A/N Welcome back! Bit more adventure this chapter, hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

D'Artagnan guided Rogue around the cart in the middle of the street, raising a quick hand at the four men trying to get it moving again. In another life, he would have stopped to come to their aid.

The letters that sat against his chest were a heavy weight though, and he was determined to push on. He clicked his tongue, and Rogue settled back into his bouncing trot. The streets here, on the far side of town, were emptier.

They made steady progress, escaping onto a wider street, and they slowed back to a walk. D'Artagnan looked up, and found the great fenced house waiting at the end. The instructions he'd received on the outskirts of Evry had proven easy enough to follow.

D'Artagnan came to a stop, some metres from the front gate. Somewhat unusually for a Comte, two guards stood ready. They watched him closely, hands on their sword hilts.

He slid from Rogue's back, landing gently on the cobbles, and caught up the stallion's rein carefully. "Good lad." He murmured under his breath, and approached a few steps more before halting. "Good evening." He greeted, dipping his chin respectfully.

"That's close enough for now." Called the older looking man, narrowing his eyes. "What purpose have you?"

"I am d'Artagnan, of the King's Musketeers." His pauldron caught the light of the fading sun, soon to disappear below the towering buildings they stood between, and d'Artagnan saw them both glance at it. "I carry letters of import, for Comte de la Montalivet, direct from the King."

The pair of men relaxed, exchanging a relieved look.

"Very well," the younger man gestured to a nearby rail. "Tie your horse, and I'll escort you in."

"My thanks." D'Artagnan turned Rogue, relieved to see a clean water pale waiting. But the stallion was stubborn, resisting the lead.

D'Artagnan clucked, cajoling the horse forward, and he obeyed in the end. "I won't be long, good lad." D'Artagnan resisted speaking in Gascon. Something in his gut told him that the two rather nervous guards would prefer to understand his words. "I won't be long."

D'Artagnan carefully placed the letters into the Comte de la Montalivet's hand, eyeing the man's cross expression. He had evidently called the man away from his dinner, perhaps with company, by the decorated garments he wore.

"Be gone with you." The man snapped, gripping the leather case tightly in his hand. "Why do you interrupt my family so late?"

The sun had not yet set, but d'Artagnan was familiar enough now with nobles that he knew logic would not matter here. "Forgive me, my Lord." D'Artagnan bowed obsequiously, keeping his eyes low. Had Athos ever been so unreasonable when he was a Comte? "I but follow the King's command."

When he straightened, d'Artagnan found that the richly dressed Comte had paled, and was staring at the letters in his hand as if seeing them for the first time.

There was an awkward pause, during which D'Artagnan maintained his silence.

"Of course." Montalivet eventually cleared his throat. "Please convey my utmost gratitude and thanks for receiving the King's personal correspondence. I will have a reply for you to carry, by the morning."

That suited D'Artagnan's plans fine, and he bowed again. "Of course, Monsieur le Comte Montalivet."

A flicker of approval crossed the older man's face, before he nodded, and rather surprisingly asked, "Do you need lodgings for the night, musketeer?"

"My thanks, but no." D'Artagnan declined smoothly. "I would not wish to intrude."

"Take care in the town, then." Montalivet told him, frowning. He eyed d'Artagnan like many had before, seeing only his age. "There have been strange reports reaching my ears, of strangers coming to our town, and causing trouble on the oads."

"I will do my best to avoid them." D'Artagnan lied, with a gracious smile. "My apologies again for disturbing you."

"No matter. Call again in the morning." As the Comte hurried away, he was already fishing out the letters rather urgently.

The male servant that had come to the door cleared his throat softly, and d'Artagnan turned casually, as if he had not been rudely watching his master.

"I have heard tell of a fine establishment." D'Artagnan smiled blandly. "On the Northern road into Evry, I believe I passed it on my way. Run by a man named Pierre?" He watched carefully for a reaction, and got rather more of one than he'd expected.

The younger man actually paled, shooting the more experienced guard a startled look.

"Best you stay closer to the centre, tonight." Advised the older man sharply, catching the younger's shoulder. "Strange tales, recently. Pierre is gone from his inn," he eyed d'Artagnan carefully. "Ownership has changed hands."

"My thanks for your warning, sir." D'Artagnan replied, respectfully, ignoring the somewhat bizarre behaviour. He turned to gentle Rogue a moment, clicking his tongue, and swung gently into his saddle. The stallion was utterly steady beneath him, watching the two guards with pricked ears. The day's ride had done him a world of good. "I'll follow your good advice." D'Artagnan lied smoothly.

