Note: Quote is from Oasis' "Gas Panic!".
Chapter Two
My family don't seem so familiar
And my enemies all know my name
Porthos sat watching Aramis blink his way from sleep. When he finally came to awareness the young musketeer scrambled upright in a panic.
"It's alright… you're safe." Porthos held his hands up in a placating gesture.
"Who are you?!" Aramis managed between heaving gasps.
"Porthos. I'm your friend."
"Where am I? What am I doing here?!" Though his breath was calming the questions were still frantic.
"You're at the musketeer's garrison, you hurt your head and you can't remember anything. But you're alright, you're going to be just fine."
Aramis settled back down under the weight of Porthos' reassurances. He seemed so terribly lost when he looked up with his next question. "What is my name?"
"Aramis."
"Aramis… I'm Aramis? That's my name…" He said the word as if it were a garment he was trying on.
"It is, and you're a musketeer, like me." Porthos smiled sadly.
No doubt Treville would give Aramis as much time as he needed, but what if this went on much longer? What if his recovery took months… years? What if he never fully recovered? If worse came to worst they would have to make arrangements… find somebody to care for him, though Porthos' heart rebelled at the idea. What would his Aramis think of that? He wouldn't want the indignity of being looked after like a child, nor would he want to be a burden. Porthos shook these thoughts from his head, it was no use thinking of the worst case scenario… Aramis would recover. He was a musketeer, and a musketeer he would remain.
"Do we fight together?"
"We do, you've saved my life many times… You're quite the marksman, and you're good with a needle and thread too." Porthos pulled the top of his shirt down to reveal the thin line of an old scar. "You stitched that up for me after a duel with the red guard. Do you not remember? You were cursing me as much as the guard had…"
Aramis frowned as he stared at his handiwork. "No… There's nothing. I'm sorry."
Porthos nearly flinched at hearing that word. Why did he keep saying sorry? Aramis was the one suffering, he didn't have to apologise for anything. When they found the men responsible for the massacre Porthos was going to make every one of them apologise to Aramis before he ran them through.
"No matter… it will come back. You'll remember. The physician said so." Porthos sounded more confident than he felt.
The physician had said memory loss was normal with some head wounds, he seemed sure Aramis would regain what he had lost… but what if it wasn't the wound? What if Aramis' mind had suffered so much it had chosen to forget in order to survive? Porthos had seen something like it years ago in the Court… There was a man whose family had been slaughtered in a revenge killing. He just shut down. The pain was too much…
Aramis broke into his thoughts with a question and a half smile. "You seem to know me better than I know myself… What am I like? Tell me about our adventures together."
"Well, the ladies love you, and you love the ladies… You're always quick to smile, and you've always got something to say. Your loyalty knows no bounds and…" Porthos trailed off as he thought. How could he put everything Aramis was into words? It couldn't be done.
"And what?" For the first time Aramis seemed to look at him with some light in his eyes.
"... you're my friend. Words are not enough to describe you. I can, however, describe some of our exploits. Would you like to hear about the time I found you hanging from the window of Madame de Chevreuse, or the time we faced ten bandits and you disarmed them with nothing more than your charm?"
"Why not tell both?" Aramis smiled and it warmed Porthos' heart to see.
As it happened they had only time for one story before Porthos had to report for duty. Aramis very nearly followed him, but Porthos assured his friend he was off duty until he could remember which end of a sword you stick in your opponent. The young musketeer actually laughed and said he could remember that much at least.
"Here's a proper story to read." Porthos retrieved a book from the table and handed it to Aramis. A piece of paper fell out as he opened it. Probably a bookmark. "A man named Athos is going to bring you some food. He's your friend too. Though he'll probably be a bit more somber than me. Athos is a man of few words, but don't doubt he cares for you as much as I do."
Aramis frowned, absorbed in whatever he was reading. Porthos wasn't sure the young musketeer had heard a single word he'd said… So putting his hand on the door, Porthos made to leave.
"Porthos… do I have a friend named Marsac too?"
He froze in the doorway and spoke slowly. "You do…"
"Can I see him?" Aramis' voice was hopeful.
"No, he's away on duty. Maybe when he gets back." Porthos shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He didn't want to be talking about Marsac. Apart from stirring up bad memories, that rat had left Aramis in the forest to die alone. It boiled Porthos' blood referring to him as a friend. No friend would do that.
"Oh… Does he know me as well as you know me?"
