Chapter Twelve: Scenery of War Pt. 1

It took them five days to get to La Rochelle. Athos blamed their set backs on Porthos' whining, and Aramis said nothing to negate it, much to Porthos' ire. D'Artagnan, however, enjoyed every single second he got to spend outdoors after spending more than a week shut up indoors. Being on a horse again was heaven, though after the third day of riding he was quite sore. They told stories to pass the time, and D'Artagnan drank in all they offered. He hoped something might help him trigger some memories, but nothing did. He still had a fairly significant headache, even days after his embarrassing fit in front of Athos. He couldn't remember much of it, but given the pallor of the man's face the next morning, he guessed it had not been good.

"How's your headache," Aramis asked, dropping back to ride alongside D'Artagnan.

The boy pulled down the rim of his hat again. "Still there," he grumbled.

"Has it abated any?"

"I can't tell. It all feels like the same amount of…fog and…clouds… It's hard to explain."

"I know," the man assuaged. "Keep drinking your water. That seemed to help yesterday."

"We'll only have to keep stopping along the way," D'Artagnan complained, far past the point of maintaining any façade of politeness.

"Then we will stop as many times as needed. Your health is more important than getting to our destination on time. Should I allow Athos to continue glaring you into submission?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and sighed. He rubbed the side of his head when a spike of pain shot through his temple. He kept himself from groaning, but couldn't hide much from Aramis, especially when his vision started going blurry and his stomach churned.

"Do you need to rest?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," he mumbled.

It was all he could do to keep upright in the saddle, but Aramis simply reached over to grab the reins of his horse and slow them both to a stop. He whistled up front to Athos and Porthos, but by that point D'Artagnan was already slipping to the side. Aramis tried to make a grab for the boy, but he slid free from his reach too quickly. D'Artagnan ended up on his knees in a heap on the ground, but scrambled for the bushes on the side of the road. He only made it a few feet into the underbrush before he lost what had been a hearty breakfast. He had thoroughly enjoyed it before they left the inn, but was now cursing himself for it.

Someone snaked an arm around him to steady him as he retched. When he was finished, his lower chest muscles were on fire and he was shaking far too much to control himself. He was pulled back against Athos' chest and told to relax, to take a breath and even his breathing. It took a while, but he managed to stop seeing stars and the dry-heaving. There was nothing more in the world he hated than being sick, especially in front of other people. His stomach hadn't been the same since he woke up the morning after his fit, and it was truly starting to irritate him. This wasn't the first time he felt sick to his stomach, but it was the first time he couldn't control it.

"His water's gone," he heard Aramis say.

"Get mine," Athos replied.

A moment later Athos was forcing him to drink. The first few mouthfuls D'Artagnan only took to wash out his mouth. After that he refused for fear of being sick again. Athos sighed, but kept the water skin within reach.

"Did you not refill your water before we left," Athos asked, clearly unhappy with him.

"I d-did," the boy answered. "Dr-drank it all."

"It's this God damned heat," Porthos groused, throwing his hat down on the ground. "We need shade and fresh water."

"There's a stream up ahead," Athos said softly. "Before the fort, if it hasn't dried up."

"I'll ride ahead and refill them," Aramis volunteered, snatching Porthos' waterskin before remounting his horse and taking off at a swift canter.

"Sorry," the boy mumbled.

"Hush," Athos warned tiredly. "Try to rest a while."

While Porthos pulled the horses under a small copse of trees, Athos gently pulled D'Artagnan's damp shirt from his overheated body. The boy's jacket had long been discarded, as had all of their doublets. It wasn't even mid morning yet and the air threatened another scorching day. Given how close they were to the fort, the place Athos was growing to dread more and more with every quarter mile, respite was not far off. He was hoping the remaining stonework might offer them some cooler air.

