A/N: Thank you guest Uia for continuing to read and review! This one got LONG, so I've decided to post it in two parts. Part II will go up Saturday so you guys don't have to wait a whole week for the resolution.
"Lost Son, Part I"
He woke to soft, muffled voices and the clink of earthenware.
"I think he's finally stirring, Henri."
Wood creaked as footsteps approached. His head ached and he was still groggy, but he felt the urgent need to push through the haze and ascertain his surroundings. Prying his eyelids open took more effort than it should have, and he immediately squeezed them shut again as blinding light speared his skull.
"Easy," a kind, weathered voice said near his head.
He pressed a palm to his eyes and bit back a moan. "Where I am?" he rasped.
"My home, outside of Rosoy. My name is Henri Bircann, and my wife, Prudence, is here as well."
Inhaling sharply through his nose, he forced his eyes open once more. At first only blurry shapes and colors greeted him, but then they gradually coalesced into a ceiling and walls, and an aged man with gray hair sitting in a chair beside the small bed he was laying on, tucked into an alcove. Behind him next to a kitchen countertop was a woman with white peppered hair, hands worn by work and age wringing her apron.
He closed his eyes briefly again as a wave of pain lanced through his head. "What happened?" Even as he clutched at his temple, he felt the bandage secured around it, but could not place how it had come to be there.
"Don't know," Henri replied. "You stumbled onto our farm yesterday afternoon, practically senseless. We think from the gash on your head. Fell off your horse the moment we stepped outside. Brought you in and tended you."
"Thank you," he mumbled automatically. He fumbled his hand around to prop himself up. "I should…" He faltered. He should…what? His breathing hitched as he shot a startled and terrified gaze at his benefactors. "I can't remember. I can't remember anything."
The Bircanns exchanged surprised looks.
"Nothing at all?" Prudence prompted. "What about your name?"
He lay back on the bed and clutched at his head with both hands, digging his fingers into his scalp and wincing from the pain it elicited. "No," his voice cracked. "Nothing."
"I've heard of this," Henri said slowly. "Blows to the head erasing whole years from someone's memory. Never seen it myself."
"Will it come back?" he—oh God, what was his name?—found himself asking, though a distant part of him scoffed that these people could possibly have the answer to that.
The beat of silence was answer enough.
"Well," Prudence finally said. "You're probably hungry. I made some soup. I'll heat it up for you."
The chair creaked as Henri stood and moved away, perhaps to give him privacy. Though he was trying to keep a handle on the maelstrom of emotions roiling through his chest and head, he couldn't be sure he was succeeding, and he kept his hands covering his face. What had happened to him to bring him here like this? And what on earth did he do now?
o.0.o
He wrapped his hands around the bowl, letting some of the heat from the steaming soup seep through the wood into his palms. He'd managed to get up and move to sit at the small table, barely big enough to accommodate the three of them. Henri and Prudence sat on either side of him, watching him carefully. He suddenly wondered if they were wary of this stranger they'd taken into their midst. He wondered if they should be wary of him. He knew nothing about himself. What if he was a dangerous man?
"Does your stomach pain you?" Prudence asked, jolting him out of his thoughts.
He winced as his head swam when he shook it in the negative. "No." He lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips, taking a tentative sip. The broth was hot and aromatic, and he found it oddly soothing as he swallowed. "It's very good. Thank you."
Prudence smiled at him.
He took another spoonful, then another, slowly depleting the bowl's contents. When he was done, the awkward silence increased tenfold. He cleared his throat. "You said I had a horse?"
"Yes, we put him in the barn with ours," Henri replied. He rolled his shoulder in discomfort. "We meant no offense, but we searched the saddlebags. Afraid there wasn't much in there. You did have a sword and some very fine pistols on you though."
"I'd like to see."
Prudence stood up and went to retrieve the bags and weapons belt. She also brought over a brown leather coat and blue sash and draped them over the bags.
He reached out to finger the separate fabrics, then pushed them aside and picked up a pistol next. It was a very fine piece of craftsmanship, almost artistic. But it didn't stir anything in his memory. He set it down and flipped open the saddlebag. There were supplies for traveling: some food and a water skin, and a kit containing an odd assortment of implements, along with needle and thread. Nothing, however, to give a clue as to his identity.
He sighed and put the items back. "Thank you for your kindness. I should probably be going." He made a move as though to stand, but Prudence cut him off.
