A/N: And the conclusion.
"Lost Son, Part II"
He woke with a start, a forgotten name dying on his lips. His heart was pounding and he was drenched in a cold sweat. Why must these dark dreams continue to plague him? Was he being punished for a lifetime of actions he had no recollection of?
"Gaston?" Prudence whispered, and he startled to find her in the kitchen, a cup of steaming tea in hand. She took a tentative step forward and offered it to him.
He grasped it desperately, shivering as the warmth seeped into his fingers. He always felt an inexplicable chill after those dreams draped in snow. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said hoarsely, noting that it was not yet dawn.
"I was awake anyway." She paused. "Are your memories returning?"
He shook his head, stopped, and then sighed. "I don't know. I…dream. But it leaves the moment I wake."
"From the way you thrash about, I have to wonder if that is a good thing."
"I believe you're right."
She reached out and carded weathered fingers through his hair with motherly tenderness. He closed his eyes and let her touch banish the last of the haunting revenants and give way to a brief flash of a beautiful woman with dark hair humming softly. But then the vision slipped away, and he wondered if he could mourn what he didn't even remember.
When dawn finally broke, he rose from bed and readied himself for a new day. He was safe here, safe from death and bloodshed.
Except for perhaps retribution from Lesassier, so when hoofbeats sounded outside, he hurried to retrieve the sword stashed under his bed, prepared to fight again. He could only hope instinct rallied to him once more, as he still had no conscious knowledge of swordplay.
But when he threw a quick glance out the window, it was not Lesassier or his lackeys who were approaching the farm, but a different three men in blue capes, heavily armed.
"King's Musketeers," Henri gasped, also peering out the window. "Dear Lord, I never imagined Lesassier would lay charges against you."
He frowned. Henri thought the musketeers were here to…arrest him?
"Stay inside," Henri urged and made his way toward the door.
Prudence followed, stopping in the threshold and blocking the way as she clung to the joist.
Gaston kept his hand on his sword.
"Messieurs," Henri called as he hobbled out to greet the visitors. "How may I be of service to you?"
"We are looking for someone," the one in the middle replied.
Henri visibly stiffened. "I beg of you to listen to the facts before you take him. He was only defending me and he killed no one."
The musketeers exchanged a confused look.
"I believe there is a misunderstanding," the first spoke again. "We're looking for a missing musketeer."
Gaston frowned, and Prudence whipped her head toward him.
"A missing musketeer?" Henri repeated.
"Yes," the larger man interrupted gruffly. "Did you see him traveling this way any time these past few weeks?"
"We've only had one visitor in that time," Henri said carefully. "And he wasn't dressed as a musketeer…"
"He was traveling on personal leave," the first explained, a hint of tautness to his tone. "When did you see him and which way was he going?"
"Was he hurt?" the big one put in, his voice laced with such concern that Gaston felt they couldn't be lying or putting up a ruse as to why they were looking for this missing musketeer.
Vibrating with nervous energy, he set the sword down and moved to the door. Prudence stepped aside for him, and he ventured out into the yard. Three sets of eyes immediately snapped his direction and widened.
"Aramis!" the third musketeer exclaimed.
"Do you 'ave any idea how worried sick we've been?" the larger demanded, dismounting and starting toward him. "What in the blazes are you doin' out here?"
His heart was pattering wildly inside his chest and he couldn't help but take a step back from the force of this man. The musketeer paused, quirking a brow in confusion.
He swallowed hard. "You…know me?"
The relieved expressions faltered.
"Is this some kind of joke?" the large musketeer asked angrily.
"Aramis," the youngest sputtered as he and the other dismounted as well. "Are you saying you don't know us?"
"I…no."
"I'm afraid he doesn't know who he is either," Henri interjected. "When we found him, he'd had a head injury. Hasn't remembered anything since before he woke up here."
The musketeers gaped at him, and he couldn't help averting his gaze from their scrutiny.
"Perhaps you should all come inside," Prudence called.
