Author's Note: One more time… SPOILER ALERT for Season 3! If you don't want to go there, turn back now and please read after you have seen the first two episodes. I don't think the story gives away much, but there are some references.
I will apologize up front for this hasn't gone through my beta. Perhaps that should be an alert too.
OK… if you are still reading here is the synopsis.
This is set after Season 3, Episode 2. I had no intention of writing this piece, but after I watched the first two episodes that infernal itch started that I had to scratch with this short story. A short diversion. This is a conversation, between Athos and Aramis, after meeting the stranger. It is my way of explaining a few open threads in the first two episodes. I saw them and had to weave them into a story.
As always, just playing, mean no harm and I live for the reviews. Makes my email box super happy.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
A lot of things had changed in four years, while he'd been at the monastery and yet some basic truths remained in place. Porthos, the ferocious warrior, still had a heart of gold, as big, and as generous as the sky. After his initial brusqueness towards him, the street fighter had been willing to forgive Aramis his transgressions. d'Artagnan, the boy turned man, had matured and yet his enthusiasm and impetuousness had not been totally quashed by the harshness of war. Athos, by all evidence, had settled into his reluctant role as Captain of the Musketeers, though command had only added to his innate moodiness. It was the last item that Aramis, in particular, noted as they had walked back to the garrison after leaving the settlement of refugees.
Earlier, Aramis had been both surprised and pleased when Athos had slung his arm around his and d'Artagnan's shoulders, as they were leaving through the gate of the settler's complex. But what shocked him even more was the genuine smile on his brother's face, something it seemed Athos had learned to do more often, while Aramis had been in the monastery. However, shortly thereafter, Athos' smile had turned questioning after the stranger on the handsome horse had approached the four musketeers to offer his thanks. After the man had ridden off, Athos' smile had morphed into a contemplative frown and his facade had darkened. As the four musketeers had made their way back to the garrison, Athos had fallen into one of his brooding moods, something the war had deepened.
Once back inside the garrison's protective walls, d'Artagnan had sought out his lovely wife, Constance, as they rekindled their marriage after a forced, four year separation. Porthos, the perpetually hungry, had headed for the common room in search of sustenance. Aramis was willing to bet that the war had been hard, gastronomically, on his friend and wondered if it had brought back unwelcome memories of growing up hungry on the streets of Paris. Aramis, finding himself at loose ends, decided to trail after Athos and see if he could determine what had changed his friend's mood.
After silently climbing the stairs, Athos moved across the porch towards his office. Without preamble, he opened the door and entered the space, which was now his own. However, Aramis still expected to see Treville seated behind the table-desk, as he walked through the entryway.
As Aramis closed the door behind them, Athos headed across the drab space to the wooden cabinet where Treville had been known to store his liquor. Apparently, Athos maintained the same tradition, as he opened the piece's doors and removed a dark green bottle. The swordsman poured two glasses of the dark liquid, before walking over and presenting one of the cups to the marksman.
"I do hope you haven't taken a vow not to imbibe, because this is a particularly good vintage," Athos drawled, in the deadpan manner that was ingrained into his core personality.
Aramis shook his head, as he happily took the offered glass and gazed into its ruby depths. "Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities. First Timothy 5:23."
"Amen to that," Athos intoned, sarcastically, as he saluted Aramis with his glass before taking a sip. The rich bodied wine easily slid down his throat, a thankful change to the swill they had been forced to endure because of the war. Wearily, he walked across the room to a set of comfortable chairs flanking a small table. The events of the last few days were catching up with him and he was tired. Settling into the chair furthest from the door with his back, protectively, to the wall, he stretched out his leather-clad legs and rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled in them, courtesy of the stranger, yet not stranger, on the black horse. Across from him, Aramis elegantly maneuvered into the second chair and adopted a similar pose, his long, well-muscled legs in front of him, boots crossed at the ankles.
"You have let your hair grow," Aramis remarked, as he, once again, watched Athos unconsciously pushed it back from his face.
"War tends to make one forget to do certain things. Next time, I will be sure to requisition a barber."
"Couldn't Porthos or the d'Artagnan trim it for you? They are quite skilled with a blade I hear."
