A/N: my entry for the Fetes des Mousquetaires, please see the forum for the details. I actually did it!

There was no way he could escape; the hands clutching his arms were too many and too strong. He was smart enough to know a lost battle when he saw one, yet to back down was a notion he was simply not familiar with. Bucking and straining he managed to slam his forehead against the nose of the man coming at him from the front, bit into the hand struggling to twist his arm back and kicked the nearest knee he could connect.

Dropping face first on the ground he pushed himself up on his free hand. Twigs and stone dug into his palm and his booted toes scrabbled for purchase even as the man wrenching his other arm back dug a knee between his shoulder blades.

"Had to catch a wild boar once," the man grunted as he wrapped the ropes tight around his wrists, "That was easier."

His breath heaved; sweat and blood burned his eyes as the man behind him hauled him up to his feet. Blinking to clear his vision he frowned at the tipped carriage beyond the throng of men trying to subdue him. He couldn't find Monsieur Bernard in the fading light of the evening and hoped that the man was alive and hidden in the stretching shadows.

"No! No!" A loud growl came from near the fallen carriage and a man with beady eyes pushed his way towards him, "What is this?"

He waved a coin before his face.

D'Artagnan raised a brow, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Haven't seen gold before?" he snorted, "Pathetic."

The punch to his face hurt although he had seen it coming. Dirty fingers grabbed his sore jaw and pulled it up. He was met with a narrow face framed by long hair that desperately needed a wash and a sour breath that had d'Artagnan cringing.

"Personal space Stink-breath," it was out of his mouth before he could think.

The punch to the gut was no better.

The man holding him captive wouldn't let him curl over and the freshly commissioned Musketeer gasped in the effort to settle his churning stomach. He hoped to see the spark of a shot from Aramis' pistol, feel the spray of enemy blood by Athos' sword and hear Porthos' roar of battle. But his surroundings remained drab, the blood trickling down the side of his face was his own and the only sound was of the arguing bandits around him.

He closed his eyes for a second.

"Please let them be alive, please let them be safe…."

Stink-breath cursed loudly as he held up the coin in question and a smooth dark stone – touchstone d'Artagnan's tired mind provided – in his other hand. The bandit traced the coin over the surface of the stone and held it up close to the Musketeer's face.

"Look at it! This isn't gold, it's a fake," he growled, "Where is the real gold that was the Comte's tribute to the king?"

The question had him straightening, he looked from the coin to the stone and a bitter smirk curled on the d'Artagnan's face. Here he was captured; his brothers probably dead or wounded somewhere back down the road, the Comte's advisor likely killed and all for a carriage-load of fake gold.

Someone somewhere had played his hand in a game d'Artagnan knew he wouldn't understand even if he survived this.

"Where is the real gold?"

"This is the only gold I know of," he shrugged.

His eyes darted to the way he had come, as far as he could see the darkening road it was heart wrenchingly empty and as far as he could hear, there was only the ominous silence.

"Go, keep the gold safe. That's an order d'Artagnan!" Athos shoves him towards the carriage. He blocks the sword coming for his throat with his own, slides it along the edge, locks the tips and turns both blades to catch the third sword.

He can't do anything for the fourth, but a shot rings out just as that man coming for Athos crumbles.

Behind him, Aramis flips his pistol and smacks its holder in the face of the nearest enemy even as he parries with another.

Porthos appears out of nowhere and d'Artagnan only registers his large warm hand on his chest before he is pushed back and onto the driver's side of the carriage.

He hadn't looked back, afraid that he wouldn't be able to follow the order if he did. He had left them behind when he knew they were outnumbered, what sort of Musketeer did that make him?

D'Artagnan wasn't a praying man but he couldn't keep the mantra from his mind.

"Please let them be alive, please let them be safe…."