The lead musketeer, or so Gaston assumed, dipped his head in acknowledgement and led his horse to the fence to tether the reins. The other two did likewise, casting Gaston worried glances that did nothing to alleviate his nerves. By sheer chance, a key to his past had arrived on his doorstep; so why did it fill him with nothing but trepidation?
"I'm Athos," the leader said. "This is Porthos and d'Artagnan."
"My name is Henri, and this is my wife, Prudence. Gas- well, we've been calling him Gaston. But you said his name is…?"
"Aramis."
If the name was meant to ring a bell, it did not. In fact, after being Gaston these past couple of weeks, the new name felt almost more foreign than the moniker he'd been given.
There wasn't enough space in the Bircanns' small kitchen. Henri and Prudence sat at the table and Gaston took up position behind them, leaning against the counter. The musketeers stood across from them, removing their hats.
"Perhaps we should begin with your story," Athos prompted.
Gaston let Henri tell it. After all, it wasn't as though he had anything to contribute. When that was finished, the musketeers explained how the one named Aramis left on personal leave to make a pilgrimage to an abbey. Apparently it was a regular journey for him, and Gaston thought about the crucifix that was tucked under his bed with the other items of his unidentified life.
"Since you were not on Musketeer business," Athos continued, "you had not taken your pauldron with you."
"A shame, for that would have been an important clue," Gaston remarked with a surprising measure of sarcasm.
"Gaston," Prudence chided under her breath.
"How could this have happened?" d'Artagnan interrupted. "To lose all one's memories like that?"
"It's possible with head injuries," Athos said, eyeing Gaston again. "And Aramis has a history of head wounds."
"Were you robbed?" the big one—Porthos—asked.
"It didn't seem so," Henri answered when Gaston did not. "He had his horse and some expensive looking pistols."
"Then what happened?" the young one asked again.
"Unfortunately, only Aramis can tell us that," Athos replied.
"We should go back to the garrison, fetch a physician," Porthos said.
Gaston found himself stiffening at the suggestion.
"It's getting late and you've probably been riding for a while," Prudence interjected. "Please, stay for supper and rest your horses. I'm afraid we don't have room in the house, but you're welcome to take shelter in the barn. And perhaps it would be nice if you shared some stories about Ga- Aramis. You know, he has dreams sometimes. Memories might not be completely lost."
The look of hope that ignited in the musketeers' eyes made Gaston's chest hitch. He wanted to know though, needed to know.
"Yes," he said. "I would like to hear about…myself."
Porthos snorted and flashed him a tentative grin. "Just don't go gettin' that ego all inflated again."
The joke fell flat, and the resulting awkwardness was worse than before.
"I'll get your horses settled," he volunteered.
"I'll help," d'Artagnan immediately said.
He wanted to wave him off, but the boy was already heading out the door. Holding back a sigh, he followed, the two of them taking the horses from the fence to the barn and proceeding to remove their tack.
D'Artagnan paused and went straight for the black beauty next to the two work horses. "I'm glad to see you're here as well," he crooned, rubbing the horse's forehead.
"What's her name?" Gaston asked.
D'Artagnan looked over in surprise before his expression softened. "Bern."
"Bern," he repeated. "I like that. I've just been calling her Beauty. It didn't seem right to give her a new name when she wasn't the one who'd forgotten it."
D'Artagnan's smile slipped. "I can't imagine what you've gone through these past couple weeks. Honestly, when there was no word and we went to the abbey and they said you'd never made it, we feared the worst. Finding you dead would have destroyed us. Especially Porthos."
Gaston frowned, voice dropping low. "Aren't I dead though? In a sense? The man you're looking for isn't here."
D'Artagnan closed the distance between them and reached out to firmly clasp his shoulder. "He is. Maybe not whole, exactly. But there has to be a way to restore your memory and we'll figure it out."
The heartfelt declaration was oddly touching, but didn't necessarily inspire the confidence it was no doubt meant to.
Gaston gave a clipped nod and stepped away under the pretense of caring for the horses. He didn't understand why he wasn't more thrilled to have met these men, to finally have a name.
