Chapter Ten: 'Infusion' of Now and Then Pt. 2

D'Artagnan shifted on his feet for the tenth time since coming to the Captain's hotel. He felt severely underdressed for even just standing in the foyer, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. It felt strange to feel strange in the clothes he grew up in at home in Gascony, since there wasn't much farmers could afford in the grand scheme of meager profits and earnings after a years worth of suffrage and toil. Granted the shirt was an old one of Planchet's he had outgrown, because his own shirt had long been ruined apparently. But it became clear to him just how much he had succeeded in coming to Paris on his own. The clothes he had bought, though simple compared to Porthos' attire, were finer than any clothes he'd ever had with their perfect stitching, soft but warm material, and humble but stylish flair.

He knew from the letters to his parents that he'd bought and sent them some better things not long after he was first installed with the guards, probably more towards the end of his first mission now that he thought back on it-for how could he afford such things on a soldier's wage only? And Porthos had told him they all had earned a pretty sum after serving the Queen and defending her honor. There was no better way to spend it, in his mind. He could only guess the clothes for himself must have been an afterthought. D'Artagnan tugged the brim of Planchet's hat further down to shield his eyes from the bright sun shining through the window. He looked out at the street and could plainly see what was probably part of the training grounds for either the musketeers or the guards. He suspected the former given who they had come to see-rather who Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had gone in to see, but D'Artagnan couldn't be sure. He just tried to pass the time as patiently as he could, even though he itched to be doing something more than just stand there like a wallflower and a spectator to some excitement on the grounds beyond.

"Waiting for someone?"

D'Artagnan turned around and saw a man in simple worn clothes, much like his, approach. Not a guard. Nor did this newcomer seem to be a lieutenant or captain because of his older age. Immediately, D'Artagnan was put on edge because of Athos' earlier warning. He cast a quick glance at the secretary busy at his desk, but the busy attendant paid the strange man no heed either. "My friends, Monsieur," D'Artagnan replied with caution.

"Ah," the man replied, casually as he joined D'Artagnan by the window. He looked out at the grounds below and the practicing squads with interest as D'Artagnan had done. "They have important business with Monsieur de Treville?"

D'Artagnan frowned and raised an eyebrow. "So I understand."

"I apologize. I don't mean to pry, young man. These halls can simply grow boring when you are forced to wait. The captain and I are old friends and unfortunately business has called for us to meet again. I hope I haven't offended you-"

"No, you haven't. Perhaps my friends won't be too much longer and your appointment will be over quickly."

"I will hope for that. Is their meeting under official business as well? If so, perhaps I ought to return at a later time. His secretary seems such a busy man he can't even take the time to pick up his damned nose. You'd think a nose like that would be black with ink," the man added in a whisper.

D'Artagnan snorted with soft laughter and they both turned away when the secretary turned to look at them. After consideration, he decided a little bit of the truth couldn't hurt with such an agreeable person. "My friends are three of his musketeers, the best rather, so I can't imagine how it can be anything but official business."

"How would a young man like yourself come to have three musketeers as friends?"

"By chance, I suppose." D'Artagnan cleared his throat and apologized.

"I used to be a musketeer once," the man said after a few moments.

D'Artagnan said nothing, but questions burned to be asked.

"Years ago, of course. A man can't expect to be a soldier his whole life. I like to think I quit before my hand was called out." The man sighed. "Things were much different back then if you can imagine. The lodgings were more spacious, the wages were better, our reputations fared better, but there was of course the battlefield. We had trouble recruiting younger men like yourself."

D'Artagnan frowned and asked the reason why before he could silence himself.

"Nowadays someone is always at war with someone else. Back then it was no different. Imagine yourself a parent of only one child. And that child happened to be a son who longed for nothing other than action and adventure, something more than what the countryside or his home could offer him. Never mind the cold and hard truth that all there was to meet him when he arrived was the promise of bloodshed and imminent death. I would daresay many parents would be hard-set to let their sons go, wouldn't you agree?"

Something in that soft-spoken speech made D'Artagnan pause. A vision of his parents came to him then, and though it wasn't the first time he had wondered how their parting must have went, he couldn't help but look back on it now with compassion. Was that what he'd been after in coming to Paris and leaving his parents behind in Gascony? Had he even wanted to leave home for Paris? Did he have a choice in the matter? Even if he did, had his father hidden how he truly felt when the time came for his only son to find a life for himself? Did his father blame him for leaving?

"Were I a father, monsieur," D'Artagnan began slowly, finding the words come to his lips with ease the more he thought of his own father. "I believe I would want the best for my son. More than that I would want for his happiness. And if that meant letting him search out his own destiny in the dangers of this world we live in, I would stand by his side and defend his choice and rights to my dying day."

"Those sound like your own father's words," the man replied, softly.

"A son's words and a father's words are often one in the same."

The man smiled. "Very true. Forgive me, young man, but have we met before? Your face is very familiar to me."