"Best you do." The younger guard called after him, warningly. "Strange folk about!"

D'Artagnan lifted a hand, but did not turn. "So I've heard." He muttered to himself. Riding away from the house, he passed the man lighting the lamps. The dark of the evening was beginning to press in, as the sun retreated ever closer to the horizon. In that moment, he felt very alone.

Rogue snorted softly, ears pricked as he stepped confidently down the quiet street. D'Artagnan dropped a hand on the stallion's neck. "At least I have your company, my friend."

In the end, it was Rogue that found the inn. He pricked his ears abruptly, canter slowing to a far sharper trot. He huffed warningly, and d'Artagnan patted his neck. "Good boy." They rounded a gentle bend, and the white-washed walls of the inn came into distant view. There were lamps, a sign on the road, and an obvious stable out the back.

He slowed Rogue gently once they reached it, mainly with his knees for the stallion was so sensitive around his mouth he was avoiding using the reins when he could. "Steady now." They came to a stop, and d'Artagnan stretched out his fingers as he peered around curiously.

A young boy ducked out of the stable, squinting cautiously up at him. "Staying t' night?" He asked, as d'Artagnan swung from his horse.

"At least one." D'Artagnan told him, and peered into the stables behind him. They were ill kept. "My horse is ill-tempered with strangers." The boy abruptly stopped his approach. "Show me where to stable him, and I will manage things."

"Boss says I'm meant to help." The blonde child couldn't be more than twelve, and was rather slight. He eyed the anxious Friesian stallion with open dismay.

"I won't tell, if you don't." D'Artagnan flipped the boy a copper. "Fetch him some decent feed, though. He's worked hard."

It was relaxing work, like all the times he'd joined Jacque in the stable. He leaned into it, the steps that he no longer had to think about for a horse's care, the familiar scent of hay that made his shoulders lower from around his neck without active thought.

D'Artagnan sighed, leaning his forehead against Rogue's strong neck for several breaths. For just then, he missed the quiet sound of his Father in the neighbouring stall, so much it ached.

"Room for the night?" The man behind the bar greeted him gruffly. "Last one. Want to stable your horse too?" He narrowed his eyes, squinting distrustfully. "That's extra."

"Your stable boy told me. And it might be two nights, I have some business tomorrow." D'Artagnan stopped by the bar, handing over the required number of coins. He saw the owner's gaze flick to his pauldron, and hurriedly away.

He was directed up the stairs, the furthest room in the corridor, but had to pause as the opposite door suddenly opened and a man emerged.

They both paused, and the stranger looked startled, strange shadows making him appear eerie by the weak cast of the lantern in d'Artagnan's hand.

"Excuse me." D'Artagnan murmured, indicating his own room with a nod of his head, and the dark haired stranger eyed him cautiously. It was easy enough for d'Artagnan to glance down as he turned away, and easily spotted the poorly hidden knife at his waist.

"Forgive me." The man murmured, and d'Artagnan didn't look back up, but nearly froze at the very soft accent.

Spanish.

He reached for his own handle as the stranger slipped behind him, letting himself into his room. He closed it firmly behind himself, grateful to find a lock, flicking it and feeling a little more secure.

Well, he pondered, one Spanish man could be a coincidence.

D'Artagnan glanced around the scarce room, with a sigh. It was gloomy, barely lit by the small lantern he held. A rickety bed, some thin blankets, and a small table and chair across the room by the cold fireplace. D'Artagnan moved to the window, looking out the window into the dark space above the barn, cautiously.

The barn had been nearly full, but the bar downstairs had been strangely empty. Perhaps all of the patrons were in their rooms.

D'Artagnan looked north, down the empty road that disappeared into the darkness, and sighed. He missed the others. More-so now because every time he stopped at an inn, he immediately began to think on his Father. And then he would think of Gascony. And then-

D'Artagnan inhaled slowly, and then out. Steady, he reminded himself, as if he was speaking to Rogue. Get some dinner, and see what you can hear.

He set his things down, hesitating for a moment, before removing his pauldron and cloak. He'd brought a darker one for this very purpose, hidden at the bottom of his pack. D'Artagnan should have taken it off before arriving, and perhaps Athos would have told him to. But something in the Comte's manner, and his guards too, warned d'Artagnan of looking like an easy target.