Stink-breath blocked his view. He snarled something that the young man couldn't bother to listen to and earned a ringing in his ears when the man's fist snapped his head back painfully. The young Musketeer swayed and even the hold on his arms couldn't keep him from falling to his knees. Lights danced in his vision and he blinked slowly as the world trembled.

From the corner of his eye he saw the handle of a pistol flying towards him. The impact reverberated down to his teeth and he slumped to his side. Hitting the ground, his vision grayed and the last light of the setting sun gleamed over the touchstone that lay just an arm's length away from his head.

….he shouldn't be this happy but he can't help the smile when he sees his slim strip of plantation. Once he had found the Captain in an indulgent mood and had secured the use of the broken trough in the stables. He had dragged it out to into the exactly right sunny spot and set to work.

Watching it filled with young potato plants now makes him feel like a proud parent.

"Missed your calling farmer boy?" It's Philippe, one of the new recruits.

"At least I didn't miss the targets in our training," and he knows he should learn not to goad people who dislike him but control is a novel concept d'Artagnan's still working to understand.

Philippe scowls, his hand rests on his sword at his side and d'Artagnan feels in his grip the cool hilt of his own blade.

"Go back to your fields farmer boy, or do we have to find a place for you in the kitchens with Serge?"

"Hope that wasn't meant as an insult to Serge," a deep voice rumbles, startling them both.

Porthos comes to stand before Philippe and the young recruit visibly balks at the towering figure. D'Artagnan can see the slight tremor in the boy's limbs as he backtracks, shaking his head a bit wildly.

" 'Cause as I see it a retired soldier with a respectable job is something to look up to," Porthos crossed his arms and stepped closer to the retreating youngster, "Don't you?"

"Ofcourse, I was just – admiring the plants but I have to go practice my – targets, yes target practice."

D'Artagnan watches the boy leave with open glee. But when his gaze falls back on his side-project the joy is dampened, maybe he wasn't meant for this life of a Musketeer; after all he had only stumbled onto this path by chance.

"So when can Serge cook these?" Porthos asks from besides him.

"There's still time," he shrugs.

The thump on his back nearly pushes him to the floor face first but the large hand on his shoulder catches him in time.

"Skin and bones," Porthos mutters.

D'Artagnan snorts and wipes his hands on his breeches.

They both settle on the wooden steps leading up to the Captain's office.

"Don't let the likes of that make you doubt your place here alright?" Porthos' eyes glint dark and smooth, "I've been where you are pup and I know better than anybody that what people say doesn't count."

"You think my father would have wanted this life for me?" it slips out before he can check it.

"Are ya happy with it?" Porthos counters.

His question is a surprise but d'Artagnan nods immediately and casts him a sideways look, wondering what the question had to do with anything.

"I believe that's all a father can ask for his son,"

He didn't miss the wistful undercurrent in the big man's words and it hit him that Porthos would be the best to understand what it felt like to be a young orphan.

"I miss him, I see myself from his eyes and think maybe he'd be disappointed if he knew about all this," he wouldn't admit it to anyone else but this man beside him.

Because Porthos is strength, not just physically but he is strength to the very core of his being; he is a man who had practically built himself up from his disadvantageous origins and faced opposition most of his young life.

"The only thing you have to measure up to is who you want to be deep down," Porthos shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world

D'Artagnans smiles, closes his eyes and raises his face to the sun…

His eyes fluttered open and he shut them close instantly. There was wild horse galloping in his head, d'Artagnan was sure its hooves had stomped his brain to mush. It took him a while to understand that the pounding wasn't just in his mind but also the rhythm to which he was moving.

Lying on his stomach he wriggled a bit and found hard edges digging into his belly. Some more wriggling told him that his ankles were tied together and the cold snip on his toes announced that he had been divested of his boots sometime during his unconsciousness.

He momentarily considered sliding off the horse, but that would not sit well with his brothers when they would come to rescue him – and they will, he was sure of it – instead he tried to twist lose his bindings.

To his surprise he found the touchstone in his clasp.

