Last part people. Thank you for sticking with it! Longer AN at the end

It was a five minute walk to the exit on to Rue Lepic. D'Artagnan didn't make any effort to remember the maze of roads and alleyways he followed Flea and 2 of her body guards down. It would take too much concentration, when really just putting one foot in front of the other was currently taking far more of it than normal. Flea kept looking back over her shoulder at him, a concerned look on her face. D'Artagnan mostly ignored her, keeping his head high and his back straight and his feet moving forward. He was fine. And if he kept saying that, then maybe his body would believe it too.

The sun was bright in the cloudless sky, and even in the shaded alleyway d'Artagnan winced and squinted against the harshness, not helped by the noise of many people in close quarters yelling, the noise reverberating around the close quarters. His headache hadn't let up but now it drummed at an altogether different rhythm, and the nausea returned with a start. He forced down a swallow, ignored the headache as best he could and forced his mind to his training. The alleyway leading from Rue Lepic to the Court of Miracles was enclosed on both sides by high, rundown buildings; no chance of a side ambush anyway. The alleyway was small and tight, a natural bottleneck after the wide open road of Rue Lepic. That could work in their favour if talking did nothing, and they could force the Red Guard into following them down here. It could also work against them, though, limiting their movement and not allowing them to fight at all.

Walking down the alleyway d'Artagnan became increasingly aware of being the solitary man in uniform. He was used to being in a regiment, standing shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, having back up in a fight, of having musketeers (okay, mostly any or all of The Inseparables) by his side.

Now he was alone.

Oh, he had the men of the Court of course. They hung from windows and door frames, talking and shouting and banging metal on metal in the excitement of a fight with the Red Guard. Fear here was laughed at, excitement and adrenaline combined to make the small alleyway sound like a tavern and it wasn't helping d'Artagnan's headache.

But they weren't trained. They were a mob after the excitement of a fight, a chance to put one over the Red Guard and d'Artagnan feared them, feared what they would do as much as the Red Guard. He was a musketeer and not one of them. He might be viewed as some sort of hero at the moment for saving 2 of their children, but he knew what would happen if talking to the Red Guard went wrong, if they weren't happy with anything he did. The mob would turn on him just as quickly. And he doubted Flea would be able to prevent an attack.

He blanked the thoughts. Forced them away. They weren't useful at this moment. Every thought path seemed to lead to the high chance of his death. They weren't going to help him face the Red Guard, to channel Athos's negotiating skills and try and get everyone away with limited bloodshed. He wasn't holding out much hope, but he had to try. And if they didn't talk, he was prepared to fight, knowing full well the likely ending of such an event. He had to fight. After all, he'd never walked away before and this didn't seem like the time to start.

Flea glanced at him once more, before pushing back the sheeting that masked the entrance to Rue Lepic, stepping through. D'Artagnan couldn't stop the grimace and hiss of pain as the bright sunshine hit like daggers to the back of his eyeballs, and the ground dipped and settled below his feet. He straightened quickly though, knowing he didn't have time to appear weak, not in front of Flea, not in front of the Court, and especially not in front of any approaching Red Guard. His head, however, didn't appreciate the reasoning, and the ground felt increasingly unsteady beneath his feet, a feeling of vertigo that made his stomach dip. He ignored it as best he could, keeping a view of the nearby trees lining the wide avenue momentarily to try and settle the dizziness (and his stomach) before looking around properly.

He remembered being here yesterday. Hard to think that the simple act of giving his bread to 2 street children had led to this. The avenue was much quieter than yesterday. No market traders around, no children running, whooping and hollering as they played. Compared to yesterday the avenue looked abandoned. Looking around, d'Artagnan could just make out the shadow of faces at the windows lining the street. The people here didn't want a fight. They feared the backlash of the Red Guard, wanted only peace so as to get on with their lives, and were doing the sensible thing of staying away. Although some were brave enough to try and watch from the side lines.

D'Artagnan didn't notice Flea appearing at his side until she spoke. 'Are you sure you're up for this?' She murmured.

'I'm fine.' D'Artagnan reassured her.

Flea shook her head. 'You're far from fine.' She grumbled, laying a hand on his arm. 'You're shaking. This doesn't have to be your fight, you know.'