At least if he was known as a Musketeer, though it might damage his ability to spy on other patrons, they would know he had more support than the average traveller.

Even knowing that protection lay with the threat of the Musketeers at his back, D'Artagnan stared out into the darkness, and wished desperately for their actual presence.

He had fulfilled more than a handful of missions by himself, some of which had proven more testing than others. But tonight, perhaps more powerfully than ever before, d'Artagnan felt horribly alone.

The food was slow and poor quality when it finally arrived, but d'Artagnan ate steadily and without complaint. The single drink he asked for came faster than anything else, brought by a rather pretty serving girl, who had a mess of dark curls worn in a similar fashion to Constance.

D'Artagnan avoided thinking about Constance for too long, chest aching, and swallowed back some rather weak ale instead.

Some locals gradually began to trickle in, and three young men arrived at once, the loudest table of them all.

D'Artagnan kept his head down, at his table at the back, furthest from the door, stairs and bar. But it gave him a good view, and kept a wall at his back, which was worth a lot to his mind.

Gradually, more and more people arrived. Most seemed to be locals, perhaps cautiously exploring what was on offer now that the ownership had changed hands.

D'Artagnan slid out a few sheets of paper and began working on a letter to keep himself occupied. He hadn't written to his headman in some time, receiving fairly steady monthly income again since the farm had been rebuilt.

D'Artagnan certainly owned him a letter, and it was a fair enough task to keep his head down and appear uninterested in the other patrons.

It became strangely busy as the night dragged on, and it took d'Artagnan a fair amount of time to work out why. But eventually he overheard the barkeep talking, gifting the locals half-price drinks if they stayed for at least one more.

It seemed strange, particularly if the ownership had just changed. But maybe that was how the new man was finding customers. A fair walk out of town, d'Artagnan presumed most of the men were from the local farms nearby.

"-no word from him, in three weeks now."

D'Artagnan went still, not lifting his head. He recognised the voice.

"We must assume he has been captured. And if he has, what are we to do?"

It was the same subtle accent, and voice. D'Artagnan hid a smile behind his hand, pretending to re-read his letter. The man upstairs.

"Quiet, fool, you speak too loudly. Aimé said that fellow there, is a Musketeer."

It was a hushed whisper, but d'Artagnan's ears were sharp. And he'd adjusted, over the last several hours, to the familiar murmuring cadence of the room. The accent, soft as it was, was out of place. It reminded him of Aramis, and he wished abruptly that the sharp shooter was sat at his side.

"We should have gone elsewhere."

"It is not too late."

D'Artagnan let his eyes drift closed for several seconds, before forcing himself a little straighter, blinking. But gradually, he let his expression grow distant, and began to sag again.

His chin rolled heavily onto his chest, and he had gradually been sinking back into the bench he was on, hands in his lap.

"Him? He's too young." One of the men at the same table muttered, sounding entirely French. "And he looks nearly asleep."

"Looks can be deceiving." That was the voice from the man upstairs again, d'Artagnan thought. "Wait and watch."

The arguments fell away into silence.

D'Artagnan sagged a little more, stretching out his neck, before relaxing back. He would be giving every appearance of a weary young traveller, drifting off to sleep. His eyes closed, and he exhaled any remaining tension.

He began to breathe evenly, steadily, not reacting at a sudden swell of laughter from a nearby table. D'Artagnan kept himself relaxed, almost limp, and made sure to breathe steadily. But his mind was actually racing, wondering if the man in the room opposite his was the ring leader of this little group.

"He's actually asleep. Some Musketeer." There was a snort of laughter from across the room, and though the man had pitched his voice low, he and his table-mates were evidently ill practiced at such espionage.

"Why do we still talk in French, Benoit?" It was a whispered question. "And sit here in the open, when each of us four have our own rooms?"

"The bar keep will only be silent until someone offers him more coin." The leader spoke again, disparagingly. "He could report on four men, who arrived for drinks and a meal, and left the next day." D'Artagnan strained his ears. "Or he could tell tall tales of four strange men, who spoke unfamiliar tongues, and met in secrecy."

There was silence, and d'Artagnan missed some of the following conversation then, as the noise in the sweltering room seemed to reach a fever pitch.

"-you've been a fool, behaving as you have. There is talk about the town about bandits on the road."

"It was, how do you say. Easy pickings." That was a new voice, a third man at the table. His accent was stronger, more obviously Spanish, as his vowels elongated and changed. "You want me to ignore?"

