Anywhere, but here
The one thing people associate with a monastery – next to God and his followers – is silence. Silence, quiet and peace and Aramis can't understand where this is coming from. There is no silence in the monastery, the life of the monks bustling all around him.
There's the hammering knife of brother Jacques cutting turnips. The bubbling and fizzling of water in the cooking pot. Quills scratching on paper in the library, the rustling of pages being turned.
There's the wind singing in the trees, the flutter of birds, the humming of bees in the garden.
The dripping from a leak in the roof of one of the corridors, the echo of the monks footsteps in the cloister, the few quiet words being exchanged by them.
There's the clatter of dishes in the refectory, the singsong of the lection accompanying the meal, the drone of the bell calling for prayer and the deep tone of the words coming from his and his brothers lips: "Sancta maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."
All those sounds might seem weak compared to the screeching sound of crushing blades, the thundering shot of a musket and bellowed orders in a fight.
But Aramis forces himself to listen intently, to suck in every precious sound around him until his ears are ringing loud enough to drown out the thoughts in his head
He manages until the end of the day. Until the hour calls for a „night's rest" - a terrible irony mocking him - and every sound is sealed away from his searching ears.
The walls are too thick, not letting the sounds of his sleeping brothers through. The trees too far away to send their rustling to him. Even the dripping water from the leaky roof in the hallway is quiet as if the water is searching for silence, too.
Quiet, silence, peace.
He couldn't be further away from any of these than in this moment.
The walls around him turn into his cell, into a different cell at a different place, far away. He hears sounds that are not there but that still have burned indelibly into his memory. The rattling of chains, the moaning of distressed souls, screams and begging, the clicking of locks – yet not promising freedom.
He is dreading those sounds. It is not fear that is haunting him, it is something different. It is the images that come with the sounds, faces. Adèle and Marguerite. And that aren't even the faces that are important but rather those that he allows his mind to give names to. They remind him of the guilt he is carrying, a vague prospect of how huge his guilt is. He can't face all of it. Not now. Not yet. But he needs to start somewhere. For this he is here and he starts with Adèle. Adèle and Marguerite.
He is praying a lot. Like in the other cell he is praying to God, offering him his life, his actions, his existence, because this is the most valuable thing you can give to God and he has sworn it. It is the only way to make amends, to repent, to abjure, to take himself out of the game that has endangered so many. It has been him that has put them at risk – and worse.
But God isn't in this cell. Or in truth Aramis doesn't find God, can't reach him – neither here in this cell nor in the church when he is kneeling on the wooden bench, neither in the cloister or refectory nor in the garden, least during confession which is a farce since he needs to keep half of his sins a secret.
But God knows anyway, he is sure of it. If God sees everything he also knows why Aramis is here. And if he is eluding Aramis here of all places he probably has a good reason.
He starts to doubt. He doubts his way, himself and finally even God.
He knows he's made some terrible mistakes, but still he actually always has done only one thing – he has loved. And if love is a gift from God how come that it brings blood, death and despair like Aramis love has always done? Something is not right with that system. Or he just hasn't a clue about love.
"There is only the love for God", the abbot explains when he indicates his troubles and to his credit Aramis must admit that the love for God possibly is the least dangerous of all, the purest and the most durable – for all involved. But if it is only about the love for God, what about the people? Are they left unloved? Should he close his heart from them?
"There are enough noble sentiments we can offer our fellow men without the need to stray from our love of God", the abbot instructs and Aramis suspects that this isn't the right place for him.
That if this is the way to fulfill his oath he will fail miserably.
He is sure of it the next day, when brother Jacques has an accident in the kitchen. One of the hooks that is holding the big cast-iron pot over the fire budges and the boiling water pours over his abdomen.
Aramis is doing what he can but even with brother André's help at some point there is nothing left to do than pray. It takes some time until he realizes that brother André is casting a curious glance at him.
"What is it?", he asks and automatically turns to the injured man, "Any changes? Is it the fever?"
Brother André negates. "No, no. No changes. It's just... I've never seen you so... intent – upon prayer I mean."
Aramis says nothing. But it is in this night, when they finally need to take leave of brother Jacques, that he finds God again.
He remembers other nights he has spend at the beds of wounded men, bloody dressings and moaning, a night in the snow, death, so much death – and life. Always life as well. Survival.
For example when Porthos had been hit by an ax. His friend could have died, Aramis even had feared this outcome for some time. But he couldn't let go, not of Porthos. He did pray, stitch and pray; and he is almost sure that only one of those actions wouldn't have been enough to save him.
But brother Jacques can't be saved by any needle or salve. His pain is beyond all bearing. Although they urge him to drink a strong herbal tincture in between his screams of agony to ease his suffering. But when even this doesn't help anymore Aramis starts to pray. He is begging God for salvation of this man. "Please let it stop", he is praying. And it isn't the first time that his thoughts are forming those words. When brother Jacques' suffering finally ends he looks peaceful. It makes Aramis believe that he has really gone to a better place.
"You do want to leave us." It is a statement, not a question. And Aramis is glad that the abbot isn't launching into a lecture or asking about the reasons causing him to leave.
He hasn't forgotten his oath, but for him God isn't inside these walls. He never needed a monastery to feel close to God. God is everywhere, God is with the people, with the people Aramis loves and it is those people he needs to protect. He needs to protect them better than he's done until now, much better. This is his way to discharge of his guilt, to make amends; it is the only way Aramis sees. He doubts that he will be able to do this fully, ever, but he at least needs to try.
"There've come friends of you to fetch you", the abbot says and is pointing towards the monastery's yard. Aramis is confused. He didn't tell anybody what he planned. He just knows it for a couple of hours himself.
And yet, here they are, all three of them, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. They stand next to their horses, covered in dust, looking not quite sure if they are welcome or not. Aramis practiced eye immediately recognizes the travel cloaks, the heavy arming and the bulging saddle bags packed for several days.
"A mission?", he asks but Athos denies.
"A war", he explains.
Aramis is shaking his head. "You can't be left alone for even a week, can you?"
He notices the grin that is spreading over Porthos' face.
"Does this mean you'll come with us?", Porthos asks, but Aramis doesn't need to answer.
All for one and one for all.
God willing it will stay this way for yet some time.
-END-