A/N: For some reason inspiration to write keeps eluding me; but this very short piece is a 'thank you' for enjoyedit; this one had been lying around unfinished for quite some time until you nudged me to get on with writing again and finish something.
For those of you who had read my 'Postscript' you could imagine this one as a piece leading up to the last scene with Aramis in the end of that one.
Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here.
Happy reading.
"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
– Winston Churchill
He watches Porthos and Elodie, the baby cradled between them as his friend bids them farewell at the arched gateway. A smile comes unchecked to his face when he sees Porthos swoop down to kiss his daughter again, before he presses his lips to his wife's forehead and steps back with a grin. Athos and Sylvie walk past them, the former Captain thumping the big man on the shoulder one more time. Blue eyes meet brown and both faces soften; a silent goodbye and a wordless promise, a smile shared of triumph that is touched with disbelief. And he knows that none of them had imagined the possibilities that lay before them now. His heart aches, heavy and light, brimming and hollow because this, this kernel of home and hearth and peace, they deserve it. Every precious bit of it.
And then Porthos is in the saddle and Elodie is in a carriage, Athos and Sylvie turn hand in hand with their horses behind them. Two go one way, two another. And Constance's murmur has him glancing back in time to catch d'Artagnan laugh at whatever his wife had said. Before the young Captain turns back to the work left for him and with his wife at his side they walk away to build a life, a future, a garrison.
Aramis flips his hat in his hand and places it on his head. Looks from the men sorting through the rubble to the walls that are still standing tall; strong and resolute, cradling any who enter their confines in search of brotherhood. A soft laugh bubbles past his lips and he shakes his head a little; stands in the courtyard that is filled with debris and breathes in the smell of wet earth and gunpowder.
He remembers it stinking of rotten fruit once, of the rooms filled with stale dusty air with the kitchen a haven for rats and a pile of moss and wood and just too many insects in the place where they had set up the stables. This place had been different when he had first pushed open the lone rusty, creaky gate and walked through with another Captain at his side.
A man who had seen wars at the front and battles at the court, neither being less ruthless than the other; who had seen his King assassinated and had seen the next one nearly overthrown by his own mother. Aramis had followed that man into this place as a soldier, wary of the Captain who had plucked him from the ranks and yet ready to prove to everyone that he was worth that choice.
He moves out of the way of the men carrying broken roof beams and dodging the cadet sweeping broken shingles he steps closer to the entryway. Trails his fingers over the cool wall and turns to look at the garrison that is in shambles, the very garrison he had once helped built. From fixing hinges to nailing planks onto leaky roofs, from hauling furniture and building the stables to settling in new horses and new recruits; there was his blood, sweat and memories all over this place. Sprinkled like errant drops of colour that shone out to him, told him stories through every bump and cut in the many walls and through every nick and tilt of the wooden fixtures. It was there before his eyes even though it was not.
Aramis tapped a thumb against the wall as the phantom pain of all those times he had smashed the hammer on it throbbed anew with the beat of his heart; brought back every laugh and lecture from those early days. From the Captain's sharp eyes that missed nothing despite his soldier's attempts of discretion, to Treville's face torn between mirth and exasperation as Sarge hobbled over with clean linens while Aramis clutched either a bleeding hand or a bleeding head.
"You gave us a home Captain," Aramis says.
Because that was what it had been for all those who had found their way to this garrison. Young men lost and eager, soldiers wary and jaded, and old men who had lived by honour and sword until the latter had forsworn them. Wandering souls that had collected here and slowly, cautiously, rustled about to make room for life and hope again.
Aramis turns away and walks out.
Stops once he's through the gates and glances up.
"Un pour tous, tous pour un"
The words remain.
He touches the rim of his hat in a silent salute, blinks against the sudden wet burning in his eyes and looks away.
