D'Artagnan's fast, sure movements stopped short as he felt something cold and sharp fall upon his neck. 'Where did that one come from?' He questioned, glancing at the Red Guard with a wary glare.

"Give it up Musketeer." The Guard sneered the name, nose wrinkling in disgust. "You've been beaten."

A cocky smile captured D'Artagnan's lips, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of a new challenge. "I believe you need to learn the definition of beaten." In one swift motion D'Artagnan had shoved the sword away from his throat, no regard for his now bloodied hand.

The youngest Musketeer took a threatening step closer to his opponent, his only weapons being speed and surprise.

The attacked worked, as he knew it would. Most people yielded when their neck was threatened at sword-point, even if they had their own weapon. Here he was challenging a man who, by all rights, had defeated him.

Unfortunately what D'Artagnan had not been expecting was the support that man would get from his fellow Guards.

Normally when two gentlemen were engaged in battle it was a fight between them, may the best man be victorious. But the conflict between Guard and Musketeer ensured the lines and boundaries of a fair fight were constantly being stretched and tested on both sides. It didn't help that the Guards felt a particular loathing for precisely those four Musketeers.

So in any fair fight D'Artagnan would have been safe from all the blood and chaos surrounding him, but just as he stepped forward to engage his enemy once again, the echo of a gunshot could be heard around the little square, causing all fighting to halt and heads from both sides to swivel in the direction where the shot had originated.

Barely three seconds after the shot was fired pain exploded across D'Artagnan's chest; it felt as if he'd been kicked by a horse.

"You idiot!" A Guard shouted, pulling the still smoking weapon out of the offender's frozen hands.

The shout seemed to break everyone from the trance that had consumed them and it seemed as if the whole square erupted into movement at once.

D'Artagnan stood, rooted to the spot, watching the mass chaos around him with confusion written across his face. The pain in his chest had ceased and he'd figured he must not have been injured that badly at all. But then there was a chill spreading throughout his body and Aramis was approaching with a rather alarming look of concern adorning his dirtied face.

"D'Artagnan?"

The Musketeer read his friend's lips more so than actually hearing him. He didn't really care what Aramis had to say though because at that moment a Red Guard shouldered his was past the youngest in his haste to escape the area and pain flooded through his chest anew.

D'Artagnan's face scrunched up in pain as his hands searched to find the problem almost on instinct. His fingers came into contact with something warm and sticky and most certainly out of pace on his otherwise freezing chest. Bringing his hands up in front of his face he grew even more confused as he realized the strange substance was blood. His blood.

Wide, confused eyes drifted back up to Aramis' approaching form as if he could explain how his blood had come to be on the outside of his body, but before he could really form a coherent thought his legs buckled and his body crumpled to the unforgiving ground. And that was when the reality of his situation exploded in a wave of pain starting at his chest and expanding to all parts of his body in pulsating ripplets.

Aramis was at his side almost immediately, inspecting the damage whilst simultaneously muttering words of comfort that never fully reached D'Artagnan's ears.

He was vaguely aware of the sound of tearing fabric then a softly muttered curse, but the pain was almost more than he could bare.

Athos approached just then, face stricken with genuine worry. "Well?" He demanded harshly.

Aramis slumped backwards in defeat, a sharp sigh escaping his lips. He cast his dark eyes downward as he solemnly shook his head back and forth.

"No." Athos choked. "No there has to be something- why are you doing nothing!" Athos shoved his friend's body aside and crashed to his kneed next to the fallen youngest, keen eyes soaking in the damage quickly.

"Athos, Athos because there is nothing to be done!"

Athos turned to face Aramis, eyes burning with guilt and denial, "You are lying! No there has to be something we can do."

"The wound is too grave, too near his heart. He will bleed out in a matter of minutes."

"Then we just have to halt the bleeding." Athos moved swiftly then, more confident now that he had a specific goal, but one small squeak of discomfort from D'Artagnan as he pushed on his chest had Athos recoiling as if he'd been burned.

"Athos," Porthos' large hand grasped his leader's wrist firmly, "Don' inflict more pain than needs be."

Athos' entire body slumped to the ground as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. "No." He whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

"'Thos?" D'Artagnan gasped, lacking the strength to lift his head and glance around.

"Yes D'Artagnan, I am here." Athos moved immediately into the youngest musketeer's line of sight, a false smile sliding expertly into place.

D'Artagnan attempted to reflect the smile but it quickly morphed into a pain filled grimace. "I've wanted to be a Musketeer since I was a boy." A gruesome laugh escaped his throat then, a mixture between amusement and confusion.

"But you are young one. And a most talented Musketeer at that."

"'Thos," D'Artagnan raised a shaking hand from his side, fingers wide and searching.

Athos complied immediately, grasping D'Artagnan's small hand between both of his hands firmly, as if attempting to root his youngest member, refusing to let him go.

D'Artagnan's breathing was becoming wet and labored as blood dribbled almost lazily from the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you." The comment was almost inaudible, and had Athos' mind reeling.

"You're thanking me? Whatever for?"

D'Artagnan just smiled in reply, his once white teeth coated in a layer of blood. He swallowed thickly as breathing became more difficult. The vice-grip on Athos' hand tightened even more although a moment before the lead Musketeer would have thought it impossible.

D'Artagnan's face scrunched up in pain, his breathing coming in tight gasps that had Athos' heart constricting in utter agony.

Then suddenly the square was engulfed in an all-consuming silence, no longer ringing with the desperate gasps of his young companion. D'Artagnan's chest stilled, the ever present fire behind his brown eyes extinguished.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos whispered softly, looking for even the slightest evidence that his eyes were cheating him. "D'Artagnan!" His questioning tone morphed into one of desperation as he realized his young protégé was not responding.

