His knees buckled as he slid from the saddle, but Porthos was there to grab him around the waist and haul him up. His head hurt again, having been so long in the shadowy dusk of the attic and then the inn room, the brilliant light of day stabbed like a parrying dagger pricking at his eyeballs. But Aramis persevered.

"Where?" Porthos inquired, incalculably thankful to have won this most important battle. He would make amends in whatever way Aramis demanded, for having abandoned the marksman in the first place and then having towed him back to life against his will.

Aramis, leaning heavily on his companion, pointed, then shuffled toward the large patch of scorched earth marking the fire ring in the middle of the camp. The snow had melted, the trampled grass down the alley between tents had straightened, neither branch nor twig lay in the clearing. Nothing to mark the spot where twenty men had died.

Except the ghosts. The substantially more transparent shades of the men who had crowded 'round him in a cold attic. They were thinning, their outlines further blurred. Edouard lay in the grass, arms spread-eagled, as he had in the moment of death. Beside him, Chavain sat with Allard in his lap, the child's head cradled to youth's shoulder. In life, Allard had been fearless, in death his chronological age was far more apparent. Cyrille stood with his face downcast, staring at the ground. Likely at the spot where he had died as well. Fregeau and Houle paced the length of the non-existent tent alley, passing through companions variously sitting or standing in their way.

All of them fading.

The Musketeer cursed his mother yet again. She called this a gift; he called it a blight. But if he could not help them, his friends would disappear completely. He could not count the times his mother had tartly informed he and his eleven siblings that they carried every tool they needed, no matter what situation arose. They had only to open their awareness and answers would present themselves. He knew he had the resources to render aid; to do so, however, would expose his soul in unimaginable ways. Well, perhaps not so unimaginable, since he had a mother who openly practiced the preternatural.

"Aramis?" Porthos nudged quietly. "We should do whatever it is ya come for and get outta this place." A chill beyond the frigid early morning air was working its way into his bones. This was not the first time he'd encountered the unrest that marked places where violent death had occurred, the more so now because he'd known these men with the intimacy of brothers-in-arms.

Aramis purposefully pulled in his bones and sucked in his breath so he slid from Porthos' loose hold to the ground, exactly where he'd stood every morning of the mission, detailing the day's activities. Marsac had been happy to let him take charge of the day to day running of the operation, though nominally the elder Musketeer had been in command of the unit. It required effort to sit without bolstering, but then Porthos slowly dropped to his heels behind the marksman, propping him up.

"They're here aren't they?" The awe in the normally big voice, lowered to a church whisper, held just a touch of trepidation. "We came back because ... they're here. You said ... you left them behind."

Aramis ignored him. "I'm sorry," he said, collecting twenty pairs of ghostly eyes, his own lingering with deep sorrow on the fading figure of their youthful drummer boy. "I'm so very sorry for what happened. I'm sorry that I let you down, that I did not die with you. But I can't take you with me and you can't stay here, you need to move on before you're trapped here."

Ghostly feet shuffled. They didn't understand. Their faces said it all - where? Where are we to go?

Aramis heard it in an echo of their voices, too, subdued and frightened, the clamorous sound of the attic having grown faint as well.

As if a seed had been planted and willed to maturity in and for this exact moment, a truth unfolded, petal by petal, in his mind. He felt it first; a soaking warmth that beckoned with the authority of an affectionate hand drawing him toward a heart and a place like no other. A place where consolation poured over the soul like a waterfall of peace. It spread from his core, a succor that swept like a cleansing tide through his extremities as though washing away not just the physical hurts, but the enervating sorrow and sadness as well. It wrapped around his soul like a warm blanket, an assurance of the rightness of taking this step, of allowing himself to the be the conduit.

A longing such as he'd never felt in his life touched Aramis, as a heretofore unknown vigor possessed him. The heaviness of his body dropped away and for a moment, he experienced the same lightness as his lost friends.

"Can you see it?" he breathed so softly that behind him Porthos bent to catch the whisper of sound.

In that moment, Porthos clasped little more than a glow, as Aramis' spirit responded to the pull of the light, momentarily dispensing with the shell of his physical body.

Transparent heads swiveled. Alllard pushed himself forward on Chavain's lap. Edouard raised his head from the grass. Valois nudged Soisson as Fregeau and Houle ceased their pacing. Every face turned to Aramis expectantly.

"Do you see the path?" Aramis rose to his knees, his soul settling back into its corporeal body as though the light patted it gently back into shape, and found himself still wrapped inside Porthos' encompassing arms, though he no longer needed the support. "That's where you're going, you must take that path."

No one moved.

"Allard, do you see it?"

The boy nodded, then shook his head.

