Chapter Four – Some strange routine life (Pt. 2)

Comfort was his first clue that something wasn't right. The second clue was that it was late morning, judging from the light behind his eyelids. And he was still in bed. His father hadn't come to drag his lazy hide out of bed. Was he sick? There was the pounding in his head, the bandage wrapped between matted locks of his hair, and the faint smell of blood. An injury. But was it an accident? What caused it? He nearly cringed at the idea of what his mother must have been thinking and what horrors he would be forced to endure under her vigilant watch once she found out he was awake. But there was something else that didn't seem right. There were other strange smells that didn't come from his mother's cooking, or from the pastures around his house. And what of the sounds outside of his room-his room? This wasn't his room…

Once he got passed the initial panic and fear of waking up in a place he had no memory of, D'Artagnan dragged an arm beneath him as leverage to give himself a better vantage point of his whereabouts. Through bleary and sleep-heavy eyes he scanned the modest room and the things it contained. Most of the objects out in plain sight were surprisingly things that belonged to him. Others he was not certain about. When he got to the partially open armoire across from the bed he saw more of his things, hung up and placed inside as if they'd been there for quite some time. The window was small but the light that reflected off the building next door made the room fairly bright and well lit. Next door? And what were those familiar sounds growing louder? Horses. And carriages…no, wagons…on cobblestones. This was certainly no place in Gascony. It didn't smell right or feel right at all. He was in a city, that was certain, but which one? Surely not-

His eyes finally landed on a chair by his bedside and a man sleeping in it. On first sight he looked terrible. Exhausted and worn as if he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in a long time. But by his bedside? Perhaps this wasn't his room or his bed-but then how did that explain D'Artagnan's things strewn about as if they'd been there for months? And what other secrets did that armoire across the room hide if not more of his own things? D'Artagnan bit back a groan as his headache worsened. But he stubbornly turned his attention back to the man in the chair to at least try and solve something of this peculiar mystery that surrounded him.

The man was probably twice his age. His hair was thinning in a few places, and there were small, almost unnoticeable if it weren't for the light of the window, patches of gray here and there. Not married from the absence of a ring. His features and some small details of his clothes made D'Artagnan think he was a noble. But a noble in a place like this? Perhaps he was at one time. In fact, his clothes looked more like…a uniform if anything. The uniform of what, a soldier? That made sense. A guardsman or, dare he even think, a musketeer?

A musketeer.

Paris.

He had seen this man before. Last night. Out on the streets somewhere. It was a fleeting and vague memory, but something definite in all this mess of strangeness. Before he could continue trying to figure out more, and not that he wanted to with his head hurting the way it was, the door creaked open. A thin man with sharp features peeked inside, followed by another one with a rounder face and bigger eyes. D'Artagnan froze under their gazes and must have looked as stupid as a caught doe on a summer's afternoon because he didn't have the faintest idea what to do or say.

"Go on," the man sleeping in the chair droned. "I'll tell you when he wakes."

D'Artagnan blinked. Wasn't that man asleep? Even awake he still looked like he was sleeping. Both men at the door smirked and opened the door wider to come further into the room. The larger of the two walked with a limp and a cane, ignoring the worried glances he was getting from the smaller man. The latter of the two came up behind the chair and leaned forward to speak into the seated man's ear.

"And if he's already awake, Athos?"

The one they called Athos snapped his eyes open and jerked forward in his chair, catching himself at the last moment before falling out of it. The larger man's laughs echoed throughout the house, even when Athos turned to level a heated glare at both of the men behind him. D'Artagnan felt like he should laugh, that he could laugh if he wanted to, but he refrained as the attention in the room abruptly turned to him. Athos looked like he didn't know what to say, and the way the man was looking at him was starting to make D'Artagnan uncomfortable, but he never dropped his gaze.

"How are you feeling, lad," the bigger man asked, sitting down on the bottom corner of the bed with a wince.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and fought against the nerves in his stomach that were telling him he was in the company of complete strangers. But the logic in his brain told him that they were strangers who had obviously been taking care of him, so they could hardly be deemed as such… "Strange," he replied. "Have I been ill?"

The three men shared a look before turning back to him, all with anxious hopeful expressions. "You hit your head last night and gave us all a good scare," the man behind the chair said, as if there were some underlying question D'Artagnan was supposed to hear and answer.

The explanation certainly sounded correct because his head was still aching something awful and sitting up seemed to only have made it worse. "Oh…I'm sorry if I worried you-"

"You should be," Athos interrupted.

"Athos," the man behind him barked sharply. Even the bigger man who had looked nothing but gentle and warm turned cold and disapproving of what Athos had said to him.

The man in question frowned and then sulked back in his chair, seemingly apologetic for his outburst. "But what that Spaniard did to you was hardly your fault."