"I want you to focus on our goal." It was a hiss. "Stealing gold from a single traveller? We are here for a greater purpose."

"Come now," and then, a fourth voice. "There are fewer here than started this venture already. We cannot ill afford to fight amongst ourselves." It was calming, entirely reasonable, and the argument seemed to die away. "What news do we have, then? Of the others?" The man spoke perfect French, and d'Artagnan could not pick out with any certain whether he had a subtle accent or not.

"Lucás and Theo were captured in Paris."

D'Artagnan frowned internally. Were they the pair of Spanish spies that the Cardinal's men had stumbled upon? He had never heard their names. But they had been the ones to give the Musketeers the information needed to pursue and eventually capture Balon on the road south.

"No word from Balon. We must assume he is lost, too."

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to smile, shifting a little as his neck grew uncomfortable. He sighed heavily. He'd need to retreat upstairs soon. But the information he had gathered so far seemed useful. What if they spoke of their actual plans?

"-changes nothing, the plan remains the same. The pieces from our friends in the south are already in play. They will certainly fall into our trap."

"-too confident. What if Balon talks?"

"-knew it all. He almost certainly had word from Alain before they took him."

"Do not say that name." Snarled the man that d'Artagnan thought had been upstairs. "Tu imbécil-" he muttered on in rapid Spanish, far too quickly for d'Artagnan to catch anything much, until his companions hushed him.

The noise of the room grew louder, and in the end, d'Artagnan thought it would be suspicious if he continued to pretend to sleep through it.

So decided, d'Artagnan opened his eyes after a particularly loud yell, squinting in that direction without trying to hide his irritation. And then he yawned, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

The action made him look young, d'Artagnan knew. He tended to avoid doing it around the others, for that exact reason. He had been teased any number of times. But this evening, appearing particularly young would not go against his aim of being dismissed as a threat.

He rolled up from his chair, sidestepping the waitress with a purposefully sweet smile that she returned, and made a point of watching her return to the kitchen.

When she tossed a flirty look over her shoulder, d'Artagnan smirked. No matter that his interest was faked, or that her curls were entirely the wrong shade.

The table he had been listening to was at his right, now. And as he turned away from the server, his gaze flicked over them, before he turned toward the stairs.

The man from upstairs was older than he'd thought. The shadows had hidden some of his grey hair. There was a younger man, and then two middle aged. Only one of them, the dark haired middle aged man, had been looking his way.

D'Artagnan did not meet his gaze, running a tired hand through his hair, and he paused. Should he check on Rogue? He worried for the stallion, and the room felt close, smoke filled and reeking of alcohol.

D'Artagnan ducked towards the door abruptly, shoving the heavy door open and stepping out into the cool air with relief. For a moment, foolish as it was, he closed his eyes and just breathed.

And then he sighed, and made his way toward the stable.

Rogue leaned heavily against d'Artagnan's chest, head hanging low and relaxed. D'Artagnan felt a touch guilty, as he slipped the stallion another sugar cube from his stash. He reminded himself, shaking his head, that Dahlia would hardly know that she was not the only horse he spoiled.

Rogue lipped up the cube gently, and then returned to his position. He was an entirely different horse, after a decent day's ride. Perhaps d'Artagnan would need to take him for a ride tomorrow as well, more than just back through town to collect the letters, if he wanted Rogue to remain such a reasonable fellow.

Rogue nosed him gently for more treats. When the stallion had first gone under saddle, a sugar cube had kept d'Artagnan from being trampled more than once.

"All I have, my lad." He murmured in soft Gascon, and leaned into the horse a moment more. "My thanks, for your company."

The following day, after a brisk ride through the sleepy town to collect the letters, d'Artagnan followed the guard's directions to the east gate.

"I was told there's a nice path, this way." He called, and the man on watch nodded, pointing towards the forest that stood guard to the east of Evry.

"That way."

"My thanks." D'Artagnan urged Rogue into a trot, trying to get used to the fairly upright stride again. He was fresh again this morning, tossing his head and spooking several times when they'd walked the streets. A woman emptying a chamber pot had almost resulted in d'Artagnan being dumped into its contents, but he'd managed to keep his seat in the end.

Rogue was at least a fair riding lesson, he supposed.

As they went, d'Artagnan found himself pondering the men from last night. The inn had been quiet by the morning, only the serving girl about, just after dawn. He'd found the young stable boy asleep in the hay, and chosen not to wake him.