"Their blades were too busy with other...tasks."
"And your beard. Part of that seems to be missing."
"An experiment." What Athos failed to mention was it had been a necessity, for a while, after he had been too close to an explosion and singed off his beard. Somehow, as it grew back, he had gotten into the habit of shaving it in its current fashion.
Deciding the time for lite banter was over, Aramis moved to the matter, which had him following Athos to his office.
"You seem disturbed by something, mon ami. That man? On the horse?" Aramis surmised, which caused a small smile to play about the corners of Athos' lips.
"I see you haven't lost your touch," Athos commented drily, but without malice. He had long ago gotten past his annoyance that his brothers could read his moods, even if the outside world found him impassive. It was part of their bond, where the whole was greater than the sum of the parts. It was what made them the Inseparables, a fact that had been further proven by them being reunited. Neither man nor God could keep them apart.
Athos raised his glass of wine and drank deep before answering Aramis' question. "Something about him seemed familiar, though not in a pleasant way."
"That horse he was riding, the dark Andalusian, I swear it was the one Porthos and I saw at wagoner."
"It would appear that there is more, than meets the eye, to our concerned citizen," Athos declared, before sinking back into brooding, trying to pinpoint where he had seen the man. The encounter with the stranger had left him decidedly unsettled.
Aramis continued talking, mentioning something about the war, when a small tendril of remembrance wound its way into Athos' thoughts. That man, Athos associated him, somehow, with the war. A memory flashed in his subconscious, though he wasn't sure if it was real. A dark, shadowy figure, seen yet unseen, on the battlefield. Smoke obscuring the bodies of the dead, yet one stood amongst them alive, like the grim reaper.
"Athos? What is it?" Aramis repeated, as he tried to bring his friend back from wherever his mind had retreated.
Blinking, to clear away the vision of the past and answer the question of the present, Athos slowly began speaking. "I thought him a trick of the eye at first. My tumble with the horse, the overwhelming battle, the blast from the exploding cannons, a concussed hallucination, I concluded."
A small wave of guilt passed over Aramis, as he listened to Athos describe being injured and knowing he hadn't been there to protect, aid, or comfort his brother.
The lines on Athos' forehead deepened, as he tried to focus the vision once more within his mind, in hopes of clarifying it. "My fevered mind conjured him as the grim reaper walking amongst the dead. His face shadowed beneath a dark cowl. And yet, Porthos saw him, too, before the smoke clouded our vision. When it cleared, he was gone. Somehow, the man today, on the horse..."
Athos' voice trailed off and a few seconds passed before he whispered, "Impossible."
Aramis could feel his brother's distress, but could think of no way to lessen it other than to divert Athos' inward pondering.
"You seem to have settled into being the Captain of the Musketeers," he stated, in an attempt to drag Athos' onto a different path. It appeared to work as Athos rose from his funk to answer.
"Settled?" the swordsman gave a shrug that indicated he didn't necessarily agree. "I'd be quite content to give it up. The men follow me..." He raised his expressive green eyes and deliberately stared at Aramis. "Mostly," he tacked on and Aramis immediately felt contrite.
"Yes, sorry about that. I had no right to question your motives in the refugee's complex," Aramis apologized, sincerely.
"It was not questioning my motives that was the issue, but rather the questioning of my orders. In war that gets one killed."
He raised his glass and took another long drink. Setting the vessel on the table, Athos rubbed his two hands over his weary face, before slicking back his overly long hair. With a deep sigh, he let his eyes slide shut as he leaned his head back against the chair.
"I sent too many good men to their deaths. Yet, by some grace, my brothers managed to survive four years of hell by my side. I couldn't bear the thought of losing them, or you, now."
Aramis set his own glass on the table, reached over, and grasped Athos' knee. "The mantle of leadership weighs heavy, even more so where duty meets death." He gave his brother's knee a compassionate squeeze before settling back in his chair once more, studying the man sitting across from him.
Aramis could see the lines of stress that the war, and being a leader, had etched on his brother's face. Aramis was a soldier and not naive. He knew men died in war. But the burden on the soul, to be the one that sent them to their deaths, must be the fodder of nightmares.