"A Spaniard did this to me," D'Artagnan asked. He received three slow nods in return. "Why?"

He could have been wrong, but that simple question seemed to have sucked all the air out of the room. Athos looked positively sick and D'Artagnan suddenly felt guilty for asking, but his curiosity held his tongue in hopes for an answer. The man behind Athos braced both arms on the back of the chair and took a deep breath before speaking again. "D'Artagnan, what is the last thing you remember?"

The image in his mind was clear, and it came as quick as any memory for him ever had. It stood out so clearly in his mind that when he tried to think any farther forward all he received was a jumbled mess. "My home in Gascony," he said. "The night before my birthday."

The man behind the chair went to say something more but silenced himself when Athos held a hand up. "How old are you, boy," Athos asked.

D'Artagnan quirked an eyebrow at the seriousness behind the simple question and replied with an unsaid question of his own in his response. "Sixteen?"

All three faces of his companions fell in varying degrees of horror and disbelief. Athos rose abruptly and turned his back on the rest of them, facing the window but not looking out. The one who stood behind the chair placed a hand over his mouth and tiredly leant on his propped elbow on the back of the chair. The other man who sat on the edge of his bed banged the end of it on the floor in frustration.

"Am I not?" D'Artagnan blinked and sat up straighter, wincing under the strain. Was there something else he wasn't remembering? Why were these men who picked him up off the streets acting this way? As if they'd…known him. He blanched at the realization that there was no other explanation. It fit. It made sense. But if that were true, where were those memories? He racked his mind for answers and found a rush of disjointed and confusing information. Places and people and feelings that were just wrong in such a big maddening mess he tried to vocalize in his efforts to make it make sense. "I remember there was a…fight, a battle-gunshots and I'm running. I know I can't stop but I hit something and-and I…I'm falling. I'm falling from the sky and then I'm not…I'm on a ship-but the ship is-no that doesn't make sense…"

He pressed the heel of his palm against his throbbing head and continued in a race to keep up with the things he barely had time to grasp. "No, no I'm not. I'm not. I'm not falling. Someone caught me and I'm-I don't know where but I know these places, these people, this…pain and-and a darkness with it-I know I should know these things, you, your faces but I don't-I can't-I want to but damn it all I can't," he cried, bordering between desperate and hysteric.

The man from behind the chair circled around in a flash and sat by his side, taking him by the arms and speaking in a soft but commanding tone that soothed the worst of his tremors. "No, stop-Stop. Stop. It's all right. Don't push yourself. It will come back to you in time. Just breathe. You're safe with us, I promise you."

D'Artagnan let out a groan of pain and leant against the man holding him upright.

"Is your head hurting?"

D'Artagnan nodded, unable to contain a soft sound of discomfort.

"Here," the man said, handing him a glass of water that someone else handed to him. "Drink this. It will help."

He did as he was told, but the pain grew and made his stomach churn. "I feel sick," he moaned.

"It will pass. Lie back down."

He did as the voice told him and tried to breathe through the nausea and pain. Time passed slowly and he began to feel the effects of a fever coming on, but someone put a cool damp cloth on his forehead and that instantly made things better. He looked up and saw two faces but no names with which to accompany them. "What are your names," he asked.

The thinner one who had given him the water offered him a smile that didn't reach his eyes and spoke softer than he had before. "I am Aramis."

"Aramis," D'Artagnan echoed, testing the name on his tongue and finding it somewhat familiar.

"And I am Porthos," the bigger man supplied with the same volume.

"Porthos…"

Aramis glanced across the room and D'Artagnan followed his line of vision. "And our other friend is-"

"Athos," D'Artagnan guessed.

The man spun around from his spot by the window and looked as tense and ready to spring into action like a threatened full-grown stag, but he didn't. He stayed despite his discomfort and D'Artagnan took that as a good sign to voice the one question that was at the forefront of his jumbled thoughts, the one question he needed answered above all the rest. "Tell me," D'Artagnan asked in a stronger voice. "Our friendship is obvious to me but how did this all start? How did we meet?"

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all shared a look. And D'Artagnan thought that must have been a common thing among them, among friends who must have known each other for a very long time, communicating without speaking. To even know someone that well, to be able to tell their thoughts, wants, or needs by a simple look seemed extraordinary to him. It made him wonder, and not for the first time, whether he'd been able to find a place in their routine life, whether they'd let him in, and to what extent he let them into his own life.

One warm smile from Aramis chased those insecurities away. "Unexpectedly," his friend began. And, hours later, he had a much better idea of what kind of place he'd carved out for himself since leaving home.