But that was it, wasn't it—he had a name. The one Henri and Prudence had given him, and he'd grown into it, had started to feel like he belonged. Now he was being uprooted by a past he wasn't sure he wanted to claim in the first place…
o.0.o
They spent the evening listening to the musketeers talk about Aramis, what he was like, the things he'd done. There had been some awkward coughs and shifty eyes when Porthos had made a comment about him being popular with the ladies. Gaston asked if there was a woman waiting for him somewhere but only got hedged responses. He gathered that while he had seemingly kept mistresses, he hadn't made any of them an honest woman. The topic embarrassed him in front of Henri and Prudence and so he quickly changed the subject to how long he had been a musketeer.
Porthos was equally eager to regale them with spun tales of heroic deeds, but much of what Gaston heard was of war and bloodshed. Apparently he'd been a soldier before a musketeer, a skilled marksman that had garnered attention when the Captain of the Musketeers was first forming the regiment. These exploits that were obviously intended to make him feel proud and perhaps excited were doing the exact opposite. All he could wonder was how many men had he killed in his time of service? Did he enjoy it? What kind of man did that make him?
But how could he ask for the darker facts and grittier details not fit for gentle company? And what if asking only brought the dreams and memories into sharper focus?
He surged to his feet, interrupting Porthos in yet another yarn. "Excuse me," he said shortly and strode from the house, taking up a lantern and seeking refuge in the barn. Only belatedly did he realize the musketeers were to bunk in there, but at least he'd gotten a moment of reprieve.
A short moment, for a few minutes later he heard straw crinkling under boots and turned to find Athos had followed him.
"My apologies," the man said. "Porthos can be a gregarious sort and overwhelming if one's not used to him."
"But we're friends," he repeated from before.
Athos inclined his head. "Like brothers."
He squeezed his eyes shut and braced an arm on a post. "I am caught between two families."
"The Bircanns are good people. They've looked after you."
"Like a son." He let out a strangled sound and shook his head. "I had begun to accept this new life."
"You have one waiting for you back in Paris."
"Do I?" He shot Athos a sharp look. "The life of a musketeer, a soldier. What kind of life is that?"
Athos frowned. "I believe Porthos painted quite the picture."
He shook his head, completely different images swirling around his head. "I dream of snow and blood," he said in a low voice, with almost an inflection of inquiry.
There was a beat of silence, then, equally quiet, "What else?"
He scowled. "I don't know. Nothing is clear. Just the bodies. And crows." He turned sharply to skewer the musketeer with a demanding glare.
The man didn't balk, but met his fiery gaze with a cool one of his own. "Savoy," he said. "You were on a training exercise. There was an ambush and many musketeers died."
His breath caught in his throat, the tale so easily slotting into place in the glimpses he could see in his mind's eye.
He took a step back. "I'm not sure I want to remember Aramis. You speak of duty and glory but the pieces I've seen for myself are bathed in blood."
Athos, surprisingly, looked all too understanding as he gazed back mournfully. "I would have you never remember Savoy," he said. "But at the cost of losing my friend, my brother? That I cannot wish for."
Gaston finally broke eye contact and turned away. "Neither of us has much say in the matter," he pointed out.
"You're remembering pieces. Perhaps not clearly, but it's cause for hope that more may yet return to you."
"To what end? What about Henri and Prudence? They have no one. How can I leave them?"
There were several long beats of silence.
"You need not decide anything this moment," Athos finally said softly. "But know that we all have darkness in our pasts. You do not let yours rule you. Your heart is too full not to love life and the thrill of adventure, matched by your devotion to king and country and a brotherhood that would follow you into Hell should you need us." He moved forward, close enough to reach out but not breaching that final distance between them. "I would ask you to give us a chance, but also know that whatever your heart guides you to choose, I will support you. Your life and happiness mean more to me than the uniform you wear."
Gaston's throat tightened with welling emotion he couldn't name or understand. What words could he possibly say to meet those of such heartfelt honesty? And so he simply nodded, feeling more and more torn inside.
He headed back to the house but waited outside in the dark until Porthos and d'Artagnan had excused themselves for the night. Then he slipped quietly inside and retreated to his small alcove.
