Chapter Six – Feather-light and heavy-handed (Pt. 1)

Aramis knew from the moment he set his sight on D'Artagnan in the stables and witnessed real fear in him, in the boy who seemed incapable of vulnerability since they first met, that Athos was due for his reckoning.

The closer he got to the boy the clearer the situation was. D'Artagnan was doing his best to hide the trembling in his tense body, and he would have fooled Aramis if he looked no further than the boy's emotionless face. The physician's words about recovery and stress floated through Aramis' mind like a serpent on water, silent but deadly if there were any further false steps. Though he was furious with Athos, he tempered his anger for the sake of their younger friend as he approached.

"I don't understand it," D'Artagnan said, staring at a point along the far wall. "How can one blow make me forget years of practice? I've known these simple things before I was old enough to ride."

"You took a serious injury, D'Artagnan," Aramis replied. "One that could very well have killed you. It is fortunate for all of us that it did not. I wake every morning thanking God for his mercy that night."

The younger musketeer whirled on him, grasping for control over his own temper and failing worse than Aramis. "But this isn't me. And it's no mercy. It's a damned punishment for something stupid that I can't even remember doing!"

Aramis approached with an outstretched hand. "Things haven't been easy, I know. And while Athos has no excuse for his behavior-"

"Is that what's bothering him? Me? How can what happened to me make him act like this?"

Aramis opened his mouth and subsequently closed it when an appropriate answer wasn't forthcoming. He bit his lip and leaned on the gate beside the boy, thinking and piecing his thoughts together with care. "He was with you when it happened. There is much he blames himself for and refuses to speak of."

D'Artagnan shook his head, still not comprehending. "But why? You've told me several times that I was the one who ran after that Spaniard and it was Athos who followed after me. If it's anyone's fault it's mine, not his!"

The older musketeer took a deep breath and calmed his dark thoughts when they turned to the real cause of their mess, forcing himself to focus on the dust particles that shone in the morning light in front of him. "If you want to place blame, then don't put it on your own shoulders. That Spaniard was the one who did this to you. And, God willing, he will pay for what he's done."

A long silence passed between them. D'Artagnan's horse stuck her head forward and nuzzled the side of her master's face, as if sensing his…or perhaps their turmoil, seeing as how she knocked her head into Aramis' a little more bluntly. But he didn't blame her for concluding that he may have been the reason why. Even his own horse in the stall opposite the one they stood in front of, who normally kept to himself and ignored similar human interactions or conversations like this, stuck his head out in curiosity. Aramis couldn't help but envy their ignorance.

At length, D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm sorry, Aramis. You're telling me not to place blame on my own shoulders, and in good faith I can't do that. I know the friendship between you and Porthos and Athos is strong, stronger than mine with any of you, I'd wager. But-no, let me finish. If there were anything I could do to lessen the strife between you three, I would. But it seems the only thing I can do is the very thing I don't know how to-"

Aramis snatched the boy's chin in a gentle but firm grip, commanding full attention. "This is none of your responsibility. Do you understand? What goes on between the three of us, and the arguments Athos and I have had, is none of your doing."

D'Artagnan jerked his chin free. "Then why do the three of you stare at each another every night as if you're allowed to pass blame amongst yourselves?"

Aramis opened his mouth to reply, but found no answer coming forth to his lips to rebuke the statement.

"It doesn't take a learned man to see that things weren't always like this, Aramis."

This time D'Artagnan's horse took a gentler approach and, as if encouraging him to voice the treacherous demons that plagued him night and day, nudged him in the shoulder toward the younger one. Though he ignored the affection, he reached down into his pocket for the apple he'd been planning on eating for breakfast and pared it into three smaller chunks for the animal.

"If you'd nearly lost a good friend," Aramis said softly. "Who was and is by all means like a younger brother in our strange company, and for a short time been relieved by the fact that you'd been given him back only to realize he was not the same and may never be the same as he was before, because of something that could very easily have been prevented…how do you think you could look your other brothers in the eye and not dwell on all the chances there might have been?"

D'Artagnan was quiet for a long time, and Aramis thought to leave the boy to himself and give him some privacy, but before he could D'Artagnan put a hand on his arm. "What happened then won't change anything right now."