Porthos sat by the boy's bedside, twirling his cane and listening to Aramis trying in vain to gain entry to Athos' room. Sometime during their tale Athos had slipped from the room. At the time neither he nor Aramis paid the sound of the closing door any mind, mostly for D'Artagnan's sake and the appearance of normalcy. But as soon as they'd finished, and when D'Artagnan gave into his light dozing, Aramis quit the room. The former priest had been at it for twenty minutes with no result.

"His stubbornness will outlast the gates of hell," the former priest hissed, fuming quietly as he re-entered the room.

"Best to leave him be for a while," Porthos whispered back to him.

"If we leave Athos to his brooding who is to say he will come out of it on his own? You know how he is. And surely you remember how he was last winter."

"Aye," Porthos said with a warning to his tone. "I remember it well. And so do you. But I also know when to leave a man be and when to kick him in the arse for being an arse. He's not had a moment's peace since this happened. Let him have it for now, Aramis."

The other man deflated a bit at that and leaned against the wall, seeming to sink into himself a little. "Athos was always the voice of reason when it came to things like this," Aramis murmured.

Porthos turned to him, affronted. "And we've no brains in our heads?"

Aramis smirked. "Not you, surely."

"Easy now, I'd hate to wake the lad."

Aramis smiled at first, but as the silent moments passed between them the smile disappeared, and he whispered, more softly than Porthos had ever heard him. "I don't know how to fix this, Porthos."

Porthos followed his friend's line of sight and landed on the sleeping peaceful boy. A boy who was their dear friend, their trustworthy comrade, their…well, little brother in all proper senses of the title, even if Athos wanted to deny it at every single opportunity it came. "Neither do I," Porthos replied. "And neither does Athos. But what can we do?"

"Nothing. Nothing that I know of. Nothing that anyone knows of." Aramis straightened and replaced some of the sadness with determination. "I must go to the church. God answered our prayers before. Perhaps he is still listening."

"Aramis," Porthos called him back. "What will we do when Treville calls? Or Essarts?"

Aramis scoffed. "My answer for now? Lie to them until his memory returns."

"Until?"

"Yes," his friend replied, hard and final.

"And will your answer be different when you return?"

Then Aramis sighed, before leaving. "Most likely."

Porthos shook his head, leaned the cane against the boy's bedside and buried his face in his hands, rubbing them down his face and past his cheeks. He was awake. This was not some horrible dream. He hadn't ingested any foul wine or spoiled food. He wasn't sick and he wasn't hallucinating. D'Artagnan was lying in his bed in front of him without his memories. Yes, the boy knew who he was, but what did that mean to them when he couldn't remember the friends that he had carved out a place for himself with? Friends who had shunned him at first. Challenged him to duels. Scoffed at him. Thought him young and immature. Inexperienced and naïve.

Porthos felt like the naïve young boy now. In the face of all this he felt smaller, like a forgotten crumb beneath the dinner table. And if he felt that way, he supposed Aramis felt something similar, and Athos something even more wretched. Porthos straightened in his chair and turned an ear towards the hallway, keeping his eyes on D'Artagnan and his ears trained for Athos. Because if that man had his way, the Spaniards they did manage to capture would have been better off tossed over the bridge and drowned in the Seine.

D'Artagnan breathed the spring air deep into his lungs, closing his eyes with the back of his head cradled in his hands in the tall grass. The wind rustled the thick cotton of his loose shirt and sent a chill to the parts of his chest that were still wet with sweat, reminding him that winter had indeed passed, and that summer would soon come to take its place. He smiled peacefully, thinking of all the work there was to do under a warm sun instead of at the mercy of dark overcast days. He hated the winter only for what it was supposed to bring, and almost always failed to do. A few inches here. Perhaps a foot once every few years there. Why did winter have to come if it couldn't snow?

"I know what you are thinking," Miguel said, sitting above him.

"Do you," D'Artagnan asked.

"Absolutely. And you are mad to think it."

"And what am I thinking?"

Miguel leaned down, close to D'Artagnan's face, trying to goad his friend into revealing his secrets, as was his usual and playful wont. But D'Artagnan rarely gave in, mostly out of stubbornness, sometimes out of playfulness himself, but sometimes-like today-out of that something else he couldn't put a name to. It had something to do with both of the afore mentioned reasons, but it also had a dose of ease that came with the comfort of a close friendship. It had something to do with trust. And it also had something to do with a homeless need to instigate, to challenge.

And Miguel was always so obliging in that respect.

Today, D'Artagnan opened his eyes and looked into Miguel's face, inches from his with a cool calmness and a sneaking smirk. "Well?"

Miguel bit the inside of his lip before replying. "Snow-"

D'Artagnan groaned out loud and pushed Miguel off of him. His friend chuckled. "How many times have I told you, friend?"

"I'm an open book, yes we know," D'Artagnan groused.

"And yet you still challenge me?"