….a booming laugh follows him as the earth and sky flip; and he lands onto the ground with a bone jarring thump. A dimpled grin under a scruffy beard looks down at him and a big hand pulls him to his feet…

Tears stung his eyes and bile rose to his throat.

"Please let them be alive, please let them be safe…"

With a loud growl of vengeance Porthos thrust his main gauche into the bandit in front of him. He didn't wait for the man to drop and whirled around to face another enemy. Only there were no more left. Breathing heavily the big man bent forward, pressed his hands to his knees and worked to calm the wild thrum of his heart.

To his side was Athos, leaning against a tree, his bloodstained sword still raised at his side and the cool blue eyes traced for signs of residual threat. Porthos swung his head to the other side and found Aramis standing a little way away, his hands preparing his musket even as his gaze roamed the tree line from where the bandits had descended on them.

Straightening up he looked down the road they had sent their youngest and desperately hoped that the boy had safely reached Paris.

It was odd, he mused, the way d'Artagnan had seamlessly inserted himself between the Inseparables. Especially since he was sure neither of them had felt the need for another man in their group. But the boy had fit in perfectly, he had come last but it was as if there had been a place for him all along.

As the rush of the battle ebbed, the fierce pain in his arm had Porthos grunting. In the fading sunlight he stared at the sticky red stain that was his sleeve. As he saw his friends begin moving towards him, the Musketeer looked out to the road again.

He hoped that their youngest was alive; he hoped that their youngest was safe.

The ground under him was damp; the air sharp and clean. Moonlight filtered through the canopy to fall on his face where he was propped up against a tree. D'Artagnan hoped the rain hadn't washed away the signs his brothers would need to track him down.

He could hear his captives arguing and there was a voice among them that he felt he should recognize. An egg shaped man with twitchy whiskers flashed in his mind and a gust of wind showered him with the leftover rain water in the leaves above.

D'Artagnan shivered and cast a glance to his side where one of the bandits was trying to light a fire. It was clear that the pile of twigs was too wet; it wouldn't take the spark that flashed from the pieces of flint every time the stones were struck together.

It was fascinating to watch the burst of light streak the pale darkness, vibrant, defiant and warm. The bandit cursed as he got to his feet, stomped on the pile of twigs and threw away the flint stones. D'Artagnan watched them land in a pool of moonlight and wondered how they were dependable yet unpredictable, offering safety and danger…

"It's all your fault," he grouses.

"My fault?" Aramis strikes his pitchfork into a particularly lumpy pile of straw and leans against it, "You were the one who destroyed half the market."

"It was your stupid idea,"

"How does gifting a bouquet to Madame Boncaieux to show your gratitude translate into chasing a goat down the streets of Paris?"

"That stupid goat ate my flowers."

"I saw," Aramis grins and dodges the hay d'Artagnan flicks at him.

Since the older Musketeer was there and had done nothing to help the matter except to loudly point out where the goat was heading, the Captain had seen it fit to punish him as well. It's the only balm to d'Artagnan's rather wounded pride.

"The poor animal's face when you tackled it, I think she really believed those flowers were for her," Aramis winks at the scowling boy, "You're turning out to be quite a charmer mon ami."

"There's nothing charming about getting kicked in the head," d'Artagnan grumbles.

His hand rises instinctually to trace the yellowing bruise near his hair line but long callous fingers wrap around his wrist before he can touch it. Aramis shakes his head in silent reprimand; there is compassion in his eyes and worry.

"Don't poke it," he says.

"Mother hen," d'Artagnan smirks, doges the halfhearted swipe for his head and hauls a sack of feed out into the garrison yard.

Setting it near the bales of clean straw he frowns at the shadow that darkens the muddy ground before him and looks up to catch Monsieur Boncaieux' glare. The cloth's merchant is fuming, roaring in his face about staying away from his wife and d'Artagnan does not expect the sharp jerk as the man collars him.