"I am still a good listener, if you need to talk," Aramis offered his friend.
Athos' hand wandered across his face gain, massaging his temples. "Do you ever wonder, in the end, if we achieve anything? We might win back the land, but it is tainted with the blood of good men." He shook his head morosely. "As obedient soldiers, we are forced to follow the orders of Commanders who seem to have no strategy other than to get men killed. How is that winning?"
Aramis was pretty sure there was a story behind that statement, which his stoic friend was not sharing.
"Not all men are made to lead. However, that often doesn't stop them from becoming leaders," Aramis philosophized. "Every solider, at some point in his career, encounters a dangerous leader. The fortunate ones survive and hopefully have a better commander next time. One that cares about his men, as you do."
An undignified snort and head shake accompanied Athos' reply. "Little good it did for me to care about my men for they were still, often times as not, slaughtered by the enemy. I lost more than half the regiment, Aramis!" Athos gave a mirthless laugh. "And ironically, we won that battle. But, again, one has to wonder if it was really a win."
Athos' green eyes glistened with moisture, as he bowed his head, his long hair obscuring his face. "It was horrible, Aramis," he choked out.
There were no words of solace that Aramis could offer that would ease the burden from his brother's soul. Instead, he rose and moved behind Athos' chair and rested his hands on his brother's quivering shoulders, offering his sympathy and compassion through his touch.
After allowing himself the comfort of his brother for a few moments, Athos abruptly rose and moved away to take up position behind his desk. "It looks clear now," he remarked, as he glanced down at the nearly empty surface. "But within a day, it will be buried under the unnecessary mountain of paperwork it takes to keep the garrison operational." Switching gears he inquired, "How was it you came to be a teacher within the monastery?"
Clearly, Athos, in his classic stoic manner, had accepted all the comfort he would allow himself, and had resurrected the barriers around his heart once more. Aramis knew from experience that the swordsman set an impossibly high standard for himself and couldn't be persuaded otherwise. Therefore, Aramis went along with the change of topic.
"When the Abbott learned I was well educated, he thought it would be a good job for me. Also, I was fit and had, I suppose, an inventive mind, which was good when dealing with the children."
"I am sure your kindness and caring was just as much of a boon to the children as your education and imagination," Athos remarked with sincerity.
A sad smile appeared on his face and reflected in his dark sorrowful eyes. "The children were a fitting distraction. God works in mysterious ways."
"Why were their children in a house of God?" Athos asked with curiosity, though he had an idea of the answer.
"Victims of the war. Orphans from a village that had been invaded by the Spanish. Everyone in the place was slaughtered, but the children you saw with me. The oldest boy, Luc, had the presence of mind to hide as many of them as he could in a root cell. Later, under the cover of darkness, they escaped into the woods and stumbled their way to the monastery. The Abbot sheltered them. He was a good man who had absolute faith in God."
Aramis grew quiet, as he thought upon his last words about the Abbot. The man's faith in God had been strong, unshakable. Yet, hadn't that same faith been a contributing factor in his death? Aramis still remained hard-pressed to agree with the Abbot's decision to open the gates for the men with the wagon. That simple act led to his death. And yet, that same act was the catalyst for him to be reunited with his true brothers. Aramis could only express the same thought as before that God worked in mysterious ways.
"You didn't find what you were looking for in the monastery." Athos statement was half question and half declaration for he had overheard Aramis talking to his God in the sanctuary.
"In a way, I believe I did," Aramis answered truthfully, as he moved closer to the desk, behind which Athos had retreated. "I discovered that one can perform God's will in many ways. I truly believe my way is here, as a Musketeer."
Athos was overjoyed to be reunited with his brother. However, he also knew if Aramis stayed as part of the regiment, he would be at the Palace, along with the dangers that brought. Athos' delivery of his next question was blunter than he intended, but as the Captain of the Musketeers, he had his duty.
Duty, the damn word that had haunted him all his life. If the answer Aramis provided was not believable, would he have the courage and strength to dismiss his brother from his command?
"Returning to the regiment means you will be around their Majesties once more and the son you can never claim. For the sake of France and friendship, how do you intend to deal with the situation?"
