I wrote this story because I found the ending of The Man in the Iron Mask so upsetting, and wanted to change it. Aramis is my favourite character. I love him, and I couldn't bear the idea of him ending up outside the others' graces. I have only read Three Musketeers/Iron Mask, so the story is based on those and on my own inclinations. A few timings etc. might have been altered to help the story along, so apologies to purists! I've now turned pro writer and don't have as much time for fanfic as I used to, so sorry if I have not given this story quite the attention it deserves. It fills a need in me, and maybe it might for someone else as well.

He had cried and cried and cried. In fact, at one point, Aramis had become strangely detatched from his own grief and wondered where all the tears came from. Then he had wondered about the nature of the human eye, and whether the investigations of natural philosophers were in contravention of Christian ethics. Then he had remembered it was his accursed intelligence that had caused this tragedy, and cried still harder.

Porthos! Every time he thought about the worthy giant, it was another arrow in his heart. He should never have involved his harmless comrade in his schemes. Then Porthos would still be enjoying his estates and the fine clothes he had been so ridiculously obsessed with; not lying in a windswept tomb of rock and waves.

"Oh, Porthos! Why did you have to be so loyal?" he sighed.

"Well, there's thanks for you!" said a familiar voice. "I just saved your life back there, Monseigneur Bishop of Vannes. Remind me not to bother again in future."

Aramis started and blinked his tear-filled eyes.

"P-porthos?"

It was undoubtably the worthy musketeer, every bit as large as life. His cloak flapped stylishly from one shoulder and his hair blew about in the sea breeze. Only, where Aramis stood on the deck of the Pomona, looking out to sea, Porthos appeared to be standing in the ocean itself.

"Porthos?" Aramis crossed himself. "Have you come back to haunt me?" The wretched tears began to fall again.

Porthos took a couple of steps and lightly vaulted over the rail of the ship.

"Now, why would I waste my time doing that when there are so many fine women waiting in the afterlife? Lucrezia Borgia, Helen of Troy..." He glanced at Aramis with a look of incredulity. "Aramis, are you crying?"

Aramis felt his pale face flush and began fumbling for a handkerchief. The sight of the iron-faced Bishop of Vannes with swollen eyes and a runny nose was not one he had ever planned to grace his friends with.

"If you haven't come to haunt me, Porthos," he said, trying for his old, prim voice, "I suggest you hurry and get to heaven before the devil notices you're dead, and leave me to grieve in peace. A pity I won't see you there. I'm afraid my fate is already bound elsewhere." He sighed.

Porthos folded his arms across his ample chest.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, friend Aramis. You see, it appears that none of the Inseparables can enter heaven without the others. I am here to make sure you do just that."

Aramis blew his nose.

"Porthos, that is a theological impossibility. It quite plainly states in..."

"Excuse me, and which one of us is dead at this moment?" Porthos interrupted.

Aramis sighed and pocketed the handkerchief.

"Very well then; and what do you think you've come here to do for me? This had better be good. I've a life of perpetual guilt and hypocrisy to get back to, and I'm rather keen to begin it without you."

"Oh, it's simple really," Porthos beamed. "You're going to atone for your sins by becoming a true father to the person who is your son in every way that truly matters."

"And who might that be?" said Aramis, although he suspected already.

Porthos made an expansive gesture.

"Philippe, of course."