Hi there. So I said updates would be regular with the competition season coming to an end, but now it's been a while. There's a reason for that.

Soon three weeks ago I got a phone call from a hospital in Lima, Peru, saying my mother (who was there on holiday) had collapsed and been taken into abdominal surgery. They wouldn't tell me much, just that she was in an induced coma, and breathing solely with help. My aunt and I got on the first plane there, and a 26 hour trip later we arrived to Peru. It was so very touch-and-go for a while, doctors gave her a 25% chance of surviving, and three times in the first week she was taken to surgery again due to internal bleeding. Then it turned, and from breathing with help she was suddenly up and about, and it's been a tiresome, but uphill climb from thereon. Now - with the help of SOS International and KLM Airline, we made it home to Stockholm, and my mom will be out of the (Swedish) hospital in a few days time after three long weeks. My heart is finally calming down a little bit, and I am immensely grateful for the help we have gotten from governments, insurance companies and most of all SOS. My mother is my world and I am glad to still have her by my side.

I've kept myself distracted with the amazing support of AZGirl, and all the #Burketeers of Twitter. You guys are truly amazing. I also distracted myself by writing, by hand, and I have pretty much finished the story. So hopefully, updates will be regular from now on!

All the love. Take care of your next, and live your life to the fullest! I bought a T-shirt in Peru with the text "Happiness is a way of travel, not a destination." Remember that.

Chapter 13

He was 17 years old. His 18th birthday was mere weeks away, and he was right now frightened that he would not live to see that day. He had woken from his father's shouts, telling all men to get their arms and raise the banners. They were under attack. Athos had been on his feet faster than he'd expected of himself, and with his servants help he had donned his iron breastplate within minutes. Pulling his sword belt on while hurrying down the hallway, someone suddenly grabbed onto his arm, and he was jarred to a halt.

"Olivier. Be careful out there."

Olivier sent her an earnest smile, forgetting all manners for a moment as he wrapped his arms around his governess and pulled her towards him for a tight hug.

"I promise Nounou. You watch mother and Thomas."

"I will."

Olivier let her go, and their eyes met in mutual understanding before he hurried down the hallway. Once outside, his father was already mounted, along with every townsman ready to fight. Most of them were on horseback, except a couple of few who were still on the ground. Olivier turned as he heard their stable boy call his name, and he watched how his own black stallion, Thibault, was led out of the stable in the colours his father bore. He looked ready for a war.

Olivier hurried to his friend, and placed his palm on the horse's forehead before mounting. It was something he always did, something the stable boys had told him was a way of calming a spooked horse. They called it 'the tea touch', explaining that placing a palm on the horse's forehead and gently rubbing just the right spot could easily calm the most fidgety of horses.

Thibault might not be spooked, but Olivier placed the hand there more out of habit, and as a way to greet his friend, than to try and calm him.

Or maybe it was a way to calm himself. As he put his foot in his stirrup, a hand in Thibault's thick mane and wrenched himself up into the saddle, he could feel his hands shaking. He was about to ride straight into battle, and honestly to God, he was frightened. But he was not going to show it to anyone. He was to ride up there, next to his father, and learn the ways of war just like it had been a history class. He was not frightened. He was a Comte-to-be.

"Olivier."

Looking towards the voice speaking his name, he caught eye of Roman, his swordmaster.

"Every single one of us is frightened and a man would be a fool if he weren't. But conquering your fears, that is how you truly know yourself to be brave."

Olivier didn't say anything, instead he just lowered his head in greatest respect, ushering Thibault to follow Roman and his horse. From behind, he could hear a horse whinnying scared, and turning his head over his shoulder, he could see Roger still in his stall, the three-year-old colt rearing and kicking around himself. Olivier looked up towards Thomas' bedroom window, and was surprised to see his brother standing in the window, the youngster giving a short wave as he noticed he had his big brother's attention. Olivier lifted his hand in salute, as he watched Nounou come up behind Thomas, her hands on his shoulders, a forced smile on her lips as she looked down at Olivier with tears in her eyes.

Olivier followed Roman all the way up to the frontline, where he rode up next to his father, listening to him as he shouted orders. The attackers were lined up on the other side of the field. Olivier had a feeling this fight would be quick, and brutal.