"No it won't," Aramis agreed. "Would you agree that moving forward seems the only option?"

It was D'Artagnan's turn to hesitate, gears turning in his mind with recognition dawning a short time later on the fact that Aramis had purposefully led their conversation in this direction. The boy defiantly pursed his lips and turned away, but distinctively nodded in agreement.

Aramis allowed himself a small smile and covered D'Artagnan's hand with his own. "Then, you need to be patient and let your memories come back on their own. Spending your days trying to remember may only set you backwards, and we certainly don't want that."

"If you know me as well as you say," D'Artagnan said with his head held a little higher. "Then you know that doing nothing is not something I do. Ever."

Aramis laughed, and was pleased to see D'Artagnan crack a smile as well. "Yes, that I do know. Perhaps all you need in the mean time is a little practice to help you remember."

The boy bit his lip and the sudden burst of happiness ebbed away under the weight of a doubt he hadn't let any of them see until now. "What if it doesn't come back?"

Aramis took a deep breath and squared his shoulders with D'Artagnan's in a show of unwavering confidence. "Then you relearn how. And we'll help you. Just…have a little more faith in things, if only for my peace of mind?"

D'Artagnan didn't speak, but nodded in understanding. And before either of them could say anything more, D'Artagnan's stomach let out a loud growl. The boy blushed and mumbled an apology, but Aramis waved it off and steered their younger one inside to a proper breakfast. Once the boy was settled he shared a warning look with Porthos before heading upstairs. And Porthos caught his arm before he set one foot on the staircase.

"At least try not to scream at each other this time."

"That's up to Athos," Aramis replied with fire in his eyes. "You'd best take D'Artagnan outside at any rate."

Porthos frowned, but complied as Aramis ascended the stairs.

To Aramis' credit he didn't storm down the hall, just loud enough for Athos to hear and prepare for. And Aramis even shut the door like a civil man should. He was a bit surprised that the door wasn't locked, and that nothing was thrown at him either. Athos turned to him, indignant and clearly angry at his privacy being invaded, but before the man could even open his mouth, Aramis and his cold words were upon him from the outset. "Enough of this, Athos! I say, enough. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," he growled. "But I choose for the sake of your life not to listen. Get out."

Aramis crossed his arms in front of his chest and stood his ground with a very real threat. "Need I fetch my sword for this? Is that the only way you'll listen?"

Athos scowled and clenched his shaking fists at his sides. "Don't tempt me."

"Is this what we have been reduced to," Aramis exclaimed, throwing his hands out. "Because of one man's folly? Because of an accident that could have claimed any one of us?"

"Well, it wasn't just any one of us," Athos snapped, pacing the length of his room.

"I know that. What concerns me and us at the moment, however, is not what happened back then but what is happening right now-rather, what you've been allowing to happen since we brought D'Artagnan home."

"Tread carefully, Aramis. My patience is done."

"Your patience fled the moment he opened his eyes and didn't recognize you."

Athos stopped pacing, but didn't look up.

Aramis stepped forward to give his words the punch they needed. "You truly are a moronic fool if you continue to believe that your actions, your mere presence, is a hindrance rather than a help!"

Swords between them were never needed in arguments because the exertion from words alone was enough strenuous activity for an entire morning and part of the afternoon depending on the subject. Based on Aramis' earlier predictions this confrontation was leading up to be one that would last through noontime and beyond. But that didn't deter the young priest from what needed to be said and done, and not mentioning the fact that both men could be just as dangerous and formidable without their weapons.

"Athos," he warned. "If you're done with him then at least have the courtesy and respect to tell me now. If you want to push him away then so be it but I will not allow you to bring more harm to a friend that means more to us and you than your stubbornness is willing to allow!"

Athos was on him within the blink of an eye, pinning him forcefully against the wall, but restraining the worst of his anger out of the respect they still had for one another. "How dare you even insinuate such a thing when you know well and good that boy is everything to m-to us!"

Aramis pushed him away and advanced like a lion stalking his prey. "No, Athos. How dare you run from him when he cries out for your help. You don't even turn your back when he calls. You don't hesitate-you don't miss a single step!-"

Athos stopped Aramis' advances with a strong and unfriendly shove. "Don't disguise deprecation for care, Aramis. I'd accept you openly patronizing me before sinking as low as some Goddamned schoolboy waiting for his punishment. You think you can scour the depths of me?"