Knows that d'Artagnan will build the garrison anew, is sure that he will build it better. The layout better planned and the wood and bricks fresh and ready to face down the coming years. But there won't be his room in there anymore, neither would there be of Athos' and Porthos' and something clamps around his lungs at that thought. Because no cadet would get to wonder over the smell of wine that would just not leave the room assigned to him until he would be told that an Athos lived there once, no other cadet would be surprised by the fake bricks and loose planks that Porthos had fashioned in his room for hiding his belongings and no cadet would ask why there were gouges at the back of the door of Aramis' room where he had practiced throwing knives when confined to bed.
Their rooms will no longer be.
Aramis walks down the street and refuses to glance back. Swallows the prickly rock he feels lodged in his throat and forces his mind ahead to the life waiting to roll out under his feet.
Goes to the Palace to accept the position Her Majesty grants him. And finds it hard to look away from the young King at her side; cannot believe that he will be living in such close proximity to his dream. Never to be a father or husband in title but always in the support he would offer to Their Majesties.
"Minister, Minister?"
He starts when the nervous young man looks at him in confusion and he frowns back. There is an expectant look in the face that is turned to him but Aramis cannot understand why. The young man clears his throat and tries again.
"This way Minister," he says.
Arches an arm out as an invitation and Aramis blinks.
Oh yes – Minister – him.
He nods and follows the boy. The sigil resting on his finger is heavy and the corridors he walks through are bright. He hears the phantom footfalls at his side, heavy and confident; sharp and long; light and brisk and almost turns his head to the expected thump on his shoulder, to catch the warning blue glare on his other side and to roll his eyes at the eager gaze searching for Constance beyond. He blinks against the warm blur in his gaze that springs from the lingering of the dear presences that hadn't left his side even when he had walked away from them years ago. Makes himself to stare ahead instead and finds himself thinking of these corners he had rounded so many times in a hurry to avoid Treville during those early years when the Captain was still quarrelling over the cost of the new regiment with Richelieu; or the times he had followed after the same Cardinal in these hallways in those early days, 'accidently' stepping on his cloak and making full use of the 'naïve fool' perception that the man had of him.
Aramis smiles; he had been young, reckless, impetuous.
He was older now; still reckless, still impetuous; his smile grew, and apparently unrepentant he thought.
The young man before him glances to his face before dropping his gaze and Aramis' smile falters. Before him stands the door to the Minister's chambers and a sagging weight abruptly settles in his arms as he remembers the too bright blaze of the sun at the back his neck, and catches himself before he can look down at the lasting impression of the man who had breathed his last in his grasp.
A soldier, a Captain, a Minister.
There had been an end of an era under his hands.
Making sure his smile stays in place Aramis nods at the younger man.
"I can take it from here," he says.
"If you need anything –"
"I'll come find you,"
"You could send one of the servants,"
He stares.
Has half a mind to protest but simply nods; there are new rules he will need to adhere to, new workings he will need to understand with the new role he will have to fit into. He looks back to the door once he is alone in the hallway, and locks his knees lest he staggers under the burden that suddenly lands on his shoulders.
"Do you realize what you have done?"
"My intentions –"
"Your intentions are irrelevant. A soldier should never play at politics, Aramis."
"Isn't that what you're doing?"
He had wanted to make a difference; Eparcy, Grimuad, refugees with no home behind and none before, he had wanted to put to a stop the madness. And above all he had wanted to keep those he loved, safe. Pressing a hand flat against the door he lets go a breath. Wonders if this is a terrible mistake he is making, wonders if the roads leading away those whom he calls family will ever circle back to him again; and feels his chest tighten at the thought of the exquisite torture it will be to remain achingly close and yet too far from the mirage of a perfect family that their Majesties present to him.
A tremor trails down his spine.
Aramis pushes open the door.
It's everything you wanted, it's everything you don't.
Its one door swinging open and one door swinging closed.
Some prayers find an answer; some prayers never know.
We're holding on and letting go.
– Ross Cooperman [Holding on and letting go]
End.