Chapter Three – Some strange 'routine' life (Pt. 1)

The hurting power of numbness makes physical pain seem like child's play in comparison. There's no sense of time or self when it comes. All you know is an inadequacy so big that it fills you to the brim and overflows without a care for you in the process. Your merits, your skills and talents, even your basic human instincts all seem worthless. Not good enough. Not against something intangible like this.

"Where am I," D'Artagnan asked, eyes darting around them like a moth that found itself too close to a burning flame.

"Paris," Athos found himself replying, disbelief constricting his throat.

How could he think or form a coherent thought when all that was replaying in his mind was that terrible moment when he could only watch, helplessly, as his friend-his companion-his…D'Artagnan fell to a foe Athos should have taken, would have had he foreseen, had he run just a little bit faster, had he tried to scare the man off, had he been thinking above those damned traitorous thoughts of protecting the boy at all costs…

"Paris," the boy exclaimed, softly. "What business would I have in Paris?"

But Athos hadn't done any of those things. And those failures burned within him, fueling the already roaring flame that raged he do something now, anything to fix this. "Paris is your business," Athos said, biting out each word as if it took the power of a god to do so. "Since you serve her and her king. I am warning you, boy, if you are pulling some kind of prank…"

He stopped in the middle of his threat when he recognized pure honest confusion. D'Artagnan stared down at the musketeer emblem on his clothes, then moved to wipe away the sweat and blood dripping into his eyes. But he winced when his shaky hand rubbed against the wound, and he pulled it back only to find it covered in blood. If Athos didn't know any better he would have thought it was the first time D'Artagnan had ever seen his own blood because his face was stuck in some place between fascination and revulsion.

"This isn't right…" the boy whispered. "Am I dreaming? I must be-this isn't right at all. I was at home-How did I get here? Where are my parents?" Then he started trembling something worse, something short of full bodily convulsions, than he had after he'd thrown his guts up. D'Artagnan jerked away from Athos and scurried on all fours, and not all that fast or graceful like he usually managed, until he bumped into the wall of the building behind him. Somehow he'd also gotten his sword out and brandished it wildly to drive Athos back.

Athos growled out loud as he barely dodged a swipe that would have rendered his arm permanently useless. "Damn it, boy," he cursed. "What the hell are you-!"

"Stay away from me if you value your life!"

It was a vicious threat, one that came from a baser need for survival and not from any kind of logic or reasoning. Athos would have smirked at the realization that the boy did in fact possess some kind of self-preservation, but there was currently a sword in his face. And Athos never took a threat lightly. "D'Artagnan-"

The boy looked at him sharply, then put on a brave face when he spoke, faint but clear. "You know me, how?"

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. So, Athos backed off a fraction to soften his approach. "Yes, I do-"

"I don't know you-Who are you and why are you here? Why am I here?"

"Do you not remember chasing that villain from the bridge?"

"Villain," D'Artagnan asked. He paused and for a split-second Athos thought he saw the faintest hint of recognition dawn in his face. "Did he insult me?"

"Probably. He was a Spaniard."

D'Artagnan shook his head, then thought better of it, groaning as he leant back against the wall. "No, no the last thing I remember…"

Athos waited on bated breath, crouched with aching knees on the hard sidewalk in suspense, but he paid his own needs no mind. "The last thing you remember…?"

A brief look of pure terror passed through his young friend when he voiced Athos' worst fears between gasps for more air. "I don't know! I don't know-I don't know what I know-or where I am-how I'm here…My head," he moaned. The boy pressed a hand to his forehead and suddenly keeled forward.

Athos wanted to prevent D'Artagnan from injuring himself further but meeting that same infuriating blade again, and nearly missing a well-placed swipe, was the last straw. "Put that stupid thing away, right now!"

"Why should I," D'Artagnan hissed. "I don't know you-"

"Yes, you do," Athos shouted in frustration, his voice echoing down the streets. "That crack in your head has knocked your senses loose, boy. Unless you want to die on the streets from your own lunacy you need to stop acting like a caged animal!"

"Well it's damn hard not to with a complete stranger yelling at me like you are!"

Athos seethed as he tried to catch his breath, itching to stand up and pace in the street. Porthos would have laughed, he supposed. Because looking at the boy right now was like looking into a damned mirror. Where was Mainard? Where were Porthos and Aramis? Either one of them would have been miles better at dealing with this than he.