D'Artagnan spared her a glance. He had a sheen of sweat across his pale face, the glare from the sun causing him to squint, lines of pain visible on his youthful face; if Flea had to guess the ground wasn't feeling very stable beneath his feet. But there was a stubbornness there she had glimpsed earlier, and Flea doubted d'Artagnan knew how to walk away from something he felt was right to do. She couldn't order him to not do this; she could only hope that when she sent for Porthos to come and retrieve d'Artagnan from the Court that it wasn't his body she would be handing over.

The runners had told Flea it was a group of six soldiers marching in their direction, in full uniform, their weaponry on display in an overt attempt to intimidate. She spared one final glance at the pig headed musketeer before turning to the strongest fighters she had picked for the fight. 'Remember, we negotiate first.' Her tone was hard, commanding. She had learnt the hard way how best to appear in charge during such times of conflict. They grumbled, as she expected, but they all nodded. 'You will get to fight.' She added, allowing a slight smile to tug at her lips. 'Have you ever known the Red Guard to negotiate?'

D'Artagnan cleared his throat, sending a half-hearted glare her way though he couldn't find it in himself to argue with her. He turned instead, stepping to spearhead the group, hearing various weapons being readied as he rested an unfamiliar hand on the pommel of his sword. He fought the urge to pull it, swing it again, to get used to the weight and the feel all over again. This wasn't the time to appear anything but ready for the fight that might be before him. He released his right hand from his leather jacket, let it hang by his side. The Red Guard didn't need to know that he was injured. Then again: d'Artagnan resisted the urge to feel the cut and bump on his head; there was no hiding some wounds, he thought.

D'Artagnan wasn't known for his patience at the Musketeers. If there was a fight, most people would pay good money that d'Artagnan would move for first strike. He didn't wait around, didn't usually bother waiting for someone else to make the first move. Flea wouldn't have been surprised if she spoke with said musketeers to find that out; Flea had figured for herself the impatience of the young man. So she was surprised when he stood at the head of their rag tag group of fighters, a specific spot, though not for any reason she could fathom, as still as a statue. She could barely see the movement of his chest as he presumably still breathed. His back was ram rod straight, stood to attention that any captain would be proud to see. She saw the fearless soldier, the injuries a mere afterthought, and allowed herself to wonder if perhaps the day wouldn't end with as much blood shed as she had readied herself for.

MMXV

The Red Guard marched in 2 lines of 3, a foreboding and menacing air to them as they stepped in perfect unison to a beat any soldier recognised. They were big men, battle ready, a little overkill, d'Artagnan considered, for what had happened. D'Artagnan stood his ground, not allowing a flicker of movement across his face as the Red Guard halted mere feet from his position. He had carefully chosen the spot, close to the entrance to the Court, blocked in on one side by the side of a large housing block, trees forming a natural break on his right, hemming the soldiers into a space rather than out in the open of the avenue. It had aided him yesterday, kept the Red Guard from being able to circle him. He had counted on the natural ego of the Red Guard to march right up to his face rather than stay in the relative safety of the larger avenue.

'Musketeer, step aside. This is not your fight.' The blond Red Guard in the centre, tall as Porthos but without the muscle, did his best to intimidate with his natural height advantage by looking down his nose at d'Artagnan. If it didn't cause his right eye to squint slightly, it might have worked better.

'So I've been told. It's not yours either.' D'Artagnan spoke calmly, almost conversational in tone though his posture did not change, his left hand white knuckled on the pommel of his sword.

'A member of the Court of Miracles' the words were spat as if offensive from the man's lips 'killed a Red Guard yesterday. They will be brought here to face justice in a court.'

'And if that member cannot be found?' d'Artagnan queried.

'We will find him by force.'

D'Artagnan openly scoffed at such a notion. He looked over the soldiers, one by one, taking his time to deliberately eye each man, to judge him just with a look. He recognised one at the back, the older musketeer with large jowls stood on the left, sporting an impressive shiner from yesterday's fight. He briefly wondered who of the other 2 had died, but his head was pounding too much to continue to think. He tried to keep the grimace from showing on his face. 'You will need more force than you have here.'

The leader of the pack stepped forward into d'Artagnan's personal space, small droplets of spittle almost making d'Artagnan grimace as they hit his face as the man hissed 'is that a threat?'

D'Artagnan smiled slightly, though there was no warmth to the expression. 'Merely an observation.'

'The man responsible will be brought here within ten minutes.'

'No one is being brought here. The killing was justified.'