"Where will you go?"
The question stalled him, and he sank back down. He didn't actually know. "I don't wish to trouble you further."
"It's no trouble," she insisted. "And what about that knock to your head? It's not fully mended yet and perhaps you shouldn't be riding."
He supposed that was sound advice. Based on the medic's kit in his bag, he probably should have known what was best, but it was escaping him at the moment.
He sagged. "All right."
Henri nodded approvingly and rapped his knuckles on the table. "Well, since you'll be staying, we need to figure out what to call you, eh? How about Gaston? Since you're our guest."
He rolled the name over in his mind. It didn't hold any meaning to him, but then, nothing did at the moment. He nodded slowly. "Very well. Thank you."
o.0.o
D'Artagnan landed on his back with an oomph. Shaking his head, he flicked an annoyed look up at Porthos. "I'm never going to win in a fight against you, am I?"
The larger musketeer grinned and rubbed at his beard. "Well…"
"Not by brute strength," Athos put in from the sideline. "You have to adapt to various opponents. Find their weakness and use it against them."
"What's Porthos's weakness?"
"You'll have to discover that for yourself."
D'Artagnan scowled and pushed himself to his feet.
"I'll give you a hint, pup," Porthos said with a toothy grin. "I ain't got a weakness."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and wished Aramis was here, because that comment surely would have gotten the marksman going and d'Artagnan might have been able to glean something from the banter. But Aramis was away on a religious pilgrimage or something and wasn't due back for a few days. Which left d'Artagnan training solely with Porthos and Athos and getting thrashed every time. It was exhausting.
Huffing wearily, he nevertheless hunkered down and prepared to go another round.
o.0.o
A couple more days passed and he had yet to remember anything about who he was or where he came from. There had been one more clue—a gold crucifix around his neck. So he was a religious man, it seemed. He tried praying for mercy, for answers, but the silence was as oppressive as the gaps in his mind.
After the first day staying mostly in bed, he'd started to go stir crazy and wanted to be up and active. And so he'd offered to help Prudence with the cooking. Not that he knew how to cook—or remembered whether he did or not—but he could chop vegetables easily enough.
The next day he went out to the barn to check on his horse. The majestic animal nudged him with her nose, almost as though she knew him and was happy to see him. That made one of them. He scratched behind her ear.
The pain in his head was lessening and aside from the healing gash, he wasn't injured anywhere else. Just his mind, apparently.
But that didn't mean he wasn't in possession of his faculties.
"Is there no one else living on the farm with you?" he asked Henri and Prudence one night over supper.
They exchanged a grieved look.
Henri shook his head. "Our sons…they had set off for Paris to seek their fortunes. We received word a few months after that they'd been robbed and killed on the road, having never even gotten there."
"I'm sorry."
"It was many years ago."
They fell silent at that. Gaston had noticed that morning how Henri toiled in his daily chores. The man was getting up there in years and the labor getting more strenuous.
He resolved to help them out while he was here. It would be a way to repay their kindness and keep his hands from being idle.
o.0.o
Athos stood under the balcony, eyes fixed on the gate of the garrison as musketeers milled back and forth across the yard.
"He's late," a gruff voice said, coming to stand next to him.
"Yes."
Yesterday had been cause for curiosity and jesting excuses for Aramis's tardiness. Today as it neared evening, however, was cause for concern.
"I've spoken with the captain," Athos went on. "He can't spare anyone from duty at the moment."
Porthos growled low in his throat.
"He's not overly late," Athos added, trying to assuage him.
"I don't like it."
Athos inclined his head in agreement. Given Aramis's proclivity for attracting trouble, any misstep warranted immediate worry and fretting.
But there was nothing they could do about it right then.
Athos clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Come."
o.0.o
"Gaston!" Prudence called. "Come down for some water. You've been baking in the sun for hours."
He flashed her a grin before making his way to the ladder and climbing down from the roof. She was waiting for him at the bottom with a cup of water in hand. He took it gratefully, knocking back a long swig before pouring the rest over the back of his neck.
"You're a godsend, son," Henri said, looking up at the roof with unadulterated gratitude.
There had been a leak last winter, but Henri hadn't been able to fix it with his gnarled hands and rickety joints. Gaston was happy to oblige.
"I don't know what we would've done in the next storm."
"Well, now you get to stay huddled inside your nice warm room next to the hearth," he replied cheerfully.
