It was the cold that woke him, a chill ache sunk deep into his bones that pulled him back from the dark so that he stirred, confused by the silence around him.

He could not hear Constance humming to herself as she kneaded the morning's bread; nor could he make out the grumbles of the his friends as they rolled from their blankets beside him: Aramis cheerful despite the early hour, Athos silent and Porthos ready to take a swing at anyone who looked at him funny. He wondered instead if he was back at home in Gascony, his father sitting at the table downstairs as he pulled on his boots, ready for the new day, but there was no cockerel crowing awake the rosy dawn, no animals lowing in the meadows, demanding care as they wandered through the dew-heavy grass. Instead, it was quiet and chill and he did not know where he was, nor, for a moment, who.

Finally, he remembered. Wine cellar. Red Guards. Ambushed. Injured. Alone.

Opening his eyes, he drew in a breath, then began to choke as his ribs constricted, the broken bones shifting against each other. It had been too long, he knew that, too late for rescue, too difficult to escape. He was going to die and that was all there was to say.

'You gonna be alright to get home?'

He nodded. 'S'not far. Besides, I'm a Musketeer now, am I not?'

Porthos chuckled. 'That you are. A runty one, but you'll do. Just make sure you're on time tomorrow. Treville'll have my head if he hears I've kept you out this late before your first day on the job.'

D'Artagnan grinned at him, knowing he was drunk and relishing it. It had been good to celebrate, better than drowning the sorrows that came rolling back every time he thought of her hair, bright and burning red against his chest, her eyes alight as she turned, delighted by her first successful shot ...

'I'll see you tomorrow,' said Porthos, clapping him on the shoulder and interrupting his thoughts.

He nodded quickly, too quickly, for his head swam as he waved goodbye and made his way along the street, concentrating on each step as it came, then forgetting himself and grinning as he remembered kneeling down that day before the king and rising again a Musketeer.

About to turn into the side-street that led to the Bonacieux's, he paused. He lived at the garrison now. He had to go there. So he turned, made for the alley that Constance had shown him as a shortcut to headquarters, and nodded at the two Red Guards who were walking towards him.

They came to a halt and he paused, confused. 'Gentlemen,' he started to say, but there was a sudden, wretched pain at the back of his head and he was toppling into blackness that had nothing to do with drink ...

Finally managing to catch his breath, he ignored the bite of the stone floor against his bare feet and the pull of his aching muscles, and tugged at the ropes above his head, trying to twist his bloodied wrists free.

There was no give, was never any give, and he subsided, fighting the tears that burnt furiously at the back of his eyes. He was a musketeer. He would not give up, would not give in to the desperation that threatened, despite how it pushed its way upon him.

But it had been so long, so many days, and he was tired ...

He jerked his head up. No. He could not fall asleep again, for that way lay death, a simple, terrible thing that terrified him because was so tempting.

It would not take long. A simple drift into a sleep from which he would not wake, a slowing of the breath, a way to escape the numbing cold that was sending shivers rattling through his body, a way to avoid the silent menace of the slowly seeping wound in his side. It was the only bit of warmth available to him and that, more than anything, made him want to surrender, for how desperate did a man have to be before he was grateful for the comforting trickle of his own blood?

There were six of them, Red Guards all, each with a heavy cloth tied to hide his face, but wearing their colours proudly. He thought he recognised one of them, a man often seen at the Cardinal's side, part of his personal guard, but the thought went out of his head at the first blow that rocked his skull back against the wall.

'Musketeer scum.'

He stayed silent, licking his split lip and gazing up at them as they exchanged glances between themselves. Then a laugh rang out and it was like a floodgate had been opened. Taunts and hoots and blows rained upon him and it was all he could do to batten himself down, turn his head into his arms and wait as the insults flew.

'I heard he's from Gascony. A farm boy, fresh from shovelling shit!'

'The Musketeers take all sorts these days. What's Treville up to? Next he'll be taking gutter rats, if he hasn't already!'

'How many palms do you think this one had to grease to gain a commission so quickly?'