'Justified!' The man scoffed. 'Justified he says.' The man looked to his comrades who laughed appropriately at the humour the man found in d'Artagnan's words.

'Yes.' D'Artagnan focused on the words, even as the pounding grew to a distracting buzzing in his ears, and black spots danced threateningly in the corner of his vision. He ignored it as best he could; he didn't have time for the distraction of a head injury. 'Your Red Guard.' He spat the words right back in the man's face 'attacked a musketeer without provocation. The men simply came to my aide.'

The man's eyes swept to d'Artagnan's wound, though he couldn't have failed to spot it already. 'Aaah, did the little musketeer get a sore head.'

D'Artagnan let the insult wash over him, helped by the words sounding increasingly like they were echoing under water towards him. Unconsciousness, though tempting, would probably bring the certainty of death a little closer, but it wouldn't help the Court. D'Artagnan deliberately flexed his right hand, letting the pain of the grinding broken bones ground him once again in the here and now, bringing the Red Guard into sharp relief and quieting the buzzing momentarily.

'You should have stayed away, Musketeer. You should have let the Red Guard get on with their job rather than trying to play hero for 2 street urchins that did not deserve saving. What, you wanted to show off to two children?'

D'Artagnan was forcefully reminded of Mathis's words only a few days earlier though it seemed much longer. He didn't allow his mind to wander there, though, wrenching it back forcefully. 'Your Red Guard comrades were wrong to stop those children; they had not stolen anything. And they were wrong to draw their sword on me. And you are wrong to come down here simply because a member of the Court got the better of one of your men in the fight. Don't make another mistake now.'

'A mistake?' The man still seemed to find much humour in d'Artagnan's words, though his look hardened again. 'We are not the one's making a mistake here, musketeer.' He paused then, seeming to consider d'Artagnan afresh, eyes sweeping to the pauldron snug on his shoulder. 'A musketeer.' He appeared to think on this concept for a while, sharing a smile with the guard on his right. 'Shouldn't be too much problem.' He drew his sword, his comrades instantly following suite, d'Artagnan half a second behind, only a slight hesitation from the unfamiliar feel. 'After all, he's all alone.'

'We're never alone.'

D'Artagnan, with the benefit of a head injury and that all noise at the moment seemed to be coming at him from a vast distance, didn't startle at the familiar voice that rang out around the avenue. All of the Red Guard jumped, though, half of them swinging to the new threat that had appeared at their back. Athos stood, three metres behind, flanked by Aramis and Porthos, all three pulling swords in one singing movement. 'I suggest you leave this place now.' Athos added.

The blond had turned back to d'Artagnan, not about to let the new arrivals split his attention and leave his back open to attack. 'This is not your fight.' He said, loudly enough to be heard. His sword swung fast as lightening in d'Artagnan's direction, d'Artagnan getting his sword up, even though the movement felt lopsided, in time for steel to clash against steel. 'Of course, we wouldn't discourage your involvement.' He added, moving out of the way in time for the Red Guard on his left to swing at d'Artagnan, the unfamiliar hand telling as d'Artagnan struggled to block a move that should have been as natural as breathing. 'Only makes the fight sweeter.'

Words stopped then; Athos, Aramis and Porthos moved forward to engage, splitting the attention of the Red Guard enough to allow a fair fight. Or as fair a fight as anything involving the Red Guard versus the Musketeers could be.

The wiser men from the Court of Miracles stepped back into the shadows, understanding that today, at least, was not their fight, that by some miracle the musketeers were fighting for them. The younger men looked ready to join in but were quelled by a single look from their queen. Forced to watch, they could appreciate that they were watching the masters at work, in a decidedly one sided fight.

The fight caused welcome adrenaline to sing through d'Artagnan's veins, dulling pain, sharpening senses, even allowing him to forget that he held his sword in the wrong hand as he quickly grew used to the movement. It wasn't as natural or graceful as usual, however few of the spectators from the side lines would have guessed that d'Artagnan didn't always fight with his left hand.

He knew it was temporary though; black dots began to once again dance through his vision, drawing air into his lungs seemed a battle all of its own, and the ground was increasingly unsteady beneath his feet. He wondered how much longer he could fight against the two swords slashing in his direction. He did have one advantage compared to yesterday, his increasingly fractured thoughts considered. He didn't have a human limpet pressed into his side, immobilising one of his arms. He had forgotten all about his current immobilised hand, and the distinct disadvantage from that until he used it to smash the blond Red Guard around his smirking lips. He managed not to yell but that was merely because it would have taken air he didn't currently have in his lungs.