"No one in this wide world can or will because you keep your heart locked up like a murderous felon waiting for the gallows!"

"And murderous it is! It's killed before and very nearly ended me when that idiot boy-"

"Lower your voice," Aramis hissed. "We already have D'Artagnan thinking he's the cause of all this strife between us and I will be damned to hell if I'm to let that train of thought continue! We, namely you, need to stop ignoring this like an unwelcomed guest that will simply disappear if you will it to. D'Artagnan needs our help now more than ever and the only way we can do that is if we act as we normally do-"

"How am I supposed to look him in the eye and pretend that none of this happened? How can you ask that of me?!"

"With ease. The same way you convinced us that he wasn't dying on the battlefield nearly a year ago, despite the overwhelming chance that he would! You were strong then and you can be now if you choose to. There was no blame for you before and there isn't any here-"

"None," Athos exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes, none. I say none because though I wasn't there I know you and D'Artagnan too well to think that this was the effect of some poor oversight. This is not La Rochelle. And this is not your fault, Athos. The longer you continue to make yourself believe that the more pain you will put that boy through because even without his memories he knows you. He doesn't understand why and the only person who can give him those answers stands before me afraid of where his own shadow lies."

Aramis waited, having laid all his cards out for Athos to see. But he didn't see Athos' hand, because his friend turned his back and went to the window. The silence that passed between them was thick in the wake of their hot words of truth and truth-based fantasy. The waiting was always the worst. Sometimes the words sunk in with immediate effect.

"Leave me," Athos replied in a weary voice.

Sometimes they didn't.

Aramis closed his eyes in defeat and attempted to gather his wits for another round if need be. "Athos-"

"GO!"

The fact of the matter was that everything that needed to be said had been said by this point. Repeating the same would serve no other purpose. So Aramis allowed Athos this one last bout of childish stubbornness and went to the door. He hesitated with the cool doorknob in his hand, finding more words suddenly flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. "If there is anyone who has the power to bring his memories back," he said. "It certainly does not lie with Porthos or I."

It was after that thought when his strength to leave returned. He told himself Athos would come around, but that had been days ago. He hadn't imagined this. He hadn't imagined a time when they dissolved into scarce words here and there, glances or glares misdirected in the absence of the true villain who put them in this horrible purgatory. It all seemed so wrong and unfair, mostly because there seemed to be no resolution anywhere within sight. Aramis had a great deal of faith, that was true, but in the past he had trusted in God to send him signs of reassurance, signs that he was still there, that Aramis couldn't stray when things were close to fruition. If the Lord did work in silence, and if this were truly a test, then he was sure he was failing.

And miserably so.

"No luck," Porthos asked quietly from the foot of the stairs.

"Of course not," Aramis groused.

Porthos shrugged. "Perhaps some more wine will temper him a bit?"

"Giving in to his vices is not going to help if it hasn't already!"

From behind his back, Porthos produced the bottle of wine he had been referring to and gestured with it to him. "And what of your vices?"

Aramis looked down and noticed that his own hands were still shaking. Whether it was from the anger or the all too real fear that things were truly falling apart around them he wasn't sure. Either way, he fell from his high horse into the comfort of something familiar and reassuring and counted himself lucky. "I'm sorry," he quietly apologized, rubbing the hollow spaces beside his eyes. "I feel as if we are losing two friends instead of one. I hate this, Porthos…"

"So do I," Porthos sighed, pushing Aramis toward the back door. "Come on. A strong drink and a good fight will do both of us some good, at the very least."

Aramis snorted and found a little bit of energy left for a half-hearted retort. "If falling on your arse will do you good then I will take your offer, my friend. For it will surely do my pride some good."

A few hours later…

Aramis finished washing up, refreshed and infinitely more relaxed than before. He replaced the cross around his neck as he went across the hall to D'Artagnan's room. He suspected the young boy to be resting again when he hadn't come to watch them duel earlier, but strangely found the room empty. The former priest frowned and quickly left to check the courtyard and the stables, but found no trace of their young friend. Panic flared in his chest but Aramis refused to be its victim. Briefly, and very briefly, he wondered if this was how his parents felt when he snuck off in the middle of the afternoon to play with his cousins. Though he normally would have appreciated the irony, it was presently unwelcome.

