Chapter Eleven: 'Infusion' of Now and Then Pt. 3

D'Artagnan gasped and nearly rolled off his bed. In frustration he thumped his head back on his pillow and covered his eyes with his arm. He sighed out loud and willed the nervousness away. Snow and ice. Loud wind and endless air. Searing heat and pain. He could escape none of them whenever he closed his eyes. They never made sense. In fact, they flooded his senses and tried to suffocate him with the need to remember. But every time he tried to push against those barriers to see what lay beyond, they didn't budge. The tangible things slipped through his grasp and put something more elusive in its place.

It was completely maddening. D'Artagnan shivered a bit and pulled his arm down to find his room bathed in darkness. He sat up and went over to the window to peer up at the night sky. Then he stumbled downstairs in his socks to find Athos sitting by the fire and rolling something in his hand. He whipped his head around when D'Artagnan landed on the last weak step, and stowed what was in his hand before D'Artagnan could see it.

"Sorry," D'Artagnan said. "I didn't mean to sleep so long."

"You needed it," Athos replied. "Planchet's gone out for the night. If you're hungry there's some stew sitting over the fire in the kitchen."

D'Artagnan crossed the room and shook his head. He doubted he'd be able to keep anything down with his stomach still doing flip-flops. He claimed the other seat beside Athos and gestured to the nearly empty wine bottle next to Athos' chair. The man looked down and looked like he'd forgotten the item was there. Wordlessly he picked it up and offered it to the boy. D'Artagnan didn't bother finding a cup and drank straight from the bottle. He emptied what was left in one go and welcomed the infused rush of his own blood and the alcohol flooding his senses.

Just as he was starting to enjoy the feeling, Athos yanked the empty bottle out of his hand and set it down beside himself a loud thud. "Don't do that."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow in response to the older man's warning. "What?"

"Don't play the morose drunkard. That's my occupation," he added to soften the blow a bit.

D'Artagnan smirked, but kept his gaze on the flames in the fireplace. "Why? Afraid I'll beat you at it?"

Athos stared at him with an unreadable look. "Is there a reason why you feel the need to?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Then why do you want to?"

"I never said I wanted to-"

"But you entertained the thought-"

"Is thinking a crime now?-"

"You're not sleeping well."

D'Artagnan gaped, his mind awhirl. Thinking it the effect of the wine, he scoffed, reminded of the sort of banter that he'd witnessed between Aramis and Porthos. He smiled. "How would you know that?"

"You're exhausted."

"Perhaps I slept too much."

"Obviously not given your word choice of 'perhaps.'"

D'Artagnan paused, a little bit of anger mixing with his larger feeling of misunderstanding. "Have I a bedtime I've missed?"

"Stop avoiding the question," Athos growled. "Why are you not sleeping well?"

"What makes you think I haven't been? Are you standing at the foot of my bed watching me to see if I dream? If you're waiting to see if I'm having nightmares you're far too late to the game for that."

That silenced Athos for a bit, but the infuriating man kept staring at him. "Do you want to speak about them?-"

"No."

"How long have they lasted?-"

"Long enough."

"So you believe they will simply wear themselves out as you've worn yourself?"

"Why do you care," D'Artagnan snapped. "Everything about you, Athos, is disinterest. You're cold. You're distant. And for the life of me I cannot understand why when all I've done is knock my bloody head into a building…"

Immediately, D'Artagnan felt shame as the words flew out of his mouth. Surprisingly, Athos had nothing to say in return. But before D'Artagnan could utter an apology, Athos sighed and began to speak. "You're exhausted in the mornings. You're exhausted after you rest in the middle of the day. You trip over your own two feet. You're not eating as much as you normally do. Your eyes have shadows as dark as my own. And you sit in that chair beside me until the early hours when I retire. Aramis and Porthos may show their worry for you in different ways, but do not question my regard for you again."

Anger flared and for a moment it overtook his senses and took charge of his heart still fluttering in his chest. "Or what? You'll rescind it? I could say all the same things about you."

"I'm not the one who needs to hear it," Athos pressed. "If your wellbeing was of no concern to me I would have had your hide out on the streets long ago."

"What stopped you," D'Artagnan goaded. "Aramis and Porthos?"

"Christian charity," Athos replied, with more than a healthy share of sarcasm.

"Oh, of course," D'Artagnan mocked. "Because you're such a saint!"

"You only wish I was," Athos bit back.

After that both men were silent for a long time, fuming at each other in their own quiet way, but neither one quit the room. D'Artagnan didn't feel like himself. He hadn't felt like himself since waking up here that first morning. All anyone had told him was to rest and to eat well. Well, by this point he was thoroughly sick of them both! He was tired of taking care of himself when it amounted to nothing. He was tired of trying to live up to the self that these friends of his seemed to know better than he. And he was tired of everyone watching him like birds of prey, as if they were expecting something else to suddenly befall him and throw their lives further into despair.