The man he'd first bumped into upstairs, the one he'd initially thought the leader, had been Spanish. As was the man who D'Artagnan picked out as the actual ring leader, after listening to their talk for a while longer. But the other two were French.

Could they be from Gascony? Or was this more widespread than they realised?

And, with no little irritation, d'Artagnan pondered his mission. He had been sent to the inn by Treville, and stumbled across the exact meeting that surely the King would wish to know about. But why the secrecy?

He felt a little ill, whenever he contemplated the possible reasons he had not been told in any open terms about his mission. Did they not trust him, due to his tie to Gascony?

Rogue snorted abruptly, and d'Artagnan realised he was conveying his stress through the reins. He loosened them, clicking his tongue to urge the stallion on towards the trees, and wallowed. Why had the King picked him, if he was not trusted?

His gut twisted, and Rogue danced a little beneath him as they crossed beneath the eaves of the large oak trees. The path was laden with leaves, and d'Artagnan admired the pretty scene as they trotted on.

They rounded a corner, and the path split in two. He had received no instruction aside from the location of the path, and they paused in place, Rogue tossing his head in frustration as d'Artagnan drew him to a stop.

D'Artagnan glanced behind himself, but the road lay empty. A shiver ran up his spine, and he half turned Rogue, hand dropping to the musket at his waist.

But nothing happened. Nobody appeared, no one attacked. All that came past was a gentle breeze, carrying the fresh green scents of the forest.

Eventually, d'Artagnan relaxed, shaking his head. Travelling by himself, after so long with company, had obviously made him jumpy.

He pressed his right knee firmly, edging Rogue towards the left and softer looking path. As soon as they were moving forward again, d'Artagnan urged him into a gentle lope as the way opened up. Surrounded by trees and on the stallion's back, he began to feel better.

He would stay another night, gather more information if it was there to be had, and report back.

Another night of poor food and bad sleep gained him nothing more than an extremely poor temper. D'Artagnan had not even seen the four men again, and when he'd quietly asked about town for any foreigners, had received only strange and changing rumours about several violent thefts on the nearby roads.

D'Artagnan mounted up stiffly, back aching from the thin mattress he'd tossed and turned on for the last two nights. He'd half contemplated disappearing into the forest, to find a softer bed.

"Come on then, my boy." He clucked gently, until Rogue stopped eyeing the stableboy like he posed a grave threat, and stepped forward onto the road with more confidence. "One more job, and then we'll get home."

They headed south into town, and d'Artagnan ducked into the magistrate office on the outskirts of Evry. He gave the descriptions of the four men, letting them know he was suspicious they might be involved in the recent spate of robberies.

D'Artagnan was thanked profusely for his information, but he walked away from the meeting with a chilled feeling that only grew in his chest. The elderly magistrate seemed unlikely to achieve much. And he still felt they were missing something. He recalled the man's words, at the inn, said with such confidence.

They will certainly fall into our trap.

The replies safely stowed in his inner pocket, d'Artagnan swung his cloak on, and led Rogue from the stables. A little less fresh than the day previous, the stallion still danced on the end of his rein, huffing nervously. D'Artagnan smiled rather fondly, "Steady, now, almost there."

He climbed aboard, and they set out at a fairly steady trot away from Evry. The stallion was moving a little more smoothly, now. His mind somewhat occupied by imagining what he might tell Jacque of his mount on their return, he headed away from Evry with significant relief.

He kept a cautious eye on the road behind him for pursuit, but gradually as an hour or so passed, d'Artagnan at last began to relax and settle into the ride.

When he would think back in days to come on the events that took place during his journey home, d'Artagnan would come to the conclusion that if he'd been riding Dalia, he likely would not have survived.

He was loyal to Dahlia, in the way of all Musketeers and their mounts. She was a sweet and obedient mare, entirely biddable, and had only ever spooked three times since d'Artagnan had become her rider. The last, most recent event, was when he'd been thrown after a musket had gone off inches from her face.

In general though, she spooked at very little, notably more calm than even other Musketeer horses.

Rogue was an entirely different nature to d'Artagnan's usual mount. He was fierce and unpredictable in equal measure; dramatic enough to leap four feet into the air at certain strange shadows, but loyal enough to stand his ground beside his rider during a nightmarish attack that almost all sensible animals would flee from.