And he was very much right. As his father roared, everything was set in motion, and the collision of two sides ramming into each other was deafening. Olivier was immediately pushed back, but his sword clashed through the air to hit steel with a non-stopping, fluid motion. He could hear his father shout in the background, and he could hear Roman shout instructions to people, as the sword master was second in command after the Comte.

Olivier never truly understood what happened, in retrospect he could not remember all details. He remember pushing Thibault forward in an attempt to reach his father's side, and as Thibault plunged through the crowd a man with a sword took the opportunity to forcefully stab the stallion into his wide chest. The stallion buckled, and fell hard to the side. There was a rush of motion, and Olivier never did have time to brace the fall as he watched rocks – remains of their once standing stonewall – come at him in high speed. The sound of his leg snapping echoed through his mind and senses, and he realized he must've blacked out as slowly came back to a faded and blurry reality. He was still below his horse with the one leg, and just breathing send pain shooting up and down his body. He would not be able to pull that leg out, and he could not get his horse moving. Laying his head down onto his arm, all he could do was to watch the battle in front of him.

After it all, he could not tell how long he stayed there. They might've won the battle, but not without suffering tremendous losses. At the end of it, it was Roman who knelt next to Olivier, the teenager still trapped under his horse, and pulled his fingers through his thick hair. Olivier didn't say a word. He had been laying trapped as he had watched his father take a sword through his chest, and several of the men who had been there his entire childhood and upbringing had been cut down in front of his eyes. He had heard the sounds of bullets firing from inside the house, and he had heard screams of terrified women and children. Everything in his world was spinning, and not just due to pain and shock. His family had died before him, and he had not been able to help at any level, he had been completely useless and helpless and he should've died too. Still breathing as his father was whiskered away from the field felt dishonest and unworthy. He should've died by his side, protecting him at all costs.

But at Roman's command, several men had gathered around him, wrapping ropes around the horse, and another man had alongside with Roman grabbed onto Olivier's arms, and with a conjoined effort they pulled him out from underneath Thibault. Somewhere in that moment all the pain took over, and Olivier closed his eyes.

"Has anyone seen Athos?"

D'Artagnan looked up at Porthos who was standing in the door, shaking his head slightly he moved to a sitting position on the bed. Looking around amongst the beds as if he thought Athos would be sleeping there next to him – but something told him that if Athos had been, Porthos would not have bothered asking.

Porthos sighed, glanced in Aramis' direction, before walking out the door again. Heading down the stairs he walked outside, and decided to talk a walk around the estate. It was chilly out, and Porthos unconsciously wrapped his boat cloak closer around him as he walked.

He didn't have to walk far. Athos was standing still on the wide open field, his hands wrapped around each other and his shoulders hunched. He just seemed to be standing there, watching out in front of him without actually looking at anything, lost in thoughts and memories of his past.

Porthos walked up to his brother, being noisy on purpose not to startle him, and he could tell he had Athos attention as the man relaxed his shoulders. Porthos didn't say anything, but he walked up behind him, and placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. Athos didn't turn, he just stood still and looked at the snowflakes slowly falling from the white sky, to land on the cold, just as white ground.

"Whatcha looking at?"

"I was just reminiscing. This is the field my father died on."

Porthos didn't have anything to say, because he had a feeling Athos wasn't done yet. So he waited him out.

"I wish I could've helped him. I wish things could've been different, I wish I could've done something to help him. He had given me the best training I could've possible had gotten, he made sure I was skilled with a sword before I even hit my teen years, and he taught me strategy and battle history. And when the time came to stand beside him and defend our lands – I failed in every way possible."

"Athos. You were just seventeen years, you were not an experienced soldier. You did what y'could, things did not turn out the way y'imagined but you can't change that now."

"No, I can't. But the next battle that will take place on this field, will be different."

Porthos couldn't help but to smirk – he knew that spark in Athos' eyes. He knew the man next to him had something on his mind, and he couldn't wait to hear of his plans. For the first time since Porthos arrived to his side, Athos turned his head to meet his dark eyes.

"Shall we go inside and wake the sleepyheads up?"

"Good idea." Porthos grinned, his arm on Athos' shoulder as the man turned, and the two of them walked together, back in to the heat of the manor. Walking inside, they found d'Artagnan and Aramis in the couches of the living room.

"Oi! Whatcha doin' up?" Porthos immediately said, his eyes narrowing as he walked with quick steps up to Aramis' side as the man was sitting up with his good arm draped over the back of the couch.