Aramis found Porthos by the fire about to enjoy an afternoon nap. "Porthos, have you seen D'Artagnan?"

Porthos blinked and gestured with his head to the back door. "He went out to the stables to tend to his horse-"

"Did he say why? Did he say he was going anywhere else?"

"What do you mean," he asked, sitting up straighter.

Aramis put both hands on his hips and fought with his body not to start pacing the room. "He's not out there, Porthos."

"He's not up in his room?"

"That was the first place I checked!-"

"What about Planchet? Perhaps the boy-"

"What are you talking about," Athos asked from the staircase, hoarse, but alert, and strangely put together, mostly.

Aramis turned and hesitated to give the answer, but did not begrudge anyone the truth they were reluctant to make real. "D'Artagnan's missing. And his horse is still here."

As if witnessing the miracle he'd been asking for, the air around Athos seemed to change, banishing the melancholy and dark thoughts from his frame. Life came back into his limbs and he moved to get his effects with the energy of a man half his age. Aramis and Porthos followed his lead and all three fell into their familiar roles when danger called. This time, however, there was no excitable thrill driving them.

"How long ago did you see him," Athos asked, as they made their way to their horses.

"Half an hour. Maybe more," Porthos replied.

Athos got his own horse saddled in record time and was already climbing up before Aramis and Porthos finished with theirs. "That's not much, but we have much ground to cover before it gets dark. Split up and see if anyone's seen him, but keep this quiet."

They all shared a knowing look before they left, not too keen on the idea of a particular someone finding out more than what he had been told of D'Artagnan, or his condition.

Letting his feet take him where they willed seemed like a good idea at first.

Walking had always helped him to clear his head in the past, and no other remedy over the past week compared to the amount of relief he felt now. He hadn't given the consequences much thought…until he turned to go back to their apartments and had a small private moment of panic. D'Artagnan turned in a circle before resolutely continuing down to the corner for a look around. When that proved fruitless he clenched his jaw shut and kept on his chosen path out of sheer stubbornness. He was not about to stop and ask for directions. If he'd been living in Paris for as long as his friends told him then he would have to come across something eventually that would spark some recognition of where he was. But after a short while his mind turned his attentions elsewhere and the next time he blinked he was somewhere completely new, unsure of how he'd gotten to this place from where he was before.

It shouldn't have surprised D'Artagnan because his mind had been anything but attentive over the past few days. Often during dinner conversations he would lose track of the stories his friends were telling him, he would find himself suddenly downstairs sitting with his friends instead of up in his room, and once he'd asked the same question three times in a row to Planchet without realizing it. He never said anything about the worst of them, even though they unnerved him to the core, because what he hated more than anything was how the slightest matter negatively affected his friends.

One slip of the tongue or blink of an eye was enough to drain all the warmth from the room, to replace it with something heavier that quickly became the normal kind of atmosphere in a place that should have been much more comfortable and inviting. If these were the kind of things a mad person felt on a daily basis, D'Artagnan couldn't help but empathize with them. He did try his best to keep up a brave face throughout it all, but the incidents were starting to wear him down and he was starting to doubt how much longer he could keep them to himself.

There were only so many times he could feign exhaustion and lack of sleep as excuses for things that simply weren't going away, no matter how often he tried to ignore them. During the first few days he slept more than what should have been normal for any man coming home from a long journey. Any kind of small activity like going downstairs or tending to the fire was enough activity to put him to sleep for a few hours at a time. On top of this, his hours at night changed and his sense of time was disorientating to the point of making him irritable and short-tempered. He hadn't minded dealing with the issues on his own because it seemed easier for everyone if he did keep his mouth shut. But at present he was starting to regret not taking the small measure to at least tell one of his friends that he was stepping out. His own stubbornness and pride were the reasons why he was hopelessly lost.

In a spout of anger, he kicked at an empty wooden box in the street and felt his moods sink deeper when the throbbing in his head returned.