This wasn't him. He didn't tolerate insults, but he had never been bothered by slights and light jabs before. He chalked most of it up to personality in another person and left the matter alone. Baiting someone wasn't like him. Trading insults meant to bite had never sat well with him. And yet here he was, sulking, miserable, and irritable in his own little cloud of gloom because dealing with things in his mind had seemed much easier than choosing to lean on someone else for support.

"I hate this," D'Artagnan whispered. "Every morning I think I'm home in my own bed in Gascony, and that any moment my father will be calling me down to help feed the horses and tend to the livestock. And then I open my eyes and I remember I'm still in a strange place that wasn't some strange dream." He stopped to sigh and put his head in his hands. "Maybe Mainard was right."

"About what," Athos asked him.

D'Artagnan paused when the same nameless thing tried to pull him back into silence. Athos leaned forward in his seat and focused the whole of his attention on D'Artagnan. The boy dropped his gaze and quelled the urge to fidget. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with the stranger at Monsieur de Treville's hotel this morning and what had made him spill his troubles to someone he didn't even know. The man was probably about as old as his father. And he did miss his father very much. Something had pulled him to the strange man. Something similar had pulled him towards Athos when they had first met. Another wave of familiarity hit him, but he brushed it away, unwilling to see it through like all the rest that only led to dead ends. He just wanted all of his problems to go away and give him some peace to figure things out on his own. But it wasn't happening. Things were getting worse. And feeling like a burden was starting to become a further thing in his mind than feeling like a taut line that was about to snap.

"My mind," he finally answered, and not without some trepidation into unknown territory. "It's harder to remember things sometimes. Simple things. I'm sure it's obvious my attention has been short lately, and perhaps that is normal if I'm dead on my feet, but…I'm having memory lapses while I'm awake."

"What do you mean?"

"One moment I'll be sitting down to a meal with all three of you, and the next thing I know I'm sitting by the fire, I'm outside in the stables, I'm up in my room-there's no in between, Athos. I don't know how I got there, and suddenly I am."

Athos opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out at first. And when he did speak it was with the question D'Artagnan knew the older man wasn't going to like the answer to. "How long has this been going on?"

"…about a week?"

" A week?! Why didn't you tell us? Myself I can understand, but why not Aramis or Porthos?"

D'Artagnan scratched the back of his head and looked away. "I didn't want to worry anyone anymore than you all already are-"

"What if your health deteriorated further than what it has already? How do you think that would have gone over?"

"Worse-"

"You're damn right it would have been worse!" Athos sighed and forced himself to sit back and calm down. "D'Artagnan, I'm not angry at you-with you, yes-but only because you feel as if you cannot trust us. I haven't exactly made things easy on anyone so I cannot rightfully escape blame for this myself-"

D'Artagnan stood up and turned to face the older musketeer in a way that demanded attention. "Athos. It's not your fault this happened to me. Stop trying to tell yourself that because I'm starting to think that's our bigger problem than my lost memories." Athos looked at D'Artagnan like he grew a second head, but the boy didn't care. "I know what guilt looks like," D'Artagnan continued. "I know what it feels like. And I know how easy it is to convince yourself of something that wasn't in your power to control. So stop it for the love of God."

Athos narrowed his eyes with a touch of softness. "Are you talking about Miguel?"

D'Artagnan bit his lip. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just talking about you."

"I haven't been the sound support that Aramis and Porthos have been in this."

"You have," D'Artagnan maintained. "You're still here. And I know you do still care. Even if it seems backwards sometimes."

Finally, after an age, Athos broke their eye contact and looked away. A little part of D'Artagnan claimed victory at that and he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was the fact that the man wasn't entire made of stone, and that as much as he tried to hide the fact that he was human, he did in fact possess feelings and emotions, however tightly locked away they were. D'Artagnan wondered if that was an inevitability that came with age, but then he was reminded of his father and in his mind there was such a stark contrast that he wondered what had happened to make Athos so closed off. Then he spotted something on the floor next to Athos' boot.

"What's that?"

Athos looked down at the object in question, as if he'd forgotten it was there, and picked it up with hesitation. In better light, D'Artagnan saw it was a bundle of letters, tied with a red silk ribbon instead of cheap twine. Athos sat there with the letters in his hands for some time, rigid and silent. Then he held the bundle out to D'Artagnan with a weak resignation. "Burn them."

The boy frowned. "You're certain?"

"Yes."

