LOST

He felt movement, heard wheels underneath him. Faint sounds of people talking drifted in and out.

Where am I? he dazedly wondered? What am I in?, he continued, as the wheels moved over something that caused whatever he was in to jostle him violently against the side of whatever he was being transported in..

Then, all went black again.

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Before

It had been a quiet week so far. Just palace guard duty, boring but vital for the safety and stability of Louis' reign.

Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan missed their fourth, especially during the evenings at the Wren. His lightheartedness. Jokes. Even his flirting.

Aramis had received permission to visit an elderly aunt he had never met. The woman had written Aramis a letter saying she wanted to see him before she died. She had even included a note begging his captain, Treville, to let him come, and Treville had given his permission, touched by the woman's words.

Aramis had left the next day. He was to be gone a week, a day and a half to get there and the same back, leaving him four days to cheer the elderly woman on her deathbed.

That had been four days ago, and they each silently looked forward to his rejoining them and hoping the remaining three days passed quickly.

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Present

He emerged from the blackness again to the same movements, the wheels underneath him.

How far were they going, he dazedly thought. Have we been traveling the whole time I was out, or was I only unconscious for a few minutes?

He wasn't conscious enough to know more. He couldn't see anything. It was too black wherever he was. His head was pounding, he thought right before it all went dark again.

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He was coming back today, Porthos thought, as he dressed and put on his weapons. A week to visit the distant elderly aunt, one whom he hadn't seen since he was a child.

He wondered how things had gone as he plopped his hat on his head and emerged from his room. Aramis was a charmer, he mused. Always had been. The lady probably was tickled pink with him as every age of woman seemed to be. Chuckling, he started down the stairs, part of his mind already fixed on what old Serge might be fixing for breakfast, his stomach rumbling at the possibilities.

As he came down the stairs, he glanced around the compound. No one else was up yet. More breakfast for me, he thought.

Reaching the bottom step of the wooden staircase he heard doors open, and knew from the direction that his brothers would be joining him in a moment. Nodding his head in their direction, he started across the compound towards the refectory, when an odd sight caused him to stop.

The garrison doors were wide open, which wasn't unusual for the morning, but what lay in-between them was.

He saw a long shape and what looked like a burlap bag in front, blocking any further view of the shape behind it. He headed for it out of curiosity to see what it was. Halfway there, he realized what the length and color of the object told him it was, and he moved faster, aware that Athos and d'Artagnan had also seen what he had seen.

As they neared the spot, Porthos, who was closer then Athos and d'Artagnan, finally got a clear view and his heart clenched within him as, even though the head was encased in the burlap bag, he recognized the body that was dearer to him than his own, and a strangled cry came from him-"Aramis!"

Athos and d'Artagnan, hearing him, speed up and dropped to their knees beside their brother, hardly believing their eyes at what they saw.

Aramis' body was literally completely covered in livid black and blue bruises and cuts of varying lengths.

Athos, closest to his brother's head, began trying to untie the burlap bag and free his brother's head. Porthos and d'Artagnan pulled their main gauches to liberate his wrists and ankles. Through it all, not a movement or sound came from the marksman, which only worried them more.

Athos, frustrated in his attempts to untie the bag, finally resorted to what he had rather not have done, whicuse his main gauche so close to Aramis' throat. Forcing himself to work more slowly than he would have liked, he carefully cut though the tie. When it had finally been severed, instead of pulling it quickly off his brother's head, he maneuvered it gently off.

As Aramis' head was revealed, a concerted hiss from all three of them sounded. Their brother's face was, if anything more bruised than his body, hardly an inch of skin left untouched. His eyes were both completely swollen shut. A massive bump was visible through his hair.

Glancing up at his brothers, he saw the same shock, confusion and worry he felt reflected in their eyes, as well.

What had happened to him? they all wondered. And why had the attackers brought him back to the garrison in this way? Had he been taken during his journey to his aunt's, or on his way back? Maybe he had surprised someone robbing his aunt? Or maybe whoever it was had been at his aunt's lying in wait?Who would do this? And why?

"We need to get him into the infirmary and get Dr. Lemay here as quickly as possible," Athos said, his voice barely above a whisper, shock still evident in his expression, as it was in all of them.

Porthos slid his arms gently under Aramis' shoulder and knees, lifting and carrying him across the courtyard as the now-emerging members of the garrison, heading for the refectory, stopped and stared.

Ignoring them, the Inseparables, their focus solely onn their brother, continued on to the infirmary with their precious burden, stopping long enough for Athos to issue a terse order to one of the men to go to the palace and bring Lemay back. "Do not come back without him," he added.

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They set about getting Aramis laid down in a bed, getting water, soft cloths, alcohol for Dr. Lemay.

The good doctor arrived a little later, greatly dismayed when he saw the state Aramis was in.

"What happened to him?" he asked.

"We wish we knew," Athos replied.

Lemay cleaned and anointed the myriads of cuts and bruises with salves, covering them with bandages with the Musketeers' assistance.

"You need to keep a close eye on him", Lemay continued. "The bodily bruising and cuts, while being very painful and probably for some time, should heal barring the onset of any infections. The head, however Is a different story. The bump may cause further unconsciousness, and no way to know for how long. The eyes …" he trailed off for a moment before he continued. "Make sure he gets plenty of rest after he wakes up. It will soothe the swelling."

Gathering his bag and jacket, he told them, "Let me know how he is when he awakens. I've left some medications for pain if you can give them to him when awakens. Good day, gentlemen." Taking one more glance at the still silent unmoving marksman, he shook his head slightly as d'Artagnan saw him out.

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Aramis finally slept showed signs of regaining consciousness late the next day. His brothers, none of whom wanted to be anywhere else but with him, eagerly awaiting his waking. The only way they could tell would be bodily movements or facial expressions with the eyelids still swollen shut.

They saw him begin to shift slightly on the bed, and rapidly grimace at the pain it caused him.

Athos, on his left, said softly, "Stay still, Aramis. You are injured and…." his hand, which had been coming to rest on Aramis' shoulder stopping as Aramis flinched from his touch, then froze.

"It's all right, Aramis," Porthos reassured him. "We are here for you," looking up in confusion as Aramis responded to his words as he had to Athos-in fear.

His voice when he spoke, was dry and raspy. "Where am I?" swiveling his head in either direction that the voices had come from.

Athos responded, "You are in the garrison infirmary, Aramis."

But these words seemed to confuse him. "A garrison? Why am I here? You are soldiers?"

The more he spoke, the questions he was asking, the more his brothers worry levels shot up.

"Yes, we are, as are you, Aramis. One of the best," Athos continued, responding in a quiet calm voice.

"That is my name? Aramis? Who are you?" His voice sounded so lost.

"We are Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan, Aramis, and we care very much about you."

Aramis was shaking his head now. "I don't understand."

The confusion, the doubt and the fear tore at their hearts. Did he not recognize his brothers' voices? What had happened to him to cause this?

"Porthos tried again laying just his fingers lightly on his brother's forearm, but Aramis tried to scramble backwards away from him, begging, "Please don't hurt me again."

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I know I've had Aramis lose his memory in another of my stories. This time, it is for longer, and in the second or third chapter (haven't decided yet), his brothers find out that isn't the only trauma they will be dealing with. If you have the time or the inclinations, reviews are always gratefully welcomed. When I finally figure out how to respond to reviewers comments, as some other writers do, I will enjoy doing so.