D'Artagnan dozed as he relaxed in Athos' lap. Porthos flopped down next to them and pulled out a big handkerchief of his, which looked suspiciously like one of Aramis', and doused it with the water from Athos' water skin. Athos took the damp handkerchief and placed it on the boy's forehead. His eyes fluttered open and closed in relief, but he made no noise. A lump formed in Athos' throat at the sight and he quickly looked away. His own guilt still ate at him, despite D'Artagnan's pleas to the contrary the night before they left. He longed to issue the apologies the boy had deserved for too long from him, but it was starting to look like he would never have the chance. And that realization only gave his guilt more fuel for a fire that would surely consume him body and soul soon.

"Are we near the sea?"

Athos looked down at the boy again. He seemed a good deal better, eyes clearer and more alert than before. He tried to shift into a position to sit up, but Athos pushed him down with a look.

"Very," he replied. "You'll see it once we mount that ridge a mile off."

"I can't smell it too much, but the air feels like it."

"What I wouldn't give for a quick dip," Porthos groaned.

"Your definition of quick is relative," Athos jabbed.

Porthos frowned at him. "And deserved on a day like this! We should. After lunch, of course."

Athos snorted and shook his head.

Then D'Artagnan grabbed his arm. "Can we?"

Athos opened his mouth to reject the idea, but one look at the light in the boy's face had him sighing in defeat.

Porthos smirked, but mercifully said nothing.

Aramis returned a short time later with full water skins and news that the fort was only occupied by a small band of his majesty's guards. Athos frowned. He wanted to put off D'Artagnan meeting any familiar faces from the guard as long as possible, because he sincerely doubted it would help at this point, and secretly feared it would dredge up bad memories and not good ones. In a quiet side conversation with Aramis and Porthos, after D'Artagnan felt strong enough to sit up on his own, they all decided to lunch on the beach, and pass through the fort before continuing on to the city where they would lodge for the night. D'Artagnan didn't question their change of plans, but looked like he clearly wanted to. Athos gave him credit for staying reserved and let him decide when they set out again, which wasn't long after that. He kept an eye on the boy who had donned his shirt and hat again and even braved a few sips of water. Athos suspected it was for their benefit rather than the boy's.

When they finally had the sea within sight D'Artagnan cantered a bit ahead of them and pulled up short at a path that lead down to the beach. The smile that lit up his face brightened the collective mood that had descended when he got sick.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't think I've ever seen something so beautiful," he said to them. "We never had the extra expenses to travel to the shore. They always went to the upkeep of the farm, the horses…now I'm regretting never pestering my parents about it."

"Well," Porthos said, dismounting. "I don't know about you ladies, but I myself am going to indulge a bit after a long and hot morning."

"At least tie up your bloody horse first," Athos muttered, though Porthos had already gone.

They all dismounted after that, leading the horses to a couple of trees and some much needed shade. D'Artagnan hovered, and Athos couldn't contain a smirk. He looked at the boy and the boy met his gaze with a little hesitancy and a small glimmer of a challenge.

"Go on," Athos said.

Having no need of any further encouragement, D'Artagnan smiled and dashed off down to the surf where Porthos was splashing about with little abandon. It didn't take long for Porthos to drag D'Artagnan down into the surf and drench them both head to toe.

"We should have waited another day," Athos said to Aramis.

"We could have waited another two, but we would not have had the leisure time we currently do," Aramis replied, unsaddling the horses. "D'Artagnan needs this as much as we do."

"I doubt any of us need this."

"The fact that you doubt it merely proves that we do, Athos."

Athos glared at the former priest, and then unsaddled his own horse. Some time later D'Artagnan and Porthos both came up from the surf wringing out their soaked shirts. They laid them on the grass before begging Athos and Aramis to join them. Both men declined, and then a look passed between the boy and Porthos. Athos frowned, but said nothing. He watched D'Artagnan head down to the beach, and to his shock saw the boy fall and clutch his ankle. Athos cursed and all three of them rose and dashed down the path. As they came up to D'Artagnan, Athos went to bend down next to him to see to the injury, but found himself propelled headlong into the surf. He went under with a splash and came back up sputtering water forth

"Porthos," Athos roared. "You bloody oaf!"