"Easy Porthos." Aramis mumbled. "I'm just sitting here."

Athos came up behind him, placing a hand on his upper arm. "Aramis, how are you?"

"Fine and fit." Aramis smiled, even if they could all see the smile being properly plastered on his face. He was in a great deal of pain, they could all see that.

All of them felt the feeling of déjà vu wash over them from the mission that had led them here little more than a year ago. It was Porthos then who was certainly not 'fine and fit', but the sense of recognition was still there.

"Of course you are." Athos smiled gently, moving his hand to the nape of Aramis' neck.

Porthos had moved around the couch to sit down next to Aramis, his clinical eyes darting over his brother, observing his every movement. Athos, while not leaving Aramis' side, looked over to d'Artagnan in the next couch.

"And you? How are you doing?"

"I'm fine Athos."

"Yeah, sure." Porthos mumbled, looking between his three comrades. "You are all three fine and ready to battle."

"Always ready." Aramis mumbled, relaxing against Athos hand.

The front door opening suddenly had all of them turning in it's direction, and before anyone in the couches had reacted to it, Athos had his sword drawn, walking with leery but steadfast steps towards the door. They could all tell the exact moment Athos recognized who was entering, because just as quickly as he had gone stiff, every muscle in his body relaxed, and just as fast as the sword had been drawn, it was back into the scabbard. His arms reached out, and the person entering the room, covered in several layers of clothes, jumped into his arms, and he snuggled into the bend of her neck.

The men in the couches smiled at the way Athos just crumbled in the presence of Madame Sergeant, every tough exterior broken, all his shields and walls turned sideways to give open roads to his heart. The man who wouldn't show affection openly had wrapped his arms around her and embraced her into his little bubble of self-protection.

As they came apart, her hands were on his cheeks, his hands covering hers.

"Ollie." She whispered, and his cheeks turned red under her touch.

"Nounou." He whispered back, an embarrassed smile on his lips.

The men in the couches broke down into a fit of giggles, and the moment of endearment was properly ruined. Athos turned with an angry glare, but it would not stop the giggling coming from his comrades. The nickname 'Ollie' had been one they never, ever thought would be accepted by Athos, and hearing him call the governess 'nana' was just as childish. And they loved it. They loved seeing him so openly happy, so childishly loving someone, and most of all they loved that he could – and did – trust them enough to let go of all the exterior walls he built to protect himself with.

Not much later, they were all sitting down around the small table, Athos and Simone in one of the couches, Porthos and Aramis in the other and d'Artagnan in the third. New logs had been placed in the fire, it was a big house that required constant heating to keep the winter air out of it.

"So." Athos started as he leaned back in the couch. "What has happened here? And what do you know?"

Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, deciding who would take on the words. Porthos gave the others a nod before turning back to Athos.

"We came 'ere the day after y'arrived back to the garrison, n'we talked around to quite a bit of people before we met Madame Sergeant." Porthos said gently, bobbing his head in respect of the woman with her hand on Athos' shoulder. "She told us of Isaac, about w'appened during the raid where your family… Um, she told us he'd been spreading terror throughout the lands, n'that you came here to stop him. We were also informed that they took you away before returning you to her, and after that you came back to Paris."

Athos nodded. "Isaac and I did not leave on good terms of agreement. I was very angry, and not right of mind. I might've been a bit harsh on him, he was just a child who had just lost his parents."

"So were you." D'Artagnan threaded carefully. "You had just lost your parents as well, you were gravely injured and suddenly had an enormous duty to fulfil."

"D'Artagnan is right. Don't be too hard on yourself. What he is doing now is not justified. If he is still angry with you, he should've come straight to you instead of hurting others." Aramis added tiredly to it, all of them agreeing that even if Isaac was upset – this was the wrong way of showing injustice.

Athos sat quietly, a small nod as he took in he words being spoken.

"I am not sure why he didn't kill me?" Athos suddenly said, his brows coming to a frown. "He shot me, and could've easily let me die. Instead he cleaned my wound, bandaged me, talked a while before taking me to Nounou's."

Aramis might've been very tired, in pain and not all too alert, but his face still broke out into a grin at the childish phrase. "Nounou?"

Athos sent him a very dark look. That was off limits of teasing, no one made fun of his nana. Aramis was still gleaming with childish joy as d'Artagnan continued. "He doesn't want you dead. He wants your title."