Part of D'Artagnan wanted to know who they were from, but the fact that there were so many, that the paper was of fine quality, that the ribbon had worn well without discolor or fraying, that the handwriting he could see from the other side of the paper was neat and that of a woman's…well, he had no need to ask Athos of something that was neither his business to know nor something that was not out of his realm to guess on his own. D'Artagnan tossed the letters onto the hungry flames and watched as they devoured the paper and ribbon with ease, soon turning them into a black unrecognizable pile of ash. He looked back at Athos and saw him watch the fire with thinly disguised dread, as if fearing they might never be fully destroyed.

And then, like a dam breaking under stress and weight, the man sighed. D'Artagnan thought he sounded relieved, and that made him happy. He wasn't sure why it ballooned so big in his chest, but something told him that this was a very very good thing that he had just been a part of. He gave Athos a soft smile, but his friend wasn't paying attention. A strong smell of perfume wafted past his nose and took him aback. He would have thought a woman was in the room and nearly turned to look, but the sound of the fire cracking made him realize where it had come from. He was tempted to wave the smell away with his hand, but he refrained and tried to ignore it. It was a strong floral smell that he assumed a wealthy woman must have—Eyes. There were eyes on him. Sharp-no, soft and inviting—D'Artagnan whipped his head around but there was no one behind him—Someone was whispering in his ear. Shouting. Crying. A woman.

"D'Artagnan?"

The weight of a slight body was in his arms, growing lighter-no-heavier, like dead weight. He was dead weight. With golden hair spilling out of his limp arms.

He stumbled backwards, catching himself on the mantle.

Athos was by his side in a second, steadying him. "What's wrong?"

He closed his eyes, but they didn't stop. Dirt filled his senses-gritty under his hands, stuck to his skin, the roof of his mouth, through his nose, all in his nose, invading and changing to something more bitter.

Iron.

Blood.

His blood. His own blood. The blood and grit of his adversary.

D'Artagnan coughed and doubled over, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. Someone was holding him up.

"What is it? Are you sick," that person asked.

"No," he moaned in response. "Not again…"

"Here."

A glass of water was pressed into his hand. His head swam and for a minute he wondered what he was supposed to do with it. Someone urged him to drink it. The water was clean, and the taste was the same—Salt. Salt water. The Ocean. The rushing sounds of waves. A ship. A wooden ship. A deck. Wind. In the air. A ship in the air. Roaring in his ears. Clouds. Darkness. Lightning and thunder. Cracks and booms. Cannons. Gunfire. Loud-deafening.

He dropped the glass of water, but he didn't hear it shatter. He clapped both hands over his ears. But the sounds and the feeling of falling through wind intensified. "I'm going mad," the boy moaned, pulling at his hair and clenching his eyes shut.

"Are you remembering something?"

He shook his head.

Wind. Hot and fast. Sweltering and licking heat like flames from an inferno. It made him break out in a sweat. He tried to push past it but he was immobile. Nausea went up his throat. Pain exploded in his chest. He shivered. Ice. Ice and snow. Cold and nothing. Endless nothing.

"Don't fight it-"

"If they want a fight, then you all had better damn well give them one they won't forget!"

"I want it to stop-"

"Don't stop, not for anything."

Determination. Desperation. Disinterest.

Muffled voices shouting in the darkness. Echoing. Wordless.

"Make it stop," he shouted. Pleaded. Cried. He could hear himself over and over, but he couldn't stop either. He was shaking. Shivering. Teeth chattering.

"Cold," was all he could force out.

Arms grabbed him and held him close. A voice above his head sounded weak. "Calm down. Listen to me, boy. You need to breathe."

That was all D'Artagnan was trying to do, only he couldn't seem to draw in enough air to sustain his burning lungs. It was too cold. Too close. Too little air. Not enough. He grabbed at his shirt and yanked, trying to tear it off, to get the weight off his shoulders and chest so he could breathe. Then someone was saying something, telling him to do something, or stop doing something. D'Artagnan fought when he felt himself being manhandled, but when his knees went limp and he found he was already on the floor he couldn't do much else but try and hold onto the feeling of bodily warmth. Anything to stop the shaking and the blackness from tunneling in.

"Can't breathe," the boy wheezed.

"Yes, you can-"

D'Artagnan shook his head weakly.

"Don't tell me no," Athos growled in his ear. "Match my breaths. Come on."

It seemed a painfully arduous and impossible task, but D'Artagnan tried his best to do as Athos was telling him. His heart still pounded and his head still hurt like someone was driving a knife through it, but the more he tried to slow his breathing the heavier his limbs felt. Tiredness replaced the nervous energy of grabbing at nothing, and all the other sensations began to fade. Eventually all he felt was the rise and fall of Athos' warm chest supporting him. He opened his eyes halfway and couldn't quite muster the strength to look up at the man, much less get an apology out before everything went black.


