Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is post-novels. Angst warning.

Reunion

Tours

"Sir, apologies… we might be delayed…"

"I understand…" the Duke of Alameda nodded. The broken carriage wheel must be repaired before the Spanish ambassadorial entourage could proceed home. Ah, he was back in that city where he had spent his youth. They had not had time to stop when they were passing through on their way to Paris… His eyes were drawn to the steeples of the cathedral. Some things seemed eternally unchanging, like the cathedral.

More than forty years ago…

Rene d'Herblay marvelled for the umpteenth time at the sheer majesty of the town's cathedral. The rising columns of the steeples seemed to touch the very sky… The stained glass windows… The teenager gawped at the sight of the young lady strolling down the cathedral steps. Fair hair like spun gold, eyes like brightest gems, skin like milk… He strained for a closer look at the pair of delicious globes threatening to overflow from her too-low bodice.

"Rene, watch where you're going!" the irate assistant priest grabbed hold of the novice before he tumbled down the cathedral steps.

"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife…" the older man admonished. "Keep away from Madame Rougeville. That woman is nothing but trouble." The novice nodded but his eyes followed the woman down the street.

Ever since his arrival in Tours, he had been hard at his studies so that he would be an abbe someday… The first son to the title, second to the church and third to the army… As the second son, it was always expected that Rene be destined for the clergy. No one was too surprised when he was packed off to Tours at the tender age of ten for his theological education. Now only a few more years stood between him and ordination. However, no one had foreseen a complication heading young Rene's way in the form of Madame Rougeville.

Monsieur Rougeville provided cloth to the seminary. Having a knack for figures, the young novice was sent over to the cloth-dealers to negotiate a price over the next cloth shipment. The cloth-dealer was out but his wife was in and one thing led to another and Rene promised to return and read the scriptures with the oh-so-charming young wife. Unfortunately, her husband finally decided to put some truth in the gossip about a handsome youth calling on his wife while he was out. Rene found himself being bodily thrown out into the gutter. Some novices would have considered it a life lesson learnt, but not Rene. He pestered a fencing master into accepting him as a student behind his abbot's back. Having mastered the sword, he trotted back to have it out with the husband. The confrontation culminated in an illegal duel and some bloodshed. The next morning, Aramis was on the road to Paris, leaving Rene the novice behind.

Wheezing with the strain, he mounted the steps leading into the cathedral. He was not as young as he used to be. The cathedral was quiet. It was not a feast day and only a few old men and women sat in the pews fingering their rosaries or praying in silence. After genuflecting before the altar, he sat down on a pew beside a woman. She was his age, but the years had been kinder to her than to him. He still recognized the familiar chin and smiling eyes he was so fond of. The roses in her cheeks had long faded, her hair gone snowy-white.

"Celine. It has been a while," he greeted her with muted affection.

"Ah, Rene. I hear you have done well…" she smiled and returned his greeting coolly. For a heartbeat or two they sat in silent contemplation.

"Did you ever regret leaving the Church, Rene?" she finally spoke.

"I never left."

"I would beg to differ. Didn't you spend some years as a musketeer? You always were a scholar. Did you ever regret giving it up for soldiery? You could have made it all the way to Rome…"

"Never, Madame… Rome doesn't appeal to me." And he would never have exchanged the times he spent with his fellow musketeers for anything, especially those heady days with Athos, Porthos and that scamp D'Artagnan. Even in his old age, some part of his soul yearned for the adventure of a soldier's life.

"I received your letters, Rene, until you had to leave for Spain…" It was difficult after his exile to send letters to his acquaintances in France. He and Celine had steadily drifted apart by then. "Perhaps if you had begged the abbot for forgiveness then after that duel instead of leaving for Paris… It was a moment of folly. Your uncle would have protected you."

Aramis raised an eyebrow at her words. They were close once, very close. Perhaps he had let slip that life-altering incident to her during their trysts. He shrugged. "I chose to go to Paris, Madame. If it weren't so, we probably would never have met."

"You never regret anything, do you?" Her voice was tinged with a hint of disdain. Perhaps she regretted ever becoming involved with him in the first place.

That was not true. He had done things he had later regretted. Mistakes he wished he could undo, but it was too late for that. Wearily, he sighed and closed his eyes. Years had passed since he lost his closest friends. Poor Porthos was the first. He seemed so fit and full of life. Then in a cruel twist of fate he was gone. Next was Athos, who apparently wasted away from the grief of losing his son. D'Artagnan, two years his junior, had been snatched by Death at the very zenith of his career. At least he died fighting for the glory of king and country, a fine way for him to go. Yes, Aramis has been lucky thus far.

He had discovered, to his horror, that he was losing his hair some months ago. Even his moustache was looking sadly sparse. Old injuries acted up with a vengeance. Apart from a jolly widow back in Spain who kept his house, he no longer had the inclination for courting female company. Another sign of approaching dotage, he mused. No doubt that was why Louis XIV tolerated his return from exile. The duke's political influence was on the wane, but at least they had ensured peace between France and Spain, for now.

He still distrusted the French king.

The rustle of skirts announced the departure of his former lover. He was alone, so alone with his thoughts. All those years of toil and hard work, and all he had to show for it was an empty Spanish title at the end of it. Deciding he had lingered in the cathedral long enough, he tried to stand.

A sharp pain struck at the very core of his being. For a moment, his senses reeled and he feared he would be sick on the floor of the cathedral. How humiliating that would be. He stumbled and had to grab onto the pew for support. The pain steadily ebbed away.

"Aramis!" the voice sounded oddly familiar. Someone was helping him up. Slowly, he raised his eyes.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis gasped. He reached out to touch his friend's shoulder. "I thought you're dead!" D'Artagnan felt solid and real enough. D'Artagnan only grinned. He seemed to Aramis the way he was in his youth, when they first met.

"Abbe, hope you're still up to chatting up the ladies where we're going."

"Porthos! Athos!" Aramis gasped when he saw the pair standing by the door of the cathedral. Like D'Artagnan, they were dressed in the uniform of the musketeers. Porthos was his usual cheerful self and Athos… well, he looked positively radiant, a far cry from the grump Aramis remembered. Somehow, they seemed a lot younger and happier than he recalled. Sunlight beamed through the open doorway, warm and welcoming. Hadn't the skies been threatening a downpour when he entered the building? An odd feeling washed over him. He felt lighter, as if the burden of his years had been lifted from him. He turned to…

"Don't look," D'Artagnan said curtly and took hold of his elbow but it was too late. Aramis saw the discarded shell of his body sprawled half-way across the pew he had been sitting on. His eyes were glazed orbs. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his lips. "We were hoping to spare you that," Athos admitted. Aramis stared mutely at his own corpse. Was it a sudden illness? Or poison? The wine he was given that morning did taste a bit sour. Or had his heart simply given out?

The odd position of the body had attracted the attention of a passing friar. The friar ran right through Aramis but he did not feel anything more than a tickle.

Slowly he turned to his friends. "What now?" Aramis asked. The trio were starting to leave.

"What do you think?" Athos shrugged. They were walking towards the light now, together. Yes, Aramis thought as he joined them. As an abbe, he had read much of this yet it was still a mystery to him. There was little to hold him back in the earthly world. Porthos was whistling a bawdry ballad and D'Artagnan was gently admonishing him for it. The pair went on ahead, stepping over the threshold and disappearing into the light. Athos took Aramis' hand at the threshold.

"Careful now, don't trip," Athos jested. Aramis took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold of the cathedral and into eternity.

Author's Notes:

A somewhat peaceful death scene. At least I didn't have Aramis done to death by a jealous husband or anything of that sort.