Athos swung his head around, confusion spread across his face. "How would he get my title? Even if I died it would not legally belong to him. If something happend to me, La Fére will fall into the hands of the King, since I don't have an heir."

That was not completely right, he had signed the papers… If something happened to him, La Fére would fall into the hands of another person – that person just didn't know of it yet because he didn't know how to tell him of it. But he would, at some point.

"Unless you give him the title." D'Artagnan said quietly, looking up to meet Athos' confused eyes. He turned his head to Aramis and Porthos, realizing they looked just as confused, and d'Artagnan realized he hadn't had time to tell them yet what Isaac told him.

"Isaac wants you to give him the title, because he know he won't inherit it. Therefore he will make you a proposition. You give him the title, and he won't kill us." D'Artagnan said, motioning to himself, Aramis and Porthos. "Although, his plan was to take us hostage and he's failed at that. He wanted us chained by the time you arrived back so he could make a trade. Title for brothers.

Athos sat quiet, along with the rest of them, thinking about all the years of memories with Isaac, wondering what happened to the shy lad to have him become such a ruthless criminal. Once again, he was regretting his decision of sending Isaac on his way, knowing he scarred that boy badly.

"Would you stop blaming yourself!" Porthos mumbled, reaching over Aramis to gently swat at Athos' arm.

"I've been telling him so for years but he's so stubborn." Simone grinned.

Athos just shook his head. It was not that easy. If it were, he wouldn't have blamed himself for so many years, but it was not a feeling that was easy to shake off his shoulders.

"So, anyway." He sighed. "Isaac wants my title, and he would kill you for it."

"I believe he wouldn't kill us, because he knows you would not let us die." D'Artagnan said with an eyebrow up.

"I would trade the title in a heartbeat to save your lives."

"Isaac knows that as well." Aramis said, his eyes tired but ears keeping up with the conversation.

"But we would never let you." Porthos said, the others agreeing straight away.

"So far, in all attacks, Isaac hasn't even show himself. We need to lure him out. None of us three are really in shape to fight, and we know Isaac has a lot of men on his side." D'Artagnan mumbled, his brain trying to come up with a plan.

"Isaac does have a lot of men on his side." Porthos said, before looking up at Athos with a grin reaching from ear to ear. "But so does Comte Olivier de la Fére."

Athos looked up with surprise and scepticism in his eyes. "I don't have followers here. I lost them along with Thomas."

"That is not true. I've spoken to people, you have people willing to battle against Isaac. And if not fight for you, then have them fight for Thomas. You have a way of words, just speak to them." Porthos said, and Athos immediately turned to Simone. She knew everyone in this town, and Athos trusted her.

"Could it possible be so? Would people be willing fight with me?"

"They will." Simone said without an ounce of uncertainty. "Go to the square. Talk. Have them protect their own. If you die La Fére will go to the crown. If Isaac is rewarded the title life would be madness. The townsmen might not all be on your side, but no one is behind Isaac in this town. That man watched your father die, and everyone here loved your father. They will fight to protect their honour and their land. You just have to remind them that's what they're fighting for."

"Well then. We'll go to the square after breakfast."

"There is one more thing." D'Artagnan said. "We believe that Milady is here."

Athos nodded. "She is. I haven't talked to her, but I saw her when riding into La Fére. I will deal with her later. Finding soldiers is our primary goal, then we shall bring an end to Isaac's business."

"Breakfast first." Porthos added, worried that Athos would skip the most important part of the day.

The five of them rose to their feet, Porthos with a protective arm around Aramis, as dizziness went through him as he got onto wobbly legs. Athos kept an eye on d'Artagnan who seemed to be steadying himself by holding onto furniture and walls.

Everyone came to a dead stop as they reached the kitchen. Simone's and Athos' jaws dropped open simultaneously in shock. They stood in silence for a long while before Porthos let out an embarrassed chuckle.

"Eum… We were makin' bread."

Athos turned on his heels to give him a stern look before moving inside, looking around his kitchen with wide eyes.

"There's flour in the lamp! How, how, do you bake bread?"

"I tried to tell them…" D'Artagnan started, but was cut off by Athos.

"That this is not how it's done?"

"Yeah."

"We'll clean up." Porthos nodded quickly, then biting his lip as he turned to the pale man next to him. Aramis might've started the flour-fight, and Porthos would give back for it. Now was not the time. "I will clean it up."