So when a stick cracked loudly just ahead of them, from the otherwise peaceful wood they ride beside, Rogue ended up saving d'Artagnan's life twice.

First when he spooked dramatically and sharply to the left, thereby sending the musket ball aimed at d'Artagnan head, instead through his shoulder. And second, by standing his ground once d'Artagnan fell, providing cover and a place to return fire from.

D'Artagnan felt Rogue shift abruptly beneath him, and braced himself as the stallion startled up on two legs, spinning towards the left. He very nearly lost his balance, catching the long mane with one hand.

And then, surprisingly, he did.

He blinked.

It felt like someone had punched his chest with a blacksmith's anvil, and all his breath rushed from him.

And then, bizarrely, the sky began to fall.

Oh, perhaps that was him, falling.

The world spun dizzyingly for a moment, perhaps two, and then it ended.

D'Artagnan hit the ground. Any breath left in his lungs was lost. His head struck the dirt a moment after his body, and with a sharp pain, darkness abruptly threatened.

He clung onto consciousness, but just barely.

D'Artagnan might still have been lost, had Rogue not issued his own challenge at that very moment. His stallion's confronting scream split the air, and the noise cut through the silent darkness in his mind.

D'Artagnan inhaled a breath, and then another. He choked on the third, crying out weakly, at the excruciating pain that abruptly spread its fire along his chest and down his right arm.

His arm was agony.

Another enraged squeal from above him, and d'Artagnan abruptly became cognisant of more gunfire. Multiple attackers, his training told him, or a heavily armed individual.

You need to get up, and the voice in his mind just then sounded like Porthos. Die, or get up and fight.

D'Artagnan rolled to his knees with a pained gasp, but found his own musket with his shaking left hand. Another ball flew overhead.

Figure it out, Aramis beside him, always calm. Why aren't you dead yet?

D'Artagnan looked up, and nearly gaped.

Rogue, incredibly, was still at his side. The stallion's feet danced in place, eyes rolling in terror and nostrils flaring with fear, yet he remained. His head was thrown high, and another challenging scream emerged from the stallion's throat. That he had not yet been shot, was a miracle.

He had blocked d'Artagnan from easy sight, and the attackers had not yet emerged from the shelter of the wood.

As yet another musket ball flew above them both, d'Artagnan knew that his horse was not their target. But, as such an effective shield, Rogue might be soon.

Any day now, and the amused sarcasm could only be Athos, so clear in his mind. Wouldn't you like another chance to prove your Gascon stubbornness?

D'Artagnan regained his feet.

"Fuck-" he swore in Gascon, and clutched a leather strap on his own saddle to keep his feet. And then he paused, inhaling as deeply as he could through the red hot pain.

Any day now, d'Artagnan.

The Athos in his mind was beginning to sound slightly stressed, which couldn't be a good sign.

He leaned up and snuck a split second glance above the pommel, finding a target in a flash of pale cloth that stood out in an otherwise natural green forest. He ducked back into hiding as a shot went off.

And then he lifted his musket, took careful aim above Rogue's neck, and shot. Incredibly, the stallion startled, but didn't bolt.

I told you those left handed shooting lessons would pay off.

Aramis sounded smug, as the air fell still, though d'Artagnan felt a little as if the world was still shaking. He dropped his gun, reaching a desperate hand to clutch the reins that would be his only chance of survival if there were more attackers. His additional guns were swinging from the right side of Rogue's saddle, out of reach and entirely useless.

Rogue turned his head, huffing nervously perhaps at the scent of blood, and abruptly spooked. He spun a little, dancing backwards, and exposed d'Artagnan to the forest for a second or two.

D'Artagnan ducked back behind him desperately, but no musket fired.

His ears ringing, sheltered behind his mount once more, d'Artagnan took stock.

He was alive. His racing heart proved it, as did the pain that seemed somehow to be growing greater. He glanced down at his shoulder, and found a rather extraordinary amount of blood flooding down his right arm. He would need to somehow bind it, if he wished to make it the four hour journey back to Paris.

Perhaps you should investigate whether there are more attackers before they sneak behind you, and plan your journey once you know you will be alive to see it?

"Sorry, Athos." D'Artagnan muttered, and Rogue tossed his head at his voice. He steeled himself, straightening painfully, and drew his sword awkwardly with his left hand. He looped the reins, that he realised now had torn, around his useless right hand. He could barely feel the leather against his skin, but any movement sent daggers of pain through his chest.