Aramis was very still for a moment, surveying Athos who stood, rigidly, on the far side of the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. The swordsman's face remained impassive, but his eyes held a hint of sorrow for having to pursue this subject and what he might be forced to do.
"My answer will determine if you allow me to stay with the regiment, won't it?" Aramis stated, going for the heart of the matter.
Athos curtly nodded his head.
"Treville saw no reason for me to leave," Aramis pointed out.
"Perhaps he doesn't know you, as I do. Didn't see the things you did at the Palace and what they led too."
"Marguerite."
Athos inclined his head slightly.
"Don't you think, every single day, I regret what happened to her?" Aramis hissed, running a distraught hand through his hair, as he partially turned away from Athos. "It haunts me. She is added, to the long list of woman, I have wronged. Isabelle, Adele, Marguerite, the Queen." He spun back to face Athos, his face a mask of anguish. "Women are as much my curse as they are yours!"
Athos dropped his arms to his sides, as he deliberately moved around his desk coming to a stop a few feet in front of Aramis. "Perhaps that is true. Yet, neither of us seems to learn. Sylvie..."
Both men looked away from each other with discomfort.
"Perhaps, once again, my judgement was flawed and I..." Aramis trailed off. "I'm guessing your love life hasn't been very active in the last four years."
"Nor has yours, I hope," Athos drawled, sarcastically, not pleased where this conversation might be headed.
"Yes, they do tend to frown on that sort of thing, in a monastery," Aramis replied with a touch of levity. Hesitatingly he asked, "Milady?"
Obviously, Athos didn't wish to be led down that path, because he pointedly ignored the question. It made Aramis suspicious when Athos quickly changed the subject to one he knew would distract the marksman.
"The Dauphin grows each day. He is active, strong, adventurous, and intelligent. Their Majesties dote on him, especially since there have been no further heirs." He glanced over at Aramis, to judge his reaction to his statements.
Aramis clasped his hands in front of him, almost as if in prayer. "What do you want me to say Athos? How can I prove to you I won't bring harm to the regiment?"
"It is not the regiment, I am worried about, but rather you. I couldn't bear seeing you hanging from a rope for treason."
His voice grew rough with emotion he couldn't disguise. "We have all missed you, Aramis. Porthos took you leaving... hard. I think he felt the most betrayed. d'Artagnan practically chained himself to Porthos' side, both on and off the battlefield, helping him see past his sorrow. They became very close, which was good as the rigors of command often made me unavailable."
Aramis heard a note of ruefulness in Athos' tone. He had the feeling even though Athos had always been a relatively taciturn man that his Captaincy had added another level of loneliness to his life. Knowing Athos, he had probably worked himself into the ground trying to keep everyone in regiment safe, which was an impossible task during a war. He wondered what new scars were lurking on Athos' psyche.
However, Aramis knew now wasn't the time to go poking about the enigma that was Athos so he moved on. "Porthos has seen combat before, but how did d'Artagnan adjust?" he asked, with curiosity.
Athos' fondness for his protégé could be seen on his features. "He ran the gamut. Had the shakes before his first real battle. Threw up afterwards. But he steadied quickly and the men began looking towards him for leadership. His courageousness was commendable if not fool-hardy at time." Athos grinned, ruefully. "I seem unable to dispel his impetuousness, though it has toned down to some degree."
"I think it is simply who he is. An integral part of his being. We all have our idiosyncrasies and yet despite them we are still alive."
Taking a deep breath, Aramis finally tried to answer Athos' original question. "The Dauphin can never be my son. The four years at the monastery has finally made me realize that fact. I can be his champion, his defender, but never his father. And, I can accept that for the good of France and if it grants me the ability to be allowed back here, at my brothers' sides."
Aramis moved towards the table where he had placed his glass of wine, picked it up, and took a sip. He then sat down in the chair again, beckoning for Athos to join him, even though it was not his room. After the slightest hesitation and with a small sigh, Athos headed for the other chair and his own abandoned wine goblet. Sitting once more, he picked up the vessel and cradled it in his hands.
"I'm betting you didn't have wine, such as this, on the campaign trail," Aramis declared, as he swirled the deep, burgundy liquid around in the glass, releasing its fruity scent.