"Athos." It was Aramis, but his soft voice sounded like it was coming from miles away.

Athos didn't really care what his fellow Musketeer had to say anyway. Most likely it would be lies reassuring him that everything would be okay, or perhaps he was urging them to leave. After all, fighting with the Red Guards was illegal.

But Athos didn't really care. Yes, fighting with the Guards was illegal, but they could hardly deny that they had been involved in the skirmish, not with D'Artagnan lying dead at his feet.

It hit him like a sharp blow to the chest that left his gasping for breath. D'Artagnan was dead. Athos would never hear his jubilant laugh as he argued with Aramis or Porthos over something absolutely ridiculous. He'd never have the pleasure of watching the young Gascon grow and advance as a Musketeer. Never again would Athos see the bright smile that could light up even the darkest of rooms and make any scenario better. He'd lost another younger brother and the weight of that knowledge, that guilt, was literally crushing him.

"No." It was a broken whisper barely heard by his companions. The normally stoic Musketeer gasped suddenly, releasing a strangled cry, his accusing glare searching the heavens for a reason, an explanation as to what he had ever done to deserve so much suffering and pain in his life. With a strangled sob Athos pulled the limp body of their youngest close to his chest. "I'm sorry." He whispered, his face mere inches away from D'Artagnan's. "So sorry." With a sniff Athos pushed the sweat slicked hair off the man's tan forehead and placed a tender kiss atop the vacated area. Athos breathed deeply through his nose, attempting to take in everything that was D'Artagnan so he would never forget his friend.

"Athos?"

The Musketeer in question jumped, taking in the scenery with frantic confusion. No longer was he kneeling in the blood soaked streets of Paris. He was in a small, dark room, a solitary candle serving as the only source of illumination.

"Aramis what-"

"You were having a nightmare." Aramis supplied quickly, no signs of judgement in his quiet tone. "Mind telling me what about?"

Athos was still attempting to get a firm grip on reality but he was struggling. "Today." He mumbled quietly in reply to Aramis' question.

His experienced eyes quickly scanned the room. He was sitting in a rather uncomfortable wooden chair that he did not remember falling asleep in. The room was warm, but mostly empty save his chair and the bed it was resting beside. Athos' gaze halted immediately when it reached the bed. It wasn't the furniture that had ensnared his attention so vividly, more so the figure lying in the bed, dark hair plastered to the sides of a face scrunched up with pain. But the tan chest was moving up and down of its own accord and that simple sight had Athos' brain spinning with confusion and a paralyzing hope that what he was seeing was real.

"He's, he's-"

"Alright for now." Aramis glanced between the two friends, sympathy marring his handsome but tired features. "And he should continue to stay alright as long as we are able to keep infection at bay."

"That's impossible."

Aramis' head jerked to glare angrily at his friend. "We do not know that for certain, for God's sake Athos, remain positive!"

Athos however, paid his fellow Musketeer no mind as he reached a shaking hand towards the bed. A surprised gasp escaped his lips when his fingers brushed against the body lying prone on the bed and it didn't immediately disappear. "But, you died."

Realization finally dawned for Aramis and he kicked himself for not having figured it out sooner. "Athos, it was a nightmare. I mean, today was close. Closer than I would have liked it to come but, he lived Athos. D'Artagnan's still alive."

"I know, I remember now. It just felt so real. I held him as he died Aramis." Athos' broken gaze drifted from his wounded Musketeer to Aramis, eyes wide and searching in a rare moment of weakness.

"But you didn't my friend. You saved him."

"I let him down." Athos shot back immediately.

Aramis bit back a groan, he'd known this would be coming of course. The anger and blame and self-loathing. "Athos, none of the events that transpired today were your fault. You have to know that."

"It is my job to protect you all from harm, when someone comes home wounded I have failed."

"Athos you cannot protect us from everything, I have enough scars to prove you of that." Both Aramis and Athos flinched at the Musketeer's choice of wording. Aramis was a man of many talents but tact was most certainly not one of them. "The point is, D'Artagnan is a big boy who can take care of himself."

"Obviously not!"

"No, not when a good for nothing Guard decides to abandon all rules of chivalry, but the point is, you could have done nothing to prevent this."

"I could have prevented the entire fight to begin with."

"The Red Guards were searching for a fight and we both know it."

"Mmmhmm."

Aramis shook his head in frustration at his friend's antics. If he wanted to wallow in self-loathing the rest of the evening he was certainly entitled to do so. Aramis could do nothing more to convince the man of his innocence.

It didn't really matter though. D'Artagnan would set the man's mind straight as soon as he awoke. So with the knowledge that he could no longer be of assistance Aramis shook his head and exited the small medical room, cursing Athos' stubbornness, the Red Guards, and basically anything he could blame for their latest predicament. Ah well, such was the way of life. They fought, skirmished, recovered, drank, and eventually moved on. They were, after all, the finest Musketeers in all of France, it was kind of expected of them.

A/N: So hopefully I didn't scare anyone too bad! Of course I wouldn't kill D'Artagnan! He's too much of an adorable little cinnamon bun, almost too perfect for this harsh world! Anyway, hopefully no heart attacks ensued as a result of this fic and if ya liked it, let me know! Have a pleasant day/night. ~Spring

*Sequel now posted, entitled Blameless. If you enjoyed this and wish to see how D'Artagnan convinces Athos to get his head out of his ass -I mean wut- then check it out. Cheers!