Chapter 1

Aramis watched in silence as Agnes disappeared with Henry in her arms towards Avalon.

His heart was filled with compassion for this young, courageous woman, who, re-united with her own flesh and blood, a piece of herself, wandered into a common future. Aramis wondered if he could ever experience such a future himself, whether he really wanted it. Maybe later. Always later. Not with Isabel, not with Adele, not with Agnes and her child, certainly not with Anne.

"One day you will write your memoirs, and on each page is the name of a woman."

He turned to his friends, all sitting smiling on their horses. He had done the right thing. His so-typical broad smile spread across his face, and he started to mount his horse. It took him longer than usual. Aramis felt deep tiredness seeping through his bones. His friends had already turned their horses, but the marksman was still standing beside his steed, unable to lift his leg to the stirrup.

A quick glance told him that everyone turned their backs to him. He let out a long breath and with it the tension he had been wearing since the events on the bridge yesterday afternoon leave his body. His forehead sank against the flank of his horse. His left hand gently laid on his battered right side where the bandits had dragged him from his horse onto the bridge railing.

"Aramis, what are you waiting for?"

D´Artagnan had lead his steed back to him in a short gallop. The young gascons face took on a worried expression as he pulled his horse to a halt beside his friend.

"Aramis? Is something wrong?"

He made ready to slide from his horse, but Aramis had already lifted his head, a smile apperared on his tired face. A smile that only reached his mouth but not his eyes.

"No, my friend. All is well."

He fumbled with the thongs on his saddle.

"The ... the stirrup was twisted."

He took a deep breath, put his foot in the stirrup and swung, well, he climbed onto his horse. At the thought of how ridiculous it looked, Aramis grimaced.

When he finally sat in the saddle he straightened up, and, turning his horse, nodded to the young Gascon that they could finally start, back to Paris, back to the garrison, back home.

D'Artagnan paused for a moment, eyebrows drawn, looking thoughtfully at his departing friend.