d'Artagnan threw himself through the undergrowth with as much speed as he could muster, one hand clapped tightly to his side and the other steadying himself on passing trees. He'd long since lost his grip on the sword he'd stolen. It wasn't like he had the strength to fight with it anyway, even if they did catch up to him now.

He didn't think they would – they had no reason to follow him other than their own desire for satisfaction and he'd proven himself more trouble than that was worth. If God was good, he was free of them.

Breathing hurt more now that it had before, and soon enough he had to stop, half collapsing into a tree and gripping the bark with the last of his energy. It took time, and a great amount of gasping and groaning, but he eventually got himself situated at the base of the tree, his back propped up against the trunk so that he might look around.

Biting his lip, he pulled his hand away from the gash in his side and watched with almost idle fascination as the blood immediately started flowing onto the dirt beneath him. Sighing, he put his hand back. It wouldn't help – he was dead no matter what now – but it might buy him a few more moments.

Moments for what? Why should it matter if he died now or in an hour? No one was coming for him, there would be no rescue. His brothers had forsaken him and now there was no one left to care that he would end here, in the middle of a Spanish forest, miles away from everything he knew and loved. Habit, he supposed. He'd spent most of his life desperately trying to avoid death and now that he was facing it head on, he wanted to delay the inevitable. It wasn't in him to just give up now.

Constance would cry, he thought. It was a sad realisation, knowing that this would hurt her – he'd only ever wanted her to have all the joy and happiness she deserved, even if it couldn't be with him. God, he loved her. Knowing that he would never see her again was too unbearable to consider.

Maybe the Musketeers would hear of his death one day. Would they mourn? Feel guilty, knowing what they'd left their brother to endure? Even now he didn't want them to be saddened by his passing.

Death damaged everyone around you. You make your place in the world in life, and then when you're gone, there's nothing to fill the gap you leave behind.

d'Artagnan didn't have the energy to think about that anymore. His vision was growing dim, the sky a grey smudge above him though he knew that the sun was still up. Wild flowers grew in patches on the forest floor, bursts of colour that he could still make out. The wind made them dance. It was as good a place to die as any, he supposed, better than some certainly. For so long he'd thought he would die in that God-forsaken dungeon, cut off from the world in his final breaths. Now he could die with free air in his lungs. It was enough.

Exhausted, his eyes slipped closed. His hand had fallen away from his side he noticed, but he could no longer function well enough to correct it. Let it bleed. It was of no matter now.

He couldn't speak anymore, but he started reciting the Pater Noster in his head as his father had taught him. Having caused so much death, d'Artagnan had little doubt of which way he was heading, but it couldn't hurt to try, just one last time. Aramis would be proud.

It was the last thought he had before he blacked out.

Look at me writing a multichapter fic again. Whooo.