Flight
by Blue Fenix
Aramis' hands shook as he sorted through his belongings. He was moving too fast. He caught an old, broken-spined book by the wrong end and scattered loose pages across half the bedroom. Aramis cursed under his breath and forced himself to move more slowly. He gathered the loose sheets into a pile on his pillow. The book was a family memento, but time was pressing. He could send for it when he was safe. If he ever felt safe again. Aramis knew about fear; he had faced swords and cannon and the late Cardinal Richelieu himself. This time was different. What he felt now was not a reasoned caution, but a helpless, superstitious terror like a child afraid of the dark. If he could just get out of Paris unseen, if he could just find a breathing space ...
Caught. Footsteps galloping up the stairs, familiar ones. Aramis looked wildly toward the bedroom window. Too much of a drop, and no time. He schooled himself to appear calm. A loud knock at the door of his chamber, then the door itself came open.
"You're back?" Porthos' face lit up with relief. "Four days, and no word ... what the hell's this? Unpacking?"
"Packing." This would be harder than Aramis had imagined. He kept his hands busy, folding a worn black jerkin and sliding it neatly into one of the saddlebags. "Hello, Porthos. I was going to leave you a letter. Athos and D'Artagnan too. You can take them all." Aramis nodded toward the three folded, sealed parchments on the table. "Read it when you've got time."
"Damn the letters." Porthos was picking up some of his agitation. "What's all this? If you're packing, where are you going?"
Aramis sighed. "A monastery near Aix." A Jesuit house, but he already had his instructions from the general of the order. No one was to know exactly which branch of the Church Aramis was joining.
"Not that again." Porthos looked relieved. "If you've lost another mistress ... you'll forget her, you know you will. Or if it's money, we can fix that too. Let me get you a drink."
Porthos took hold of his forearm, a brotherly gesture given and accepted a thousand times over the years. Aramis' nerves were stretched like steel wire. He broke the grip with a convulsive wrench. "Damn it!"
Porthos backed up half a step, color draining from his face as if he'd been slapped. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
Aramis looked away. "Can't you see? This is why ..." He broke off before he started stammering, put more control into his voice. "This is why I couldn't see you. Any of you. You three have talked me out of holy orders before now. Not this time, my friend. The next time you see me, I'll be an ordained priest." Aramis shoved the last few items into the saddlebags. He fumbled with the heavy latch. The clash of metal on metal sounded like chains.
"Don't go." Real pain in Porthos' voice. "Is it something I've done?"
Tears blurred Aramis' vision. He wanted to embrace his friend, confide in him. Too late. "It's something you would never have done. You're the better man, Porthos."
Memory. The old king, dying but with an eternal spark of malice in his eyes. Blood staining the silk handkerchief when he coughed, giving his orders in a reedy but remorseless voice. The Dauphin -- the new King -- waited by his father's side. A tall boy, not yet a man; his fair face was still a little rounded by baby fat. But the eyes were coldly adult, looking from Aramis to the King and back. Aramis had seen a play once, an English prince who tried on the crown as his father lay dying in the same room. This prince was capable of it. Gray eyes measuring the balance of power, calculating the next course of action if Aramis should refuse this evil order. He did not refuse. The Dauphin was less than half his age, yet Aramis feared him. *This is what will rule over us when the King is dead.* They gave their commands; he said yes, your Majesty. Yes, your Highness. The King is dying, God save the King.
Then the long ride to the country with his picked ruffians -- not Musketeers, not for work like this. Hired cutthroats. The little farm household had no defenses. The baby who had lost his royal birthright, at his first encounter with Aramis, was now another tall boy losing the rest of his freedom. This youth had the same face, line by line, as the Dauphin. Only the eyes were different -- softer, more human. Familiar. Aramis almost knew those eyes, in the instant before his men put hands on the boy and they were changed by terror. He'd locked that face and those eyes in an iron cage, for life. He could only pray, for the boy's sake, that the life would not be a long one. Death was the only mercy the second prince was likely to find, in the prison where Aramis had left him.