A pistol shot cracks the air and Monsieur Boncaieux does a funny little shuffle as he breaks away from the young Musketeer with a loud squeal.

D'Artagnan stares at the hole where the metal ball has buried into the ground, very close to where Monsieur Boncaieux' foot had been. He looks back to see Aramis holstering his pistol in the belt hanging from the stables door.

"My apologies Monsieur," he smiles and raises a dirt streaked hand, wriggling his fingers, "They slipped,"

The cloth's merchant simply gapes and it is the Captain who demands an explanation as he comes down to investigate the commotion.

"All my fault Captain," Aramis places a hand on his heart and dips his head in apology though his smile is unrepentant, "Monsieur Boncaieux was thanking d'Artagnan for the flowers he sent to the Madame to show his gratitude for all the help she had been to the Musketeers. I was settling my pistol in the holster when the horses startled me."

The Captain arches a brow because the entire garrison knows that Aramis does not startle.

"It was an accident Captain," Monsieur Boncaieux stammers, "I was just appreciating the thoughtfulness of your Musketeer but I think I should be leaving now."

D'Artagnan watches the man leave and does not miss the Captain's pointed glare as he too leaves them in the yard. It warms the younger Musketeer to know that his friend has sent the flowers on his behalf anyway.

Aramis pats him on the shoulder as he turns to the stables and it's nothing short of an insane maneuver when d'Artagnan scoops a handful of mud and shucks it at the retreating Musketeer's head…..

He had no idea why but he found himself inching towards the fallen pieces of flint, so focused was he on the task that he missed the kick heading for his side. His breath left him in a woosh and d'Artagnan curled instinctually. The pieces of stone dug in his side as he tried to protect himself from the next booted foot swinging his way.

The bandit assaulting him grabbed his shirt front and shoved him onto his back, trapping his hands behind him. His numbing fingers grabbed the flints as the man hauled him up and knocked him out.

…He is standing in the Captain's office, caked in mud and straw and things d'Artagnan doesn't want to think about. Aramis is cleaner by contrast and in hindsight, d'Artagnan knows he should have known better than to start a mud fight with the best marksman in the regiment…

The wound in his side flared into a breathtaking agony as he swung himself into the saddle, it had already soaked through the tightly wrapped bandage. But the pain slipped away from his mind as he caught sight of Athos' face. The man was still pale and breathing raggedly as he gingerly placed his foot in the stirrup. Even though Aramis had splinted his ankle, he was hoping that it was just a sprain; he couldn't imagine the damage if his friend kept using a foot with a cracked bone in his ankle.

He wished he could give his friend something to ease the pain but he wouldn't even ask him of it at the moment. It was clear in the set of Athos' jaw that he would not hear anything unless it was related to joining up with their youngest brother.

It was a shared sentiment Aramis realized, d'Artagnan was young and although full of promise he was still inexperienced. He had seen tragedy but there was still something achingly innocent about the boy. Aramis never wanted to see those young shoulders burdened with the horrors the likes of which he and his brothers had seen. He knew Athos and Porthos wished the same, there was a dark edge to the lives they led and he would do everything in his power to keep the strain of it off of their newest recruit.

"You should put it in a sling," he turned to Porthos.

"It's just a graze."

"There's a chunk of flesh missing," he pointed out.

"Your side needs stitches," Porthos reminded him.

"Not enough time," Aramis shrugged as the three of them turned their horses towards the way they had sent d'Artagnan.

As one they spurred their rides forward, setting as quick a pace as they could dare. When the sky opened up for another bout of rain none of them slowed down. They had all seen the bandits chasing down the carriage.

Aramis prayed that their youngest was alive; he prayed that their youngest was safe.

"My associate informs me that you're telling the truth," his captor sneered, "You really didn't know about the fake gold."

His entire body ached; his limbs twitched with the effort as d'Artagnan pushed himself straighter and glared up at Stink-breath with all the defiance he could muster.