"Perhaps," D'Artagnan began. He shifted on his feet, unsure whether to continue, but for some reason his gut told him to trust the man who hadn't even given him his name. D'Artagnan had always thought he'd inherited his father's good judge of character in another man, and given his choice in friends so far, perhaps this man wasn't so far from them either. "If we have then I must apologize. My memories of this place, of Paris, the musketeers, my friends…they have all escaped me."

"I think I misunderstand you. You said that you remember nothing?"

"Nothing of the past few years, no."

A heavy silence followed and D'Artagnan didn't need to look at the man's face to know that the full impact of what he had just said was finally sinking in. In a way it was starting to come to a full realization for him as well. Confusion since his accident had given way to anger, frustration, melancholy, and a keen sense of home-sickness (all of which he never breathed a word if his emotions weren't already obvious) and though he still felt those and others at times, they were starting to clear and make room for something larger and more important.

Acceptance.

"…you're quite serious."

"I am," D'Artagnan affirmed.

"How can that be," the man whispered in question.

"A blow to my head some time ago was the cause, or so I'm told," D'Artagnan explained. His hand itched to rub the pink scar on his head, but he kept the appendage firmly in his pocket. "If we have met before, Monsieur, and you seem an amicable person enough for what I would have considered agreeable, then I must apologize for my inconvenience-"

"No, no, my boy. It is only…a shock, to say the least…"

D'Artagnan bit his lip, but turned to the man and ventured a little further. "Pray, how did we meet? For it sounds as if you do know me well. Perhaps something you say may help. Anything at all."

The man was silent for some time. D'Artagnan began to feel a bit embarrassed at sounding so forward, practically begging for anything to help him make sense of things, but if he had to be honest he was just a little desperate for something at this point. Familiarity was starting to wear his nerves thin with empty promises.

"We saw a siege at La Rochelle in the dead of winter about a year ago," the man said with caution. "Do you remember none of that?"

A chill swept through him at the name of La Rochelle. D'Artagnan remembered the conversation he had with Athos about the same name and place in time. Ever since then something weighed on his mind, growing in size by the day and girth by night. Something about it made him cold, even with the heat from the early morning sun beating down on him through the window. Nothing specific came to mind, but he couldn't shake the eerie feeling that came from seeing-his own breath in front of him-just a small disturbance of dust particles shining in the light.

"…no," D'Artagnan answered, with some reluctance.

"Perhaps that is for the best," the man replied, weakly. "Please, excuse me." Then he quickly turned on his heel and started down the hallway. At first D'Artagnan thought he was going to the captain's office, but the man strode right past it. The boy started after him, but suddenly remembered what his friends had said about staying put. And the last time he had wandered off had only turned out well due to pure luck.

"I don't believe I caught your name, Monsieur," D'Artagnan called after him.

The man turned halfway to respond. "You will learn it soon if it does not return to you."

Any response died on D'Artagnan's lips in the face of some anger he thought he heard from the nameless musketeer. He watched as the man turned the corner, probably out a back entrance of some sort. D'Artagnan couldn't help but feel more than a little confused by the entire encounter, and though perhaps it hadn't been the smartest idea to engage in personal conversation with a man he'd just met, something told him not to be too sorry about it. The boy only worried about what his friends would say if they found out. Athos especially. Nervous at the very thought, D'Artagnan cleared his throat quietly and pulled the brim of his hat lower to hide his face from any other possible takers for passing conversation.

The nameless man that D'Artagnan had lost at the end of the hallway continued on to a hidden seam in the wall at the far end, his footsteps echoing ominously. He pushed in on a hollow wooden panel and a previously unseen door swung inwards. Not one second later he slammed it shut and spun on the three waiting and wide-eyed musketeers in his office.

"You idiots," Treville seethed.

Athos paused to take a breath as the front door to Treville's office closed behind him. He did not envy Aramis or Porthos for their share of the punishment, but he wasn't entirely sorry for having to wait for his part in it until tomorrow. At the present he was only thankful for the relative silence of the hotel, which meant the ringing in his ears would soon pass. The musketeer turned toward D'Artagnan at the end of the hall and crossed to him, reining in most of his frustration to be civil to the boy. And being civil meant not grabbing the boy and shaking him for being so God damned foolish. He couldn't in truth curse Treville for his cleverness. Oftentimes he had wondered what it took to become captain of the musketeers and over the years Athos had seen small things amount to larger and more important qualities in a man that separated someone like Treville from other men. Even after all the years that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis knew him, he had the distinct feeling they hadn't even begun to understand what their captain was fully capable of. And Athos wasn't sure he wanted to know any more than he currently did.

"Let's go," Athos said to D'Artagnan as he passed.

D'Artagnan trailed behind him as Athos made his way out of the hotel and down the street in a cloud of his own. "What about Aramis and Porthos?"

Athos slowed his pace a little to allow the boy to keep up comfortably. "Monsieur de Treville gave them some work to do."

"Oh. Where are we going?"

"Home."

"I heard shouting. How was the meet-"

"Don't ask."