Be smart about it, Aramis reminded him, and d'Artagnan did his best.

He circled forward with Rogue between him and the trees, because he felt that would be more unexpected than retreating, and eventually ducked into the trees from further up the path. He tied Rogue loosely to a branch, praying to Aramis's god that the stallion would not now choose his moment to bolt.

And, moving as quietly as he could, he began searching.

Keep yourself moving, Porthos's gruff advice echoed in his thoughts.

By the time he found the body, d'Artagnan had grown dizzy with blood loss. He froze in place, as he spotted a leather boot sticking out from behind a tree.

He waited, but the foot didn't move. Cautiously, he peered out from behind the tree he hid behind. His eyes flicked from the boot upwards, and he found the Spanish man from the inn sprawled out on his side beside a fair stock pile of muskets and rifles.

Probably working alone, then.

Don't make assumptions, Porthos warned him.

He avoided looking at the man's ruined head, near destroyed by the only musket ball d'Artagnan had fired.

I taught him that, you know.

"Not now, Aramis." He mumbled, and crouched down to begin searching the man. As wrong as it felt, he knew he was running out of time before the blood loss would send him back into the dirt.

D'Artagnan checked his pockets quickly, though he had to pause after rolling the man to lean dizzily against the nearest tree, to avoid falling unconscious. The sharp jolt of pain had been awful, and the nausea that followed was almost worse, and seemed unlikely to abate soon.

Truly due only to his stubbornness, D'Artagnan continued his work. The first two pockets were empty, but the third was not. He retrieved a bound bundle of letters, and slid them into his own left pocket without attempting to read them. And putting them in his right pocket would likely only result in them becoming illegible due to his blood.

That reminded him, and he weakly slid the Comte's letters into a safer spot. The leather was covered in blood, but hopefully the letters themselves were still safe.

His head felt awfully strange.

Blood loss. You should drink soon.

D'Artagnan sighed, "My water is with Rogue." He mumbled.

You need to get moving, Athos sounded worried again.

He needs to bind his shoulder first, Aramis said, tone just as concerned.

D'Artagnan looked around for inspiration. He eyed the leather strap that held a nearby musket case. There were several cases, actually. No wonder he'd felt a fair hail of musket balls.

D'Artagnan nodded to himself rather vaguely. The man must have a horse around here, somewhere.

Focus, Porthos reminded him.

His eyes caught on the leather strap again, and he swallowed. Perhaps that might be a decent sling. Had he already thought that?

But first, D'Artagnan needed to put a pressure bandage of some sort.

He sighed weakly, wishing yet again that his friends were beside him.

D'Artagnan heard a soft, anxious nicker, and straightened from where he'd slumped back against his new favourite tree. "I'm coming, my boy." He stole the leather strap on his way back to his horse, and spent several long and painful minutes tying a bandage made of strips of his other cloak, and settling his arm into a badly made sling.

He nearly passed out, and then he did.

He woke to Rogue snuffling noisily at his face.

And perhaps that was the third time d'Artagnan was saved by his mount, in nearly as many minutes. He held the bridle, and with Rogue's anxious help, climbed painfully to his feet.

Drink, Aramis reminded him.

Unstoppering the bung, d'Artagnan drank thirstily. His throat was parched.

The blood loss will do that, yes.

"I know, Athos." He mumbled, and Rogue pricked his ears. The sharp fire in his arm was settling off into a painful ache, worsened by any movement.

D'Artagnan eyed the small first aid kit that all Musketeers carried. There was no doubt white willow bark inside, which he could brew into a tea or even chew, and ride more comfortably.

Might be others, Porthos sounded apologetic.

"You're right." D'Artagnan mumbled, "Can't risk it."

He led Rogue to a nearby fallen tree, and climbed slowly up, finding his stirrup through luck more than anything else. "Go steady, my boy." D'Artagnan asked softly, and clucked his tongue.

Rogue walked them from the forest, and at d'Artagnan's weak nudge of his knees, fell forward into an easy lope. He skipped his jolting trot all together, and d'Artagnan mumbled some praise. "Good boy."

D'Artagnan kept his eyes open, dizzy though he was, and guided his mount off the path to gain some distance from the forest.

Do not fall off, Athos ordered firmly, audible even above the ringing that was starting in d'Artagnan's ears.

Just stay alive, Porthos reminded him.

We are coming, Aramis promised.

A/N Thank you for reading! Any feedback is super welcome :)