AN/ So we're off on another Musketeer's adventure. The story's almost complete. I've got the last 2 chapters left to write, but got excited and wanted to start posting, so here we go. I'm planning on updating every 1-3 days. My timetable/ diary is all over the place right now, but as most of the draft material is done, I should manage okay. I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers

His ears were ringing. It was an unpleasant and persistent sensation that continued to make its presence known until Aramis saw no other choice but to answer the call of the irritable buzzing noise. His eyes fluttered open and he immediately slammed them shut as the bright light stabbed through his brain which, he now became very aware, was throbbing incessantly.

A barely audible groan emanated from his lips before Aramis plucked up the courage for a second bout.

This time, he opened his eyes much more slowly, and although the thudding headache that echoed inside his skull remained insistently loud, he was able to keep them open. He lay still for a moment and took stock of the rest of his body and limbs. He chest felt sore and he suspected, as he shifted slightly, that there may be some bruised ribs on his left side, but he couldn't make out any other severe hurts or pains besides this and so, cautiously, he pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Once semi upright, and with one hand pressed against his sore ribs, which had protested loudly at his movements, Aramis looked about him worriedly. His mind had drawn a blank beyond the small hours of the morning just passed, and the considerable alcohol consumed, and so Aramis searched around, trying to figure out his location and, of even more concern, trying to recall what it was that had happened to him. The narrow path he was on, appeared unworn and grassy, and so, Aramis surmised, was one less used by travellers. However, besides this observation, Aramis could find no clue as to his exact location, or any indication of how he'd come to be there.

Shifting his hand to gain balance before standing, he felt his fingers brush against something, and looked down to find his pistol lying by his side. Lifting it, the weight indicated that it wasn't loaded, and as he brought the weapon nearer he could smell the recent discharge of the pistol.

Aramis was now determined to move. The combination of his fuzzy head, sore ribs, and his recently discharged weapon being an indication that danger was most likely close by. He managed to stand on shaky legs, although, as he completed his move, he became dismally aware that his sword was missing from his scabbard.

He searched about him, but could not detect his sword on the ground as he had done with his gun. He did, however, find a blood trail. Had his pistol hit his mark?

He managed to draw his main gauche, which was still attached to his belt, and followed the blood trail with slow cautious movements. He didn't have to travel far before he came across the source of the blood.

The sight before him stopped him in his tracks and he gaped at the scene, unable to make sense of it.

"Don't come any closer," said a wary voice. The young man was slumped against a tree, his upper right chest bleeding freely. His face was drained of almost all its colour and his voice was breathy and wheezing. Aramis' sword lay in the grass beside him. In his quivering hand was a pistol.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis called to his friend with concern as he made to make another step, but the Gascon lifted the pistol higher, training the weapon directly at his friend.