"No, and he never will… I have to go Aramis. I'll see you later." Porthos hid the scowl on his face as he closed the door. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt, but he had been dangerously close to cursing Marsac and telling Aramis exactly what he had done. It was better to leave.
~oOo~
He came to with a sense of panic. There was a feathered shadow brushing at his face, blinding white snow, and a seeping, sanguine, red dawn… His eyes opened to the face of a large man, and he shot back with a broken cry. There were shining, sharp things. And he was falling… hitting the floor with a thud, tangled in something… ensnared… sheets, bed sheets. He had simply fallen out of bed.
The man stood up, palms exposed, like he was approaching a wild animal. "Easy… you're safe, you're alright. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Who are you? Where am I? What… what's going on? I can't…" His heart thundered through his chest, and his breath came quickly. He succombed to panic again when he realised he didn't even know his own name. His mind had been chaos mere moments ago, but now there was nothing but an impenetrable mist…
The stranger spoke evenly. "You're Aramis. I'm Porthos. We're musketeers and you're in the garrison. I know it's frightening waking up with nothing in your head, but you need to calm down… You had an accident. You hit your head on a doorstep - that's why you can't remember anything."
Aramis… so that was his name. It felt right, and he took it as his own. Aramis slowed his breathing and frowned at the large man, apparently named Porthos. "A doorstep did this to me?"
"It did, but the cold didn't help. It took a while for you to be found."
Cold… snow… the calling of ravens…
"Were there ravens?" He asked with a voice full of confusion.
"Not that I recall…" Porthos extended a hand slowly. "Shall we get you back into bed?"
Cautiously Aramis took the offered hand. He let the man pull him up and settle him back down. The young musketeer's heart still fluttered like a startled bird.
"I'm afraid I can't stop, I'm already late… Just know that you're safe here, if you stay in this room. You're amongst friends, we're looking after you. A man called Athos will bring some food along later." Porthos went to retrieve a book from the table. "Here you go, you like to pass the time with that one. I'll be back to check on you as soon as I can."
Something in Aramis bristled at the thought he needed looking after. He felt physically fine. There was nothing amiss save for the black hole where his memories should have been… The more he tried to grab at them the more elusive they seemed to be. But before Aramis could raise an objection Porthos was gone.
The young musketeer looked down at the book in his lap. 'Lives of the Saints' it read in elaborate, large writing. He opened it up to find a folded piece of paper. There was handwriting all over it… Carefully Aramis pulled it open.
'I. You are Aramis.' An intricate hand had written. 'Your friends are Athos and Porthos.'
'You hurt your head. An accident? They say you fell and hit a doorstep.'
'Every night you forget, the next morning you won't remember. Write this so you remember. Keep it hidden.'
'MARSAC?'
The intricate hand must have been his. He seemed to be writing to himself… So he lived each day anew? He would remember nothing of this tomorrow?
It went on…
'II. Marsac is your friend. He's away on a mission. Porthos said he's not important, but that's not right. There's something hidden. You were out in the cold for hours before anybody found you. Snow, ravens and blood. Ask to see Marsac.'
'III. Porthos doesn't like Marsac… Athos won't talk about him. They're hiding something. Where is Marsac?'
The notes continued. They became more desperate and suspicious until the last note, hurriedly written and barely legible said: 'Do not trust them. Get out. Find Marsac.'
Whatever had gone on in the past few days had clearly made Aramis wary of his so called friends… Porthos had seemed quite concerned about him, was it all an act? He had only really known the man for a few moments… The Aramis who wrote these notes had known him much longer. As for Athos, he wouldn't know the man if he passed him in the street.
Suddenly he felt on edge again, the panic returned. 'Get out' it had said… 'Find Marsac'. There was certainly something amiss. Was he going to sit here and read? Would he simply wait for sleep? Wait for the day to be erased? No… he had to act. He had to do something to claw back against the darkness.
So Aramis tucked the paper back into his book before going to look out of the window. He saw rows of musketeers standing to receive their orders and watched until they dispersed. The young musketeer felt fearful… he didn't know any of those men, he couldn't trust them. Enemies were at every corner… but he had to try. It was in him to try… if he knew one thing about himself, it was that.
Aramis waited until the musketeers in the courtyard rode out to attend their duties. Then he cautiously opened the door. Seeing it was clear outside he swallowed down his fear and stepped out. It was like stepping into an ice cold river. The fresh, crisp air seemed to slam into him. It was not safe out here… he was not safe, but he would go on.