Athos sat with his back against the wall and the bottom ledge of the fireplace against his right leg. His back ached and the hard floor didn't do the rest of his body any favors, but he hardly noticed his own discomfort. He looked down only briefly to reassure himself that the boy was still sleeping, and breathing. The flash fever had worn them both out, but D'Artagnan thankfully didn't feel anywhere near as hot as he did before. It was a small comfort, something that kept Athos grounded in the present. The night was a quiet one. And when Aramis and Porthos returned late that was how they found Athos and D'Artagnan. Even when Porthos softly called to Athos from the door the man didn't look up or acknowledge them in any way. It wasn't until they crossed to the pair over creaking floorboards that Athos spoke.

"Damn my soul to hell, I will murder that Spaniard on sight in the most unchristian manner I can think of."

Aramis knelt down and laid a tentative hand on Athos' shoulder. "Athos, what's happened?"

Athos looked up at them both, exhaustion and age in his eyes. "He had a break, as the physician warned."

Aramis put a hand to D'Artagnan's forehead, then his neck before drawing back. "There's no fever. Are you sure?"

"There was." And the gravity of the situation hit them all like a sucker punch in the gut. Porthos didn't even bother calling Planchet for some wine, he simply sat down on a stool and rested his arms on his knees, hunched over. Aramis sat back and leaned against ledge of the fireplace, but the dying flames did nothing to warm him. No one spoke for some time. A cloud of hopelessness descended upon them and permeated the room.

"No," Aramis said, drawing their attention. He shook his head and clenched his jaw shut in anger. "All cannot be lost. I refuse to accept it."

Athos scoffed. "Then you're a fool. You heard what the physician said-"

"Since when have you been one for listening to the advice of quack doctors and surgeons? You were the one who made us believe D'Artagnan would live last winter. No one had more hope in his survival than you. If you think you owe him nothing, then that's something you will have to live with but by God I certainly owe him something twice over."

"Aye," Porthos rasped. "As do I."

"Athos," Aramis said, leaning forward. "There is still something we have in our power to do. But you may not like it."

"I'm liking it less because you said I'm not going to like it so you may as well tell me."

Aramis took a deep breath, and the only warning was a tangible sympathy in his eyes. "We have to go back…"

Recognition dawned and Athos visibly paled. "…absolutely not," he whispered. He didn't want to remember. More than that he didn't want the boy to remember all that had happened. Even if there was the slightest chance-

"Athos-"

"You heard me," the man hissed with a vengeance.

"What other option do we have?"

"If not this, Athos," Porthos said. "Then we may as well start the journey down to Gascony tomorrow morning."

Athos turned to Porthos with a dazed confusion. "Gascony?"

Aramis sighed. "After you left, Monsieur de Treville had us oversee some of the interrogations. We thought our business was finished, but what we apprehended from them was only half. A second shipment made its way through Savoy and now it's in the hands of the Calvinists in the south. Treville's already receiving reports of pillaging and bloodshed. He's ordering us and a full garrison to depart by the end of the week."

"All of us?"

Aramis nodded.

"The boy's not ready for that kind of engagement!-"

"He said," Aramis continued. "That if D'Artagnan cannot recover his memories within the next few days, then we must return him home to his parents on our way."

Athos' eyes narrowed, glinting with their own fire in the dark. "Treville said this? Those were his exact words?"

Porthos nodded.

"We'd be putting him right in the middle of the damned conflict! Even if we leave him with his parents he would have no means to defend himself. Those Spaniards know he's a musketeer and they will target him because of it. I will have no more of his blood on my hands. There's too much already…" His voice hitched towards the end and part of him was ashamed to even allow his vulnerabilities to show, but another part couldn't find the strength to care.

"I'm not suggesting we abandon him," Aramis said, laying a hand on Athos' shoulder. "What I am suggesting is that we give him one more chance, however small it may be."

"And however painful it will be to us," Porthos added.

"This is not the answer," Athos maintained, shaking his head.

"How can you be so certain?"

Athos was silent because he wasn't. All he knew was that deep in his gut he didn't like it one God damned bit. But one look at the sleeping charge in his arms had him beginning to gather his wits and a fraction of the strength they would all need to see this God awful task done.

"La Rochelle?"

It was Porthos who had asked it.

And to his surprise, Athos heard himself answer, in toneless acceptance. "La Rochelle."


A/N: And with that we have all of the original story posted. From here on out is new material, which I'm eager to get into. Thank you as always for reading. Hope it's been enjoyable. Expect a new chapter probably by sometime next week.