Summary: Aramis contemplates life in the abbey of Robiax, unaware that tomorrow life will challenge his thinking yet again.
A/N - just to be safe - DO NOT READ further if you do not live in Turkey, do not have access to Mexico's Netflix, have not figured out a work around for the parent company's apparent selling off of this step child to the highest bidder, and so have not seen S3:EP1. If you do not want SPOILERS for this season, please use your back button now.
Blessed Are They That Mourn
I should wake the children was his first thought as Aramis strode into the high meadow awash with the scent of night blooming flowers. He should wake the children because the sky was falling. The abbot, though, was a temperate man, he believed in moderation in all things; especially when it came to Aramis. And stealing slumbering children from their beds to watch such a phenomenon as stars pouring from the sky like rain would not be considered educational.
A niggling anger tried to assert itself and he shoved it back in its proper place, well hidden behind a piety that was more and more a profane facade. He had come here four years ago to make amends for choices that had sent him to his knees in a prison cell, begging for a chance to make things right, knowing full well that making things right could only be the provenance of God. Adele dead because of him, Anne very nearly so, her life spared only by blatant chicanery. Rochefort had been a monster, but that had not made him wrong in his accusations.
Athos, God be with him wherever his whereabouts, would say his predicament was the result of making yet another unconsidered decision. And Aramis had to agree with the remembered voice in his head. He should have visited around, tried a number of different places before settling down to a new life. Instead, he had ridden directly here, to the Abbey of Robaix, about the farthest north he could go and still remain in France.
Honesty compelled him to admit he had been in no condition to actively seek a place of refuge. He had wanted to be as far from Paris as possible, in the opposite direction of his family in Brittany, in hopes that the news would reach them only after he had taken his vows. Not even his mother, who had yearned for a child who would take orders, would have understood his sudden strange compulsion.
Aramis' memories of the abbey where he had been schooled as a youth were all of jolly, bustling monks full of good cheer despite all manner of youthful indiscretions. In hindsight, he understood those were the memories of a youngster whose childhood had been filled with the gift of hope and joy. He had - ridiculously, he knew, now, from the depths of his soul - expected all cloistered houses to be the same. After all, a monk's existence was dedicated to making life better for his fellowman, or so he had been taught all those years ago. And the men who had taught him had lived the life they'd preached.
He had learned, too late, not all abbeys were equal.
Aramis had come seeking asylum for his soul. And found instead, a dull, monotonous routine that was slowly sucking the life out of him. The children, and a vow he could not treat lightly, were the only things tethering him to this place.
Hiking up his cassock, he strode to the middle of the meadow and threw himself down amid the wild flowers, their scent intensifying as the tender blooms were crushed beneath his weight. He rolled up on an elbow and the sharp scent of sage pricked his conscience as he mentally began cataloging the benefits of the herb. He might have made a satisfactory life here if he'd been allowed at least the practice of the healing arts. But he had not.
There was an old brother, a man of knobby knees and gnarled fingers, who had such stores of herb lore in his tonsured head, Aramis longed to have converse with him, but he was forbidden even that small measure of sanity. Still, after four long years, he had to fight the urge to gnash his teeth over the injustice.
Brother Albretcht's vast knowledge would soon pass into eternity since no one else in the abbey thought it worth saving. Aramis thought it a sacrilege that all that knowledge would be lost to ignorance. He'd been driven nearly mad in his first year here, struggling to obey the abbot's command to leave behind all things from his former life, including the provincial practice of medicine.
The former marksman opened his tightly squeezed eyelids, heaving sigh. It was quiet now in the valley below, but the sounds of war had battered the enclosure's occupants all day long. Though perhaps only Aramis had felt the assault on his senses so keenly. The exchange of crickets for cannon fire, the song of the nightingale for the violent clash of swords and the cries of the wounded was a welcome relief.
If he rose and went to the lip of the little hill that marked the meadow's edge, he would be unable to tell which campfires belonged to France and which to Spain, but he would wonder, as he had done often over the last four years, if his old brothers sat around one of those campfires. If they were missing him like he missed them - with the intensity and pain of a lost limb.
Had he been allowed, Aramis would have been down there caring for the wounded, offering solace to the dying, or last rites. This was not a war of religion, it was over territory. The faithful on both sides might be in want of comfort, but he'd been forbidden that as well, no matter the arguments he had proffered.
Aramis remained where he was. His old self might have flouted the edict and gone anyway, but he was trying to learn obedience, though submission came grudgingly. And, he had to admit, there was every chance the abbot was right in predicting the former Musketeer would not be able to resist the stirring call of war while tending to his merciful ministrations.
The night breeze running inquisitive fingers through his hair also carried the faint sound of his new brother's - and they would always be new brothers - singing Compline. His own fingers absently twining in the crushed sage, he hummed along. Christe, qui lux es et dies ... Christ, who art the light and day, You drive away the darkness of night, You are called the light of light, For you proclaim the blessed light.
Were they even still alive, his true brothers, he wondered, the question echoing in the vast silence of his soul where once had resided those unbreakable bonds. Had the night of war stolen d'Artagnan's bright fire? Added to the darkness in Athos' soul? Changed Porthos in incomprehensible ways? He thought he would know if they were dead, his own soul would cry out with the pain and guilt of an eternity of separation if he lived and they had been snuffed out like candles. But he was bidden not to dwell on those thoughts either, every time he was forced to confess he could not turn his mind from contemplating their mortality.
The hell of it was, he was no longer certain he would know if they were dead.
The abbot was not a hard man, he knew the restlessness of a besieged soul. Whether by divine providence or long association with young men who thought they desired the monastic life, the abbot had assigned Aramis the care of the children displaced by the war that had raged around the abbey almost from the day the Musketeer had exchanged his uniform for a robe.