He'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm with Henri and Prudence. Even though they were essentially strangers, it almost felt as though he fit with them. They had been under no obligation to take him in, and he had been under no obligation to stay, but they had and he didn't have anywhere else to go.
Perhaps things were working out for the best. The Bircanns seemed to need him as much as he needed them. The labor was hard and left his muscles aching at the end of the day, but he didn't mind and it spared Henri and Prudence from the backbreaking work.
Sometimes he wondered about what was missing, whether there was someone out there waiting for him to come home. But that night, after Henri had regaled him with the struggles of last winter, he had lain down to sleep and dreamed of a snow covered forest splashed with red and bodies and crows.
He'd woken with a start a few hours before dawn, head pulsing. The soft sounds of Henri and Prudence sleeping in the other room filtered through the house, and he curled up under his blanket in the alcove as a chill gripped him. Was that just some strange nightmare conjured from thin air, or…had it been a memory? What else could it be though? And if it was…he didn't think he ever wanted to remember what potential horrors were buried in his past.
o.0.o
"I'm done waitin'," Porthos declared, pushing past Athos just as he'd descended the steps to the courtyard after talking with Treville, and stormed toward the stable.
Athos rolled his eyes to the sky and pivoted to follow.
"Don' try 'n stop me," the larger musketeer growled. "It's been three days wi' no word. Somethin' must 'ave 'appened to 'im. Not even a pretty woman would keep 'im from his duty."
Athos didn't say anything.
When Porthos reached the stable, he pulled up short as d'Artagnan emerged with all three of their horses saddled and ready. Porthos glanced back at Athos.
"If you're quite done," Athos said, "that's precisely what I told the captain."
Porthos had the grace to look abashed. "S'rry."
Athos took his horse's reins from d'Artagnan and mounted. "We'll take the road to the abbey Aramis was bound for. With any luck, we'll meet him on the way and he'd better have a very good excuse for worrying you."
D'Artagnan flicked a pointed look at him, but Athos ignored it. It wouldn't do to admit he was worried too. Because if Aramis hadn't returned and hadn't sent word, then Athos feared something grave had happened indeed.
o.0.o
He pitched another bunch of fresh straw bedding into the stall he'd finished cleaning out. The task was going slower than usual, for his mind was elsewhere, dwelling on strange flashes of a dirt courtyard and laughter, of riding across the countryside, of a match cord burning in a musket. There were blurred faces too, ghosts of a past that slipped through his fingers whenever he reached for them. He pressed a palm to his eyes, trying to shove them away. If they couldn't deign to reveal themselves, he did not want them haunting him. Especially if the faces just out of reach were the same ones who met a ghastly and bloody end in a winter forest.
Raised voices out front drew him from his thoughts. Frowning, he set the pitchfork against the wall and rubbed his hands on his breaches as he made his way outside. Three men had ridden up and dismounted and were facing Henri.
"Where'd you get the fine horse, old man?" one of them dressed in slightly finer cut cloth asked caustically.
"It belongs to my lodger," Henri replied.
"A lodger? You haven't reported securing extra income from a lodger. That will raise your dues."
"He's- he's not paying. He works for his room and board."
Gaston strode forward. "What's going on here?"
The man who'd been speaking, a wiry fellow with light orange hair, turned toward him. "Ah, this must be the lodger. I'm afraid you're in violation of tenant regulations."
Gaston narrowed his eyes. "How is that?"
"All people living on these lands owe dues to the Baron."
"I believe those dues are paid in portions of the harvest," he replied levelly.
The man's lip curled upward. "That's for working the land. There's additional taxes for the protection his men offer."
"Protection or extortion?"
"Gaston," Henri whispered, "please, just go inside."
He refused to move, however, a sense of righteous indignation at the suggestion of injustice flaring up inside him. "Taxes are collected by the King of France," he went on. "I should like to hear what he would say to a bunch of lowly thugs taxing his people in excess." He blinked, unsure where such a fervent declaration had come from.
The three men exchanged bawdy laughs. "Bold words for a lowly peasant," the leader spat, drawing his rapier. "Either you will pay the fees—and we'll take that horse of yours in lieu of coin—or you're an interloper who needs to be put in his place."
"Lesassier, please," Henri started.
"Stay out of this, old man," he snarled. "Or poor Prudence will find herself a widow."