One step in front of the other, that's all it was. And when he reached the archway he would be free. Aramis crept along the side of the building and ducked under the stairs in the courtyard. It was quiet out here. There was just an old man clearing the table... He could easily run past and make it to the street. The old man wouldn't be able to stop him or catch him. So Aramis took a deep breath, and he broke cover.
"Aramis? Where are you going?" The old man shouted as he dashed across the courtyard.
He didn't give chase though. And the archway was just ahead… a few more steps. Aramis' lungs burned with anxiety and effort. The cold air scorched the back of his throat. And then he stopped in his tracks as a musketeer started to walk through the archway from the street. He looked up at Aramis from under his wide brimmed hat and seemed momentarily stunned.
"Get out of my way!" Aramis shouted.
"Aramis… I think you should go back to bed." The man spoke carefully and calmly.
"I'm not going back. Move aside!"
The stranger held his hands up and walked forwards. "Come with me…"
"No, I don't trust you, I don't trust any of you. Where is Marsac?" He took a step back.
"If you come back to your room we can talk about it there." The musketeer was getting closer.
"We can talk about it here! You're hiding something! Don't think that I don't know!"
"What exactly do you think you know?" The stranger hissed. "You don't even know who I am do you?"
"And I don't want to, I just want you to get out of the way." Aramis considered the musketeer fairly warned. He launched himself forwards and lashed out with a fist at the man's face.
The stranger fell back and hit the ground heavily, giving Aramis a chance to run past. But he wasn't as insensate at Aramis thought. He caught the young musketeer's leg and pulled him down. Aramis hit the dirt with a yell, but he recovered quickly and tried to land another blow while the infuriating man tried to restrain him. They rolled around in the dirt, growling and struggling as savage as animals… Suddenly Aramis felt his fingers brush the dagger at the musketeer's belt, he drew it and they sprung apart, scrabbling to gain their feet.
Aramis held the dagger out while the stranger wiped a hand across his bloody lip.
"I don't want to fight you." The man breathed raggedly.
"Good, then get out of my way."
"I can't let you go."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know anything! You'll end up dead out there!"
"Then tell me everything! Stop lying! Stop hiding things from me! Where is Marsac? Let me see Marsac!" Aramis moved forwards with the dagger raised, his blood was now boiling.
This time the stranger took a step back, but he slowly drew his sword. "You can't see him, he's away…"
"Tell me where he is!" Aramis shouted.
"I can't tell you, because I don't know." He sounded so calm, which only served to anger Aramis further.
"I don't believe you."
"If you don't believe that, believe this - I am the best swordsman in the regiment. Do you really think you can get past me with a dagger?"
"I can try!" Aramis rushed forwards intending to use the dagger to knock his opponent's sword aside and run past.
But it seemed as if the musketeer knew his every move. Aramis went to lash out with his dagger, only to find the blade was no longer there. The musketeer circled the point of his sword around and slashed at Aramis' forearm. Pain exploded as it sliced open his skin. The dagger instantly dropped from the young musketeer's fingers, but he was not done. Adrenaline coursed through Aramis' veins and he pushed the man back with a roar, heedless to his own running blood.
The musketeer recovered quickly, he threw his blade to one side and and wrestled Aramis to the ground. His hold was firm and Aramis, feeling suddenly weak, found himself face down in the dirt, his arms wrenched behind his back. The brief surge of adrenaline left... pain and exhaustion took its place. Still, Aramis did his best to struggle, but the man held him in an iron grip. Then approaching footsteps drew his eyes. The old man appeared with Porthos, who started running when he saw them.
"Athos! What the hell happened?"
So this man was Athos… his notes had spoken of an Athos… It seemed Aramis' own "friend" had attacked him…
"He came at me. I had to..." For a moment Athos' calm facade slipped, but after a couple of steady breaths it was back in place. "... we'll talk later. Help me get him up. Serge, will you fetch a sewing kit?"
Aramis found himself manhandled to his feet and half carried back to that damned room. They lay him down on the bed and Porthos started to pull his bloodied shirt off. Aramis pushed his hands away, he didn't want to be touched by them.
"Restrain him." Came Athos' hard voice.
Porthos held him down while Athos ripped his shirt open and set to work on the gaping wound at his forearm.
Aramis winced and hissed, but he managed to speak through gritted teeth. "Why won't you tell me where Marsac is? Why are you keeping me here?"