That role had been an unexpected gift, for he had assumed the privilege of raising a child would never be his ... and yet at the same time, it was fiendish torment, a constant reminder of the one child whose life he could never be a part of. This, and this alone, he had kept to himself here in this fortress of piety. He would confess that error of judgment only to God and accept whatever expiation God required of him, for he could not be sorry he had responded to the call of his queen. His guilt and shame were reserved strictly for the consequences devolving to Anne from their stolen moments of heaven on earth.
He often wondered if the very act of withholding this confession caused it to fester more deeply and erupt more frequently, though Aramis did turn his mind firmly - again - from this line of thought. It led to impious reasoning, and that, he firmly believed under the circumstances, was a sin. He had made his choice, hasty or not, and must live with the consequences.
Resolutely he turned his thoughts to the children. This morning he had been called to help brother Chamonix repair a broken hinge on the front entrance, a job requiring more than one person to prop the heavy gate while the new hinge had been installed. He had lost sight of his charges momentarily, tracking them to this very meadow when he had been released. Finding Luc and Adele, much to his chagrin, leading the smaller ones in a mock battle, Luc having pointed out the French flag planted in the middle of the battleground, proclaiming the victor of this encounter.
He had sent the others ahead and confronted Luc, who'd proclaimed himself the Musketeer d'Artagnan, beating a youthful fist on his homemade armor with considerable pride. Aramis' remonstrance had fallen on deaf ears.
His six charges were all from the ravaged village below the abbey. Marie and Remi, the youngest of the lot, had been placed with the monks for safety, the other four were the sole survivors of their families. Luc, Pierre, Adele and Angeletta were among the unrecognized casualties of this seemingly endless conflict, their family lands plundered, homes destroyed, sisters, mother's, brothers and fathers, even aunts and uncles, all dead either in the cause of France, or because they had resisted the Spanish. God willing, Marie and Remi would go home some day, but that day did not appear to be any time in the near future.
Aramis sighed again, running a long stem of sage beneath his nose; it had calming properties. He could not control his unruly mind tonight; for some strange reason his heart refused to abandon thoughts of his former brothers. Were they together on some distant battlefield watching this star shower too? He grunted at the thought, rolling his eyes and sniffed the sage again. More likely they were hidden away in the depths of some camp, beneath a canvas tent warmongering over maps and strategies. This drew a small of huff of mirth, for he knew, even if Porthos and d'Artagnan had managed to steal away, Captain Athos would be hard at work, reviewing the day's events and planning the next day's venues for advancing their line of attack.
He had left them abruptly, knowing he would not have the strength to make the break if he returned to the garrison for further farewells. And because he had known himself to be bad company, he had camped rather than frequent inns along the route to the abbey, so he had missed the rumors of war racing up and down the coast of France. Though the abbey was on the provisioning road to this section of the border, the news had not reached the inhabitants until several weeks after Aramis' arrival.
Upon hearing the rumors, Aramis had grilled every traveler who had passed through their gates, until the abbot had prohibited his interrogation of guests. From these though, he had gleaned the knowledge of Tréville's elevation to the newly created post of Minister of War and that Athos had been promoted to the rank of Captain, taking charge of the Musketeer garrison. Only recently, loitering near one of the provisioning wagons that often stayed the night, had he heard that the Musketeers had been deployed.
It said something about the state of the war that the king's personal guard had been sent to fight on the front.
Shaking his head to vanquish his internal enemy, Aramis shoved up to sitting and wrapped his arms around his robe-covered knees. Had not Christ, on perhaps just such a hill as this, proclaimed ... blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted? He must take his comfort in the small things in life these days.
Miring rain that stilled the cannons and lowered the death toll, at least for a few days. Moonlight on the roses that bloomed profusely in the inner courtyard because Brother Rique tended them so assiduously, for night brought a cessation of the battle sounds too. Aramis even looked forward to duty in the cellars among the wine casks, the ancient stone walls muffling the outside world.
The sound of the fife and drums always stirred his blood. It made his finger twitch upon an imaginary trigger, his feet long to exchange the rope sandals he wore for riding boots, his neck itch for the feel of leather sliding over skin. It made him long for a horse between his thighs, his brothers at his back, racing to uphold the cause of justice. Though that thought always brought him up short, for he could see nothing righteous in the pursuit of war.
The former Musketeer shifted to his feet, though he sat back on his heels rather than push off the ground to make his way back to his simple cell and the long, dark night of the soul awaiting him.
When he rose finally, he cupped his hands in a moment of whimsy, as if to catch and hold a gross of the falling stars. Tomorrow he would bring the children back here earlier in the evening, describe for them this midnight sacrament and pass out the stars he'd collected for them. He would put one behind Adele's ear, like a flower, to show off her burgeoning beauty. Press one to Marie's tiny chest to be worn like a diamond necklace. Tuck one into Luc's pocket where it would harden to star armor to protect him from life's follies. He would give Remi one to play with like the marbles the child missed so badly. To Angelette he would give it as a charm against the nightmares that plagued her. And for Pierre, he would describe it as a talisman to ward off further evil in the youngster's life.
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," he whispered into the night wind, perhaps hoping the prayer would wrap around and console him with its soothing breath. He looked up again, watching as the sky wept trails of brilliant tears.
The fanciful thought that God mourned his losses with him lodged itself deep in his heart and Aramis bowed his head in gratitude. Perhaps he was not judged so harshly for his sins after all.
Lifting his habit again, he deposited his fallen stars in the pockets of his britches, then turned and resolutely made his way back to the abbey.
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story are (sadly) the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.