He didn't sleep, afraid to dream. The stories he'd heard started to take shape in his mind and he could almost see them as if he had been there. But beside these jovial faces were the kind visages of Henri and Prudence, and he felt as though he were being strapped on a rack and pulled apart into two separate people.
One of them had to give. But which one?
o.0.o
The next morning when he finished washing up, he found Henri and Prudence sitting at the table, expressions somber.
"You think I intend to leave with them," he blurted.
They blinked in surprise.
"Well, yes," Prudence said. "You belong with them. You're a King's Musketeer!"
"I was a musketeer," he corrected. "I'm not one now. I would have to start my training over like a new recruit."
"It would come back to you," Henri said. "We've all seen your instinct is still there. Perhaps it would even help the rest of your memories return faster."
"And what of you and the farm?"
Their expressions softened, and Prudence rose from the table to come take him by the arms.
"Should you desire to stay, of course we would have you. But if you want to go to Paris, to try to remember your old life…you owe yourself that."
He lowered his head. "I'm afraid I won't like what I learn," he confessed.
She lifted her arms around his shoulders and pulled him in. "Based on how those men outside speak of you, I don't think you need fear that. Only good men inspire loyalty and love like that."
He hugged back. "And a good man would not abandon you."
"Our lives were what they were before Providence brought you to us," Henri said. His shoulders sagged. "I suppose I always knew deep down we were only temporary stewards of the lost soul that stumbled onto our doorstep."
Gaston tensed. "Are you telling me to go?"
Prudence pulled back and patted his arm. "It is your decision. But make it for you, not for us."
His chest constricted. The advice, no matter how wise, did not aid him in this dilemma.
He looked out the window where the musketeers were gathered, loitering by the paddock fence. Taking a deep breath, he headed outside.
They looked up at his approach. Athos's mien was carefully neutral, while Porthos and d'Artagnan were looking at him with barely concealed looks of expectation.
"If we leave within the hour, we can get back to Paris in enough time to call a physician," Porthos said without preamble.
"Porthos," Athos said in a low, cautioning tone.
"No!" he growled. "I'm not gonna pretend there's a choice here. We all know what Aramis would want."
"I'm standing right here and I don't know what I want," he found himself saying. He shook his head in frustration and ran a hand through his unruly hair. "You can't begin to understand how- how confusing this all is."
"It's not easy on any of us," Athos put in diplomatically. "Least of all you."
"What if I come back with you to Paris and I still don't remember?" he demanded. "There wouldn't be a place for me."
"There'll always be a place for you," Porthos said with brusque fervency. "Wiv us."
"You're speaking of a man I don't know if I can be."
"Don't matter." He fixed Gaston—Aramis—with a resolute look. "You're my best friend. Us here…" He gestured between the group of them. "People call us the Inseparables. Through the good, the bad, hell and high water, we stand by each other. We've been through worse than this and we'll come out the other side. Because that's what we do. And it don't matter if you remember or not, because I know you, and I know you're the same man. You just need some time to realize it."
"Please," d'Artagnan interjected. "Give us the chance to show you."
He glanced at each of them, wavering on a precipice of indecision. But each of their words had pierced down to his heart and awakened something within. Not familiarity or recognition, but…trust.
He glanced back at the house where Henri and Prudence were waiting for his decision. Perhaps he did owe it to himself to seek out the truth, to search for the man he'd once been. And one thing was for certain—he wouldn't be going it alone.
"All right," he said. "I will return to Paris."
D'Artagnan swayed back in obvious relief while Porthos gave Aramis a firm nod. Athos's mouth quirked in a small smile.
"We'll ready the horses," Athos said, giving a knowing look to the house.
Aramis turned, a weight on his heart as he prepared to say goodbye.
o.0.o
Henri and Prudence had of course given him their well wishes when he'd bid them farewell, and he'd promised to visit them again, no matter what happened in Paris. But he hadn't been on the road with the musketeers that long and already he was having second thoughts. He pushed them aside though; he'd committed to this course, he would see it through.
"Tell me more about myself," he requested. "Where am I from? Do I have family?"
