Author's Notes: As noted in the summary, I was inspired by an image I saw on Tumblr that was uploaded by loveel-who. I contacted loveel-who, and he/she was kind enough to allow me to write this story around that image. I did not specifically ask for any back-story on the image or from what episode it might have come, as I wanted to blindly write and see where my musings took me. The timeline is never directly mentioned, and I hope the story offers plenty of clues as to just where this event could possibly take place within Season/Series 1.
Since this site makes it difficult to include a link, I have written it out phonetically. Please PM me if it doesn't work:
https (colon) (forward slash) (forward slash) www (period) instagram (period) com (forward slash) p (forward slash) Bajx-cfF4LK (forward slash)
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Musketeers" in any capacity, with the exception of the books written by Alexandre Dumas from where these characters had originated. I also owe credit to loveel-who, the curator of the image that had inspired this story. There is no money made from this hobby, but that does not stop my imagination from conjuring up new stories.
Summary: The king had issued a summons the previous night for his Musketeers to attend afternoon court the next day, and Aramis spends the morning attending chapel before meeting with the king. Inspired by an image I saw on a Tumblr post by loveel-who.
Heart of the Faithful
Outside, the crisp, brightness of the early hour was slowly making its shift into the warmer glow that would herald the commotion of morning. The sunlight was expanding over the land, its rays unusually intense against the remnants of the harsh storm that had blown through the night before. The azure in the sky above was deeper and crisper, with a richness that gave a velvet warmth to the infinite ceiling. The rain had left behind a layer of droplets that had covered the land and the structures, each tiny orb sparkling as though part of a set of high-class jewels reflecting the sunlight.
He, however, had remained secreted away from the heavenly glint of the outside world. He had taken his appreciations of it on his journey in the faint light of dawn, and he thought of it as a sign – one that meant his troubled soul would finally settle. Unfortunately for him, the beauty of the post-storm dawn had only remedied his restlessness temporarily and only for the duration that he was amidst the magic that the weather had done to the outdoors. As soon as he got behind closed doors again, that unsettled feeling washed over him once more.
Stepping silently in the dim candlelight, Aramis moved to the humble table before him, the one that had been his salvation when the world had grown too weary to handle. He hoped that he would find the solace he needed again in this place of solitude, as he could not help the feeling that something was pending on his horizon, and he needed this time to sort through things without interference.
Lifting the one candle that was already burning, he brought it to the handful of others on the table, lighting them carefully and methodically. As each candle was lit, and the brightness grew around him, the objects on the table that were obscured by the shadows began to reveal themselves. The seemingly too-small tablecloth of pure white linen reflected the orange glow, the warm light illuminating the dark wood beneath. Plain, silver cups reflected the light, the metal seeming hot where the glow was brightest, and hinting at a golden tint as the light spread further out from them. The other objects of his faith came into view, and as Aramis knelt on the cushion in front of him, his eyes took in the wooden cross before him with its engraved man in perpetual torment.
Aramis – like the man on the cross – was a man burdened, but unlike that man on the cross whose torture was inflicted upon by others, Aramis' torture was his own. It was the reason he came here to this lone chapel that remained hidden amidst the streets of Paris to all who did not know where to look. While most of society wanted the prestige of attending the cathedrals with their high arches, echoing stone, and life-size idols, this humble altar was stripped of all that pageantry. The small group of brothers who cared for it kept their distance for the most part, and they never interfered with the few outsiders who found their way into its walls seeking refuge.
In fact, Aramis, himself, looked nothing short of a man out of place. His long, brown, leather coat and armaments of weapons upon him told the story of a soldier, rather than a humble follower of the faith. Tucked in the holster against his right side was his trusted musket, always primed and ready to defend either himself, the ones he cared about most, or the ones he had been assigned to protect. Upon his left hip was his sword that hung dutifully in its scabbard, its blade sharp and his skills with it practiced. Strapped across his lower back was a dagger that complemented the sword when engaged appropriately and could be just as deadly on its own as it was when used with its long-bladed companion.
