God and War

They slowed their horses to a canter as they approached the outer gates of the monastery near the village of Deuxilles, none of them quite sure what to expect. It had been four weeks since Aramis had resigned his commission, clearing out the small room in the garrison he had called his own for longer than Porthos could remember. He'd tried his level best not to think of his friend in that time, hoping he was content in the new life he had chosen, but missing him all the same. Every time he turned around, he expected to see the rakish grin, hear the dulcet tones of the voice he had come to rely on as part of his world. The hole in his heart widened each time he remembered his brother's absence, and for a moment, he found it hard to breathe.

Aramis was gone, but his ghost still lingered in every corner of the garrison. There had never been a time that Porthos had been there without Aramis' presence. For a while he'd been able to fool himself into believing his friend was simply out on a mission for the King and would be returning soon to stand once again at his side, but each night, as they sat around a table in a tavern or took inventory of the armory, he was faced with the reality that Aramis was no longer part of his world.

He understood his friend's devotion to his God – he always had - even though he didn't share it. It wasn't that he didn't believe, it was just that he'd always known his calling was here, with the Musketeers, protecting King and country. He'd thought Aramis' was the same. Though his faith was strong enough to cause him doubt from time to time, Porthos never questioned that he would always find his home, his place, at his and Athos' side – the Inseperables. But Aramis' loyalties had been divided, and Porthos had always sensed how hard it had been for the marksman to justify his religion with his duty. A man who killed, but bound his heart to God. It was a dichotomy, but so was Aramis himself.

A rogue who could cause any woman to swoon with just a smile, yet a man so deeply yearning for love he gave his heart openly and easily to those not worthy of it. It was obvious he truly loved the Queen, and Porthos was not fool enough to believe that impossible love had not played a part in his decision to leave. How hard must it have been for Aramis to see the Dauphin, know it was his own flesh and blood, yet keep his distance for fear of discovery of their sins.

And Porthos had not helped matters telling him to deny it ever happened. On the surface, it had seemed the wisest course of actions, but how could someone who loved as completely as Aramis ever deny his own child? Porthos had only been thinking of his friend's safety, he hadn't taken into account his friend's limitations. Aramis could no more deny his son than the night could deny the moon. It had to have been pure torture for him to watch from a distance, knowing he would never hold his own child, teach him how to ride, to shoot, to be a good man.

Like his father.

Porthos still wanted to wring his friend's neck for being so reckless in the first place, but he couldn't feel anger at his need to be near those he held dear. It was Aramis. It was that simple.

As the gates opened, they dismounted, walking their horses through the entrance, stopping in the large courtyard beyond. The monastery was ancient, a stone fortress once used to hold back forces of Henry of Navarre as he made his way to the walls of Paris. The massive building jutted into the sky, three stories high, with parapets and towers on all four corners. The courtyard was framed by a large stable and animal pens with gardens growing produce as far as the eye could see. Monks and laymen toiled in the late day sun, quietly and peachfully going about their work as if they had no care in the world.

From the looks of the place, they probably did not.

A monk, resplendent in a long brown robe tied with cord at the waist approached, an inquiring look on his face.

"May I be of service to you, messieurs?"

Athos stepped forward, bowing politely to the man. "We are of the King's Musketeers. We are searching for one of our own, a man called Aramis who arrived here a little more than a fortnight ago."

The monk nodded knowingly. "Ah! You must mean brother d'Herblay. He has been with us for as long."

Porthos huffed a laugh at the use of Aramis' proper name. "Yeah, that's 'im. We need to speak with him if it's possible."

The monk buried his arms in the wide sleeves of his robe and tilted his chin toward the large building behind them. "I believe you would find him in the stables." He smiled. "He usually goes out riding this time of day. A bit of a restless spirit, that one."

They thanked the man and turned toward the stables, stopping as a tall, lean figure stepped out of the building into the sunlight.

Aramis was carrying a large sack of grain balanced precariously on one shoulder. His hair was a mess of dark curls, bits of hay caught in the strands, catching in the sunlight. He had shaved his beard and moustache and Porthos couldn't help but grin, noting how it made him look all of twelve years old. He was clothed in simple dark breeches and a dark shirt, looking more the part of a farmboy than d'Artagnan ever had. He tossed the sack down against the wall and stood, his hands against his lower back, stretching.

He looked… at peace. None of the burden he'd been carrying on his shoulders was evident in his easy movement. As he twisted, his eyes fell upon the three men watching him intently and his face broke out into a surprised smile.

For a moment none of them moved, each drinking in the sight of their friend.

Finally Aramis began toward them, breaking the spell and they dropped the reins of their horses and stepped forward to meet him.

Porthos got there first, throwing his arms around the smaller man and pulling him tightly to him.

"I've missed you," he said, his voice breaking. His heart swelled as he breathed in the scent that was uniquely Aramis, and something in him fell back into place.

"And I you, my friend."

Athos was next to embrace their lost brother followed by d'Artagnan, each of them grinning as they stepped back.

Porthos was scratching at his chin as he eyed the smooth skin of his friend's face, unable to suppress the teasing glint in his dark gaze. "I don't think I've ever seen you look quite so…"

"Young." Athos finished for him.

Aramis rubbed at his jawline self-consciously. "Ahh, yes. I thought it time for a change."

"That's quite the change," d'Artagnan said, studying Aramis' profile with unabashed amusement. "I hardly recognize you."