"Well, you grew up in the south of France," Porthos said. "Not sure which village. Your mother was Spanish, which is how you know the language."
He furrowed his brow. He couldn't for the life of him think of any words.
"Where is she now?"
"You told us she died."
"Oh." That was disappointing. "And my father?"
The musketeers exchanged looks.
"Er, we don't rightly know. You've never told us about him, other than that he took you away to live with him for a while, but then you became a soldier and there was nothing else about him."
He frowned.
"To be fair," d'Artagnan put in, "none of the three of you like to talk about your pasts. Anytime something comes up, it's usually under duress. The Musketeers are your family now and that's what you all prefer to dwell on."
Aramis glanced around and read the truth in that by the hints of shadows in Athos's and Porthos's eyes, thoughts obviously drifting back to unknown times.
"The pup is right," Porthos said. "I left my past behind when I joined the Musketeers. This brotherhood is what's important now."
"Then all I really need to remember is the past few years," Aramis joked.
Porthos flashed him a wry smile. "That'd be nice. But if not, we'll just take the next few years to forge new memories."
Aramis found himself returning the grin, heartened by the sincerity of the promise. For a moment, he could see himself with these men, these brothers, though they were still as much strangers to him as he was to himself. Could such a bond be reforged a second time?
The heavy drumming of galloping horses pricked his ears, and he turned to look over his shoulder as a group of eight riders barreled down the road toward them. The musketeers reined their horses in and turned, postures wary.
The horsemen slowed as they approached, and Aramis recognized Lesassier among them. Oh joy.
"You," the man spat at Aramis. "You will pay for your insolence."
"Is there a problem, gentleman?" Athos asked.
"Nothing that is your business," Lesassier snapped.
"On the contrary, we are King's Musketeers. If you have a dispute with this man, then it does concern us."
Lesassier narrowed his eyes, but then his gaze alighted on the pauldrons with the Fleur de Les and his expression shifted to one of dismay, then fury. "This cur thinks he can go to the King with his complaint?"
"What complaint is that?" d'Artagnan asked, leaning forward against the pommel of his saddle.
"This man has been extorting villagers while the Baron is away," Aramis replied.
Athos's gaze sharpened on Lesassier. "Has he?"
"This man is a vagrant and a liar," Lesassier countered. "He took advantage of a poor old couple, swindled them. Stole their horse." He jabbed a finger at Aramis's mount.
"You are mistaken," Athos said. "That horse is from the stable of the Musketeer regiment."
Lesassier faltered at that but gave himself a sharp shake and skewered Aramis with a glare. "Will you surrender to the authority of the Baron of Rosoy?"
"I am under the authority of the King of France," he replied smoothly. "Perhaps you'd like to return with us to Paris and take this matter before him."
Lesassier stared back at him as though trying to weigh the veracity of his claim. Aramis saw when the realization sank in—and with it a hardened determination.
Lesassier drew his sword, and with that signal his men did the same, swinging down from their horses to attack.
Aramis dismounted and grabbed his sword, though he still wasn't sure exactly how to use it. But the others had dismounted and immediately closed ranks to shield him. He felt a bristle of indignation at that, not that he could object.
Lesassier's men broke upon them like a wave and the screech of steel rent the air. The musketeers were outnumbered and a couple of assailants quickly pushed past them, and Aramis was forced to throw his sword up to defend himself.
Like before, his muscles seemed to have better memory than his head, and he parried and blocked with an agility that belied his lack of confidence.
But knowing his background now, part of him was conscious about not wanting to kill anyone. Which meant that instead of pressing the advance on his opponent, he was the one being driven back, fully on the defensive. Another part of him screamed that he was going to let himself get hurt or killed this way, and he struggled to go on the offensive.
Finally, he locked his blade with his opponent's and managed to flip it out of the man's grip. Then Aramis surged forward and slammed the pommel of his rapier into the man's head, knocking him out.
He whipped his gaze up toward the rest of the fight and saw Lesassier slinking around to come up behind Porthos. And something inside Aramis snapped. He leaped forward with blinding fury. Lesassier spun toward him, perverse eagerness lighting his eyes. Their blades clashed.
