A/N: A couple things have been keeping me from finishing a prompt to post, but I wanted to post something, so here we go!

This takes place a few months after the Cadet Branch chapters (14 and 15). Rough ages are as follows: Johan at 64, Daniel at 47, Clara at 45, Martha at 42, Lena at 14, Astra and Tara at 12, Sterling at 8, Maglina and Oriana at 6, and Seren at an old 1.

Chapter Forty-Four: The Inconvenient Injury

The battle raged as the Marquis stood his ground against the Daleki commander, matching him in swordsmanship blow for blow. Ogronish tribesmen, Kasterborsians, and Daleks alike littered the field—the dead, the dying, and the still-fighting. Hours of clashing had already passed and the Marquis's Border Forces knew they needed to hold out only for a short while longer, for the sun was soon to set.

Seeing his chance, the Marquis took advantage of a slight slip in his opponent's step, using the short waver to thrust the tip of his sword through a joint in the Dalek's armor and between its ribs. He cursed lowly in the ceremonial tongue before twisting the blade and waiting for the skewered corpse to go limp before letting it slide off the end.

The deed was done—Dalek's retreat was inevitable.

As he rested, leaning against his sword pommel like a cane, it became clear to the Marquis that his efforts had paid off. Nearby Daleki and Ogronish soldiers saw his victory and fled for the stronghold of Skaro, for a new strategy needed to be concocted now that the lynchpin commander was no more.

"Are you well enough to walk?" The Marquis glanced over his shoulder and saw Medical Officer Jones-Pink walking towards him, looking worse for wear herself. "Those wounds should be treated immediately."

"Get to the non-Gallifreyan soldiers first; they don't heal like you and me."

"…but you are our liege lord."

"…and you also have a liege lady if need be—go and do as you're told." There was no energy or ire to his voice, which made the physician chuckle.

"It is Her Ladyship's command."

She had him there. Sighing in resignation, the Marquis accepted this—he could not argue against the Marchioness's wishes, even with so many miles between them. It did not matter that she was in the capital and her messenger was smirking in jest, for she was always looking out for him. He waited for his physician and friend to stop by his side and leaned on her arm. They gave one another small smiles, though they vanished when they saw what should have been the impossible:

The Dalek commander was still alive… and holding a detonator in his hand.

"GLORY TO THE ALLFATHER!"

In less than a second, the Marquis pulled the physician close, enveloping her in his cape as he stepped between her and the Dalek. Another second and the Dalek exploded, blasting a hole in the ground and its enemies yards away. Medical Officer Jones-Pink was able to strain to sit up, yet the Marquis…

"I need a stretcher! The Marquis is down!" the physician panicked. Adrenaline pumped into her system anew as she saw him; he was unconscious, with mud and blood on his face and in his whiskers. His cape was singed from the blast and clothes torn from the fall. If she did not do everything in her power to make sure he was alright, not only would her good friend and marchioness never forgive her, but six young ones would not as well.

Once the Marquis was on a stretcher, the physician went right to work. She led the team back to the medical tent and had him placed on the first bed next to her equipment. Things went quickly as she made sure to tear off his armor, sew up his wounds, splint his left forearm, and check him for internal injuries. He was still unconscious when she finished, and remained so without change as she observed his progress between other patients. By the time she was done tending to their brethren, it was late into the night and he had not yet woken. She ordered him to be taken to his tent so that she could watch over him without distraction—the remaining medical staff was more than sufficient to care for the other soldiers. When the stretcher-bearers gave her odd looks for wanting to bring him away from the bulk of her medical equipment, she set her face and frowned at them.

"By command of my military rank of Colonel in the Kasterborsian Border Forces, my societal station as Baroness Coal-on-the-Hill, and my personal fortune of being this man's friend, I order that the Marquis be transferred to his tent so that he can convalesce in quiet privacy."