It took far longer than it should have to realise he was now only battling one sword, another beat before he realised Athos stood at his side, splitting the attention of the 2 Red Guard he had faced. He did manage to scrape enough conscious thought, and air, together to take the first opening that was gifted him, bringing the pommel of his sword down heavily on the big Red Guards head, dropping him in an instant. He considered it suitable retribution that the Red Guard would have as nasty a scar as he was likely going to be left with.

MMXV

It was over quicker than it had started. Four of the Red Guard soldiers remained on the ground, in various degrees of consciousness, 2 had run for it whilst they could. If d'Artagnan had been able to think it through, he might have worried about the embarrassing defeat they had served the Red Guard, and the likely comeback that they would have to watch for. However, standing, panting through the exertion, and the pain that lanced through his head, all d'Artagnan could feel was relief (and a small amount of surprise) that he had actually survived the encounter.

'You are alive.' Athos stood shoulder to shoulder with him, surveying the Red Guard with him for a moment, before moving around to get a better look at his protégé. D'Artagnan felt the loss, felt the ground shift threatening under foot, and shifted his stance wider to compensate slightly. Athos surveyed him with more intensity than he had spared the Red Guard, whatever he saw making the stoical musketeer wince slightly. 'Though you have looked better.'

'Small disagreement with the Red Guard yesterday.' D'Artagnan answered, sounding off hand though mostly because he was trying to convince his stomach to still and not vomit on Athos's boots. 'They didn't take it well.' He added almost as an afterthought.

Briefly turning as if to remind himself of the Red Guard unconscious on the floor, Athos allowed a small smile to grace his lips. 'They never do.' He looked over at d'Artagnan again. 'Though you could use more practice if you are going to be fighting with your left hand.' He looked up and caught Aramis's eye, beckoning him with a single look. He moved closer, a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's arm, as the musketeer swayed again.

'That is quite the black eye.' Aramis's voice managed to startle d'Artagnan though he stood right in front of him. 'Someone did a very nice job stitching you up, though. Almost as pretty as mine.' He reached up to probe the wound himself, discovering d'Artagnan wasn't so far gone as to ignore his ministrations. Using his right hand in his foggy state, however, to keep Aramis at bay, leached the rest of his face of colour.

Porthos watched the battle with a knowing grin, deciding getting involved would be a little unfair to the youngest of them. He felt the woman settle at his side without looking down at her. 'Flea' He acknowledged after a pause.

'Porthos. I was going to contact you.' Flea didn't mean for that to sound quite so defensive.

Casting a look over the injured man once again, Porthos met her look with a raised eyebrow. 'Before or after he was killed fighting the Red Guard?'

The accusation hit harder than perhaps Porthos intended. Flea straightened to her full height, though it made little difference against Porthos, 'I told him not to fight. Commanded him not to fight.'

To her surprise her words softened Porthos's look almost immediately, and she watched fond exasperation come over his features as he looked once again at d'Artagnan, still trying to batter away Aramis's probing hands from his head wound or his injured hand. 'Yeah, guess that didn't work well.'

Flea relaxed slightly, even smiled. 'He's a stubborn fool.'

Athos obviously overheard judging by the snort at the words. 'Yes he is.' Porthos said fondly.

Athos kept a tight grip on d'Artagnan's arm as he looked over at the queen of the Court of Miracles. The fear and guilt that had held Athos in their grip was quickly turning to relief at finding d'Artagnan alive, although the thought that a few moments later and they would have been too late would come back to haunt him. He was grateful that the Court had seen to it to extend such care to the young man. Flea caught his eye, holding his look, seeming to understand the simple nod of thanks, and the rage of emotion underneath.

A stilted cry from d'Artagnan brought his attention back to the wounded man. Aramis, deciding there was little needing to be done in the middle of the street had settled his hand on d'Artagnan's other arm, right over one of the other injuries from yesterday. Finding the long slit in the leather jacket, Aramis quickly found smaller ones all along the sleeve. 'Any other injuries you want to share?' Athos's dry voice brought d'Artagnan's attention to him, though he winced at the movement.

'How did you get these?' Aramis added.

