A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who's followed, favorited, and reviewed! And thank you guest UIa for your review of the last chapter.
This one's set about a year after Savoy.
"They Shall Bear You Up"
Aramis stoically endured the sharp burn of alcohol against the graze along the side of his neck. He should count himself lucky it was only a shallow furrow. And yet, he found he could not give thanks for that.
Lit candles cast an orange glow throughout the small chapel, sending shadows whispering across the contours of the statues whose granite gazes bored into him with unrelenting ferocity. They seemed more like macabre gargoyles than the empyrean cherubs and saints mortal hands had fashioned them to be. The only statue whose eyes did not meet his was that of Jesus upon the cross. The Savior's gaze, angled down and to the side, did not deign to look upon him.
"Why do you chase death?" a soft voice intruded upon his dark thoughts as Sister Catherine dabbed at his wound again. The gentle nun had not balked when Aramis had pursued a mercenary into the convent's garden, exchanging gunfire over her row of petunias. She had given the slain bandit a grieved look before turning to the King's Musketeer and ushering him inside to tend to his wound.
Aramis had wanted to protest, but Sister Catherine had been near belligerent in her insistence and he hadn't possessed the wherewithal to fight her. Now, though, he regretted accepting her kindness, for she was far too perceptive. She had seen him barrel after the mercenary, heedless of taking cover when the first shot was fired. And the second had come too close.
Her eyes raked over the scars visible on his chest where he'd pulled one side of his shirt down to give unimpeded access to his wound.
"To give God a chance to rectify his mistake," he answered quietly, his private musings having loosened his tongue more than he would normally allow. And though there was no seal of confession between them, this was a House of God, and it would not do to lie.
"God doesn't make mistakes."
"Then I should have no fear of dying if it's his will to keep me alive."
The shadows of Savoy dogged his every step. Twenty dead musketeers. One deserter. And Aramis alone to return. Was it Providence because he was meant for something more? How could he accept that though? There were men more worthy than him who should have been spared. If his survival was not some cruel oversight of Fate, then why should he not face down death at every turn in service to his duty? It had helped him prevent the mercenary from escaping with the stolen documents this day.
"The Devil said much the same to our Lord Jesus Christ," Sister Catherine replied. 'He shall give his angels charge over you,'" she quoted. "And Christ replied, 'You shall not—'"
"'Tempt the Lord your God,'" Aramis finished, shoulders sagging under the admonition.
She arched a pointed brow at him. "If you know your Scriptures, then why do you defy them?"
He bowed his head in contrition. Because there had been no angels in Savoy that day.
The creak of the door opening spared him further admissions, and they looked over at the familiar cloaks of blue entering the chapel, backlit by the afternoon sun.
"There you are," Porthos called. "We've been searchin' the forest for almost an hour."
Despite the hint of irritation in his tone, Aramis could see the relief in Porthos's eyes. Relief that quickly morphed into concern when he narrowed his gaze on Aramis's neck.
"I saw you caught up with the man who tried to escape," Athos said blandly, also eyeing him carefully.
Aramis grimaced, realizing the body must still be lying in the garden. He turned to Sister Catherine. "My apologies."
"There were other pressing matters," she replied, then looked to the other two musketeers. "I assume you'll be taking him back with you?"
Though her words had probably meant the dead mercenary, it was Aramis that Athos looked at when he replied,
"Yes."
She set the cloth aside and rose to her feet. With a courteous, and perhaps too cunning, nod to Athos and Porthos, she excused herself.
Before Aramis could stand, Athos had taken the seat she'd vacated and had reached out to grasp his chin, gently turning his head to get a look at the wound.
"Musket ball?" he asked quietly.
Aramis made a noncommittal sound. "If it requires needlework, I think I shall wait for Sister Catherine to return."
"I don't believe it does." Athos released Aramis's chin and picked up a roll of bandages.
Porthos stood with arms crossed as he watched Athos wrap the strip of linen around the wound. Their concern was a tangible throb that pulsed in time with the shadows from the candlelight. But just like the statues above, they were silent.
Unlike the judgmental stone, however, their presence was close, not distant. Near, yet not hovering. Athos's touch was gentle as he tucked the end of the bandage under a fold so it would hold secure. Porthos's hand settled on his shoulder, giving a small squeeze. Behind the concern was gratitude, and even understanding, all conveyed through gestures of care instead of words.
Aramis picked up his weapons belt, ready to leave. Athos and Porthos could have led the way, could have gone ahead to load up the body they'd be taking back to Paris. But they did not. They strode toward the door in step with Aramis, at his side as they had been since they'd found him in Savoy and brought him home. No matter how reckless he behaved, no matter the trouble he chased down with abandon, his brothers always managed to bring him home.
Perhaps God had given him angels after all.
"In their hands they shall bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone."
Psalm 91:12