Athos ignored him and continued stitching with an intense focus.
"Have you done this to me? Is it some kind of poison that affects my mind? What do you want with me?"
Silence.
"Why won't you answer?!" Aramis shouted and Porthos' grip tightened.
"Athos…" Porthos' voice was little more than a whisper.
Athos finished stitching the wound closed and went to pack away the needle and thread. He turned to face Aramis and let out a sigh before speaking.
"I know you won't believe me, but this is for your own good."
Suddenly Porthos' hold became more comforting than restraining.
"How is this helping?" Aramis asked in disbelief.
A look passed between Athos and Porthos. They seemed to communicate without words.
"I'll tell you tomorrow." Athos said abruptly and made his way to the door. "Come Porthos, Aramis needs to rest."
"I need answers, not rest!"
Porthos released his hold and moved to the door.
"You'll get them tomorrow, I promise." Athos said quietly before taking his leave.
And then came the ominous sound of the door locking.
A spark of anger lit Aramis' heart, and he hurled the nearest thing he could lay his hands on at the door - a book. It hit heavily and the hidden bits of paper came flying out. They scattered around the room like birds coming to roost. Aramis resigned himself to collecting them… He had much to write about.
~oOo~
"You're locking him in?!"
At least Porthos had waited until they were out of earshot before exploding.
"I can't risk him wandering. For goodness sake Porthos... If I hadn't been there he would have been out on the streets." Athos drew a cloth from his pocket and tried wiping Aramis' blood off his hands. It made him feel slightly ill to look at them, slick with his friend's blood as they were… Blood spilt by his own blade no less.
"So we imprison him then…" The word was said with more than a little distaste.
"He's not a prisoner, he's just…" Athos tailed off as he struggled to find another term for it. You locked up criminals and madmen. Aramis was neither. Some would accuse him of being the latter, and Athos had heard a few whispers in the garrison to that effect, but what he suffered was temporary. It wasn't madness. The shouting and fighting might have given that impression, but every morning he woke as a stranger in a strange land - any rational man would react with fear or anger. "... it's for his own safety. He went after Marsac, he thinks we're hiding something."
"Which we are." Porthos noted with a pointed look. At least the anger had slipped from his voice. "He won't like it, he'll feel trapped…"
"It's only until tomorrow. It will all be forgotten by then." Athos didn't like using Aramis' condition in this way, but it was undeniably convenient. "He'll probably be content to sit and read as usual."
"And what if he isn't? What if he gets up and goes chasing after Marsac again?"
"Then we'll lock the door, or one of us will have to stop with him… I'll have a word with Treville, but we'll just have to see how he is in the morning. His mind could be a blank slate by then. No Marsac… no me, no you." Athos scrubbed a tired hand over his face, wincing as he brushed over a few tender spots. "How long is this going to go on for? Surely something should have come back by now…"
"Something other than Marsac you mean? Of all the people for his mind to fixate on it had to be that blasted rat…" Athos didn't miss the way Porthos' hands turned to fists at his side.
"Well, I suppose we have to be thankful he's remembering… I only wish it were us instead of Marsac." Athos gave a sigh as they came to a stop, ready to part ways. "He stared at me with such hatred, Porthos... I have only been looked on like that by the worst of my enemies."
Porthos put a friendly hand to Athos' shoulder. "I know, I want him back too… It feels like we left the real Aramis behind in Savoy."
"He'll find his way back to us. I just hope it's sooner rather than later."
Porthos eyed Athos carefully for a moment before asking his next question. "I don't suppose you intend on keeping your promise?"
"To tell him everything? In truth, I don't know… I suppose it will depend how he is tomorrow. If all is forgotten it will be tempting to let sleeping dogs lie, but maybe you're right. This can't go on."
"Sleeping dogs have to wake at some point. I'll be there tomorrow; I'll let you know how he is…" Porthos' face turned to a look of concern. "Does he always wake in such a panic?"
"What do you mean?" Athos frowned.
"He wakes as if he's been chased from sleep by the hounds of hell. It's been getting worse these past few days... he woke this morning and backed away from me so violently he fell out of bed."
"No… He wasn't like that before. There was confusion, but no terror." Athos went quiet as he thought… What could be causing such fear? Was Savoy coming back to Aramis in his sleep? Is this where the obsession with Marsac came from? "Let me be there for him tomorrow. I want to see for myself."
