Chapter Nine: 'Infusion' of Now and Then Pt. 1

"Move just an inch and you're a dead man-"

fear…

"It's going to hurt but it needs to be done-"

unbearable heat…

"The sooner you come to terms with that the better!"

sharp pain…

"What more proof do you need other than the devil himself-"

unending cold-

"Would I lie to you?"

D'Artagnan gasped awake and stared at the ceiling of his room as tense and taut as a bow with an arrow ready to be sprung. Gradually, the disjointed voices and conflicting sensations faded. The nervous energy in his body, however, didn't go away. Every limb felt like a river current during a fierce storm, flowing with prickling energy that clawed at his skin from the inside out. He noticed that there was a dagger clenched in his right fist. He released it with a wince and put it back in its place beneath his pillow as he sat up in bed. He couldn't remember when that started being a habit, and he wasn't sure whether to be comforted by it or not. It had frightened him the first time he found it, but then he remembered that he was a soldier. Surely all soldiers slept with a weapon nearby.

The young man crossed his room and splashed water on his face. The water mixed in with the beads of sweat on his face and dripped down his neck in the afternoon heat of a sweltering hot day outside his window. He looked down into the courtyard where Aramis and Porthos were engaged in a grueling practice session. Athos stood at a distance in the shade, leaning against the side of the stables in a loose white shirt. And D'Artagnan was up in his room, trembling.

From what?

Dreams?

Memories?

Both felt wrong. Both felt right. And he understood neither.

He gritted his teeth together and gripped the edge of the window as he forced himself to get a better grip on life as it was, or as he remembered it. Looking back, he wished he had just come clean with all of his troubles when Mainard had told him to. He would have done so that very night. He should have when Porthos had taken him home to make it easier. But they had all looked so worn and exhausted. And all because of him. He just didn't have the heart to.

D'Artagnan had thought about going to see a physician on his own, but he feared getting lost in Paris again and becoming more of a liability to his friends than he already felt he was. And seeing that man who had been tailing him from the safety of Mainard's basement had been nothing other than unsettling. He was only willing to admit it in the privacy of his own mind because there was a short list of things that caused him true fear. That day he'd found something new. There wasn't anything in particular that struck him about the disfigured man, but maybe it wasn't the angry scar on his face that frightened him. Perhaps it was something hotter lurking beneath the surface of that vexed disquiet that made him pause in the darkened cellar of a then stranger.

What he would have given to give a name to that unanswered and nagging feeling at the back of his mind. That day it had been the disfigured man. That night it was Aramis ruffling his hair before going to retrieve Athos from the courtyard. The next morning it was something about the saddle straps for his horse. The day after that it had been a name Porthos mentioned in passing which earned him strong glares from both Aramis and Athos. It seemed a pretty name enough for a woman…

Constance.

Ever since he heard it he couldn't help but dream of sparkling eyes and yellow hair that shone like gold in the sun. But nothing more than flashes between blinking eyelids remained, too fast to remember and too slow to focus on a broader picture. Such was the nature of all his dreams since he woke up and saw those three faces of friends he didn't know. The dreams were confusing, disjointed and they melded together like two ends of metal that had warped and weakened over time. Moments ran together in one continuous thought. Others jumped from one extreme to another. And some, the disturbing ones, came through clearer than all the rest.

Heights. Cold. Blood. Surgeons. And blinding pain.

Last night he thought he woke himself by shouting. The only thing that told him he hadn't made any noise was the fact that no one had come knocking or dashing into his room to see how he was. He was thankful for the privacy at first, but now it felt like some heavy unnecessary burden sitting on his chest. He didn't understand any of it. And though he could guess at some things, most remained a mystery. D'Artagnan tugged his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and reached for a clean one. He put both arms through the sleeves but looked at his reflection in the looking glass before he put it on, eyes fixed on the pink infused mess of skin in the center of his chest. He shuddered to look at the scar only because he had no idea how someone acquired a scar like that, and lived to tell the tale.

He sighed and shook his head in efforts to clear it and ignore the headache that was sure to follow. He grabbed his sword on his way downstairs, with every intention in his mind to give Athos a dueling partner whenever Aramis and Porthos decided to finish. D'Artagnan jumped around the two tired men, to stand beside Athos and observe. Worry only started to take root when he saw Aramis lunge at Porthos with a fraction of the grace D'Artagnan was used to seeing.

"How long have they been at it," he asked.