To anyone else, Aramis was a King's Musketeer who carried himself with a casual lightheartedness that spoke nothing of the humbled soul that burned within him. His roguish features alone had disarmed many a damsel with his sun-touched, tanned skin and dark locks that fell in waves just below the nape of his neck. He kept his beard and goatee in the fashion that many of the male Parisians had adopted –strategically trimmed to be unburdening in his conflicts but long enough to give him something to stroke in moments of contemplation. His irises were equally dark, but held in them a compassion and kindness that belied the dutiful soldier beneath. His eyes knew when to smile and when to grieve, and for most people he met, he ensured that they never saw the grieving side of him.
He was also aware of the whispers that passed around behind him wherever he went – admirations from some, jealousy from others – and he always did his best to leave those whispers in the places behind him where they originated. He had far too many of his own burdens to take even more to heart, and it was easier to allow those stories about him to take on their own lives, rather than allowing him to take part in them himself.
Breathing slowly to cleanse away the reason for his isolation in this place of faith, Aramis dropped his eyes to his hands as they draped over the railing before the altar. Those disarming, dark irises of his traced the scar that marked his skin from his left thumb towards his wrist. Smirking fondly in the silence of the empty chapel, Aramis recalled the knife that had dug into his flesh while he was on his way to help defend Porthos during the heat of an argument that his friend had started.
Feeling the distracting memories wash over him, Aramis recalled that it was a typical night for the two of them – close to five years ago by now he figured – and they had been up to their usual mischief while in one of the many taverns they visited in their travels. Aramis had been distracted by the dark-haired servant with the bright blue eyes, her smooth skin just a couple shades darker than his. She was a serious woman and very protective of her father and his establishment. Aramis gave himself the challenge of making her smile and decided that if he could get her to laugh, he would have achieved an even sweeter victory.
He had his suspicions that Porthos had been swindling the two men with whom he had been playing cards, but he had hoped that his brotherly comrade would have been far more careful in his cheating for once since they were on an assignment. Despite the noise of the crowd, Porthos and his newly-acquainted entourage were far too quiet, and while Aramis had been in the midst of the perfect story that was the key to breaking that beauty of a woman's solemn mask, the silence had been shattered by an explosion of wood. Without any indication of a build up to the confrontation, the table near Porthos had been overturned violently. When Aramis spun from his lovely quarry to see his brother being surrounded not just by the two men he was engaged with earlier, but three more, Aramis was left with no choice but to apologize to that young lady for having his story interrupted.
He had intended to politely and diplomatically request an explanation in the hopes that he would smoothly find a way to resolve the situation peacefully. However, it was during Aramis' movements to approach Porthos that the five men surrounding Porthos suddenly pulled their swords. Porthos, who Aramis knew was not one to back down from a fight, brought forth his sword and dagger, his wild grin beckoning the five men to make the first strike so that he could happily declare that his actions were done merely in self-defense.
Unfortunately for Aramis, it was one of the rare instances of his poor timing that had brought upon the cut on his hand. Had he simply just stayed on his flirtatious path with the young servant woman, Porthos would have easily handled the five men on his own – but that wasn't Aramis' way. He would never leave his brother to defend himself alone, and as a rule of chivalry, he needed to help his brother while gaining what he hoped were the admirations of a blue-eyed, dark-haired beauty.
Sadly, Aramis had not earned her admirations, but instead he had earned her sympathies when he reached for his sword and was struck by the stray dagger of the opponent who simply didn't realize Aramis was standing so close to him. Muttering a curse at the open gash, Aramis was then forced to take a different approach, and that was to pull his musket from his side. Raising it into the air, he fired the shot, sending the lead ball into the ceiling, where he realized a number of others were embedded in the wood from past skirmishes.
The noise had broken up the imminent brawl before it truly started, and as the men looked around for the source of the noise, the tavern keep had his own musket aimed into the crowd. His deep voice issued the warning that the next man who raised a weapon would never be able to do so again. It was the threat that the crowd needed, and within minutes the five men who were ready to pounce on Porthos sulked out of the tavern, apparently familiar with the tavern keep and his dangerous promises.
