Losses Restored
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Memory loss plays havoc with d'Artagnan as he and Athos find themselves in a fiery predicament. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires May "Photo Challenge".
Disoriented, d'Artagnan sat up slowly and coughed, as a waft of smoke drifted toward him. Curious, he thought. Where was he exactly?
Covered in ash, his mouth dry, head pounding; bells ringing in his ears – a sudden wave of dizziness assaulted him. Reaching up to message his aching head, he felt sticky wetness and pulled his hand away to see blood …bright, red; dripping through his fingers.
He was confused; and searched the recess of his memory to help make sense of this.
But there was nothing to retrieve … only blankness. Swallowing down smoke and nausea, he scanned the vast room through irritated and scratchy eyes. Swiping tears away, he could see that he was in a large library and coughed again as smoke hovered about the room which was scattered with small fires – that consumed curtains, furniture and books. Wooden beams, fallen from the ceiling crackled nearby – the heat oppressive.
What was all this, he wondered; panic grabbing hold of him as his heart skipped beats erratically. What happened here? Where was here? Why was the room peppered with small fires? Something fell from the ceiling to the floor. Instinctively he covered his head as bits of stone, wood and embers descended.
Suddenly, without warning, something grabbed hold of his leg and startled him out of a full blown panic attack. Scooting back, he looked down beside him to see a man – covered in soot; legs caught under a fallen beam, his face set in a painful grimace. Their eyes met and though he seemed familiar; the man was as unknown to him as this burning room.
"Thank God" the man groaned in relief; the firm grip on his leg released as he covered his eyes. "I thought", he began in anguish. "I thought…" and deciding not to put his imaginings into words, uncovered his face and searched his with intensity.
"Are you alright?" the man asked with urgency, as he pressed up to lean on his elbows - gasping through his pain.
d'Artagnan studied the man closely and nodded, unable to find his voice around the smoke tickling the back of his throat.
Who are you ... he wanted to ask. Where are we? Why are we here? But instead of asking, he promptly gathered his wits about him, and pushed to his feet. Action was needed here, not questions – whose answers would mean nothing to him anyway.
This man was in incredible pain, and needed his help. Stepping over burning embers he reached for the beam covering the man's legs and grabbed hold. Voice cracking, he instructed, "When I lift this – pull yourself out."
The man nodded, and so he gave it all the strength he could muster and attempted to lift the beam from the trapped stranger. Once, twice, three times he gave it his best effort, put eventually ceased – exhausted, with no success.
Not willing to give up, d'Artagnan reached for a wayward wooden leg, broken from a nearby chair. He placed it beneath the beam as leverage and tried again – only to hear the wood snap and the man's screams; calling for him to halt.
Breathing hard, d'Artagnan sat at the man's side searching the library for another answer. They had to get of here or else succumb to smoke then burn to death. The door – made of heavy oak and shut was but a few feet away. Maybe if he could….
"It is no use" d'Artagnan heard the man say and frowned at the defeat in his voice.
"No sir" he admonished, and wiped the blood from his forehead. "We will get out of here", and moved to stand.
Impeded, d'Artagnan looked down to see that the man now held onto his elbow in a vice like grip – preventing him from his course of action. Perturbed he turned to face the man who looked just as confused as he felt.
"Sir?" he repeated with a questioning lilt to his voice; and leaned back to hit the floor deflated, but never taking his eyes from him; scrutinizing him through the billowing smoke. d'Artagnan shivered in the stifling heat; his spine tingling. What did this man see when he looked at him? What was he searching for?
"And you are?" he asked, his voice apprehensive – heightening d'Artagnan's anxiety level another notch.
"d'Artagnan", he answered, "and you?"
"Athos … of the King's Musketeers."
d'Artagnan studied the man closely as he in turn considered him. A vague memory nagged at him to remember … what? But when he pressed himself to recall the bells rang louder and his headache intensified to new painful levels. He could not think.
"Do not worry yourself boy", the man insisted and grabbed his arm again. "We are trapped here, and you must find your way out."
Nodding in agreement, d'Artagnan pointed to the door, miraculously free of debris and fire. "When I have you freed, we can make it to the door together."
In that moment the Musketeer pulled at his collar and brought him close to his face. "Before all that" he breathed out – gesturing toward the middle of the room. "Do you see the desk there?"
Locating the broken desk d'Artagnan nodded, sweat now trickling down the side of his face, mingling with blood and tears. "Go, and bring the box to me…hurry" he commanded and pushed him to move.
Without question, as if by second nature d'Artagnan rose swiftly to his feet. With no fear he navigated his way through the thickening smoke; avoiding small fires and swirling embers in his path. Destination reached, he lifted the small leather box then zig zagged his way back. Concentrating, he could none the less feel the Musketeer's silent encouragement; as if it were a rope – cinched tightly about his waist; pulling him back safely to his side.