"Almost an hour and a half," Athos replied, his narrowed eyes never leaving his friends.

"Shouldn't we intervene?"

"They know their limits."

D'Artagnan frowned, his worry not abating in the least. "Are you certain?"

Aramis and Porthos both were drenched with sweat and had shed their outer jackets. The sun was still high in the sky and beat down on all of them, even D'Artagnan and Athos in the generous shade of their small cherry tree. Worse yet, the humidity in the air made the summer day oppressive and hard to breathe. Planchet anxiously shifted on both feet by the doorway, sweating in his own right, with glasses of water that had to be as warm as the air around them. Finally, the duel was decided by Aramis who admitted defeat and promptly sunk to the ground in a faint. Athos cursed and sprinted forward to help Porthos drag Aramis to the shade. D'Artagnan thought Porthos didn't look much better and made sure the larger man sat down beside Aramis while Planchet fussed and helped Aramis drink a whole glass of water. Without needing to be told the servant refilled the glass and pressed it urgently back into the former priest's hands. Instead of drinking it, however, Aramis somewhat drunkenly dumped it over his head.

Planchet fussed more when Aramis refused another drink, but was quickly silenced by Athos who was busy pulling the younger man's shirt off. "Any more will make him sick."

D'Artagnan followed Athos' lead and helped Porthos take off his shirt, but almost didn't need to because it was clear which of their friends was the better off. They were both idiots, and though D'Artagnan hadn't known them too long his eyes passed between both flushed faces with the quickness of a hare and the keenness of a hawk. To keep himself preoccupied D'Artagnan refilled Porthos' glass and started pouring it over the man's head and his shoulders as Athos was doing to Aramis.

"Your turn," Aramis said weakly, waving Athos off and nodding to the empty field. "Sorry… to be so selfish… with the space."

Athos shook his head and muttered as he dumped another cup of water over Aramis' head and tossed the empty cup to Planchet. "Idiots."

"Best to not follow our bad example, lad," Porthos rasped to D'Artagnan.

"I'll make sure not to. Do Athos and I have to confiscate your swords or do both of you promise to rest?"

"Seeing as how…" Aramis started, slumping further down against the tree. "We can't do much else…"

D'Artagnan still hesitated, but Athos pulled him to the field and whispered in his ear before they took their positions. "Let me worry about Aramis. Porthos will be fine. Just pay attention to the duel."

Athos started them off easy, waiting for D'Artagnan to get his footing, but then he started striking out with more force and speed. D'Artagnan tried to keep his ground but had to give up some to avoid injury. One of the first things Aramis had taught him was to concede something if he wanted to gain something more. In theory it had made sense to D'Artagnan, and though it would have been logical to cede the ground, his body rebelled against it and demanded that he give up no more.

He locked blades with Athos and his arms shook as his stubborn feet dug themselves into the ground. The sharp ring of metal on metal—Sparks flew up from their swords bearing the weight of two lives behind them, passing dangerously close to his eyes but he didn't dare flinch as he stared back with determination into the face of a furious one-eyed man—Athos frowned from the other side of their locked blades.

D'Artagnan blinked the vision away and, without further thought, gave into Athos' weight bearing down on him and ducked down to land a fast and free-handed punch to the mid-section before twisting around behind Athos' back, tucking into a roll, and coming to his feet in a crouch with a sword block above his head. Both men paused in shock. Athos blinked and gaped. Porthos clapped his hands from the sideline, praising D'Artagnan for his efforts. Aramis was silent, but thankfully more alert. D'Artagnan turned and looked up at Athos as if to ask how he knew. In truth, all he remembered was his body moving. The rest was a blur.

Athos tapped his sword against D'Artagnan's for the boy's attention. "Stop thinking," the man rasped with his free hand hovering above the spot D'Artagnan had landed his lucky hit.

D'Artagnan rose and took a few moments to catch his breath, which Athos graciously gave. But afterwards, they returned to the pace they had set earlier, dancing back and forth in the dirt and kicking up a cloud of dust that lingered even as they disturbed the air with wide swipes of swords for victory and limbs for balance. More than once Athos kicked out and sent D'Artagnan's feet scrambling for earth and firmer footing. The man was forever correcting him on his footwork and though he suffered the lessons, the root idea never stuck because being light on his feet felt more natural to him than planting them down and rooting them immoveable. But, the unfortunate consequence that he could never seem to avoid was the state of his sorry and sore backside. Some nights he had seriously considered eating supper standing up.