"So the question remains what I should with you."

"Free my bindings and give me a sword, I'll take care of the rest,"

"Cocky little fellow aren't you," Stink-breath grinned, "And what'll you manage to do that your comrades couldn't?"

D'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, "Cut you in half seems about accurate."

The hit to his face had him tasting blood. As he swayed on his knees and shook off the dizziness spinning his view, he could feel the bruise puffing close his eye. He tamped down on the cough bubbling in his sore chest and spat out the tooth the man had punched loose. Clenching his eyes shut he pulled away from the dread trying to creep over him, he just had to survive until his brothers came for him.

They will come for him; he could not let that go.

"See my associate has a plan," Stink-breath told him, "We take the gold, cut you up to the brink of death and deliver you to the Red Guards. The king would think that his Musketeers stole the tribute but you defended His Majesty's riches, getting gravely wounded at the hands of your deserter comrades. You die a hero, I get paid and the Comte gets to hold one over the king."

He couldn't stop the laugh that pushed forth only to dissolve in a coughing fit. Just the idea that the Inseparables would become deserters for a pile of gold, would turn against a brother in arm, would turn against him – d'Artagnan may sometimes feel that he wasn't privy to all that his brothers had shared but he would never insult their warm acceptance of him to even think about being an outsider in their group.

He wheezed to get his breathing under control but sporadic chuckles still escaped him, there were so many gaping holes in this plan. D'Artagnan clenched his eyes shut to hold in the mirth that had taken just a hint of hysteria.

He ached.

The shivering jarred his bruises and a light haze settled over his mind. D'Artagnan frowned when he realized that Stink-breath had left him. A familiar sound of stone on metal had him searching for the source. A little way away in the light of a dismal campfire he saw one of the bandits sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

The sound was measured, controlled, smooth…

…the yard is quite.

A thin morning fog still lingers, shredded and chilly. He moves against an opponent only he can see and as always it is Athos. His sword moves naturally, it's a fluidity he is instinctually familiar with. His feet though are another matter.

"Move softly, like a dance," he coaches himself with a voice that is a very good imitation of Athos.

He thrusts his sword, moves forward, the blade arches, he turns and trips over his own foot.

For a time being he just sits there, glaring at his appendages that fail to understand where they should be in a sword fight. But then a blade clinks with his own and he looks up at Athos, there are no traces of the drunken man Porthos and Aramis had dragged to bed last night.

He spurs into action then, forward parry and lunge, shift, parry and thrust – Athos is never one to take it easy on him, the attacks are relentless and it's always the matter of when not if he will lose to the older Musketeer.

This time he lasts all five minutes longer than before. Athos arches a brow in recognition of the improvement and parry's when d'Artagnan attacks again and again and again. By the end of it there are spectators under the balcony and the sun is beating down upon them.

He gulps air down his parched throat and wipes the sweat from his eyes while Athos watches him for the beginning of another round. D'Artagnan wishes that the man was sweating under his perfectly set hat too. But there is no fatigue in the steady blue gaze fixed on him and the boy feels something settle under his skin.

The bout of restlessness that had kept him awake all night pours out of him with the sweat, the fears and doubts knotted in his shoulders are burned out by the pain of exertion and the blunt rage is spent, leaving in its place a sharp focus.

He looks up into his mentor's gaze and nods once.

Athos sheaths his sword and turns away without a word, but they both reach their table in the yard at the same time. He plops on the bench, grins when the older man fills two glasses with water and he picks up the nearest with a gusto.

A gloved hand stops the glass mid way.

"Slowly," Athos says.

And d'Artagnan nearly blushes; but Athos being Athos simply sips his own water and sits down for breakfast. The meal turns noisy when the other two join them yet as he catches Athos' eye over the bowl of steaming porridge, he can hear the question loud and clear.

