan was ready to go the next morning. After eating some food found in the taken horse's saddlebag, they both mounted the stead and headed for Paris.

d'Artagnan had asked Alexandre what Paris had been like, when he'd visited a year before the outbreak, on their journey to the very city. Alexandre obliged him, and told him of the crowds at market, the bustle of people, all the stands and their wares. There were things that d'Artagnan had never heard about, there were things that he had but never laid his eyes on.

But now... now he had no one to tell him of such things. To explain what things were that he'd never seen before. For the first time in his entire life, he was alone. There was not a day that hadn't gone by that he hadn't seen his father, hugged his father, spoken to his father. And now the man was just gone, gone forever. Never to joke or laugh again, tell his son not to be reckless or chew with his mouth closed.

While Milady had given him comfort and purpose in that close embrace the previous day, he nevertheless felt the crushing weight of loneliness upon him, even as she hugged him from behind upon the horse. But he had a purpose, no longer looking for a safe haven in Paris, he sought only the death of Athos of the King's Musketeers. That man had taken everything that d'Artagnan had cherished in the entire world away, and he was going to take Athos' life in repayment.

It wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough—but he had to start somewhere.

Milady was a Godsend to him. She nursed him through the fever, she was a resident of Paris and knew her way around. Both their lives depended on each other now.

Twenty-feet from the gate, two Red Guards stepped forward and ordered their halt. d'Artagnan reined the horse in, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the tall stone wall that bordered Paris. Spiked blockades were place everywhere, a secondary barrier against the zombies.

Alexandre had said that Paris would thrive, would be reinforced. He'd been right, too bad the old man wasn't alive to see. To lead his only son into Safety's arms, instead of have him walk into Revenge's cold embrace.

They were ordered to dismount and they did so.

d'Artagnan faced the Guard, his posture none-threatening. Milady stood behind him and nodded to Gaudet, dressed in his proper uniform as Captain of the Red Guards, as she retrieved the hilted dagger from her dress.

Pain suddenly exploded in the back of d'Artagnan head, and he gave a soft groan, dropping to his knees as they gave beneath him. Gaudet laughed and grinned down at him. d'Artagnan didn't recognize the face, Gaudet's lips twisted mockingly at him—but those eyes were all he needed to see. They were the eyes of his father's murderer. And then darkness spread behind his eyes and he fell to the side.

"You know what to do," she told them, flipping the blade in her fingers before resheathing it in the folds of her dress. "And do be gentle, he's precious cargo after all—very precious."

[tbc]

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

Note: And there is the first chapter of this precariously built story, for which I have no idea where I am taking this. I feel like I'm out of my mind, but I'll give it my best shot. I have few of the vaguest ideas for the next chapter, so fingers-crossed that it goes well.

I know everyone's probably all sick of this, the fact that in I'm sure half my stories for The Musketeers, are referenced to the Pilot Episode. What can I say? It's my favourite episode, I feel like so many things can be built upon it.

Please review? I still have need to know exactly how lucid I am. LOL. :)

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