Athos lunged again, struck high with his sword, and tried to slip his foot behind D'Artagnan's to trip him. He tried to evade it but Athos bent him backwards nearly past his balance, forcing him to dig deep into the earth for purchase—The wind whipped up his legs, up his body, through his hair, and gave him more than a single taste of what lay just beyond that ledge without turning to look. He gripped the one-eyed man's shirt in a fierce grip, wound his foot behind the man's booted ankle so closely that made it impossible for the both of them to avoid the imminent fall, and pulled them both forward without hesitation—And then he was falling.

But he landed on something soft.

And it groaned.

D'Artagnan panted as he got his bearings and looked down at Athos, who had twisted in their fall to provide him a softer impact, and spared them both injury from their wayward weapons. Not for the first time did D'Artagnan wonder whether the man had been an instructor at one point in his life. Besides the keen observation and criticism, Athos seemed to have a knack for predicting movements and outcomes far in advance. Though considering what had just transpired, D'Artagnan was starting to learn that creativity was among one of his own stronger advantages.

Porthos laughed. "You see? The boy's learning! Knock the grump on his ass in the most undignified manner and the game's won."

"Oh shut up, you big oaf," Athos grumbled as he got to his feet.

"You're doing much better, D'Artagnan." Aramis praised, sounding a little stronger.

D'Artagnan frowned as he accepted a hand up from Athos. He stumbled a bit, but the older man steadied him. "It's only because I'm not thinking about it."

"Most of what happens in a duel is instinct," Athos said, dusting himself off. "You don't have much time for thinking."

"You especially with the stunts you pull, lad," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan smirked and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What kind of stunts?"

"Don't encourage the boy," Athos reprimanded.

"If it's something I used to do, then what's the harm in encouragement?"

"My sanity," Athos said without a second thought. Then he stuttered a bit and amended the previous statement with more than a little embarrassment coloring his tone. "Our sanity…and your welfare."

After that Athos huffed and retreated into the house. And up to his room, D'Artagnan guessed with disdain. Rather than let it bother him, he turned to Planchet and employed the servant to help him haul a better looking Aramis and Porthos into the somewhat cooler house, pushing the strange visions of a one-eyed adversary from his mind. When they entered from the back, D'Artagnan spied Athos by the front door reading a letter. Outside the front door a messenger boy was waiting.

Neither Aramis nor Porthos seemed to have noticed, nor did they see Athos' face pale in the shadow of the doorway, until D'Artagnan called to him. Athos paid the boy and promptly disappeared into his room for a couple of hours.


At supper, Planchet served them one of D'Artagnan's favorite meals. The servant hovered a bit as all four of them dug into the little chicken pies, filled with vegetables and savory gravy in addition to the hearty pieces of meat. Athos would have shooed the hovering servant away, but D'Artagnan complimented him first. When the man responded with kind gratitude and a soft touch of disappointment, Athos sent him back to the kitchen with a softer glare. The boy looked lost and confused for a few moments, unsure of how his praises could have been wrong, but said nothing and returned to devouring what was left on his plate.

Some time towards the end of the meal Athos sat back in his chair and turned the summons over and over in his hand. He had feared the day would soon come when Treville would formally call upon them and expect all four of them to answer. And now it had. It wasn't as if they had been put on an official indefinite leave of absence yet. If anything they'd gone about their usual routine of guard duty and making sure D'Artagnan's name remained on the sick list. Essarts and Treville had both begun to send inquiries and Aramis, Porthos, and he had wondered when either man would start knocking on their front door for direct answers. Perhaps this was Treville's roundabout way of pacifying Essarts. Athos hated to think they were putting D'Artagnan's reputation and standing in the guards at risk, but the fact of the matter remained that D'Artagnan was still not fully recovered.

True, he was better able to handle a sword, but given a real enemy, or even just one of the Cardinal's guards, and Athos doubted if the boy had enough confidence in him to see the duel through to the end. It seemed so unlike the cocky boy, who had made such an entrance with them all that time ago, to hesitate in action. Confidence was, frankly, D'Artagnan's unsaid middle name. And this D'Artagnan that sat with them seemed like a cheaply made copy. It made Athos long for the one they'd been freely given before. A voice in the back of his mind questioned if the boy ever would recover, but Athos squashed it like the annoying pest it was and ignored the tug that pulled in his chest at the mere possibility. He caught Aramis' eye over the dinner table as they were finishing their meal and the former priest looked down, indecisive about their predicament as well. They had planned for this, but only in passing. It wasn't like the old days when they could cover for one another and explain absences with embellished tales of gallantry or an unfortunate turn of events.