Strong fingers grabbed at his chin and his head was forced up, another hand grasping at his hair, tangling, twisting it so his scalp screamed. 'Is that what you think he did? Look at him! He's pretty enough to be one of your whores, Gagnan! Tell me, d'Artagnan of Gascony, how many musketeers did you have to lay with before they'd accept you into their ranks?'

He wrenched his head away at that, snapped his teeth at the lingering fingers and received a back-hand to the face for his trouble.

He touched his tongue to his lip, felt the blood there and scowled up at the man who had spoken. 'I got in on talent,' he hissed. 'Something you've never heard of, I'd wager.'

There was a chuckle above him, deep and dark. 'Talent? Now there's an idea. Shall we give him a chance to prove himself, men?'

There was a chorus of cheers and he was hauled to his feet, his bonds cut away and a sword pushed into his hands. He hefted it, took a couple of practise swipes, then turned to face the man who stepped forwards with his own sword drawn.

He was cocky, buoyed by his new commission despite his aching head and the way his vision swam, certain that he would escape or at least be found soon by his friends, and it was not long before his opponent was on the ground, cowering as d'Artagnan pressed his blade into his neck.

'Let's talk again about talent, shall we?' he suggested, turning to look at the Guard who had proposed the duel, only to be hit from behind once more and sent tumbling to the ground himself.

That had become the rhythm of his life. He would be shaken awake, a hard crust of bread dropped at his feet that became harder to eat with every passing day, a bucket of water thrown over him so as to quench his thirst and a weapon shoved into his hand as he was hauled to his feet to fight his newest challenger.

There were only four of them left now.

'A plaything for the child,' Clariel taunted, throwing the sword down at his feet as three of the Red Guards stepped forward, drawing their own weapons with thin rasps of folded metal.

D'Artagnan bent down, picked it up and stared silently at the wooden toy, crudely hewn and clumsy. It was light and its reach far short of a real sword, and his opponents were laughing as they moved threateningly towards him.

He killed two of them with it before he was driven to his knees and whipped with the buckle on the final man's belt.

They had stopped wearing the masks and he knew them now, knew their voices, their footsteps, the sound of their breathing. Clariel was tall and lean, with whippet-like strength that had proved d'Artagnan's downfall more than once. Gagnan was shorter, with a fine goatee on which he prided himself and could always be seen grooming. Tasse was the one who enjoyed taunting him about his years on the farm and Levesque was the worst, big and bold and powerful, a man who enjoyed his position in the Red Guards and the fear he could spread through it.

He had not seen any of them in two days. He had not seen anyone in two days, had not eaten, had not drunk, had barely moved in the cold, damp cellar. His strength was going, the rats were coming closer and it was harder than ever to stay awake through the pain in his side and the thirst that burned in his throat, making him cough and rasp and wish for death to take him.

But then there was a sound, one he had not heard for hours beyond count. He stirred, forced his head up and saw the narrow edge of grey at the bottom of the door opposite him grow and stretch as the door screeched open, allowing a modicum of light to seep into the cellar for the first time in he did not know how long.

A bulky form appeared, dark and indistinct and d'Artagnan huddled into his bound arms, his eyes watering after so long in blackness, but there was the sound of heavy boots on the cellar floor and then a voice, hoarse and disbelieving.

'D'Artagnan? That you?'

There was a flurry of movement and Porthos was beside him, his large palm pressed against his cheek, holding his head up against the rough wall, meaning he no longer had to find the strength to support it himself. There was a muttered curse and then his ears were ringing as Porthos turned to shout towards the door.

'In here! Athos, Aramis! Get in here! Now!'

And then there were more figures around him. Aramis's sure hands were warm against his side, tugging back his torn shirt, and Athos had a vice-like grip on his shoulder and was staring at him, his face so white and drawn and looking even graver than usual. Treville was issuing orders as he pulled out a knife to cut the ropes around his wrists and Porthos was still muttering curses as he rubbed his numb fingers, making them tingle like a snapping fire as they came slowly back to life.

Through it all and a haze of pain, d'Artagnan realised that he was safe and he was found and whilst he might still be cold and injured, he was no longer alone. And that turned out to be the only thing worth saying.