Three.

"I'm starving."

"It's only been a few hours since breakfast."

"So?" Porthos huffed, what did that have to do with anything? He was still hungry. It was definitely time for pre-lunch. You know, the lunch before the actual lunch.

"We shouldn't be far from Le Plan d'Eau." Bastien said after a moment of silence. He was hungry too, having missed breakfast due to being forgotten, still tied in the room. He knew he was a captive, but the Musketeers were fair men. They wouldn't let him starve to death, at least not yet. Their mission was to bring him to Paris where he would face the court. From there on things would probably take a turn for the worse. That was, if they actually made it to Paris. Seemingly patient, he did have some things planned for his captors further up the road. Getting them in the right direction by now already seemed to be working fine. "If we just stay on this path, it should appear momen-"

Bastien didn't even have time to finish the sentence before Athos and Aramis in the front ad stopped their horses, both of them breathing out a shocked "wow!"

Bastien came up between Roger and Belle, as d'Artagnan and Porthos rode up next to them. The sight in front of them was fantastic. They had emerged from the trees straight out to a thin beach line, the white sand shimmering with the morning sunlight. The water of the lake laid perfectly still, the trees of the other side of it reflecting perfectly into the clear blue water.

They all paused for a good couple of minutes, just inhaling the beautiful nature France has to offer. Very few things can be compared to the beauty of nature untouched by man. It was not marked by thousands of feet walking up and down the paths every day. There were no left overs from other travelers, no old fireplaces, no old rubbish lying around. Yes, this was a good place to stop at.

They all dismounted, Athos grabbing Bastien by the neck and moving him towards the trees, just where the sand met a grassy patch in the shade. Seating him and tying the long ropes to the tree, Bastien still had a couple of yards to move around within, but no freedom. Aramis and d'Artagnan took care of the horses, leading them over to another grassy patch where they undid the girths some and strapped in the reins so the horses wouldn't step on them as they grazed. Porthos was already making a fire.

"Is it my turn to fish?" Aramis asked, already removing his jacket without waiting for an answer.

"Yup, I fished yesterday." Athos nodded, walking over to Porthos with some dry sticks.

"I the day before that." Porthos nodded, snatching two rocks at each other, the spark immediate at the force.

All three of them looked up at d'Artagnan who seemed very occupied with Buttercup's tail at the moment, and they all shared a laugh. They had asked him to fish a few days ago, and he had happily stepped out into the stream where the trout had literally been jumping out of the water. Still, an hour had passed and d'Artagnan hadn't caught a single one. Porthos has finally lost his patience and walked out to catch his own food. A man can only wait so long for lunch.

Aramis grinned as he removed his linen sweater, his boots, trousers and socks, until he was down to his breaches. The rosary and cross around his neck remained as always. He moved down towards the water, dipping his toes at first, but smiled to himself as the water was already getting warm from the sun's rays. He waded out into the water, leaned forward looking down into the water.

"Any suggestions on what you want for lunch?" He called over to his friends.

"Salmon please." Was Porthos answer, and Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Wrong water, wrong season."

"Then eel, please." Porthos laughed as Aramis sighed heavily. Why did he even bother asking? But just in that moment, his luck seemed to be changing, as an eel actually did swim just by his leg. With fast, precise and skilled movements, he managed to grab onto its slimy body, and before it would slip from his fingers, he threw it up towards the beach.

He hadn't intended for the eel to land straight into Porthos' face, but it sure was fun to see the big man panic as the eel bounced off his nose, fell into his lap, still twitching like mad. Porthos was at his feet in an instant, flailing his arms and screaming a high-pitched noise that made even Athos smile to the point where his teeth were showing. D'Artagnan was rolling on the ground, holding his stomach as he laughed to the point where he could barely catch a breath.

Porthos glared angrily towards his friend in the water, Aramis holding up his hands in innocence. "You said you wanted eel?"

"I will get you for that!" Porthos barged, his body still twitching in panic and disgust. He would get revenge. Oh, he would definitely get revenge.

He turned back to the fire where the eel lay in the grass, unmoving, when something hit him at the back of his head. Twirling around fast, a trout was twitching at his feet.

"Stop it Aramis! I'mma smell like fish for a week!"

Aramis had a great smile on his face as his hands were once again up in innocence.

"I'm sorry, my aim is not good."

"You have the best aim out of all of us." D'Artagnan laughed. "I've seen you shoot."

Aramis grinned even wider as he within the blink of an eye dove down with his hands, grabbing another trout and hauling it up towards his comrades. This time he had been aiming at Porthos' face, but the big man was surprisingly fast for his size. Reaching down, he grabbed a hat, and shielding himself with it, the fish landed splattering inside the hat. Porthos held it up proudly for Aramis to see.

Aramis looked pale. "Is… is that MY hat?!"

Porthos grinned happily as Aramis' hands covered his face. No, fish in leather was never good, the smell never left. Sighing heavily as he saw Porthos dump the fish onto the ground, tossing Aramis hat to the side, he sat down in the grass, continuing with the fire. He had a feeling Aramis wouldn't throw any more fishes into his face from now on. Aramis pouted as he continued catching fish, gathering a couple more to still their hunger, throwing them all and making them land in a neat pile at d'Artagnan's feet.