D'Artagnan didn't have time to answer before Flea jumped in. She had (rightly) guessed that the stubborn man would down play his role in saving the children from yesterday, and fighting off the Red Guard with a child in his arms and quickly filled in the men of the exploits of the young man. D'Artagnan was glad he had been there, and therefore didn't need to pay attention to the words, swaying violently enough that Athos struggled to hold him upright. Seeing this, Flea brought the tale to a swifter close than she would have liked, stepping forward to d'Artagnan. She lay a hand on his cheek as he struggled to focus on her. 'Thank you.' She said simply.

D'Artagnan didn't trust that he could open his mouth at the moment without vomiting on her, so simply nodded, the movement sluggish.

'You fought with honour' Flea spoke with a hitch to her voice 'and loyalty to my people when you didn't have to.' She widened her suddenly tear filled gaze to Athos, Aramis and lastly Porthos. 'And thank you for coming in time.' She added with a watery smile.

They simply nodded and watched as she disappeared back into her kingdom.

MMXV

Treville had been a captain long enough to have lost many soldiers. He was well aware that every time he sent his men out, be it for a simple patrol, guard duty at the palace, or on a select mission, that they might not return. Every soldier was aware of his mortality, and Treville had long since accepted the reality of duty that came with being the Captain.

He couldn't quite contain the relief when three familiar horses returned to the garrison as the midday bells tolled, though it was the fourth man, sharing Athos's horse whom he was most grateful to see. He arrived on the lower floor as Porthos was helping d'Artagnan to dismount, Treville getting his first look at the impressive head injury. 'You are rather late for report, d'Artagnan.' He observed.

'Apologies.' D'Artagnan's voice was soft, and he struggled to look Treville in the eye. 'I was inadvertently detained.' He added with a half-smile that caused a snort of amusement from the captain.

'Looks like you need a visit to the infirmary.' Treville said, noting the hold Porthos and Aramis had on the young man to keep him upright. 'I'll hear your report later.'

D'Artagnan, instead, straightened. 'But I have news to report. Of the killing of the nobleman.'

Treville briefly warred with ordering d'Artagnan to the infirmary, but something in d'Artagnan's tone, and the effort he was putting in to look him in the eye had him nodding instead.

'The son.'

Confused, Treville's look turned questioning. The effort to keep his look on Treville's was waning quickly, and the next words came out in a rush. 'His son was cut out of his inheritance.'

Understanding now, Treville nodded, stepping forward to briefly clasp d'Artagnan's shoulder. 'We will investigate further. Now, infirmary!'

Dismissed, Aramis and Porthos steered d'Artagnan towards the infirmary, Treville and Athos both grinning as d'Artagnan gathered enough energy to complain that he didn't need to go anywhere but his own room, and his own bed. Treville turned a questioning look to his lieutenant. 'The Red Guard were out for blood. It's not the last we will hear from them.'

'A problem for another day.' Treville allowed.

'D'Artagnan will be at the centre of their plans.'

Treville turned a steel gaze on him. 'Divided, they might stand a chance. United, they have none. Don't give them a chance.'

All Athos could do was nod at the wise words, recognising the simplicity and complexity of such a statement.

'In the meantime,' Treville carried on, 'you have the son of a nobleman to investigate.'

Athos glanced around to ensure they weren't overheard before asking 'Mathis?'

'Leave him to me.' Treville's smile turned evil. 'I hear the Red Guard are down a few members and need temporary help with palace security.'

Athos contained his smile as he let a wave of vindictive retribution to roll over him. It wasn't enough, but there was little they could do against a cowardly musketeer that wouldn't end up in trouble. Treville was a wise captain, though, and Athos guessed that retribution would come in other forms than straight out violence. He nodded in understanding and followed his brothers to the infirmary knowing that getting d'Artagnan there, and keeping him there, was a whole other challenge in itself.

Author's note:

Thank you for reading this story and I hope you've enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing this fic, the first longer piece of fiction I've written in a while. Probably not the most complex piece you'll read, but I needed something straightforward to get my teeth into as it were; as you've probably guessed my favourite character is d'Artagnan and I wanted to explore his abilities and loyalties a little.

I've loved reading all your reviews; like everyone that posts here it means a lot to me to hear what people think of my story and they've been enjoying it, and it's heart-warming to receive notifications of favourites, follows and reviews . Thank you for taking the time to do that.

This is not beated, any mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Musketeers. I'm simply using the characters for my own enjoyment and make no money from this!