Porthos regrettably handed over the money he owed the pompous guard for the information he provided and set off in the opposite direction. He hated to part with money if he didn't have to, but if the lead was a good one then he would make an effort to forget it. As he and his horse trotted along, he wondered if Aramis or Athos had fared any better in their search, for the day was growing long.

He was smarter than this.

He was a musketeer.

He knew this city like the back of his hand…surely.

Well, D'Artagnan thought to himself. He had better start acting like it, then.

Otherwise he might attract the wrong kind of attention. So he pushed through his morose thoughts and continued on. His feet ached with every step and the sun felt much warmer on him than earlier in the day when he first set out from their apartments. He didn't stop for rest or to at least find a drink to quench his bone-dry mouth. It would have been the smart thing to do, but the smarter thing was to keep moving…when one was being followed.

Aramis jumped down from his horse and raced down the street, calling D'Artagnan's name. The boy didn't stop or turn. That only made the priest race all the faster, bumping into people along the way. But when he reached the boy and turned him around, he was face to face with someone else. Someone he didn't know. Someone he had to apologize to and send on his way down the street that was darkening with the sun's descent below the rooftops. He had been so sure it was him…

Some instinct in him took over the moment he felt eyes on him, and he let it. He kept a normal pace, but took turns he wouldn't have otherwise taken, keeping a slightly quicker pace and glancing back discreetly when he could. But whoever was tailing him was good. And as D'Artagnan continued on he felt the person getting closer. He bit his lip and though he wanted to break into a run he knew he wouldn't last long if he did. Never in his life could he remember feeling so helpless and frightened than in that very moment with a useless sword at his side and nowhere and no one to turn to for aide.

Athos turned in every direction in the busy square, pushing his sight to the limit in the deepening twilight, but he found no trace of the boy, nor of Aramis or Porthos. He was angry. He wanted to find the boy hours ago, give him a proper tongue-lashing for his stupidity, and be done with it all. Yet here he was, plagued with a festering anger that belonged to no one other than himself. No amount of alcohol could erase this, or any of his oversights he'd made with the boy these past few weeks.

People had to leap out of the way when he sped past. And it was lucky for him it was too dark for most men to recognize him. Otherwise he would have had a full roster of challenges he would have to face on the morrow. The only challenge he was looking forward to, however, was the one he already made more than a week ago now. And that one meant certain death for a certain Spaniard if he had anything to say about it.

D'Artagnan turned another corner with no options left but to stand and confront his assailant. And he really would have, had his arm not been grabbed and pulled in another direction. Before he could utter a single word he was hauled off balance down a small set of stairs by someone else into the cellar of the house next to him. He tried to struggle, but by that point he was already stumbling away from the nameless man. He whirled around and instinctively grabbed for his sword, snarling out words of warning. "Who are you, villain!-"

The man held up a calm hand for silence and kept his attention to the streets with his back turned. "I apologize, D'Artagnan," he whispered. "But Athos would certainly discount me among his few friends if I were to let you be the victim of some true villain's plot a second time."

That stopped him short. A friend? A friend had saved him? But who?

The older man turned to him and beckoned him closer. "Come, look for yourself."

D'Artagnan warily approached and looked out, spotting an angry man with dark hair and a darker complexion turning in circles and storming off down the street in barely concealed rage. What chilled him wasn't the way his follower had acted, but how the evening light still showed a hideous and freshly pink scar on his face. "Who is he," D'Artagnan whispered, part of him already knowing the answer.

"I do not know. Perhaps one of the men who attacked you that night, but it was dark then. You would know him better than I."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "You said you know Athos?"

The man nodded and closed the cellar door more securely. "I do. We served some years as musketeers together."

He felt his mouth drop open in surprise. "Monsieur Mainard?"

"Ah, you do remember me," the man said with a friendly smile.

D'Artagnan released the death-grip he had on his sword and forced himself to relax, briefly ashamed of his previous suspicions. "Only by name I'm afraid. I was told what happened afterwards, that it was your house I was brought to for treatment."

"It was indeed," Mainard revealed. "It relieves me to see you so well after that night."

"I must thank you for your hospitality and generosity-"

Mainard shook his head. "Think nothing of it. What would my wife think of me were I to leave someone to bleed to death on our own doorstep? Let's retire to a more suitable part of the house. You look like you could use a drink."