D'Artagnan clenched his eyes shut and dropped his head. His hand shook under the weight of his sword but, under valiant and stubborn will, he kept it aloft. This kind of vulnerability in his friend was familiar to him, and painfully so because he had been made witness to the worst kind of it, and not of his own volition. Athos knew those layers of D'Artagnan well because they plagued him nearly every damn night he dared to close his eyes. They robbed him of sleep, his peace of mind, and as maddening as it was each night seemed to do worse damage than the one before. He often wondered when he would hit his breaking point. And surprisingly, this wasn't it.

"I could have taken you just then," Athos said, softer this time and with a strangely steady voice. "But I didn't."

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and tried to drag himself up straighter. "Your point?"

"You can trust me-"

"Trust you? Nevermind why-how can I? You could be lying, trying to con me. You could have taken me here-"

"All the way from Gascony," Athos asked. "For what end?"

D'Artagnan paused to study him and shortly came to what Athos deemed the most ridiculous conclusion of the night. "You don't look like a murderer…"

Though he was severely tempted, Athos resisted strong urge to roll his eyes. "Pray tell, would you know one if you saw him?"

"…probably not."

Athos could tell that D'Artagnan's strength was draining fast, and though he normally would have been happy enough to let the little fool fall into a stupor so he was easier to handle something in him made him see the need to gain the boy's trust. And if he couldn't do that now, then things would undoubtedly be all the more difficult when the boy would need better attention than what he could offer. "Who else do you have?"

It was a harsh truth, but D'Artagnan fell silent either way. Athos didn't want to imagine what the boy was feeling because he wasn't ready to accept the truth himself, but that didn't stop a sudden spurt of guilt that rushed through him. So he bargained with himself and the boy, already knowing the outcome. "Name me one person in this city that you know and I will take you to him, I swear it on my honor as a musketeer…and a friend."

D'Artagnan stubbornly shook his head, losing more focus and attention as he did. "Don't-ve many friends."

Athos clenched his useless fists down by his sides and made the last move he could think of. "Regardless, one stands in front of you. The question is what are you going to do about it?"

He almost abandoned his efforts, but D'Artagnan beat him to it with a soft consent, after he couldn't hold his sword up any longer. Needless to say, Athos didn't waste any time once the weapon clattered to the ground. The stench of blood made him cringe, but having the boy safe in his arms made things remarkably better than they had been seconds prior. D'Artagnan looked up at him through fluttering eyelids, still managing some garbled kind of speech-which Athos took as a good sign. "Is't bad?"

Athos sighed, shifting him into a more comfortable position and had another look himself. "Very, you idiot."

"Srry…cn't remmber-"

"Don't remind me. Stay quiet and relax for a moment." Though the delivery was a bit gruff, the message got across because D'Artagnan did just that. Even when Athos pressed a bloody handkerchief to his head again the boy grimaced but didn't protest. And by the time Mainard returned, slightly red in the face from running, D'Artagnan was almost out cold again.

"Sorry, Athos-"

"It's fine. Can we move him?"

"Yes, the physician said as long as he's woken up it's safe."

Mainard offered help but Athos declined, not too keen on the strange idea of someone else helping him carry the boy inside. Maybe it was to pacify his own wants. Maybe it was in compensation for Aramis and Porthos' absence. Maybe it was his own guilt at work, telling him that the least he could do after failing to protect the boy was this small deed. Either way, Mainard didn't question him and went on ahead to open the door and direct them through the hallway to the kitchen.

Athos set D'Artagnan down on the table while Mainard stoked the fire back to life. It seemed an infinite age before the physician arrived and though Mainard tried to distract Athos by cushioning D'Artagnan's head on a small pillow and making small conversation nothing could seem to happen fast enough. While the physician was in the midst of cleaning D'Artagnan's wound to get a better look, Aramis and Porthos came in on quiet feet with similar looks of dismay.

"What happened, Athos," Aramis asked.

He bolstered through the account while Mainard ushered Porthos to a chair for his leg. All three men cringed when he came to the injury itself. Afterwards, Athos frowned, unsure of how to continue. "But that's not the worst part…"

"What is," Porthos asked, wary of the answer.

"Memory loss," the physician asked, interrupting.

Athos looked at the small man and could do nothing but nod in confirmation at those pitying eyes.

A pained but resigned look passed through Aramis' features. "How bad?"

"He didn't know who I was," Athos whispered to Aramis as he passed him. He'd had enough of being here, of sitting and watching as the physician made soft noises at the ghastly wound that never should have been there in the first place, of waiting for news, of facing these absurd circumstances. He rubbed the side of his head to stave off the start of an intense headache, determined to ignore the stubborn dried blood still under his fingernails, and the fact that it had been there before, not so long ago.

The physician finished bandaging the young musketeer's head and turned around again. "It may only have been temporary, monsieurs-"

"And if it wasn't," Athos snapped.