He turned to face Miguel, lying beside him. "Well, you can't be right all the time."

"I am not. Only with you, of course."

He opened his mouth to reply, but paused. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult…"

"Maybe both. Why not have both? The best of good and bad, like an old forgotten wine in the stores of a cellar, bitter and dry from ages of loneliness, but savory and rich in new discovery, subtle sweetness in remembered agonies and…liberation."

D'Artagnan was momentarily struck dumb. Even when Miguel turned to look at him in waiting for a response, he still had a hard time with his own simple words that came to mind. "That's good."

"Sí," Miguel said in realization, digging for his journal and lead stick to write it down. "Sí, es muy bueno!" (Yes, it is very good!)

D'Artagnan shook his head in amazement as he leaned back on his arms, watching Miguel transcribe it in French, then again in Spanish with the utmost concentration. "If only I had your skill with words…"

He hadn't thought Miguel had heard him, but not a few seconds later the teen chuckled. "If only I had your skill with the sword!"

"Well, if you would take up one of my many offers to teach you, then you wouldn't be wishing for skill, now would you?"

"And if you would be kind enough to reciprocate and let me teach you your proper letters en español, we would both be left unwanting, sí?"

"Gracias a ti, puedo hablar español perfecto." (Thanks to you, I can speak Spanish perfect.)

"Perfectamente." (Perfectly.) Miguel smirked and wagged a finger at D'Artagnan. "Much to learn, my student. Much to learn!"

"Mercy, you bookworm. A day like this shouldn't be missed for a second."

"Do you know who you sound like?"

"I'm afraid to know the answer."

"You do not want to know it."

"I don't think I do either."

"My aunt," Miguel grumbled, throwing himself back into the wildflowers and grass again. "My thieving, gossip-mongering, cow of an aunt."

"She's visiting again, isn't she?"

"Save me from this hell, Charles. She is the devil himself."

"Herself."

"No, Himself. She wears those huge dresses for a reason!" Miguel sighed. "If only I had your courage."

"To do what? Or do I want to know?"

"Do you know what I would do?" Miguel sat up again and pulled D'Artagnan up to a sitting position as well. "I would bring her to church with us on Sunday. I would pray with her. I would kneel with her. I would go to accept the communion with her, but do you want to know what I would really do?"

"What," D'Artagnan asked with trepidation.

"I would wait until she held out her hands for the host. I would wait still as the priest put it in her hand. Then, I would pull up the skirts when she replied Amen!"

They both burst out laughing. And when D'Artagnan couldn't stop laughing, doubling over to try and stop himself, Miguel's laughter only fueled his own. When both boys calmed down enough to take a breath, D'Artagnan turned to Miguel, still gasping for air.

"Is she really that miserable?"

Miguel pulled a face. "Must you ask? Thank you for that, Charles."

"For what?"

"Your laughter. And mine. Oh, they are like a sweet music to my soul that has been hungering and hungering."

D'Artagnan watched Miguel lay back and stare at the sky. Every now and then his friend would turn melancholy, and now was one of those times. He would grow quiet and distant, as if a great burst of happiness brought on some dark cloud. D'Artagnan knew it on sight. He hated seeing it. And he was learning how to quickly dispel it.

"Your Juan del Enzina has nothing on you, Miguel. People will read your poems centuries later like you're doing right now with your Cervantes and Vega. Someday after we're both long gone you'll be teaching another boy just like yourself through the words you've left behind. You'll be his Enzina."

"You are too kind, Charles," Miguel whispered with an empty smile, shaking his head. "But sometimes life is too simple for those grander temptations."

"Who says they can't be anything more?"

"Our betters."

"And who says they are better than us?

Miguel looked up at D'Artagnan, and for a moment the sadness abated. In its place something else sat, unmasked, but unknown. D'Artagnan leaned down for a closer look, inches from the Spanish teen, but not challenging or playful. Somewhere down the hill his father was calling him back to the fields, but he didn't move. Miguel still hadn't said a word. And a small part of D'Artagnan worried that his friend wasn't anywhere in there to be found.

"Miguel?"

Those dark eyes finally looked into his own, and they stole his breath because suddenly he had his answer, suddenly he knew.

He knew why Miguel wasn't speaking.

And D'Artagnan wasn't sure if he wanted to know why he couldn't either.

D'Artagnan woke with a soft gasp and tears on both sides of his face. He looked down from where his gaze had been fixed on the crack in the ceiling and noticed that someone was calling his name. Aramis leaned into view and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," D'Artagnan said, almost too choked with emotion to answer. "Nothing's wrong."

The other man looked skeptical when he asked, "Are you certain?"

Charles wasn't. But D'Artagnan was. "I'm fine," he said, hands yearning for those blades of grass and long flower-stems. Something familiar. Something he knew. Or used to know.