But all he heard in reply was a chorus of laughter. One booming, one quiet, and the other high pitched and child-like.

His anger deflated when he saw three things, the most important being that D'Artagnan was not in fact injured and that the whole scene had been a ruse, also that the boy and his friends were clutching their sides in pure hysteria. He growled and when Porthos least expected it, launched himself at the bigger man and pulled him off balance right back into the surf with him. The wrestled a bit, and eventually came out, but Athos' anger at the ruse wasn't entirely spent, not until he threw the unsuspecting boy back into the surf for his trouble.

D'Artagnan came back up with a laugh when he saw Athos smiling in triumph. He struggled a bit to get out, but managed to on his own and flopped down in the sand with a radiant grin. He couldn't remember feeling so light and free, not since he was back on the farm with his parents.

"If you are all done acting like children," Aramis commented. "Might we have some lunch? We do have a long day ahead of us."

"You didn't go in," D'Artagnan complained.

"And seeing the state of you three, I foresee no need to."

"All for one," Porthos whispered to Athos.

Athos betrayed nothing on his face as he turned to look at D'Artagnan.

And then, Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan turned identical faces to Aramis.

Aramis pointed a finger and shouted a warning before turning tail and running. "NO! Don't you even think about it!"

Running was of course fruitless and Porthos manhandles the former priest into submission rather quickly. Athos aided Porthos in carrying a struggling Aramis between them. "Will you just hold a moment," Aramis exclaimed. "I won't lose my glasses or ruin the Lord's word because of your insanity!"

D'Artagnan held out an expectant hand and Aramis begrudgingly handed both his glasses and bible over with a huff, before getting thrown, without much ceremony, into the surf.

Hours later, all four boys were back on their horses, with mostly dry shirts and full stomachs, D'Artagnan's being the only exception out of a sheer abundance of caution to not repeat the events of the morning. It took them another hour of steady riding to reach the fort. When they rode through the gates, D'Artagnan was surprised to see such a small regiment presence compared to the size of the fort. But he supposed not all of the regiment would be immediately present. Men and boys nodded to him and he nodded back, but not because he recognized any of them. It should have been reassuring but instead it made him feel out of place.

Athos dismounted and had a few quiet words with one of the lieutenants. After D'Artagnan dismounted, he saw the rest of the men on the wall file down after a whistle from the lieutenant. He frowned, but Athos avoided his gaze and looked ready to bolt at the slightest cause. Once it was just the four of them in the courtyard, Aramis took the lead.

"Does any of this seem familiar, D'Artagnan?"

"Be honest," Porthos added with a knowing look.

D'Artagnan thought about it as he looked around. The fort was a bit bare for its size, but that was easily attributable to the small number of men he saw earlier. The stonework was sound, but from the outside had looked to have seen it's share of bombardments. It made him wonder exactly what kind of assaults it suffered, and especially when he supposedly had been here. The more he took in the environment the more foreign it felt. And then his eyes landed on a wooden stairway that led to the wooden rampart walkway above for sentries.

"Maybe," he whispered to himself, as his feet drew him close to the stairs.

They were stained dark in places, which drew blood immediately to mind, but whose it had been was a mystery. He could feel Aramis, Porthos, and Athos hovering behind him in anticipation, but he barely paid them any mind as he ascended the stairs. When he got to the top, the view took his breath away. He could see the city of La Rochelle in plain sight, as well as the sea. He put his hands on the stonework, felt the grit of the mortar, which felt relatively new, but nothing came to him.

There were also dark stains here. There was a fairly large one in the center. It pulled to him like the stains below did, but for some reason this one unsettled him. Aramis gently laid a hand on his shoulder, but D'Artagnan startled anyway.

"His name was Vincent," Aramis said.

Vincent.

"And Jacques," Porthos said, standing next to the spot further down.

Jacques.

He thought.

For a while.

Then asked the question he knew they all dreaded.

"Did I know them," he asked.

Athos sighed and walked away. Porthos went after him. D'Artagnan looked apologetically at Aramis, but the man merely gave him a sad smile. "It's all right."