Rage erupted in Gaston and he surged forward, grabbing Lesassier's wrist and twisting it until the man yelped and dropped his sword. Gaston caught the blade with his boot and kicked it back into the air, deftly catching the hilt with his right hand. Stepping back, he pointed the rapier at Lesassier's throat before he'd even realized what he'd done.
Lesassier, for his part, looked like a floundering fish he was so shocked. But his two companions quickly recovered and drew their own swords. Gaston flicked a wary look at them, which gave Lesassier the chance to scramble backward. Then his men attacked.
Gaston's arm felt like a separate entity, bringing his blade up to block a strike and then twisting to parry the second. Steel screeched and clanged in the ferocious clash of blades. Gaston had no time to think, he could only react, spurred by a fire of reflexes he had no conscious awareness of.
His two opponents bore down on him, but his feet had taken on a life of their own as well, retreating, pivoting, and advancing. He stabbed one man in the bicep of his sword arm, and the man curled away with a pained cry. The other swung at his head and Gaston ducked, lunging with his sword to pierce the man between his ribs.
He staggered back, breathing heavily, not from the exertion but from the stunned disbelief at what had just transpired.
The injured men started limping toward their horses while Lesassier fumed at Gaston.
"You will pay for this," the man hissed.
The click of a musket's hammer being cocked drew their attention to the house where Prudence stood. "Not today," she said fiercely, staring down the barrel at them.
Lesassier's cheeks puffed red, but he started inching back toward his horse. Once he was far enough away, Gaston tossed the man's sword back to him. Lesassier fumbled to catch it and shot him a scathing look in return. Then he mounted up and rode after his wounded companions.
Gaston felt all the adrenaline suddenly drain out of him, and he stumbled back to support himself against the paddock fence. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I fear I just made things worse for you."
"Don't be sorry," Henri said, sounding and looking at him in awe. "Those men deserved to be knocked off their high horses, ridin' around like they're the Baron's own sons."
"If this has been going on for some time, why have you not appealed to the Baron?"
"He's away," Henri said regretfully. "Which means there's nothin' to stop Lesassier from coming back here to take revenge on you."
Gaston shrugged. Somehow, such threats didn't faze him.
"That was somethin' to watch though, let me tell you," Henri went on.
"Indeed," Prudence said, coming to join them. "You must be a solider."
Gaston thought back to the dream he'd had of a massacre in the forest and felt there could be some truth in that. But he didn't mention it. Maybe he had been a soldier. But he'd been traveling alone on the road before he'd been injured and ended up here. Was he a deserter? Surely he was too young to resign, and he obviously didn't suffer from a crippling injury that would have resulted in his early dismissal.
"Well, whatever life I once led is lost to me," he said, brushing off those musings. "I am now but a humble lodger in your gracious home."
Henri and Prudence exchanged a look.
"Well," the older man hedged. "If your memory don't return and you think you might like to stay…we'd be honored to call you son. With our own no longer of this world, there's no one to inherit the farm. You could make a good life for yourself. Except for Lesassier, but it seems like you could handle him."
Gaston blinked, taken aback. "I…I would be honored," he said humbly.
Prudence and Henri shared beaming smiles, which Gaston couldn't help but return. They had all lost something precious, but had come together and made something new from the shattered shards of broken hearts.
o.0.o
"He can't 'ave just vanished without a trace," Porthos said gruffly, stomping across the road and looking up and down it as though Aramis would come riding out of the Mists of Avalon.
They'd made the half-day's ride to the abbey where they'd learned that Aramis had never even arrived. And there'd been no sign of him on the road between there and Paris.
"What now?" d'Artagnan asked, expression pinched with the same worry and frustration they all felt.
Athos's eyes were dark as his gaze angled toward Paris. Eventually they would have to return to duty, but Porthos couldn't imagine going back without Aramis. He would rather scour the entire countryside until he'd discovered what had happened to his best friend, his commission be damned.
"We'll inquire at nearby villages along the road," Athos said.
"If he was at a village, he would've sent word," Porthos groused.
"Nevertheless, it is that or return to Paris."
Porthos shot him a sharp glower. They were not going back yet.
Athos merely returned a bland look, waiting for him to remount.
Porthos grumbled under his breath and stalked back to his horse. Then the three of them resumed their trek down the road, all the while eyes peeled against the sweeping countryside for any hint of what had befallen their lost friend.