Porthos had his weapons returned to their sheaths seemingly by sleight-of-hand, and he thanked the tavern keep for his help. However, that was short-lived as the man brought the musket to aim at Porthos. Aramis then stood between the musket and his brother with the intention to diplomatically smooth-talk the two of them out of their predicament. Before he could even announce that he was a soldier in the King's Musketeers, the dark-haired daughter stepped between her father and Aramis as she noticed that his bloodied hand was dripping onto the floor. She begged her father not to harm him, as she wanted Aramis to finish his story and allow him time to stitch his wound before her father would send the two of them away.
Aramis had not been able to hide his surprise over the fact that the young woman had been enthralled in his tale, despite her seeming disinterest in him. As she guided him to a table, she begged to know how his story ended while her father helped Aramis stitch his wound. At the end of the story, he and Porthos had revealed their assignment in the vicinity and that they were using the tavern as a central location to keep watch for a man they were assigned to catch that had been robbing churches. Their information had led them to the tavern where this person of interest had been known to inhabit. The tavern keep knew of the man in question, and he promised them that the following day, he would help delay the man's departure so that they could bring him under arrest.
During the discussion, Aramis learned that the young woman he had so intently pursued was only interested in the story he had been telling her. She had explained that she had been aware of his affections and was flattered by them, but she was already betrothed to the son of a prominent blacksmith in town. And, Aramis could not help but melt under the smile she revealed as she mentioned that she had been in love with her suitor from the time she was six-years-old. Her father was a man of reasonable means, and he had decided that the blacksmith's son was a suitable match both for his daughter's heart and his own prosperity.
For weeks after that encounter, Porthos had found every opportunity to tease Aramis when it came to his flirtations. The larger man could not help making comments to Aramis in which he reminded his brother to ensure that the women he flirted with were not already engaged in prior relationships. By the time Aramis had begun to grow close to Adele, Porthos was no longer teasing him but warning him to be careful. Every encounter Aramis had with her gave Porthos more reason to worry because falling in love with the cardinal's mistress was the most dangerous liaison Aramis had ever undertaken.
Running his right index finger over that scar, Aramis felt the smile on his face fade now that he was no longer lost in that memory of the tavern and the humor that such an incident represented at that time in his life. The thought of Adele had sobered him, and he felt his shoulders fall with the regret. He had done his best to convince her to leave Cardinal Richelieu, and when he last tried to talk to her to learn her decision, he discovered that she was no longer living in Paris. It was in lonely moments like this one, that he still regretted that she had made her decision to stay with Richelieu, and he had no choice but to assume that she would never return. He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if she had remained with him, and he could only conclude that she had disappeared to make their separation easier without prolonging the inevitable.
Bringing his hand to the buttoned lining in the front of his coat, his fingers caught on the chain of the metal cross that hung around his neck. The pendant rested within its usual place, just below his chest bone. He lifted it before him and studied its polished metal, proud of the meticulous care he had given it to keep it pristine. It was another reminder of the dangerous romantic affairs he was so adept for finding himself within. Porthos had once asked him while he was courting Adele if he had a suicidal death wish, but now Aramis wondered just how true that was.
He pondered a moment on the thought of someone accusing him of seeking suicide, and he had decided that if such a statement came from anyone else, he would have not thought twice to defend his reputation and send a fist into such accusations. But, Porthos was no mere anyone. He was the most trusted of men and the most compassionate of brothers. They had endured everything together. Porthos had supported Aramis through his regrets at Savoy, and Aramis had stood beside Porthos when he needed a brother to ask no questions. And, in all honesty, it was Aramis who had an uncanny talent for upping the ante with his romantic relations as he had shifted his interest from the cardinal's mistress to the king's wife.
Despite Aramis' closeness with Porthos, though, there was one true blemish in their relationship that Aramis never had the fortitude to disclose. It was that very affair with Queen Anne that he had kept secret from Porthos, and while he considered it every day to tell his brother what had happened that night at that secluded convent, he could never bring himself to be the reason Porthos was sent to the gallows. For as much as Aramis wanted to hold no secrets with his closest friend, he knew that Athos was right to keep as many people unaware of the affair as possible.
