CHAPTER TEN
It had not been their intention, but now that they had provided clothes and increased his interest in his surroundings, the Comte rose early and took a walk by himself, finding himself in the orchard at the rear of the compound.
Spotting a small cemetery behind the low wall that surrounded the orchard, he crossed over to it and leant on the wall, looking at the tended graves. He found himself genuinely saddened at the sight. A sense of peace descended upon him then and after a few long moments, he turned to see Captain Treville watching him from the far end of the plot.
Walking quietly over to him, the older man nodded.
Treville wondered if this place meant anything to him, but it soon became evident that it did not.
"It is a fitting place, Captain," the Comte murmured, as he came to stand beside him. "I did not wish to intrude," he added.
"You're not intruding, Comte," Treville replied, using the moniker for the first time. "My men often come here to pay their respects and to gather their thoughts after missions."
"I suppose death is a constant companion to your men. The loss of a brother-in-arms must be hard to bear," came the studied reply.
"That is why we train so hard," Treville said. "The King expects it but so do I."
"Your men have everything they need here in the Garrison," the Comte observed. "Everything is to hand."
He side-glanced the Captain then;
"Your men are first born sons?"
"Not all," Treville replied. "I take men on merit as well as birthright."
"I will walk you back," the Captain added. "Aramis would make an annoyance of himself if I were to keep you out here too long."
Sensing an unspoken question, Treville smiled;
"I defer to him in matters of health in most cases. He has battlefield experience and is known for his neat stitching."
As Olivier walked back with the Captain, he thought of the scar he had found on his shoulder. He had found others, equally neat. The dream he had flitted through his mind and his step faltered. Ahead, d'Artagnan was engaged in heated swordplay with Aramis. As the Comte and Treville approached, Treville turned.
"I will leave you in good company," he said, as they parted.
Aramis dropped the tip of his blade to the ground as the Comte approached.
Olivier thought he would be challenged for escaping the Infirmary alone, but Aramis merely nodded and directed him to the table the three usually sat at before turning back to d'Artagnan to re-engage.
Settling himself in the sun, he watched the swordplay with interest. A little while later, Porthos came out and passed him a hat. He accepted it, gladly, as the sun was hot.
"Should fit," Porthos said. It was after all, Athos's own hat. The big man dropped into place at his side. The Comte placed the hat on his head and adjusted the brim in a familiar gesture, which made Porthos's breath hitch.
"Told ya," he said quietly, as he looked away.
Aramis finished the training bout and turned back. Seeing Athos sitting at their table, his hat firmly on his head, stopped him in his tracks and he was momentarily undone. To see his friend thus, avoiding the sun as he would normally do with a vengeance, hurt his heart. Just then, though, the man looked up and smiled.
"Good morning," Aramis said, recovering quickly, as he approached the table. "It's good to see you out here."
"The genie is released from the bottle," his friend said, with a soft smile.
There would be no use arguing, Aramis realised. They had gone past the point of keeping their brother contained. Their efforts to jog his memory may be their undoing. The next step must surely be his wish, or in this case, need, to return home. After yesterday, it could be that he may linger a little longer, but eventually, Pinon would call. There was also the matter of a certain woman who had apparently caught his interest. Hopefully, it was early days and would not be enough to drive him home.
Aramis settled down and considered such thoughts as he poured and passed wine across the table.
"I was watching you and d'Artagnan training yesterday," the Comte interrupted his thoughts, his eyes on the new training bout that had started across the yard.
"Oh?"
"Yesterday, from my window," he replied, accepting the wine. "He is promising."
"He misses his mentor," Aramis said, before closing his mouth abruptly.
"What happened?" the Comte asked.
"He is away at the moment," Aramis replied.
"Ah, he is the one whose books you leant me?"
The Comte was as sharp as the Lieutenant it seemed.
"Yes, the very same."
"When is he due to return?"
"I do not know," Aramis replied, quietly, looking away. "We await word."
"I would offer my services," the Comte said, quietly. "I have reached a certain level," he added.
Well, that was an understatement, Aramis thought, as he met his friend's enquiring gaze.
"Your arm," Aramis said.
"I have another."
"So you do, but let me strap the injured one better, if you are to do this."
If d'Artagnan had tears in his eyes when Aramis quietly approached him and informed him that he was to have a new sparring partner, nothing was said.
