"Feels great to be back don't it?"
Aramis looked up from the musket he was cleaning and smiled at Porthos. He didn't need to say a word. The gesture would speak for itself. The war on Spain had temporarily put paid to his plans at Douai. So for now he relished being welcomed back into the loving arms of battle and the thrill of adventure. Sitting on the bench in the garrison courtyard, he and Porthos sat across from one another in companionable silence as they cared for and prepared their weapons.
"You still plan to go back there?" Porthos asked with a quick look at Aramis.
"You know I must."
"I know nothing of the sort," Porthos grunted. "Your duty is to the Musketeers."
Aramis stared his best friend in the eye. "My duty is to them."
Porthos didn't argue, but the grim set of his shoulders told Aramis that he didn't agree, but he understood.
"When did you become so sentimental?"
"Must be the after effects of D'artagnan's marriage. Thank you for inviting me by the way." He touched his chest, pretending to be wounded.
"You'd already walked halfway to the damned monastery at that point."
"Porthos..." Aramis cautioned with an amused tut. "God would not approve of that."
The hulk of a Musketeer rolled his eyes. "God? Is this what it's going to be like?"
"Perhaps I could put it off for a while yet." They grinned at each other. "And I didn't walk."
Yes, it did feel good to be back. Aramis looked across the yard, energised by the activity. All around them Musketeers prepared for battle. Horses were tended to, weapons readied, swords tested and apprentices given final instruction. He grinned down at his weapon, basking in the acute sense of belonging.
He had only made it halfway to Douai when Porthos, Athos and D'artagnan had found him in a small inn enroute. For now, there was a war that needed to be fought, his immediate future uncertain. At least he would not see her again. His jaw tightened as he checked his musket. It was for the best. In his head, he had made peace with it. In his heart however…
"We ride for the border in the hour," Athos called in his usual unaffected drawl as he sauntered over.
"Yes, Captain," Aramis said, amused when Athos's face remained impassive but his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Porthos grinned too, clearly enjoying their friend and leader's discomfort with his elevated status.
"See you are ready to depart."
"Yes, Captain," Aramis and Porthos said in unison.
"Careful," Athos cautioned, his tone droll and dripping with sarcasm. "Or I might forget which side you fight for and shoot you both on the battlefield."
The frenzied rumble of galloping hooves drew Aramis's attention from his retort.
"Expecting anyone?" Porthos asked.
Athos simply raised a brow, causing both Musketeers to rise from their seats and flank him, facing the entrance to the garrison. From the balcony above, D'artagnan and Constance were making their way down the stairs.
"Who is it?" Aramis called.
"The Royal Guard," D'artganan replied.
"That's us 'aint it?" Porthos questioned, his brow furrowed.
"Yes," drawled Athos. "But there are a unit of Musketeers currently under the direction of the Minister for War."
"God that sounds ridiculous," said Porthos.
"Amen," said Aramis. Again Porthos glared at him and he smirked, enjoying making religious references to irritate his friend.
"Guess the King wants to wish us well then, eh?"
Aramis never got to respond because it wasn't the King who entered the Garrison on a white horse. It was the Queen. He was not prepared for this. Had he not prayed for the fortitude to accept their separation? Yet here she was. Aramis looked to the ground, trying franticly to pull himself together.
While Athos stepped forward to assist her from her horse, Porthos sidled up to Aramis.
"You alright?"
Aramis just gave him a long sidelong glance.
"Not alright then." It was a statement. "If you want, you can sneak out the back. She hasn't seen you yet."
Aramis snorted, then rolled his eyes, then sighed in tormented silence. He was ashamed to admit - only to himself - that he actually considered the option of hiding.
"Captain," she said to Athos. "The King has sent me to wish you and your men well on your journey."
Aramis watched her, watched the way her eyes surreptitiously swept across the crowded garrison. She thought he'd left and yet still she searched for him. His gut twisted. Would it always be this way, he wondered. Would they always covet a look, a touch, a memory?
"Perhaps I should take my leave," he whispered to Porthos, trying to back away.
"Too bloody late."