They could leave D'Artagnan home with Planchet, but Athos didn't trust Treville or Essarts not to find their answers despite whatever precautions could be taken. And Athos did not like nor entertain the idea of leaving D'Artagnan alone in his condition. As he brooded more in silence, Porthos called to Planchet to bring out another bottle of wine. And with a wink. Athos frowned but said nothing. As soon as a glass was poured for him and he caught the smell he realized what the larger man had planned. But before he could utter a word of protest, D'Artagnan took a large sip of his wine. Athos held his breath as he watched the boy's reaction. He didn't swallow it. He looked to Porthos, Aramis, and finally to Athos before he did it with a carefully blank face.

Finally, he swallowed with a straight face and cleared his throat before he spoke. "I don't like this wine, do I?"

Porthos shook his head and feigned certainty. "Oh no, it's your favorite!"

"No," D'Artagnan maintained. "In fact, I don't think I ever liked it."

"You're right," Aramis admitted with a smile. "You never did. You couldn't stand it so much that you drowned your favorite dinner in it when you spat it back out. After that you forswore the vintage."

"Spoilsport," Porthos scoffed.

"It's strange," the boy mused with a smile, quietly. "I can remember the taste of a horrible wine but not the important things."

"Time will help," Aramis replied, quietly.

"Time hasn't helped," the boy groused, pushing the glass away from himself. "And I'm starting to wonder if it ever will."

A silence passed between all four of them, occasionally interrupted by Planchet making a racket in the kitchen. No one really knew how to answer the boy's melancholy. In fact, Athos could count on a single hand how many times he'd heard it himself. Once was previously when the boy spoke of his Spanish-born friend. Another was on a clear-clouded night in the countryside on their trip back from a mission in Flanders. And a third that seemed to do nothing but fuel Athos' own nightmares about the past winter. Few as they were, the instances had been quick and gone before Athos could make full note of them. Now, the sadness lingered, unspoken but reluctant to leave.

"Do you know what you need," Porthos asked after putting his wine cup down, with a little more force than was necessary. "You need some entertainment-"

"Porthos," Athos started to warn.

"No, truly! The boy needs some fun, some excitement, something more than this doubly damned boring house. I say we need a vacation. Monsieur de Treville promised us one, did he not?"

Aramis sighed. "He did, but only on the condition that we granted him the evidence he needed."

"Which he got," Porthos sing-songed in a matter-of-fact reminder.

"Not entirely," Aramis sing-songed back.

"Whatever the outcome," Athos interrupted. "We shall find out tomorrow."

D'Artagnan perked up. "Am I to accompany you three, then?"

"It seems there is no other way around it," Aramis allowed.

Athos leaned forward. "It is not an ideal solution but I think some discretion would be in our favor to pursue."

The former priest furrowed his brows in confusion. "How? White lies are one thing, but making D'Artagnan invisible is something entirely different, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"You've already found the answer to our problem. We just need a method."

Porthos scratched his beard in contemplation. "You mean disguise? But what of? And how would we procure one before tomorrow morning? The hour is too late for a tailor."

Aramis shook his head and closed his eyes in concentration.

"Well," Athos mused. "Obviously we cannot procure one so late, nor so early before dawn. We shall just have to make do with what we have."

Porthos scoffed. "That being? The boy is half all our sizes. He wouldn't fit properly into anything and ill-fitting clothes do nothing but draw attention to the poor man wearing them. Monsieur de Treville would know."

Planchet dropped some pots in the kitchen and D'Artagnan winced from the sound. But no one shouted to reprimand the servant. Aramis suddenly sat forward and caught the light in Athos' eye. Across the table, an idea began to form between them. "You're thinking too grand, Porthos," the former priest said.

The big man raised an eyebrow as he poured himself another glass of wine. "Me, you say? Think grand thoughts? You do me too grand a favor. I don't have the slightest idea as to what you are talking about."

Aramis rolled his eyes and made to grab the wine bottle away from the bigger man, but Porthos proved the quicker hand.

D'Artagnan would have smiled at the banter between them, but he frowned. "I'm not sure I follow either…"

"It'll be easy," Athos began.

"Planchet," Aramis called. "Get in here."


A/N: Update number one of today. Stay tuned for the second.