Aramis let himself be wholly taken over by this other presence, the one that thrusted, parried, and riposted with swift and deadly efficiency, his sword singing with each strike.
Lesassier's cocky expression morphed into fright as he was driven back, barely able to hold off this storm. Aramis lunged, sweeping past the man's guard and piercing his chest dead center. Lesassier let out a choked sound before crumpling to the ground.
Aramis stood over him, his vision going spotty for a moment as his lungs heaved. He blinked in confusion, several battle scenes overlaying themselves atop one another in his mind so that he was having trouble figuring out which one this was.
Harried footsteps rushed over.
"Are you all right?" someone asked urgently.
Aramis lifted his gaze. "Porthos," he breathed, his knees suddenly feeling weak in a most undignified way, but he couldn't care at the moment, such was his relief.
Porthos paused, eyeing him shrewdly. Then his eyes widened. "Aramis?" he asked tentatively.
Aramis dropped his sword and embraced his friend fiercely. Porthos's blade joined his on the ground with a clatter as he wrapped big arms around him in turn.
"Wait," d'Artagnan sputtered. "Aramis, do you remember us?"
Aramis reluctantly pulled back enough to look at the young man. "The question is how could I have ever forgotten?" He released Porthos to embrace d'Artagnan next, and when he pulled away, there was a conspicuous sheen in the boy's eyes.
"So, you got your memories back, just like that?"
Aramis hesitated, squinting as he mulled over the new jumble in his head. "Well, no," he admitted. "I remember you three. But the journey to the abbey and what befell me is still a blank, along with many of the events I recall you telling me about."
"That's all right," Athos put in. "It's a start." His face was also alight with joy and Aramis moved to hug him too.
He couldn't say he remembered these men in full, but he remembered the love and loyalty he held for them—and they for him. And that lit the void still in his mind with the heralds of hope.
They returned to Paris and reported the whole convoluted situation to the captain, who was somewhat alarmed and agreed to send for a physician immediately.
Unfortunately, the doctor had little to examine, as the head injury had healed already. He said what they all knew: head injuries were tricky and more of Aramis's memories could return over time. Or they might not. It could take days, weeks, or years, even.
The prognosis was not as reassuring as they'd all hoped, but Aramis was not discouraged by it. He'd come this far. And from what he'd gleaned from his comrades, he seemed to have a habit of beating the odds.
o.0.o
It was a bright sunny day when Aramis rode up to the Bircanns' farm, his pauldron strapped to his shoulder. Henri came out from the barn, brows rising sharply, and he called for Prudence. Aramis dismounted and strode forward, removing his hat when he reached them.
"Well, look at you," Prudence said with a smile. "A fine musketeer if I've ever seen one."
"How are you, my boy?" Henri asked, a careful note in his voice that hinted at what he was truly asking. It had been weeks since Aramis had left.
"A few missing pieces," he replied. "But most of my memories have returned."
Prudence reached out to squeeze his arm. "That's wonderful news."
"I wanted to thank you for everything," he said.
"It was our honor," Henri replied.
"We've also sent word to the Baron informing him of the activities that have gone on in his absence," Aramis added. "Hopefully he will return soon, though Lesassier and his men will no longer cause problems for you."
Henri and Prudence exchanged a look, but didn't press for details.
"And you're happy?" she asked.
Aramis smiled and looked over his shoulder to where his brothers waited by the trees on their horses. "Yes. Though I do regret taking Gaston from you."
Prudence shook her head. "It's only right you return to your true family where you belong."
"If you ever need anything, send word to me in Paris at the Musketeer Garrison, and I will come," he promised.
Prudence leaned in to kiss his check.
Henri clasped his forearm. "We will always think of you—Aramis—as like our son."
Aramis placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head in humble gratitude. He did not deserve the love and devotion he'd been blessed with, but he would live his life in faithful service to honor it. Strange, that twice now tragedy had given birth to something beautiful from the ashes. And just when he'd thought himself lost, the bonds of chosen family had tethered his soul and brought him home.