With not a soul in the camp wishing to oppose Medical Officer Jones-Pink when she brought up her rarely-flaunted powers, the stretcher-bearers acquiesced and brought their liege lord to his tent soon as the physician was done packing a bag of supplies to bring along. She requested some food from the mess tent and once she finished eating, she began her vigil at the Doctor's side.

Two days passed and there was little sign of change. Still, she kept watch, removing the splint, changing bandages, and even checking vitals at all hours, day and night. It was so exhausting that she was dozing lightly when he finally woke, the movement from the bed as he sat up waking her with a start.

"Johan! Don't get up!" she scolded, pushing the Marquis back down on the mattress. "You had me worried!"

"How… how long have I been laying here…?" he asked. "I feel so sore…"

"Nearly three days ago now, we were caught in a suicide attack from a Dalek we thought you killed in combat," she explained. "You shielded me from the blast with your cape and body, and I feared you weren't going to make it through."

"We are stronger than that," he chuckled weakly. "We are Kasterborsians… Gallifreyans… it takes more than an explosion to kill us."

"Except for the fact that it nearly did—Kasterborous and Gallifrey don't need any more widows and orphans than they already have today."

"This… this is true," he agreed. He drew his thoughts inwards, dwelling in dangerous places. "When can I return to Gallifrey?"

"If you are still stable after a few days, then I think you can go home with an escort," the physician replied. "After we both get some sleep, I'll write Clara for you."

"Clara…?" The Marquis knitted his brows and stared at the physician in wonder. "Who is Clara?"

A weight dropped in the woman's stomach as she gawped at him. "Johan, Clara is your wife—the mother of your children—what are you saying?!"

"Is her name Clara?" He searched his mind, finding that the entire thing was a bit hazy, as though a heavy summer fog had descended upon it. "I remember a yearning, a joy, a sorrow… but her face… there is nothing." He blinked, a frown settling on his face. "Children…?"

"Oh gods, I have to get you home immediately," the physician said uneasily. She stood and poked her head out the tent flap, giving the guards orders to have a cart prepared for their lord's transport, before turning back to the Marquis. He was attempting to sit up again, which prompted her to rush to his side and ease him down.

"Martha, I'm perfectly fine—"

"No, you're not if you cannot remember Clara or your children."

"Why do I remember you then?!"

"…because our friendship has been mostly forged here, on the battlefield, away from Clara, Daniel, and the children." She paused, quirking an eyebrow. "Do you remember Daniel?"

"Your puppy, correct? A cat? A tortoise?"

"My husband, you idiot." She considered bringing up the history between their spouses, though thought the better of it for the time being, as it could possibly only make him angry for the return trip, which was the last thing she needed. Instead, she began to rummage around the tent, gathering up his belongings. "I am writing Clara when we return to Gallifrey, and maybe she can return from that conference sooner rather than later. Being around the children should help speed up your recovery at the very least."

"I… why is this happening to me…?" he asked, tone hushed and raspy. "I know there should be something there, but I cannot see her face, know her smell, feel her touch…"

"It was the explosion, rattling your brain," she explained. "You took the brunt of the blow for me, and Gallifreyan or no, there is bound to be some after-effects of that." She put all of his things into the small pack she knew he brought to the front with him, feeling fortunate that he always traveled light when aiding his troops. "Putting you in a familiar environment, with familiar people, will help to put your brain right again."

"How do I know that this is genuine and you're not part of an elaborate scheme?"

"Oh, come off it, Johan—if you can get your own head out of your arse for two minutes, then you will know that you're being silly. Out of all the people here on the front lines, ones that swore they would die for you and the march while fully meaning it, the very last one you need to worry about is me." She leaned over him, narrowing her eyes into a precise glare. "If you step one toe out of line, however, I will be the absolute first thing you need to worry about as your standing physician. Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Good, now let's get you back to Castle Gallifrey."