"Well done" the Musketeer exclaimed with a crooked smile; and slapped him on the back. d'Artagnan felt an odd sense of kinship; his chest filling with pride – determined now above all odds to get them both to safety. d'Artagnan watched anxiously as the Musketeer opened the box, sifting through papers. Was this why they here? It was a miracle this box had escaped the flames.
d'Artagnan frowned as a memory of waiting in this room, eager for information flashed before his eyes. As pain throbbed at his temples, he dismissed the apparition to stay in this moment. A paper was pushed at him, and paced in his hand. "Take this" the Musketeer ordered, "and hide it on your person."
Without hesitation d'Artagnan retrieved the paper and placed it within his vest, close to his heart. "For Treville's eyes only", he continued and lay back to the floor – spent, biting his fist to stifle his cries; arching his back from the floor in pain.
Another crescendo from above had them both looking up as the chandelier fell, then shattered to the floor – allowing more smoke to cascade from the gaping hole in the ceiling. d'Artagnan flung his body over the Musketeer, protecting his upper body and felt debris pelt his back, his neck and arms.
When the splintering and shattering sounds ceased, he stared down to see the man gazing up at him with fondness, then gently touch the side of his face.
"You must leave me here d'Artagnan" he insisted – then commanded with a push, "Go now – this information must get to Treville."
d'Artagnan stood, ready to follow the order without thought; but could not go – his legs refusing to move. Something held him back and brought him down to his knees. Who was this man to him, he questioned, and that summoned from him a sentiment of brotherhood. An attachment that would not see him perish here.
"I can't leave you here", he cried out and once more moved to lift the weight from the Musketeers legs. And as he strained in his lifting…arms pulled taunt; his back strained; the door flew open then slammed closed in its wake. Suddenly there at the door stood a man – guns held aloft; his face calm and unbothered by the mayhem and destruction in the room. His clothes were immaculate – untouched by ash or fire; his skin cool – no sweat on his brow. A savior he seemed. d'Artagnaned was stunned.
"Aramis" the Musketeer called out from the floor. Then, there – peeking from the mask of composed determination was a wry grin of confidence.
"So there you are" this Aramis called back and hurried toward them; another entering the door, close on his heels.
Aramis… he whispered to himself and pictured this man removing his plumed hat with a flourish to bow deeply before his…. "Porthos" he said aloud as the big man kneeled to lift the beam held frozen in his hands as if it were nothing.
Memories of Treville; being sent to Lorraine; meeting with the informant Comte de Brion; coming here to the chateau to retrieve information that would point to insurgents hell bent on treason and insurrection toward their King came flooding back. Finding the Comte murdered here in this study; Athos' declaration of "Betrayal"; the room exploding; the ceiling falling in – Athos pushing him out of the way of splintered wood ….then nothing.
Head pounding, d'Artagnan felt the ground shifting beneath his feet. Porthos, throwing the beam aside, lifted Athos over his shoulder while Aramis – catching him by the back of his collar, herded him to the massive oak door. Swiftly, flames began to lick the ceiling; ignite the impressive shelves of books … coming alive; hungry for fuel.
Staggering out of the chateau; then out to the gardens, Aramis released him and the fresh air washed over him like a waterfall. Falling to his knees he breathed in its moist coolness.
A water skin appeared in his hand; and he drank greedily – easing the dryness in his mouth and throat. Handing it over, d'Artagnan lay down in the grass and let the wetness dampen his clothes and soothe his hot skin.
Astonished, he watched in awe as the chateau- captured in flames – lit up the night sky. It was as if the sun was shining here on earth – her heat reaching out to scorch them. The building would not survive it.
Aramis knelt by his side and wiped a cool cloth across his brow. "How are you?" he asked, examining his injury. d'Artagnan overwhelmed with relief did not speak, but could only smile and grab his friend's hand in gratitude.
Closing his eyes he sighed. They were all safe; escaped form the inferno – all here; the welcomed heroics of Aramis and Porthos, giving them the chance to live and fight another day. Off to the side, he could hear Porthos soothe, "There now Athos, hold on brother, Aramis will fix you right up."
Gathering his strength; d'Artagnan pushed himself up to see Athos – stoic in his pain; Porthos fiercely holding his hand as Aramis, his face like stone maneuvered his injured leg. "You were lucky my friend, rest is what you need", he diagnosed.
A weight lifted from d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Athos" he exhaled and crawled his way toward his mentor and friend; who saved his life … who lay now in the grass injured because of him. Reaching Athos' side, he grabbed hold of his shirt and lay his head near his side and felt reassured when Athos, in pain though he was; tousled, then stroked his hair, and asked, "You are well?"
Nodding, d'Artagnan, still holding on to his shirt – rolled to his back and stared up at the stars embedded in ink.
Thank you for reading. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires May "Photo Challenge". I have put in bold font what the photo looks like. If you would like to participate, go to the Fete des Mousquetaires Forum page and see how to enter.