Aramis shrugged. "The monks tend to keep things simple. I thought I'd oblige."

"How are you?"

Aramis gave Athos a shy smile. "I'm… " He shrugged again, searching. "Content."

He cleared his throat and looked at them one by one.

"Not that I'm not thrilled to see all of you, but why exactly are you here?" Aramis asked suddenly, his brow furrowing. "You're not here to try to change my mind, I hope."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a look and Aramis narrowed his eyes, knowing his friends better than he knew himself.

"Something's happened." He took a quick breath, body stiffening. "Are they all right?"

Understanding exactly who Aramis was concerned for, Porthos laid a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed. "They're both fine," he assured him. Squeezing again as the tense muscle under his grip relaxed.

"Then to what do I owe the honor? Don't tell me you missed me already."

"From the moment you left," Athos admitted, drawing a look of surprise from the marksman at his blatant honesty. "But that is not why we are here."

Aramis placed both hands on his hips and raised his brows, waiting patiently for an explanation.

"The King has declared war on Spain."

Aramis let out a long breath, dropping his head as Athos continued.

"We are leaving for the border today."

Aramis nodded. "Treville has roused the troops then, no doubt."

"Treville has accepted the King's promotion to the council. He will be serving as Louis' Minister of War." Porthos explained. "The regiment is under command of a new captain." He smiled and looked pointedly at Athos, who rolled his eyes. It was probably as close to embarrassment as they had ever seen the man.

Aramis grinned, the gesture strangely innocent without the beard. "I can think of no one more deserving. Congratulations, Captain."

Athos nodded, "If we could dispense with the titles for the moment, I would like to discuss your return to the regiment."

Aramis opened his mouth to respond then closed it abruptly, obviously unsure of how to respond.

"We need you, Aramis." The sincerity in Porthos' voice forced the marksman to lower his gaze. "It just isn't right without you."

Aramis swallowed hard, closing his eyes and turning away.

"We understand your need to fulfill your vow," d'Artagnan added. "But… God will still be here afterwards. We need you now."

Aramis dropped his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips. After a few moments he turned back to his friends, his expressive eyes filled with regret.

"Can you give me a moment?"

Without waiting for an answer he pushed between them, hurrying toward the main building and disappeared into the shadows of the monastery.

Not knowing what else to do, the three Musketeers returned to their mounts and picked up the dragging reins, coming together in a circle.

"Do you think he'll come?"

Porthos shrugged, his eyes carefully focused on the leather reigns in his hands. "Aramis would never let us down."

"But is it what he really wants?" Athos asked softly.

Porthos sighed. Though his friend wrapped himself in his faith like a blanket, he had always been the first to battle, one of the finest soldiers he had ever known. But what if this was truly Aramis' calling? He wanted his friend back by his side more than anything, but he couldn't help but remember how peaceful he'd looked when they'd first arrived. It was as if years had been taken off him – and Porthos didn't think it was just the loss of the beard. Aramis had seemed… unburdened… for the first time in a long while. Was it fair of them to take that away from him, simply because they wanted him back?

They waited in the courtyard, the life of the monastery going on around them. The place seemed like a haven – and Porthos supposed it was for many of the men and women he saw working in the gardens and around the grounds. Like Aramis, he guessed many of them were here to escape the burdens life had placed upon them and find a way to get closer to God and find peace.

He shook his head. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"What?"

Porthos took a deep breath and raised his gaze to meet d'Artagnan's confusion. "It's just he looked so… content. Maybe it's not fair of us to take that from him just because we want 'im with us."

"The choice belongs to Aramis." Athos reminded him. "He knows what France faces now. If he chooses to remain, we will accept it."

"That's just it," Porthos argued. "He already made that choice. He came here of his own free will and here we are expecting him to give it up for what? A war that he should have no part of? He's part Spanish. How is he supposed to choose sides?" The big man shook his head. "I don't think we should've come."

H'es loyal to France," Athos intoned, absolute.

"And you miss him more than anyone."

Porthos nodded, accepting d'Artagnan's statement. "I do, but I'm not wantin' to be the one to make him give what he can't."

"Maybe he can give more than you think." Athos hand gripped Porthos' arm and he looked up, following the older man's gaze to the front entrance of the monastery.

Striding toward them, clad in leather, blue cloak billowing behind him in the breeze, was Aramis. His hat sat rakishly on his head and he approached them with a smile, a familiar light in his dark eyes.

"I understand we have a war to fight?"

Porthos grinned. "It just doesn't look right without the beard."

Aramis returned the grin and rubbed a hand across his chin. "It'll grow back. By the time we get to the border, you'll never even know it was gone."

Athos stepped forward and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Are you sure this is what you want, Aramis? We would not fault you for staying."

Aramis took a deep breath and looked around, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. "I thought this was where I belonged. After everything…" he shrugged. "I think it's possible for me to be content here – someday. But that day is not today." He turned and leveled his gaze on his friends. "God will wait. War will not."

Athos reached around and pulled a familiar leather pauldron from his saddlebag. "Then allow me the honor of returning this to its proper place."

Aramis turned, allowing his friend to strap the leather onto his shoulder.

"How does it feel?" d'Artagnan asked once he'd stepped back, the uniform complete.

"Like an old friend."

Aramis met Porthos' eyes and smiled.

And Porthos found he could finally breathe again.

Fin