"Chavain," Aramis directed, "take his hand. Allard, you see the path, I know you do," he coaxed, when the child shook his head again, stretching silvery arms plaintively toward Aramis rather than allowing Chavain to take his hand. "Do you remember your granny, Allard? She's waiting anxiously for you."

A frown creased the small, bloody brow.

"You are a Musketeer and must follow orders, Allard. Take Chavain's hand and show him the path, take him to meet your granny."

Because he knew his duty, Allard grasped Chavain's hand as ordered, taking a tentative step toward the beautiful, beckoning light.

Aramis felt his heart swell as he watched the child swallow down fear and take that first step. Two grudging steps more and he saw the youngster catch a glimpse of eternity, wonder and amazement replacing terror and dread in the wide eyes staring into an amazing future.

He saw Cyrille shout jubliantly, though Aramis no longer heard their voices, and realized that with each breathe he breathed in, he understood better why his mother considered this a gift rather than a curse. And with each breathe he breathed out, the weight of the burden became lighter ... and lighter ... until it was no more than a dandelion puff. These were not ghosts, they were his friends. To be able to offer them aid was a gift beyond measure.

Porthos squeezed his eyes shut. Almost, if he strained mightily, he could see the edges of the veil lifting, the shadowy figures Aramis clearly saw so plainly. Almost he could see Allard take Chavain by the hand.

"Gris, follow them." The path was brightening as the men began to turn toward it. "Busserie, Huot, no lagging behind. You must all follow Allard home. I swear to you..." His throat closed. "There will be friends waiting for you. Debois, your maman is waiting right next to Allard's grand-mère . Lage, the papa you have yet to meet will be on hand to greet you. Go, go now, mes amis." Tears clogged his voice. "I would come with you if I could, but I will see you again. Some day. I will see you again."

The light wrapped around Aramis as he lifted a hand in salute, watching as tentative smiles began to transform the frightened faces. Wounds faded as young bodies sloughed off the disfiguring scars, restored to wholeness even before the light shrouded their forms and took them from his sight. Chavain, having set Allard upon the path and chivvied the others after him, turned back to Aramis, both feet firmly planted on the path, his body straining toward the light.

"Oui," Aramis read the last message shaped on smiling lips, "jusqu'à ce qu'on se revoie."

Until we meet again.

~ End~

Dear Readers,

If you will indulge for just a few more minutes, I want to share a couple of things. And invite you to make this an interactive experience.

I tried and discarded several epilogues that did not work for me, so this is going to be a write your own epilogue. Here are a number of scenarios I considered:

Aramis & Porthos in the rain after Tréville leaves Aramis standing in the Musketeer cemetery.

Aramis being cosseted by the Inseparables, dried off and warmed up, etc., after Tréville tells him they're waiting for him in the dining room.

Victor appears unexpectedly in the garrison office as Tréville is drying himself out from having been standing in the rain with Aramis.

I chose not to return the story to where it began because I wanted the ending to stand as is. However, if you're interested in playing in an interactive venue and writing an epilogue, I would be happy to collect and post them with appropriate acknowledgements, as the last chapter of the story. You can send it to me at bootsnhats2014 at yahoo dot com. I will consider the matter closed if no one has responded by the 11/30/17.

On a last note, there is one other TM story sitting on my hard drive that might get finished. I just don't know if will actually come to fruition, so I wanted to note that Until We Meet Again is probably going to be my last story in fandom. I'm only sharing this because I've experienced the loss of fandom friends without explanation and wondered and worried if something bad happened to them, so I just want to put it out there that I'm off to start a different journey. One where I will take all of you with me in my heart because your are the foundation of this new journey. From grade school I've dreamed of writing and publishing professionally and writing fan fiction has given me a solid base to make that leap.

I will be celebrating a significant birthday at the end of this month and in not-that-many years, retirement might be an option. It's my intention that by the time I retire, I'll already have begun a second career as a professional, publishing author. So my birthday gift to myself this new natal year is 12 months to focus on writing a book. I'm terrified! Fan fiction for me is like comfort food for the soul; even thinking about leaving has been a wrenching proposition, but I've discovered I can't make the leap and continue to write fan fiction. I've tried and it's not working.

So I just want to say goodbye and thank you with all my heart to every individual whose wandered through the pages of one of my stories, to every one of you whose made my life immeasurably brighter by leaving a comment or review or sending a note. I've stored away the joy I've collected from all my fandom readers so that when I'm really discouraged and need a lift I can wander back through the pages of feedback you've shared and find the will to go on!

Thank you so much for being partners with me in my fandom journey!

Heart hugs and blessings

char

a/k/a M_LadyinWaiting/bootsnhats