Aramis was leaned down over the water in an attempt to see and hear the fish better, without noticing that the cross around his neck, the beautiful gift from his beloved Queen, was dangling in the water due to the long chain. Aramis was yanked roughly by the neck as a fish grabbed onto the bait, liking the shimmering gold against the sunlight. Aramis face was pulled under water as he flailed while falling forward, his hands searching for something that would brace his fall, finding the mud of the lakes bottom, as he went down on his knees. Safe on his knees but still underwater, his hands searched for whatever was holding him down, and as the hands found the fish trying to swallow his beloved item, he punched it hard, making it stop pulling at it. He grabbed it with both hands and got to his feet, one hand wiping his face as he emerged from the water, as one hand was holding the treacherous trout.

The laughter from the beach was explosive and loud. The three musketeers had all gotten to their feet as Aramis had roughly been pulled down below the surface, not knowing what had happened and prepared to help out if he didn't re-emerge. He did do so a moment later though, with an angry look in his face, and a trout hanging from the chain around his neck.

Aramis tried to pull the trout off his cross, but it appeared to be stuck. Moving up towards his laughing friends, Athos handed him a knife with a smile as Aramis cut the fish open, before dropping it to the fire. He sighed heavily at how disgustingly slimy his beloved gift had become, and went back out into the water to wash it off as Porthos calmed his laughter to starting to deal with the fish.

D'Artagnan was sneaking through the trees, careful as he walked on his toes, not wanting to scare off his hunt. He was going to get him this time. He had a stick in his hand, not wanting to use his sword… Just in case he actually managed to land a hit. He knew Athos was so confident in himself that he thought he could parry anything d'Artagnan threw at him, but if caught unaware… He had a chance. And he was going to win this bet against Aramis.

They had made the bet after that time they had been away with Queen Anne a few months ago. When they had been to that lake, and Athos and Porthos had dragging him over the ground, Athos claiming he could never land a hit. Aramis had laughed and happily made the bet with d'Artagnan. And d'Artagnan was going to win this, he would land a hit on Athos, but he knew the man was great, and all of these guys had a sixth sense when it came to knowing danger to be approaching. That just made it a whole lot more difficult.

But now… He had him. Athos was resting in the shade as Porthos and Aramis was happily playing in the water, throwing a stick back and forth between them while allowing the water to cool them off. The sun was high and the approaching summer heat was very evident in the air. Athos on the other hand was no one for games, and he was lying with his head resting towards a fallen log, his leather jacket rolled up underneath him along with his weapons, his hat over his face. D'Artagnan doubted that he was sleeping, because Athos rarely slept, but he was definitely relaxed.

He was so close now, so close. He was just a couple of feet away from Athos, lifting the stick up, prepared to strike a blow towards his sleeping mentor. So close…

He had not expected Roger to suddenly appear behind him, and being so focused on Athos, d'Artagnan didn't even hear the big, black stallion. All of a sudden d'Artagnan felt something hit him in the back and he went flying forwards, dropping the stick as he tried to brace his fall. He stumbled over the log and landed with a huff onto the ground next to Athos, his arms caught underneath his body, one of them awkwardly caught right against the healing wound in his side, hitting the grazed ribs with a little bit too much force.

The pain was immediate.

White blinding light hit his eyes, and loud ringing burst through his ears. For a moment the world around him seemed to have stopped, as he didn't notice anything going on. He didn't notice Athos' hands grabbing on to him, turning him on his back as he shouted for Aramis.

He didn't even hear the loud impact of Buttercup charging straight into Roger's side, determined to protect her master. And even the stoic Roger buckled under the force as Buttercup, at almost 1500 pounds, hit him square in the side with her wide chest. The force alone made Roger lose his balance, tumbling down on his side into the grass, as Buttercup reared up on her hindquarters, coming back down with her front hooves inches from him, with an angry snort. 'Do not do that again!'

Buttercup then turned her back on the stallion, leaving him confused in the grass, as she walked over carefully towards the log, observing the men taking care of her master.

"D'Artagnan? Hey, can you hear me?" Athos said gently, the lad's head in his lap, carefully stroking away a few misplaced strands of dark hair.

Aramis was removing the bandages, wanting to have a look at the ribs and wound. Porthos was behind him, looking over his shoulder, waiting for whatever instructions Aramis had for him while observing his work. Aramis gentle fingers easily peeled off the bandage, his hands palpitating the injured area. The pain seemed to have subsided some, as d'Artagnan's breathing seemed to calm down, his eyes blinking open.

"Hey." Athos said gently, a hand on his sweaty cheek. "You okay?"