Porthos was shaking him. "What's happened, damn you. Talk to me. Trust me."
"I can't." He'd sworn an oath. More; the Dauphin -- the King -- would have spies watching Aramis' friends for signs of guilty knowledge. Everyone knew the Four Inseparables. One slip, and they could be inseparable forever in some secret common grave. "Just let it go, all right? I can't serve the new King. I have no honor any more."
Porthos looked worried instead of offended, now. He sat on the edge of Aramis' bed, and tried to make his friend do the same. "Has somebody hurt you?"
The question was so nearly right, and so madly wrong, that Aramis laughed out loud. "Oh, no. I did this to myself. Write that on my tomb, Porthos -- here lies Aramis, he brought it all on himself." He evaded the arm around his shoulders. "I have to go now. Anything I've left here, you three can have. Athos may want my books."
"So you're just going off?" Porthos' voice was unsteady. "You're going to be some ... some parish priest reading funerals to a village of chicken farmers?"
"Wherever they send me. They'll find the best use for my skills." The Jesuit General had almost salivated at the thought of adding Aramis to his intelligence staff. Serving God would be much like serving an earthly King, Aramis suspected. The priesthood might be little more than an officer's commission in a different army. Aramis was determined to make his vocation a real one. He needed it; God's personal seal as a defense against his own damnation.
"You're really serious." The pain in Porthos' eyes was starting to spill over as tears. "What about us? If you leave, you won't be one of us any more."
That thought gnawed Aramis' heart too. Their fellowship had sustained them for almost the whole of their adult lives. Aramis had never loved any woman as much as he cared for his chosen brothers; he knew that he never would. The legendary friendship, the four made one, was a wonderful thing. He was maiming it. No choice. *A surgeon will cut away a rotting limb to spare the other three -- and the patient's life.*
Aramis set himself to lie convincingly. "All roads lead to Paris. I'll see all of you again. It might only be a few months." He attempted a smile. "I'm not exactly leaving you bereft. There's your affectionate lawyer's widow, for one."
"I'll marry her," Porthos threatened.
"Excellent idea," Aramis said coolly. "Marriage is a noble estate. It's time you settled down, at your age."
"Don't go." Porthos pulled him into a sudden fierce hug, enveloping, almost crushing. Aramis hugged him back. He tried to fix every detail in his memory, for the lonely days and nights ahead. He felt the irregular breathing in the barrel chest as Porthos fought back tears. Aramis leaned his cheek against his friend's. Porthos' breath caught in a sob. "Don't go. Keep everything like it is. It's perfect, just the four of us."
"I'm going, Porthos." Tenderly. "You have to let me go."
A tremor ran through Porthos. But he had always done what Aramis asked of him, through the years. He loosened his embrace. Aramis slipped out of his friend's arms, his heart aching. "Watch over D'Artagnan and Athos for me, will you? The court is no place for idealists."
Porthos nodded, too fast, and rubbed his eyes with a knuckle. "If you need us, if they give you any trouble ..."
The image drew a real laugh from Aramis. "They're only monks. If you three came riding in full force, they'd all drop dead from fear."
"But you'll remember," Porthos insisted. "Always call for us, if you need us. All for one."
"One for all. Always." Aramis had followed his oath to obey the King, and broken his honor. A priestly vow waited for him in Aix, and he would break that too. He was already forsworn, turning to the Church as a hiding place for his unconfessed sins instead of for the true love of God. But he could keep faith with his friends, if only by keeping them out of harm's way. "I will never forget."
Porthos was still in pain, but he could look at Aramis now without breaking down. He would heal. "God had better look after you, or I'll have something to say about it."
"I believe you would." Aramis looked fondly at his old friend. He slid the two saddlebags onto his shoulder, and pressed the key to the chamber into Porthos' hand. "We'll meet again. My word on it." He pushed by Porthos, through the door, while his self-control held.
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