Taking a heavy breath, Aramis brought his hands to his face, and rubbed them over the weariness that had come over him. His goatee tickled beneath his fingers, the hair trimmed and neatly sculpted, adding dimension and roguish charm to his features – making him seem even more of an unlikely candidate for having earned the queen's personal affections.
Silently shaking those thoughts away, Aramis instead thought about all that had come before him in his life, and he could not deny that there was something to be said for the life he lived – the adventure and danger of besting opponents justly as well as the romantic pleasures he had enjoyed after earning the affections of the damsels he encountered in those adventures.
And, yet, a hollowed-out section of his soul had always remained unfilled – a section that had moments where it was bandaged – but never healed. He did his best to not think about that gash in his soul, but watching Isabelle die had reminded him that he was almost a father when he was too young to appreciate it. He almost had a child to love and teach, and he had sworn for his entire life that he would never allow anyone – not even Porthos – to see that missing section of his soul.
However, having Anne catch him in that rare moment of emotional torment when his soul had once again been ripped open was entirely without premeditation. The last thing he expected of his esteemed queen was for her to admit her failure with her own child and then commiserate in the grief of children neither of them had the opportunity to raise.
Feeling his eyes rise to the tormented idol of his faith, Aramis studied that hanging man and wondered if the blasphemous stories were true that he, too, had been touched by endangered affections. While he had been taught to disregard the rumors that the Son of God had partaken in an alleged affair with a reformed prostitute who was faithful to his teachings, Aramis always had a strange fascination about it.
Suddenly dropping his head in apology for again having his curiosities about the sinful rumors of the holy Son of God, Aramis settled into the familiar position of a dutiful servant with his head instinctively bowed and his eyes closed. It was no longer the time to consider the falsehood rumors that some of the less faithful have spread about the tortured man on the cross. Aramis had come to this place this morning to seek answers for himself and settle his soul in the solitude where his questions would no longer burden him.
Allowing the thoughts, words, and emotions to pass before him, Aramis clasped his hands, just as they always had when he was alone and in this most humbled position of his faith. Memorized phrases from prayers that were barely audible escaped his lips, his whisper nothing but a miniscule draft of air moving through the enclosed chapel. This was the ritual he knew that always calmed him, and as he fell deeper into those faithful words, he silently asked God for the strength to remain unfaltering in his endeavors. He knew he would also need God to instill in him the wisdom to make noble decisions, especially when it would be his choices that determine the outcome of circumstances. He prayed for God to show him clarity when he would encounter times of uncertainty, and he used his memorized words to request courage for when he would feel his most vulnerable and weak.
Aramis paused in his recitals, taking a breath to refill his lungs and meditate in the silence that once again surrounded him. In this moment of peace, he felt the wave wash over him – the one that he could never explain to anyone, despite his best efforts. It was this wave that had been the very foundation of his faith – that connection in his soul that he had tried on so many occasions to explain to Porthos. Unfortunately, his friend could never feel it for himself but he always supported Aramis unquestioningly when he needed his time alone to delve into his faith.
Lost in the warmth that surrounded him, Aramis now offered his prayers of gratitude. In his whispered mutterings, he thanked God for presenting him with a second chance at everything he knew he never should have been given. He had the most humbling of beginnings – a child born with no hope to become more than a waif to a lowly prostitute. Yet, it was that prostitute who had instilled in him the faith and trust that God had a path prepared for him. Little did he know then, that God would present to him choices that would give him a better life than he should have ever known.
He had struggled, had fought, had argued, and had carried inside him the internal scars of emotional turmoil, and they nearly identically matched the outward scars of his bravery. Aramis was not the humble child of a prostitute, but a good man who believed that God had put an ascending path before him to give him the life his mother always knew he was destined to live. He was gifted with a sharp eye for marking targets most others would miss a hundred times over, and it was that talent that had brought him to high-ranking soldiers seeking a man with his skills.
