Give it Time
A Musketeers story by Deana
Captain Treville stepped outside his office and inhaled the early morning air, rubbing his hands against the chill. He walked over to the rail and leaned on it to look down on the garrison courtyard, and frowned when he saw something unexpected.
There was a man sitting against the garrison doors, which were slightly ajar. Whoever it was, he wasn't moving.
Treville quickly strode over to the stairs and descended them, heading over to the figure. When he realized who it was, he started to run and quickly knelt beside him. "Aramis!" he exclaimed, reaching out to lift his head and check the pulse in his neck. There was blood on the side of his face, and Treville was surprised to see that his eyes were open. "Aramis? What happened? Are you all right?"
Aramis blinked and looked at him, but said nothing.
"What happened?" Treville repeated, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and searching for the wound. He found a cut on the side of Aramis' head, but it was barely bleeding anymore. He held it there anyway, wondering how he'd obtained the injury. "How long have you been sitting here?" he asked, realizing that Aramis wasn't answering his questions.
Aramis blinked again, but still didn't reply. He was visibly shivering, wearing his uniform but no cloak, and was missing his hat and weapons.
Treville felt a pang of worry spread through his stomach when he received no answer. "Aramis," he said, grasping his shoulder. "Talk to me."
The injured Musketeer looked at him, and Treville was shocked to see no recognition on his face. "I…don't know," Aramis told him.
Treville wondered which question he was actually answering. He adjusted his hold on the cloth over the wound and his hand brushed Aramis' face. His skin was freezing, and Treville again wondered how long he'd been sitting there. "Come, you need to get warm," he said, standing and pulling him upright.
Aramis' knees buckled and Treville caught him, quickly pulling one of Aramis' arms over his shoulders. He jostled him to try to keep him awake. "Walk, Aramis," he said. "Come on, you can do it." He jostled him again and Aramis lifted his head a little and slowly started to walk.
Treville brought him into the kitchen, where he knew that it would be warmest due to the cooking fires and oven. "Serge!" he exclaimed. "Help me."
Serge was stirring something in a pot on the stove, and he turned and hurried over. "Blimey!" he exclaimed as he pulled out a chair and helped Treville sit Aramis down. "What 'appened to 'im?"
Treville shook his head. "I don't know yet. Fetch him something warm to drink."
Serge hurried to do just that, putting something on the stove before rushing out of the room. He came back with a blanket, which he handed to Treville before going to fetch a cup.
Treville wrapped the blanket around Aramis and accepted the cup when Serge brought it to him. It contained warmed wine, which was the perfect choice; perhaps the alcohol would revive Aramis and get him to talk.
Aramis let Treville feed the wine to him, keeping his arms inside the blankets. Warmth spread through his chest and into his stomach, and it felt wonderful.
Treville noticed the difference in him. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.
Aramis blinked a few times and looked at him, before looking at Serge and around the room. "Where am I?" he asked.
Treville frowned. "In the garrison's kitchen."
"Garrison," Aramis echoed. He looked around again.
Treville nodded. "That's right, the musketeer garrison."
A look of shock replaced the confusion on Aramis' face. "I'm a musketeer?" he asked.
If Treville's and Serge's jaws could've hit the floor, they would've. "Don't you know who you are?" Treville asked.
Aramis shook his head, and winced from the pain that it caused. "No," he replied.
Treville looked at Serge, whose eyes were open nearly as wide as saucers. "Do you know who I am? Or him?" he said, gesturing with his chin towards the cook.
Aramis looked at them both for a few seconds before giving the same answer. "No."
"Should I go get the others?" Serge asked.
Treville sighed before shaking his head. "Not yet." He assumed that Aramis would only feel overwhelmed if Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan—who would apparently be three strangers—came bursting in.
"A doctor then?" Serge asked.
Treville nodded. "Send one of the stable boys and then come back."
Serge quickly headed for the door.
Treville sighed as he looked at Aramis. "What is the last thing you remember?"
Aramis looked down at the table. "I'm not sure." He looked up again. "What's your name?"
"Treville," he answered, his heart sinking at Aramis' question. "I'm your captain."
Aramis blinked. "Captain Treville," he echoed.
"Sound familiar at all?" Treville asked.
Aramis looked at him again before sighing and pulling a hand out from the blanket to hold to his head. He closed his eyes with a wince. "Forgive me, sir," he said. "I'm not...not feeling well."
Treville reached out to take hold of Aramis' shoulder, inwardly wincing himself. Sir? "Don't apologize, and there's no need to be formal; you've served France under my command for many years, and you aren't just one of my best men, but you're a good friend."
Aramis smiled slightly at that.
"I should not be asking you so many questions yet," Treville said. "Just take it easy, a doctor will be here soon."
Aramis said nothing to that, keeping his eyes closed against his headache.
Serge came back in and stood there worriedly looking down at Aramis. "Is 'e still cold?"
Treville still had a hand on the injured musketeer's shoulder and could feel him still shivering. "Yes," he said.
Serge wordlessly went back to the stove, before coming back a few minutes later with another cup that contained broth this time. "This should help," he said.
Aramis opened his eyes and saw the cup. He reached out for it, but Serge didn't let go as he drank. His stomach felt a little queasy because of his head injury, but liquids didn't seem to be causing any trouble, so he slowly drank it all.
Serge nodded, pleased. "There, that'll do ya a world of good." He took the empty cup and gave Aramis a pat on the shoulder.
Aramis sat quietly for a minute, feeling safe and not apprehensive at all around these 'strangers'. "This seems familiar."
Treville's eyebrows shot up. "What does?"
Aramis gestured vaguely. "This...everything. Not the room, I mean, but...I know that I'm acquainted with you, as if I'd met you before."
Treville smiled with relief. "It's a start. I'm sure you'll be back to yourself soon."
Aramis certainly hoped so…it was frightening to be so helpless.
The doctor arrived a few minutes later and confirmed—as if it wasn't obvious—that Aramis had indeed lost his memory.
"What can we do?" Treville asked.
"Tell him things," said the doctor, as he cleaned the wound on the side of Aramis' head. "Show him things. Take him places…but not yet. He needs to rest."
"How long do you think it might last?" Treville asked.
The doctor shook his head. "Impossible to say. He could take a nap right now and wake up his old self, or it could go on for months. Give it time."
Aramis looked at Treville, throwing him a look of shock that would've bordered on panic if Treville hadn't known him better.
With an inward jolt, Treville wondered if Aramis was the same person…with his memory gone, did he still retain the skills that he'd perfected through his years as a musketeer? Would he have the same personality? And then of course, there were Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan…they were going to be mortified and outraged when they found out what had happened to their friend…and Treville was not looking forward to telling them.