"We know all about the war here."
x
"All are welcome who seek refuge inside these walls," the abbot insists, as he always does, and in this instance, Aramis agrees with him.
The visiting bishop doesn't, lilting his head in a way that makes Aramis think his true concern is from the frustration of being invited to sleep on the floor and to limit his meager portion of the monastery's provided sustenance. "But these refugees are Spanish," the bishop hisses. "They're the enemy. This is treason."
"You know well we are bound in our ministry as much to the Habsburg as to the Bourbon," the abbot reminds softly. "To care for them is our obligation."
"Besides, they're civilians," Aramis interjects, and receives a cautionary look from the abbas.
Nevertheless, he continues off Aramis's point, stepping closer to the Bishop. "The war has forced many through our gates. We care for them all, as best we can, until they are able to move to safety. Each here does his part. Brother Aramis is skilled in the practice of healing and stitching, which has proven invaluable. Brother Sorin, a skilled gardener. Others, we simply ask to divide their portions with another, regardless of who receives. We contribute where we can and share our supplies with those in need, as we must to honor our calling."
Eventually, the Bishop concedes, retreating with his escort to the brushed corner of space the monastery afforded him, but none of them are fooled. When the man leaves in the morning, they waste as little time as possible rushing the refugees in residence to the relative safety of outer locations. Both French and Spanish. For the visiting Bishop held the look of a man to whom it would not matter when he tells the tale, and Aramis knows soldiers well enough to know that some, when caught up in the hate of war, will not pause to distinguish origin if it means extinguishing a hidden enemy and having someone to vent anger on.
Thus, two days later, when a troop of impolite French soldiers search the premises for the spies the Bishop reported, only three of the smallest children remain in their midst - two Spanish, one French - and Aramis has practiced fervently with them so as to ensure not one of them will speak a word.
Mercifully, they don't, and the ransacking ends without incident – save for the blow Aramis takes to the head when he can't help but protest the removal of all their remaining provisions.
"There remains too much soldier in you," the abbot tells him later, while Brother Julian holds a damp cloth to his bloodied head. "Think of the example you set. You cannot fight them every time."
"The world is at war," he tells him back. "We cannot ignore that. Be we monks or no."
"It is, and we don't, but our role is different. We are not soldiers, and it is important that those who pass through these walls know it. We must be for peace, Aramis. We must live it. You cannot say you are for God, until you find a way to make this your mission."
Which loosely translated means, no orders yet. Not officially.
If only the abbot knew. Aramis thinks about peace all the time. He has three brothers without these walls, a growing number of children in his charge, and peace... peace is all he prays for.
"I will try harder, Abbot," he says instead, feeling subdued on several fronts.
Patting his shoulder, Brother Julian removes one bloodied cloth to replace with another. Meanwhile the abbot stands, the expression on his face caught somewhere between worry and exasperation.
"If this is the kind of trouble you stumble into as a monk, I despair to think how you survived so many years as a soldier."
At this, Aramis smiles, even through the throbbing and the blood. "By the Grace of God, dear Abbot. Nothing less."
From the phantom-limb space of his companions, he hears Porthos snort.
x