"But it's not, is it?"

Aramis "We had hopes, but I think I speak for all of us when I say we had hoped you wouldn't after all. Not this way, at least. Not all of them are sad memories, but they're certainly difficult ones. For all of us."

D'Artagnan absent-mindedly rubbed the scar on his chest. It felt itchy in the heat, and for no reason at all a shiver ran through him. There was a gentle breeze on the air, and some trees nearby provided a little shade, but not much. "Could I have some time alone? To think?"

"Of course," Aramis replied. "I'll see where Porthos and Athos got to. Don't wander too far."

D'Artagnan nodded and watched as Aramis descended the stairs and rounded a corner that went downhill. The boy sighed and laid his arms on the stone wall in front of him. He leaned against it and then pillowed his forehead on his arms and closed his eyes. He had a slight headache on the ride up to the fort, but now it was starting to come back in full force, mostly because he was frustrated with himself. He wanted so badly to remember, if only to make his three friends happy again, but nothing was working.

He hated the idea of admitting defeat and returning home, while they rode on to their duty in the south, but that was seeming more and more like an inevitability. It was what D'Artagnan had wanted, weeks ago when he first woke in his room to three unfamiliar faces. The prospects of seeing his parents again should have made him happy, but it didn't anymore, not fully. He shook his head at the irony. His sole dream since he'd been a boy had been to be a soldier. Miraculously, he had achieved that, against odds, and through danger that to some would be unimaginable.

And he couldn't remember a damned bit of it.

"D'Artagnan," someone called.

He turned and saw a boy around his age flying up the stairs to meet him. He had curly brown hair, a pale face, and the beginnings of a goatee. But what worried D'Artagnan the most was that whoever this was seemed excited to see him, as if he knew him and D'Artagnan should know him in return.

"What the hell are you doing back here," the boy asked. "I thought I heard Athos vow to never bring any of you back even if confronted with the hounds of hell the last time I saw you."

Despite his discomfort, D'Artagnan chuckled, because that sounded exactly like something Athos would say. "Well… given his temperament, I suppose that makes sense."

"You've fared well then? You certainly look it, aside from the scar, of course."

"Well enough…yes. And you?"

The boy frowned. "Well. Are you alright? You seem a little different."

"I… do we…?"

"Do we what," the boy chuckled. "You're not making much sense, Gascon."

D'Artagnan didn't know how to say it, how to word it, how to ease the blow-

The boy frowned again. "How did you get that scar?"

"This one," D'Artagnan asked, touching his chest.

"No, idiot. Everyone knows how you got that one. I mean the one on your head. I don't remember that one."

D'Artagnan swallowed uncomfortably. "Neither do I…"

"You… don't remember how you got it?"

"No. Nor a lot of things I that should…"

The other boy's face paled. A thick silence passed between them. Though other soldiers were starting to appear in the yard, it was like a veil had been dropped around them, silencing every possible noise or distraction. "What does that mean?"

D'Artagnan miserably shook his head. He tried to speak, to say something, but nothing came out.

The recruit took a stumbling couple of steps back. "Don't… don't you know me?"

He shook his head again. "I'm sorry…"

"You don't remember me?"

It was all he could do to shake his head, to add to someone else's pain because of something so vital that he lacked, that he couldn't find. It was like that morning all over again. The look of disbelief, a quiet agony, an insecurity too fragile to touch.

"No," the recruit said, stronger and louder. "That's not it. It's can't be. You know me. You know who I am-"

"I don't-"

"Of course you do. It's ridiculous. Say my name. You know it, so say it."

"Marc," a familiar voice shouted.

Then people were bounding up the stairs. D'Artagnan realized belatedly that it was Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but it barely mattered.

"Say it! My name is Marc Garneau-just say it!"

"That's enough lad," Porthos said, pushing Marc aside. "Let him be!"

"You really don't remember," Marc asked quietly in dismay. "Not anything?"