To the boy's credit, he didn't utter another word the entire way home. It was probably best for the both of them. Though Athos had a bad habit of skipping the midday meal, he made sure to lead by example and sit down to it once they got home. D'Artagnan picked at his food, but Athos didn't press him to eat. Throughout the meal Athos brooded on what this new turn of events would mean for all four of them, D'Artagnan especially. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed until the end of the meal that D'Artagnan was wincing and rubbing the side of his head as if he were in pain.

"What's wrong?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Nothing, just a headache."

"Perhaps you should take some rest."

For a moment the boy looked like he was about to argue that sound logic, but he remained silent and a few moments later he agreed. Athos watched him climb the stairs and noted the weariness in his limbs. Seeing the boy so worn out suddenly gave him a similar feeling of exhaustion. Though he hated to do it, Athos trudged upstairs to his own room. He stopped by D'Artagnan's along the way and peered inside to see the boy tossing and turning restlessly in his bed. Like that morning after D'Artagnan found him wandering the streets of Paris at night, Athos felt something tug at his feet, drawing him towards the boy, but this time he ignored it and felt himself slipping back into the ease of denial and avoidance.

He closed the door to his own room, and found he suddenly had no intentions of sleeping-even if Treville had given him a direct order to get more rest. He remembered looking into a mirror before leaving this morning and noting the dark bags under his eyes, but there was nothing that could be done for his sleeplessness. Instead of taking rest, he knelt in front of a chest at the foot of his bed and opened it. He dug around for some time and found the forgotten object at the bottom, wedged between the wall of the chest and a pile of old letters that should have been burned a long time ago. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, he took both items out and shut the lid without any noise other than a muffled creak from the old hinges. An hour later he was still sitting on the floor, pining for a bottle of strong wine and wishing he could find the motivation to stop rubbing the imperfections on the surface of the metal musket ball.

They came for him when his body had finally succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion. They didn't wait for him to walk on his own. They dragged him from his cell. They dragged him down a long dark and damp hallway, down staircases, and down darker passageways that reeked of death. Rats shrieked and scattered against the walls. Men screamed in agony. Others moaned in despair. And some didn't make a sound at all as he was dragged past them.

Then, somewhat mercifully, he was taken into a dark room and the door was shut behind them, muffling the echoing sounds that he feared would be his last. He was put into a chair and his bound hands were put on the table in front of him. One candle on the table provided the only light in the room. A man with a cross around his neck and a musketeer's uniform sat across from him. Another larger musketeer, who had been leaning against the wall, came to stand directly behind him.

He itched to turn around to keep an eye on the man, but he found himself mesmerized by the calm disinterest of what he guessed was his torturer. Surely they wouldn't make a priest do the dirty work…but then again, they were French, and he had been warned of as much before they even left Madrid. He had tried to prepare himself for this. He had thought of giving up the information freely. He had thought of holding out until he was sure his comrades had done the same. But he hadn't realized until that point that what his comrades had said or done didn't matter. He was faced with these men. It was his turn under the fire. And no one was going to take his place for him.

"Voy a dejar esto muy simple para usted," the priest said. "Sólo voy a hacerte una pregunta. Y yo sólo quiero una respuesta. Una vez que tengamos que usted no verá mi pareja, ni yo, otra vez. ¿Lo entiendes?" (I am going to make this very simple for you. I will only ask you one question. And I only want one answer. Once we have that you will not see my partner, nor myself, again. Do you understand?)

He didn't want to give any answer, but with the large man breathing down his neck from behind him and the guards glaring at him in front of his only exit he dropped his head and nodded. He understood what was expected of him, but that didn't mean he had to obey. He dared to look up and saw the priest's features sharpen, and his eyes turn cold.

"¿Cuál es su nombre?" (What is his name?)

He was confused. "¿Quién?" (Who?) he asked, surprised at how false his voice sounded to his own ears.

The priest pulled out a dagger and thrust it into the table, centimeters from his bound hands.* He tried not to flinch, but it was the sight of the weapon that made him do it. How many nights had he thought of stealing that himself? How many times had its owner thrust it in his face like the badge of honor it once was? He held the owner in no high standing in his own mind, but to betray that person specifically…well, perhaps the rack would be the better option.

"¿Cuál es su nombre?" the priest repeated.

He didn't answer.

The large man put more weight on the back of the chair he was sitting in. It creaked loudly and he wanted to shrink away. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. Indecision pulled him from all sides. He hated sitting here. He hated this place. He hated the smell. He hated the sounds. He hated those pigs who had promised him compensation and protection in return for a little underhanded dealing. He hated how he'd been treated. He hated how easily he'd been tossed aside. And he hated hearing the same taunts and threats in his ear that he'd been hearing since the day he practically signed his life away. They'd done nothing for him but guarantee his execution.

The candle flame expanded and cast a greater reflection off the golden handle.

"¿Cuál es su nombre?"

He opened his eyes with determination, and revenge pooling in his gut.

"Lucio," he finally whispered.

A/N: And update number two! Number three will come a little later today, and then finally I'll be caught up on my end of things, so we can get closer to the big finale. Thanks for reading as always!