The road back to Gallifrey was a long one, slow and careful to not agitate the wounds any of the travelers had sustained. While the Marquis was their top priority, there were also a few common soldiers whose situations had been deemed critical enough to make the journey back to the hospital that joined the caravan. The Marquis sat in the back of a cart, watching the Baroness as she tended to a young man whose legs had been hit with poison-tipped arrows during an after-raid. The lad—just barely a year out of the Academy from the looks of him—was writhing in pain as he fought the conversion process that was going on inside his body. Some Daleks, the man knew, were natural-born, genuine marvels of medicine and genetic study should any of them stop killing long enough to be examined. Their resistance to chemical weapons and physical hardiness was begot from generations upon generations of living in the harsh country in and around their capital of Skaro—it was a long-documented fact that out of the ancient skirmishes between the Thal and Kaled communities, only Daleks remained to rise from the ashes, because they were powerful.

The remaining Daleks, however, were ones that were made. Those were the most dangerous, for if the conversion poison was not treated in-time, they could go on a rampage only stopped with the converted's death. Different people had differing reactions to the poison, but the most common symptoms were days of intense pain as their innards shifted and various hallucinations as their brains recalibrated themselves to only love the Allfather of the Dalek Empire. The lad's legs were bound in tourniquets that kept most of the poison from the thighs down while he awaited the city's more advanced treatments; even the Marquis, untrained in medicine, knew that the best hope for the boy now was amputation to stop the poison from taking him.

His hearts sank, both for the soldier and for himself. The lad was most likely to lose his legs while he could barely recall anything from the past twenty years. It would undoubtedly be hard on the soldier, as now his career options were limited for the remainder of what could possibly be a long life, but what the jerking, screaming, sobbing lad had in excess no matter what was time. The Marquis knew he was outwardly aged beyond his years for his people, yet he could not remember feeling this achy, this weary, this drained before. Whereas the lad could adjust to his new situation over time, was there such hope for his liege lord? He was scared, and felt guilty for it, despite recalling how mental wounds had the potential to be more dangerous than physical ones. Something told him that if his title of Doctor was not merely a folk title, that he did have knowledge of medicine like the Baroness, that it would put him more at-ease for the ride at least. He could try assisting the lad's recovery, but at this point the only thing he could do was respectfully sit out of the way.

What good did an empty title and an imaginary second heart do if it was of no practical use, anyhow?

It took a day longer than normal, but the military caravan finally made it back to Gallifrey. The soldiers were dropped off at the hospital, whilst the Baroness and Marquis continued on towards the castle. He was quiet as they walked through the corridors of his ancestral home, looking around carefully for any sign of the twenty-odd years that were missing from his memory.

"Alright, I want you to stay in the private wing for the time being," the Baroness ordered. "Your quarters, private study and library, the lounge or drawing room, but nothing further. If there's something that calls you outside of the wing, you need an escort."

"I do not!" he argued.

"We don't know if this is the first phase of your memory loss, or even how well your internal map of the castle has survived," she fired back. "For now though, get some sleep. I will come back to check in on you around teatime."

"You really don't have to, Martha," he scowled. By now they were in the private wing, walking along towards his chambers. When he didn't hear a response, he looked and realized she had stopped a ways down the corridor, by a door he knew to not be his. "What are you doing?"

"This is the door to your quarters, isn't it?"

"That is normally the Companion's Suite—I use it as a war room of sorts," he explained.

"It wasn't the last time I was here."

"…and when was that?"

The Baroness had little chance to reply, for the Marquis had opened the door before him and stepped into the room. He froze when he saw that it was not his bedroom, as he remembered it so clearly, but instead there were toys and child-sized beds and actual children around the space that all snapped their attention on him when he entered the room. The smallest two, a boy and a girl, rushed towards him happily, crashing into his legs with tight hugs. Another girl with the same complexion as the Baroness ran to her when she entered and the last boy and a young teenaged girl stood from their places and walked over calmly, giving the Marquis a hug each.

"We missed you, Papa!" the small girl said.