D'Artagnan looked away and shook his head one final time, feeling tears fill his eyes and shame color his face. He turned his head aside as he heard Marc descend the stairs without another word. Someone put an arm around him and tried to steer him down the stairs after a few minutes, but he shrugged the arm off and went right for the stables. It hadn't occurred to him if they should be staying at the fort instead of an inn for the night, but no one had bothered to correct him when they passed the city gates.

He came back to himself a little and looked to Athos who pulled up his horse beside him. Athos looked at him and took the lead to a reputable inn. All four of them in a somber silence and with short words to the innkeeper stabled their horses and took a table to wait for dinner. By the look of the sun disappearing on the horizon outside, D'Artagnan guessed two or three hours must have passed without him knowing it. All he could think about was the look on Marc's face and the sound of his voice.

The disbelief.

The disappointment.

The hurt.

All because of him.

When their dinner arrived, D'Artagnan picked at it, unable to even muster enough will to eat. His stomach hadn't stopped doing flips and he worried if he did eat something it would just come right back up, so instead he sipped at some water every few minutes to avoid losing track of time again. One glance in Athos' direction told him the man knew exactly what was going on in his head, and D'Artagnan wasn't sure whether he should be comforted by that fact or not. Dinner was uncomfortably silent, and the more he sat there the worse he felt. Finally, D'Artagnan snatched an apple from the basket on the table and stood up.

"I'm going to feed Iris a snack. Alone," he added before turning to leave.

Thankfully, none of them followed him. He hated to be so direct, but he needed space and time, which he heard Athos say to Aramis and Porthos on his way out the back. The stables hadn't been locked up yet for the night and he passed the hungry looking stable boy on his way in. Iris was stabled near the back and perked up when she heard her master coming.

"Hey girl," he whispered, pulling the stem off the apple and offering it to her.

Iris made a happy noise and chomped right into it. He leaned against her stall and watched her eat. When she was done she slobbered all over his shoulder, but he didn't mine. He rubbed her nose and sighed, wishing the world would just stop spinning for a while. Not long, just enough so he could get his bearings again… and properly remember who he was supposed to be, what his purpose in life was before going back to what he did know with his parents.

"You haven't been holding back any helpful secrets, have you?"

Iris made an oddly short-sounding noise and knocked him in the head with her nose, playfully of course, but it was still fairly rough.

D'Artagnan laughed on instinct, reaching for her again. "Hey! That wasn't very nice-"

Only he never got to finish his endearment. A cloth was clamped over his mouth and an arm snaked around his waist, trapping his left arm against his body. Instinct told him not to breathe, so he didn't. Instead he struggled furiously, kicking and pulling at the hand that had a vice-grip over his mouth. He managed to kick the gate to Iris' stall, but was pulled away for fear that he'd make more noise. Panic took over then and he started shouting, making any noise he could, though it came out muffled.

He started to feel dizzy, but he kept fighting. Whoever held him was strong, but he could feel the struggle wearing down his attacker's strength. It gave him a little bit of hope, but then he saw a second man watching from the shadows. His eyes glinted in the darkness like daggers. And the light from a nearby lantern cast an ugly shadow across his face, because of a scar.

"Deja de mirar y me ayude, Lucio," the attacker hissed. (Stop watching and help me, Lucio!)

D'Artagnan knew that face.

He'd seen it in Mainard's cellar.

He'd seen it on the streets of Paris.

Following his every step with deadly intent.

And now that face stared back at him with a sadistic smile.

D'Artagnan kicked out again, but Lucio batted the weak blow aside and punched him in the stomach. On reflex, D'Artagnan took a gasping breath, and seconds later felt his entire body go slack. He kept gasping for air, but all he could get was the sweetness on the cloth around his mouth.

He managed to make one final noise of resistance before everything went black.

A/N: I figured our boys needed a beach day before shit hits the fan. And yes, it's a terrible cliffhanger. I'll try not to leave you hanging for too long. For those who remember, Marc was a minor character from Lionheart (the prequel to this story), and will be playing an important role before the end. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! Next update hopefully before Christmas!