"I will be careful," he said, out of earshot of the table, where Porthos was sitting with Athos.
"I don't think there will be a need," Aramis said, smiling. "Just, don't get injured yourself."
d'Artagnan smirked and turned toward the table, giving Athos a confident bow.
The Comte raised an eyebrow at his impudence and Porthos threw back his head and laughed.
Aramis's heart leapt at the scene and he stepped away as the Comte rose to his feet, a look of determination on his face that had d'Artagnan blinking for a moment.
"Hold the thought," the Comte called to d'Artagnan, all the more sounding like Athos.
Allowing Aramis to lead him into the Infirmary, he sat at the table while Aramis bound his shoulder tightly, before replacing the sling.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Supported," the dry reply came. "I doubt I can move it."
"That's the idea," Aramis replied, biting back the use of his name.
"Then let us not keep your young man waiting. I believe he is keen to begin."
"d'Artagnan is always keen," Aramis laughed. "Were we but that age again."
"Speak for yourself," the Comte replied, haughtily, walking toward the door.
"You're several years older than you think you are," Aramis muttered out of earshot as he scratched his head and hurried after his friend.
Even though he was a little anxious though, he was greatly looking forward to this coming exchange.
In the yard, word had got round that d'Artagnan was to fight his mentor. Porthos had gone around and made sure that if they were to take sides, they were to shout, "Comte," and not "Athos."
As Aramis and the Comte emerged, Porthos gave Aramis a small nod to that effect, and he relaxed.
Aramis took a sword from the rack against the wall and walked across to meet his friend. The Comte reached up and patted his shoulder, as Aramis had a quiet word with his patient before handing him the sword. They parted and d'Artagnan was confronted by a swishing and swiping blade a few inches from his face.
"Just limbering up," the Comte said, softly, turning to look at Aramis, with a raised eyebrow. Aramis sighed, before giving him a flourishing bow. Despite his entreaties to take care, the Comte was not going to go easy on d'Artagnan. Or himself.
"What did he say?" d'Artagnan called, above the chuntering of their audience, as they began to circle each other.
"He told me not to hurt you," the clipped response came.
"He said the same to me," d'Artagnan returned, with a smirk.
They took up the stance and the yard fell silent.
"Let us see what you have learned from your mentor," the Comte said quietly.
d'Artagnan's gaze flicked to Aramis, who held up his hand in a placating gesture and nodded assurance.
"He is the best," d'Artagnan replied.
"Show me," the reply came.
The words were barely out of his mouth, before d'Artagnan lunged.
Despite having his right arm in a sling, the Comte's balance was good and he easily parried the blade, twisting it aside in a classic move that he and Athos had made countless times.
The game was on.
The Comte turned away while 'Artagnan straightened, swiping his own blade through the air;
"A classic opening move," he murmured.
Behind him, Porthos was quietly moving through his brothers-in-arms, surreptitiously taking bets. Treville was at the Palace in his weekly audience with the King, and so he did not have to keep glancing up at the Captain's office.
There was a roar from the Musketeers then and Porthos looked up to see d'Artagnan on his backside.
He looked across at Aramis, who was standing by the stable, and they both shrugged.
The Comte walked over and, tucking his blade under his arm, he held out his hand to pull d'Artagnan up.
d'Artagnan glared at it, before grasping it and turning in a crouch, pulling the Comte off balance.
He staggered slightly and d'Artagnan's eyes went wide, thinking he had gone too far with the injured man. Those assembled sucked in an collective breath, but the Comte merely side stepped and came back with a series of flurries that had d'Artagnan backing into one of the oak posts.
After that, the gloves were off and the fight was on.
Every now and then d'Artagnan heard words of acknowledgement from his opponent.
"Good," "Excellent," and "Bravo."
It had taken months of training before Athos had offered such encouragement, but the day he did was one he would never forget. This man readily offered praise, and d'Artagnan was beginning to see how the noble had trained him, and the Musketeer had taken on the further task of ensuring he could safely defend himself against any attack that came at him.
It brought a surge of emotion to him that had him wiping his sleeve across his eyes, though to those watching, he was merely wiping perspiration from his brow.
For perspire they both did, shirts clinging to their backs now.
Athos rolled his head on his shoulders, the sling biting into his slick neck, but he did not tire.
d'Artagnan ensured that his movements were compact, so as not to needlessly tire them both, and the Comte easily matched him.