"Papa gone long! Too long!" the small boy added.

"Did something happen on the front?" the eldest girl asked.

"What do you know about the front?" the Marquis questioned curiously. The teen raised an eyebrow at him, unsure of how to respond.

"Lena, your papa isn't feeling himself," the Baroness said, jumping into the conversation. "A bomb went off near us and he suffered a significant blow to the head. He is stable otherwise, but his memory is a bit jumbled. It should only be temporary from what I can tell."

"Why is your memory good, Mum?" the girl attached to the Baroness wondered.

"…because Lord Johan selflessly shielded me from most of the blast," she replied. The Baroness then looked at the teen, nodding gravely. "Please make sure your papa rests. I'm taking Oriana down to the cottage and will be back later. We can talk then about what to do."

"Understood; have you written Mama?"

The Baroness gave the teen a look, one that she understood and the Marquis could not read. He scowled as he looked at them both, unable to decipher their silent conversation, and grunted.

"This is a farce."

"What is a fart, Papa?" the little girl wondered.

"He said a farce, Maggie," the older boy corrected. "He means it's absurd." The boy then stared up at him curiously. "What do you think is a farce, Papa?"

"My bed is not where it should be, I have no mourning blacks, these whiskers feel ridiculous, and apparently I've somehow missed the past twenty years of my life, where I supposedly married and sired children that I don't even remember," he replied sharply. "That is the farce, lad." The boy backed away slightly, taken by surprise by his tone.

"Lord Marquis Johan Lonan of Kasterborous and Gallifrey," the teen snapped. "Don't you dare think that just because you suffered an injury and cannot remember who we are, that it makes it acceptable to speak to us like that. I will show you your quarters, and then you will nap, staying out of our way while we decide what to do with your sorry arse."

"Don't you dare talk to me that way, young lady," he fired back. "Considering your commoner's hairstyle, this seems more and more like a joke every moment that passes."

"My hair is short because of your great-uncle! It was not that long ago now that my siblings and I had to escape the walls of Gallifrey while he attempted a coup, and it was easier to leave as a bunch of boys in breeches than it was as girls with long braids and dresses." She held the ends of her hair, which rested just above her shoulders, and glared daggers at him. "This has even grown since then—if you cannot remember that then you truly are mad."

"Those pretenders have not set foot in this earldom, let alone the march, in nearly five-score years," he stated. "If they were here, then I would have known and thrown them out on their treacherous backsides."

The nursery grew silent, those around the Marquis staring at him in shock. He stared back in an attempt to figure out his next course of action only to be taken by surprise—the teenager grabbed his hair and yanked down, pulling him through the room.

"Ow! Let go of me!" he shouted.

"Since Mama is not here and you are not in control of your senses, I am in charge," she stated. She dragged him into the adjoining room and tossed him in the direction of the bed. "As not only your earlessa, but your eldest child and heir, I order you to get some rest and not leave this room until you've at least remembered your manners!"

"You cannot order me around, child!"

"If I must, then I will!" Tears began to well in her eyes, red rimming her lids and her entire body shaking. "So help me, Papa; I am going to make sure that you do not make fools out of us, all because you had to show decency and courage in the line of duty. Now stay here or I will make you stay! Do you understand?!"

Silence settled between them. The teen and the Marquis exchanged glares for a moment before the former stormed back into the other room, slamming the door behind her and leaving the latter alone. Glancing around the room, the Marquis could see some of his things scattered around as though that was where he truly lived. A look in the wardrobe revealed clothes for him—only one set of blacks—and dresses made for a woman the Baroness's height. If this was a trick, it was a very elaborate one.

Not wanting to face the young teen with a temper to match his own, the Marquis kicked off his boots, deposited his cloak on a chair, and laid himself out on the bed covers. Maybe a nap would help things make more sense. He breathed in the scent in the pillow, not knowing why it made him feel more at-ease, yet feeling so all the same.

What was happening to him?