His path led him to Captain Treville, where he had earned the rank of a King's Musketeer. Aramis had brushed shoulders with and protected the highest nobles of France's most prominent houses – most notably the king and queen themselves. Where others would end his narrative in history as a man who remained a brave musketeer and did his duty nobly, Aramis continued to follow the paths that God had kept open to him.
Certainly, like any road would, his path had veered in broken directions before righting itself again. He now contemplated if that encounter with Queen Anne in a secluded convent was a path that God had secured for him to take or if it was yet another turn away from that path. He thought about the distant stares that he and Anne had given each other in every meeting after that night. They seemed far more intense – almost maddening – and he swore that if there were no others present, she would have said something significant to him. What she would tell him, he could never imagine. Certainly, it could not so easily be a declaration of love, for the propriety that hung between them would see to their deaths. There was no assurance that a spy had not been dispatched to watch this queen of Spanish origin, and to even dare whisper affections to or from a lowly Musketeer would most certainly risk their lives. Yet, he could not deny that there was something in her blue irises that beckoned him, and for as practiced as she was, small facial expressions would slip through her mask of propriety when their eyes caught.
It was these answers that weighed so heavily upon his soul. He was a loyal servant of the crown – of France herself – and his actions in that convent were never meant to risk the charges of treason to Anne or himself. He was a lonely heart who merely recognized the same in another, and for one night, neither of them had felt any of the pain or remorse that so greatly filled their lives.
He took in a deep breath, the kind to cleanse the darkness that edged towards his soul. His faith had led him this far, and he had to believe that God would ensure he never strayed far from the path he was meant to follow. Perhaps that night with Anne was merely just a bend in the road, or…maybe he should dare hope that it was the start of a far lengthier journey on a shared road with her, if that truly was the direction God had intended for him.
Opening his eyes, Aramis brought those dark irises of his to rise again to the tortured man on the cross, wondering why that turmoil within him had not settled. As he studied the idol that was meant to be a wooden representation of the deity to which he prayed, he again silently asked the hanging man if he had ever suffered such a restless soul.
Aramis didn't know why he had developed this sudden worry, but he was certain that it had something to do with Treville telling him yesterday that he and his fellow Musketeer brothers were requested to attend a summons of the king's request this afternoon. While Treville had no information about why they were required in attendance, he also knew it was not uncommon for the king to call upon his private guardsmen for whatever whim his sometimes-impulsive desires had chosen. Normally, Aramis would handle such a summons without thought, grateful to be useful under the command of royalty, but after that night with Anne, he had grown more observant and had a darker view of France's elite and the way they regarded the queen.
Certainly, the king did not suspect any kind of mistreatment that had become of Anne those weeks ago when she was fleeing her assassins. If he had, Aramis had no doubt that the king would have disclosed his feelings on the matter immediately and would not have waited this long to bring those objections to light against his musketeers.
Dropping his eyes again to his hands and feeling his head bow in the manner that usually eased his troubled soul, Aramis once more closed his eyes and prayed that his path in the Musketeers would remain clear. He sent silent words to God to keep his brothers and his fatherly captain free of any burdens the king may have against them. And, he concluded his prayers with the hope that Anne would remain safe and that in her time after her assassination attempts, she had found some kind of solace in the life he now knew had become an imprisonment of sorts for her.
Opening his eyes and knowing he could do nothing for his restlessness until after the king had said his peace, Aramis leaned forward and softly released a breath, extinguishing the candles he had lit earlier. He left one solitary candle burning – the very same one that had been lit upon his arrival. He knew the brothers left that one as a beacon of sorts for any who wished to visit their sanctuary, and he would continue to honor their unspoken request by leaving it as he found it.
Standing now, Aramis gave the darkened altar one last look, the shadows having swallowed the majority of the items once again. He turned from the silence of the chapel sanctuary and just as quietly left so that he could join his brothers before they departed for the palace. He only hoped that whatever the king had planned to discuss with them would settle his soul. He had lived far too long with the knowledge that there was something missing from it, and Aramis had the instinctive suspicion that this afternoon would bring him the answers he sought to feel whole once again.