Anne's gaze found him, her eyes widening for a moment in disbelief. She had not expected to see him any more than he had expected to see her. Even with a garrison filled with soldiers, he felt his soul reach for her.
"The stare," Porthos growled. "You're giving her the stare." Aramis roused himself, looking to the ground. Dammit. He did not move forward to greet her, but he did bow, as all the other men did in deference to her station.
Anne seemed to gather herself as well, rising to her full height. In burnished gold, she looked like the sun, unequalled in beauty and light. Addressing the men, her voice rang out clear and strong.
"Today you go to battle to fight for the honour of this country. Know that your King values your fealty and your loyalty. Your sacrifice will not go unappreciated or rewarded."
Aramis was utterly arrested by her poise and grace. He did not even try to dim the pride shining from his eyes as he gazed upon her glorious visage. Not for the first time he realised that the King of France had no idea of the magnificent woman he was blessed to call his Queen.
Her eyes moved in his direction, found his for a fraction of a second before sweeping back across the masses. "God go with you. May he watch over you, keep you safe and return you all to the loving arms of your friends and families."
Moving from solider to soldier, Anne extended her hand, bestowing an encouraging smile on every recipient. Each man in turn bowed low, placing a chaste kiss across the back of her hand.
"God go with you," she said to each one, the same level of hope and conviction threading through her voice. There were dozens of men; she gave a personal salutation to all in turn. Finally, she drew up to Porthos and Aramis. With Athos at her back, Anne smiled at Porthos.
"Porthos," she said, "Thank you for all you have done in the service of France. I will always be grateful."
"An honour to be at your service your Majesty." He bent over her knuckles.
Then she turned to him, the unavoidable circumstance. Aramis drew himself up to his full height, barely daring to breathe lest he throw himself at her feet in supplication.
"Monsieur Aramis," she said, licking her lips. She was nervous he realised, but they were partially secluded from others by the large, pleated gold ruff, a halo around her head. Her voice dropped an octave. "The King had been informed of your resignation. I dare say he will be delighted to hear you have rejoined his Musketeers." Her eyes were soft, the vibrant blue reminding him of the ocean on a cloudless day.
"A temporary aberration your Majesty." His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. "I attend my duty with pride."
He kept his gaze lowered, forcing himself not to look at her. He could not. He would not. Her hand appeared before his gaze and his jaw tightened as he silently cursed. He was not wearing his gloves and would be forced to touch her skin. Saying a quick prayer to God to help him through this test, he gently took the hand she offered. He felt his skin prick where they touched and squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned over her knuckles, pressing a light kiss there. The smell of roses wafted up to tease his senses and his head swam a little in reaction. He was not prepared for the slight pressure of her hand moving upwards, pressing his lips more firmly against her knuckles.
The jewelled crucifix around his neck swung forward, bumping against her fingers. Anne touched it as he began to rise. "May it keep you safe," she whispered, her eyes cloudy for a moment.
Without thinking, he returned her quietly intense vow. "Always."
Behind him, Porthos cleared his throat and Anne looked to Athos at her side, her smile forced and small.
"Captain."
With one final look in his direction, Aramis watched the woman he loved walk away. This time was different, he thought. This time she knew he might never return and it could very well be the last time they ever saw one another. He felt his heart rate accelerate painfully and pressed his palm against it, holding the crucifix tightly.
Aramis dared to look in her direction one last time as she turned her horse around. Look back, he called silently, hating himself for the mortal weakness of love, of longing, of hope. Look back at me.
Anne departed, the royal guard ahead and behind her. As she passed the arch at the exit of the garrison, she turned, her eyes finding his. Hope he knew he had no right to feel exploded inside the cavern of his chest. Their eyes locked across the chaos of the Musketeer barracks for a fraction of a second and then she was gone.
"That's that then, eh?" Porthos clapped him across the back, but his eyes were sorry, understanding, aware. Aramis nodded, turning back towards the bench he had earlier vacated. Porthos stalled him.
"It is over right?"
"Of course. Yes. It's over. It has to be."
Aramis smiled tightly at his best friend. But he fooled no one. They both knew he lied. It was not over. It would never be over.