"Hardly. This wine is from Treville's private stash. Apparently, he forgot a few bottles when he relocated." The manner, in which Athos presented that fact, indicated he may have had a hand in it being 'forgotten'.
"A gift, perhaps." Aramis took a sip of the nectar then sighed. "Like all monasteries, the monks made their own spirits, some better than others. My father used to make grape and honey brandy and I shared his recipe with the monks."
Athos found it interesting that Aramis didn't use the word, 'brothers' to describe his fellow brethren in the monastery, as would have been apropos. To him, it spoke volumes about the musketeer's time behind the stone walls.
"Were you content there?"
Silence gathered in the room, as Aramis dropped his eyes to finger his ever-present cross and considered those four simple words. How did he answer that inquiry? He had pondered deeply on the question over his four year absence.
Had he been content?
Part of the answer had to be a resounding no, because his self-imposed exile had separated him from the three men, he considered his brothers and loved. It had been heart-wrenching for him to walk away. Later, when he heard of the war and knew the Musketeer's had been mobilized, he kept thinking about his brothers, fighting, without him and possibly dying. What if his presence would have made the difference between the life and death of one of them? Were they dead already? Would he ever know? It haunted his dreams at night, as he watched them die, standing in the distance, unable to provide aid or comfort.
Had he been content?
He had made a vow to God. It wasn't the first time he had done so, nor had his ability to abide by his past vows gone well. But this time it felt very different, the compulsion to make good on his solemn words was overwhelming. His brethren had always teased him about his devotion to his God. However, each one of them knew, despite their banter, that his faith was real, meaningful, and deep-set. He knew each of his brothers would accept his decision, eventually, because they knew his belief in God, in a way, was everything to him.
Had he been content?
The need to get away from the Queen and their son was also something his brothers could understand, as each of them had their own demons that could debilitate them. He had wondered, over the years, if his departure had been seen as an admission of guilt. Retreating to the monastery could have been interpreted as a form of banishment by the King. However, he hoped he had made it very clear that it was his personal decision to join the monks, thereby quelling any other thoughts. Also, anyone that knew his Majesty understood the King preferred a swift death, as the means for dealing with treasonous matters. However, a part of Aramis still wondered what the King truly thought.
Had he been content?
At first, he had been lost without his brothers, finding himself thinking he needed to tell them something before realizing they weren't around. For five years, they had lived in each other's lives, as much as their own. At the monastery, he had a taste of what withdrawal was like and pitied Athos and Emile the more for it. It was a gut wrenching feeling each time you realized the crutch you depended on was no longer there. Sometimes, when breaking an addiction, a person will turn to another vice, but Aramis didn't find he had any desire to seek out new 'brothers' amongst the monks. He wasn't sure why, but there was an invisible barrier that kept him separated from the others within the four stone walls. The Abbott, he believed, could see that blockade and assigning Aramis to teach and guide the children was a way to fill that empty void in his heart. It had been a lonely life for Aramis, if he were to be brutally honest.
Had he been content?
Finally, Aramis raised his eyes and looked over at the hooded green ones, casually observing him. "It was a necessary journey for me, to find my path in life, and to understand God's plan for me."
With a short nod to show he understood, Athos closed the door on that subject between the two of them. The pain that he and the others had suffered at the temporary loss of their brother had not been in vain, if it had brought Aramis a measure of peace and comfort. They all should be that lucky in life with their demons.
Things could ever quite be the same between the four, as there would always be the gulf of the war, things that happened to the three that Aramis had no knowledge of nor, perhaps, means to understand. Sometimes choices and experiences only make sense to those who were there, no matter how hard one tries to explain. The reference points simply cannot be articulated.
Yet nothing in life ever truly stays the same and one has to move on and build anew and that is what the Inseparables would do. Life between the four of them would be, had to be, different because time had marched on. But he had no doubt that the ties that bound them would rejoin them tighter than ever. Reaching over, he refilled each of their glasses, and then held his aloft to offer the only toast that would do.
"All for one."
"And one for all," Aramis concluded finally knowing he was home.
THE END
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
The more things change the more they stay the same.