"Then time will tell, as all injuries do."

Athos huffed and started pacing the length of the room to vent his frustration. No one moved to stop him.

"Will he be all right," Aramis asked.

"Don't let the blood worry you, son. He should be fine in a few days time as long as he gets plenty of rest. Try not to let the boy overexert himself. Now, his memories may come back slowly or perhaps all at once or…"

He stopped when he noticed Athos glaring daggers at him. Aramis was about to rectify the situation, but Mainard stepped in and ushered Athos into the hallway. After he reluctantly went the physician cleared his throat and continued, under softer glares from Aramis and Porthos.

"It could take hours, days, months-I don't dare say years for further upsetting your friend but you must be prepared for the possibility that the boy may never recover them. I wish there were an easier way of telling if that were true, but regrettably there is not. Repairing the mind is a difficult process to judge, and most men like myself put more faith in God than they do medicine on such matters."

"Then what good are you," Porthos growled.

Before Aramis could interject or apologize for his companion, the doctor stepped forward and held his ground like a soldier himself. "I don't say this to be cruel. I only mean to deter you all from any false truths that may do you and the boy further harm. I would think that would be the least of mercies that is in my power to offer."

In the moments that followed, Porthos deflated and leaned back into his chair, grumbling about needing some strong kind of alcohol Aramis hadn't heard of before. The physician turned his back on them to wash his hands, and when he was done, Aramis met him with a quiet apology. "Forgive us, monsieur," Aramis said. "You are not the first one to deliver us ill news regarding our dear friend."

The old man sighed. "What else has the boy suffered?"

"You have noticed the scar on his chest?"

"I have…"

"It was a bullet wound," Aramis confessed. "From the battlefield this past winter."

"A badly infected one," Porthos whispered.

The physician was shocked, but kept his voice and his disbelief quiet. "An injury like that would kill a full grown man twice his size!"

"But not our D'Artagnan," Aramis said with a small smile. The former priest laid a hand on the boy's head and brushed some of his hair away from his face. "What else do you advise in this matter?"

The doctor sighed. "Well, aside from the obvious fact that this boy is lucky to be alive, if I can assume he was perfectly healthy before this with no lasting ill-effects from the injury you described…if he gets any worse I want you to fetch me immediately. Routine things may help him along, but I would advise against pushing him too hard. There was a young girl I treated once who similarly lost years of memory from a fall, and under the strain of wanting to remember and the guilt she felt from her family for not being able to do so…her mind broke."

Athos looked on from the doorway in a stony immovable silence, having heard every word. What could they do? What could he do? Worse than being patient was having no direction whatsoever. Being lost was just not something Athos took lying down. And yet here he was, feeling like the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet, because all he could see were those eyes that claimed they didn't know him. Those same eyes that looked to him in fear and pain…and cold-

"What's his name," Mainard asked, crossing to him from the now closed front door.

"D'Artagnan," he whispered, without turning his head.

Mainard made a soft noise of acknowledgment. "I recognize that name well. My father always held that family in the highest of respects."

Athos leaned against the wall and felt the exhaustion start to take its hold over him. "As we do this one."

Mainard didn't say anything and moved to rest next to him. "He's a musketeer?"

"Practically."

"He's so young! They haven't lowered the age requirement?"

"No. He…made his own way into things. In his own fashion."

"And what fashion is that?"

"Stubborn, brazen, and inconceivably foolish."

Mainard nodded in understanding. "Like you then?"

Athos turned a tired look at Mainard, for he felt that his arsenal of glares had been long-since spent.

Mainard smirked. "Pardon, like you used to be."

Athos shook his head and rubbed the length of his face with a tired hand. "You're lucky."

"For getting out of the corps when I did? Have you any idea what terrors and horrors await a married man? A father with sons and daughters who look to you for nearly everything? I spend half my day catching running noses and making up stories while I spend my other half fighting for their food and clothes…as much as a merchant can fight for such things, I suppose. With all due respect, old friend, you have no idea!" Mainard paused to chuckle at Athos' innocence, but stopped when he looked over at the worn and worried expression that hadn't left the man since they entered his house. "Or perhaps you do…"

Athos clenched his teeth together and stubbornly refused to reply, winding his arms further into each other, crossed in front of his chest. Mainard put a comforting hand on his shoulder, drawing nearer to whisper in his ear. "It's not the worst thing in the world, you know."

"Papa," a small but fearful voice called.

Both men turned and spotted a young boy, no older than two or three years old, huddled and clutching a wooden peg of the staircase, trying to wedge his way through. Mainard mumbled an apology and went quickly to his younger son's side, stretching his arms out to pull the little one free so he wouldn't fall. When he did the child immediately burrowed himself into his father's embrace. As Athos watched, Mainard slowly paced in the hallway as if he and his son were the only ones there.