D'Artagnan nodded slightly, biting his lip. "Wasn't… prepared for that…"

"I apologise about Roger. He's a bit protective. But so is Buttercup. You should've seen the way she rammed him down into the ground." Athos smiled, looking over to his side where Buttercup stood with her head lowered towards the ground. Roger had gotten up behind her, shaking off the dirt as he walked away. You can never trust a mare… Crazy, that's what they are…

D'Artagnan smiled. Roger. So that was what had taken him out. He made a mental note of making sure Roger was nowhere near next time he tried to attack Athos. And he then added 'feed Buttercup carrots' to his list.

He swallowed hard as a wave of pain went through him, as Aramis redid the bandage around his ribs.

"Sorry." Aramis said apologetically. "Feels like a rib or two are cracked, possibly broken. Wound looks okay though; all the stitches are still intact. I'm going to wrap these hard now, we'll ease up on them later, okay?"

D'Artagnan nodded. The pain was still there, but it was not as intense as it had been at first.

"Are you going to stop this nonsense now?" Athos asked, meeting d'Artagnan's eyes. "Before you kill yourself?"

"You are just scared that I'll hit you." D'Artagnan smiled weakly as Athos rolled his eyes, helping him up on his feet as Aramis declared himself done. Another wave of pain went through his bones as he tried to stand, Athos holding him in a tight grip, careful not to put any hands anywhere near the injured ribs, until d'Artagnan's breathing once again evened out.

"Stubborn lad." Athos sighed, easing on his grip to see if d'Artagnan could stand by himself. The youngster still had his eyes closed, but the colour was returning to his face. Athos held d'Artagnan by the shoulder at an arms length, as he looked up at Aramis, who were grinning widely. "You know it's your fault Aramis, you had to bet him."

"I betted against him, not against you." Aramis said with innocent, puppy eyes, bowing deeply. "My loyalty is with you, always, my good sir."

Athos rolled his eyes, before feeling someone gently push him aside. He released his grip on d'Artagnan and took a step away as Buttercup squeezed in between d'Artagnan and him. The mare gently sniffled her master's fingers, her soft muzzle coming down to meet his hands. D'Artagnan smiled, his hands coming up to scratch her forehead, just the way he knew she liked it. Her large head lowered as d'Artagnan's hands found her ears, and as he scratched them, her lips started flapping happily, her eyes closing.

The three men smiled pleased as they watched their youngster with his horse. They knew d'Artagnan had been with this horse since her birth, he had told them how he had found her dame panting on her side in a field, yellow by the large amounts of buttercup-flowers, a short distance from their farmlands. Charles D'Artagnan, only eleven years old at the time, had grabbed onto the tiny hooves and pulled the black foal out as the dame panted her last breaths. The pitch-black foal with the long legs was beautiful, nothing like the big, awkward draft horses they had at the farm.

The young boy had dried the foal off with grass as his father had found him. Alexander d'Artagnan had told his son the foal would never survive without his mother, and the boy had cried, not wanting to let it go. Alexander was a good man, not wanting to kill the foal, but not having time to raise a foal without its mother there to feed and care for it. What he saw before him was a test of his son's determination, and decided to let him try. He got a bucket and milked as much as he could from the dame, giving it to his son, who tried to get the foal to drink. He told his son to get as much as the colostrum into the foal, the first raw milk being terribly important for the babies. The rest of her milk, his cows could provide. Alexander then handed him a rope to bring the foal home with, before he left.

It had taken a larger part of the day and some part of the night to get the stubborn filly home to the farm, both young d'Artagnan and the filly soaking wet from sweat by the time they crashed into the straw bed Alexander had made for them. D'Artagnan managed to get some more milk that was left in the bucket, into the filly, before they both fell asleep in the straw together, exhausted. When Alexander had gone to check on them late that night, his son had been on his back with his arms under his head, and the filly resting her head across his stomach.

The two of them had been inseparable ever since. Young Charles had improved his riding skills as he had broken Buttercup under the saddle, which had been the easiest thing in the world. The other men on the farm had tried before him on his father's orders - a fourteen year old shouldn't break a horse. One by one the men had been crawling out of the coral as Buttercup had dumped them hard into the ground, before returning to d'Artagnan. When no one else dared to get up onto her, d'Artagnan let his hand stroke her neck, the long mane dripping with sweat, before he put a foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up onto her back. She didn't move a muscle until he asked for it, and with a big smile on his face he showed the older men how easy breaking a horse could be as long as you had their trust.

With time he had grown into a strong, tough adult looking for adventure, and Buttercup had grown into a stoic, elegant and powerful mare. The adventures the two of them got into were nothing short of madness, roaming the lands remote daily, before returning to their duties at the farm where they would work tirelessly, Buttercup pulling the wagons and plowing fields together with the other drafts. During their time at the farm Buttercup also gave birth to a foal herself, a filly named Anémone, which after d'Artagnan had cared for and broken her, became Alexander's horse.

It was Charles d'Artagnan and Buttercup against the world, when the tragedy happened. Alexander d'Artagnan was suddenly killed and Anémone stolen, the young rider and horse only had each other. D'Artagnan slept with his nose buried into the thick fur by her neck more than once, crying himself to sleep. He only had her. She only had him.

Until the day they had arrived to Paris, and all of a sudden, their little world had grown immensely.