"Better now," he says softly with a shrug, "Thanks,"

Athos nods and eyes his own bowl of food…

They found the point where the bandits had caught up with d'Artagnan. Ignoring Aramis' protests he dismounted and searched the sight that looked far too well used if the neat circle of campfire and the empty bottles were to go by.

"Looks like they had been staying here for a while," Porthos prodded a discarded bedroll.

"It's almost like they knew we were coming down this way," Aramis scanned the campsite, "and had to wait since the rains delayed our departure then slowed our journey,"

"But we were the only ones who knew our route,"

"Monsieur Bernard," Athos shook his head. He should have known, should have suspected the foul play. His only solace was that there wasn't a dead body.

Between the three of them it was easy to track the bandits and they were on the trail before the night had completely set in.

Athos cannot think the boy dead; he cannot consider the idea of burying another brother. He couldn't decide the moment when d'Artagnan had become a part of their tight group but a part he had become. They were each the other's strength and support, but the boy had squeezed into the very heart of their circle.

The Musketeers had seen many losses over time but Athos was sure that this was one loss that they would not be able to come back from. It would break them, it would shatter him.

Athos believed that there youngest was alive; he believed that their youngest was safe

He awoke to the sound of clashing metal. There was no one watching him, he could make a run for escape but his limbs wouldn't cooperate, they shook and ached and d'Artagnan knew on some level that he shouldn't be sweating this much in the cool night.

The haze in his mind and his bleary vision made the entire world seem watery. Had he the wits to spare D'Artagnan would have been mortified by the sniffle that escaped him. He curled in the grove of the tree he had been leaning against and reached for the scratchy stone left near him in the haste of the attack.

Shaky fingers roamed over the whetstone as oblivion crept slowly over his consciousness…

…he can't believe it!

Not only had Athos asked for a joint training session with Red Guards he is insisting that d'Artagnan fence with each one of them. The boy is sure it's punishment for something he'd done and he obliges. The young Musketeer is fuming and that is only partly because it's his fifth opponent.

Athos' eyes never leave the action and d'Artagnan finds a grim pride in the fact.

It is only when he is through with all nine men that he collapses on the bench and half sprawls back on the table in the yard.

"I think he's made his point," Aramis says from beside him.

"They'd think twice now before putting down the pup." Porthos nods.

"If he's done showing off his protégé, I think it's time I get my yard back," the Captain moves off towards the group of Red Guards.

D'Artagnan gapes at his two friends and whips his head around to look at Athos.

The man is standing calmly against a wooden pillar, arms crosses before his chest and he catches the boy's gaze once. He nods, just a hint of an upwards curl at the corner of his lips and pleasure blooms in d'Artagnan's chest.

He should have known, Athos would run him into the ground only to teach him to soar…

A soft exhale and his eyes fluttered, the one not swollen shut opened.

"About time," he could hear the grin in the words

Porthos,

He reached for the puffed skin of his face; long fingers stayed his hand and he slowly tracked the grip on his wrist to the face. His hand was gently settled back on the cot.

Aramis,

A foot propped on the pillow next to his hip moved and a chair screeched. Sharp blue eyes regarded him.

Athos.

D'Artagnan smiled despite the pull on his sore face; they were all here, looking pale and haggard but alive. He tracked their faces, feeling elated and weepy at the same time.

Porthos helped him sit up and Aramis settled the pillows behind him.

"You collected souvenirs," Athos held out a handful of stones.

"Gifts for you three," he croaked.

It was unnerving how they divided the rocks among them in the exact way he had meant to.

"You know, a Keystone is placed in last but there is always a place for it right from the start," Porthos hooked close a chair.

"And all the stones in the arch make sure that it receives the least amount of pressure," Aramis added as he perched on the cot.

"Yet it is the one stone that holds the arch together." Athos finished.

d'Artagnan grinned, felt the comforting weight of the brotherhood they shared, the cornerstone of their bonds. He dropped back to sleep with a smile on his face, because they were all alive, they were all safe.

END.

Story words: 5024 :)