"Cauchemar, mon étourneau petits?" (Nightmare, my little starling?)

"Oui, papa." (Yes, father.)

"Pourquoi tremblant-vous?" (Why do you tremble?)

"Il faisait sombre. Je ne pouvoir pas vous trouver." (It was dark. I could not find you.)

"Tu veux, dormir maintenant? (Will you sleep now?)

The boy shook his head with teary eyes, muttering a series of no's into his father's shirt.

"No," Mainard repeated in question, rubbing his son's back. "Voulez-vous rencontrer un de mes amis?" (Would you like to meet a friend of mine?)

The child perked up at that, probably more so at the fact he wasn't being immediately put back to bed, and nodded his head in earnest.

"Athos, this is Leander, one of my youngest. The boy you saw earlier was his older brother, Stephan. Speaking of which," he said, turning back to his son. "Where is your brother?"

"Endormi." (Asleep.)

"Ah, that explains things. Leander, this is an old friend of mine. His name is Athos."

The little boy held up the other hand that wasn't clutched in his father's shirt next to his small face and opened and closed his fingers in greeting. Though smiling was not something Athos did, often, or at all of recent, he spared a small one for the child. "You are the very image of your father, little one."

"Oui, monsieur?"

Athos nodded with softer eyes. Leander smiled and snuggled against his father, trying to hide a yawn. Mainard smiled and patted the child as he shifted him in his arms. "I'll only be a few moments."

Mainard disappeared up the stairs faster than Athos would have liked, because he suddenly didn't like the idea of being alone. He hadn't given much thought to ever having a family. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his current circumstances described that rather perfectly. Aramis and Porthos had been with him so long that he'd stopped thinking of them as anything less than family. And though D'Artagnan had only been with them for little over a year the boy added…something to their dull and sad lives…or maybe it was just his sad and sorry life he was thinking of.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, jerking Athos out of his thoughts. The boy was coming around again, but the looks on Aramis and Porthos' face stopped him from re-entering the room. "Do you not know us?"

"Should I," the boy asked with a fair amount of guilt and a twinge of fear. "'m-I stll…dreaming?"

"Go to sleep, boy," the physician said, with a gentle hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Rest now. All is well."

And D'Artagnan did just that, falling back into slumber as if it were as simple as blowing out a candle flame. Athos, on hearing the arrival of a wagon outside, went to open the front door and send word to Monsieur de Treville of D'Artagnan's injury. He paused just as the messenger asked about the nature of the injury itself. Could the boy wake in the morning and remember everything as if all of this were some crazy dream? That was the excuse he gave himself for making light of the injury and sending the messenger on his way. He turned to go back inside but found Porthos limping down the steps and Aramis carrying D'Artagnan with the physician in tow. As Athos helped Porthos down the steps, Mainard came out and helped Aramis settle D'Artagnan in the wagon with Porthos sitting on the edge.

"Now, remember wake him every three hours and ask him simple things," the physician advised. "His name. Where he is. How old he is. Who the King of Spain is if he knows it, the subject matters not. Ask him things he would know at the drop of a hat. If his memory worsens I'll expect a call from you no matter the hour."

"If his memory does worsen," Aramis said, before climbing up to the front of the wagon. "What can you do?"

"Truthfully, monsieur, I do not know. I have other friends I can consult, friends who specialize in this sort of thing, but you must understand the human mind is a new science nowadays. There is not much we know with certainty, but that does not mean we cannot hope."

Aramis thanked the man as Athos thanked Mainard. "I won't forget this," Athos told him.

"I know you won't," Mainard replied, pushing Athos toward the front seat. "Just see if you can get any money out of those Spaniards so I can repair my railing."

Athos nodded, still in a bit of a daze, as Aramis took the reins and urged the lone horse forward down the streets towards home. Later that night, or earlier that morning when they settled D'Artagnan in his room they took turns keeping watch, and waking him as the physician had ordered. Athos was ready to call the man the first time they did wake D'Artagnan, but the boy had answered every question correctly, albeit a bit slower than usual. None of them got much sleep that night, Aramis and Athos bearing the worst of it checking between D'Artagnan and Porthos once they could convince the big man to rest in his own room. Sometime towards dawn, when Aramis finally succumbed to hours of dozing Athos found he couldn't tear his eyes away from D'Artagnan's pale face in the dim candlelight.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

But no amount of wishing, bargaining, or shouting would change things back.

And there was no doubt about it.

He would by no means forgive himself for this.

…ever.