It was more an example of form over exertion, though d'Artagnan scored a few "hits" along the way.
Not enough to win, though and Porthos grinned widely when the Comte pressed his opponent into a post, his blade against his neck, faces inches apart.
Panting for breath, but both looking exhilarated, d'Artagnan conceded and the Comte stepped back, dropping his blade tip to the earth.
"I know, I'm dead," d'Artagnan said, slightly disappointed that he still could not best the man.
"Well," the Comte said, turning, eyebrow raised, "I wouldn't say that."
"No, but Athos would," d'Artagnan muttered to his retreating back.
Porthos was counting his winnings at the table when he approached.
"Who did you bet on?" the Comte asked, eyeing the coins.
"Ah, that would be tellin'" Porthos replied, with a loud laugh.
"And a gentlemen never tells," the Comte replied, smiling when Porthos looked up.
There was no malice on his face, he was merely stating what he felt, and Porthos was a little stunned, but tucked his head quickly back down to continue counting.
Aramis rose from the bench and walked across to the sword rack, pulling a light blade and turning back. The Comte had tracked him and they now stood looking at each other, each with a sword in their hand.
Aramis raised his and saluted.
"Shall we?" Aramis asked.
d'Artagnan joined Porthos as the table and they shared a grin.
The Comte flexed his arm, holding his gaze with those familiar green eyes.
"If you think I am up to it," he replied, dryly.
"It would seem so, though you will probably pay for it tomorrow," Aramis replied.
"Tomorrow will take care of itself. Why not?" the Comte murmured.
Aramis carefully and silently assessed him. He was a little breathless, but his eyes were bright and his face relaxed. After the last week, this was a revelation that took his breath away. Here was Athos, at his best, unfettered and free.
They circled each other slowly, before taking up the stance.
At the table, Porthos rubbed his hands together and picked up his hat, holding it out to the willing audience who were relishing a second bout.
Aramis fought completely differently to Athos. They all had their own styles but over the years, when sparring together, they had learned each others moves. Often Aramis and Athos were evenly matched, though Athos always held the edge. There was a quiet patience to Athos, like a cat waiting to strike. He rarely left himself open, and was economic with his moves, a twist here, a turn there, and always taking every advantage that presented itself. Aramis's forte was his sharpshooter's eye, and he could outshoot any soldier in the regiment, but his swordplay was bold and sometimes flamboyant, as was his personality. That left enough slack for Athos to pick up and exploit. He did that now. His loss of memory had not effected his muscle memory and he drove Aramis to the edge of his control. Aramis, though, hated to lose and gave as good as he got. Athos's energy levels were a lot lower of course, and Aramis would be a fool not to take that into account, though he was elated that he was fighting Athos rather than the Comte. Whatever Athos had learned since leaving Pinon was there to see.
Half an hour later, their bout was declared a draw, much to the disappointment of the audience, who drifted away, some winners, some losers.
Both grinned as they shook hands.
The Comte caught Porthos's eye as he walked back to the table.
Porthos held up his hands.
"Come back when you're ready to really fight," he laughed, dropping the fist of his right hand into the open palm of his left.
He watched Athos weigh him up. For a moment, he thought the Comte was going to engage, but he dropped the sword tip into the dirt once more. And then, he inclined his head in agreement. Porthos swallowed at the familiar gestured.
"I am surprised my muscles did not protest sooner," he said. "I cannot remember when I last trained."
Porthos could have told him. Only the day before his accident. But that memory had gone the way that the others had. He was saved from replying by Aramis, who was putting the swords back in the rack.
"A drink, Gentlemen?" Aramis called.
The Comte started to sit at the table, when Aramis called out, "The Wren."
When the Comte did not move, Aramis waved his hand;
"It's not far away. Clean up and we will call for you. We can eat there."
"Good idea," Porthos replied, in relief. "I'm starvin'"
"When are you not, my friend?" Aramis laughed.
As the Comte made his way back to his room, d'Artagnan rose to stand next to Aramis and Porthos.
"Well," he said, his eyes shining, "That was ..."
"Yeah," Porthos interrupted. "It was, wasn't it."
To be continued ...
oOo
A/N: Goodness, I've now written over 700,000 words of Musketeer fan fiction in just under four years!