"Welcome," the abbot said with his arms stretched wide as he stepped toward the three riders, who had slowed their horses, "all are welcome here." He smiled as several brothers stood behind him and at his sides.

Porthos smiled, dismounted, and caught sight of Aramis, whose grin was just as large. He looked humbler, quiet, almost peaceful.

Aramis stepped forward, the heavy robes fluttered around his legs, he spread his arms wide. "Brother," he said, with a barrel laugh, and wrapped his arms around Porthos.

Aramis gripped Porthos' shoulders and shook him. "It's good to see you." He turned and quickly hugged d'Artagnan and then Athos.

"You look well," Athos said. He stepped back and cupped Aramis' shoulder. He nodded once and looked at the massive buildings that surrounded them, the archways that connected them, and the stained glass windows that led to the sanctuary. The monks who stood quietly by, varied in ages from young to old, and their robes were plain, unadorned, but warm. The abbot had a look of recognition and contentment as he watched the reunion.

Aramis turned and quickly introduced them, and then guided them into the monastery while the abbot instructed the others to return to their duties. In a show of excitement — or to prove his contentment — Aramis provided a brief history of the buildings, the monks who now lived there, and the history of those who had come before. Despite his robes, the heavy blue cloak that kept him warm, or the rope tied around his waist, Aramis looked naked to those that knew him best. He was over simplified, plain, and uncomplicated. His arm without the pauldron, his waist without his weapons belts, or the sword he carried at his side, all looked empty. He looked the opposite of the man they had grown to know and love.

They entered the atrium, a small room off to the side of the main refectory that overlooked the gardens. Several plants grew in abundance near the windows, vines had been positioned and pegged along the walls, and leaves cascaded and hung like drapery from the ceiling and around the windows and doors.

"Brother Andre has quite the gift for managing the plants — even the king would be envious of his skill," Aramis said and motioned for the others to take their seats on the long benches that rested in the shape of a square in the center of the room. Porthos sat to Aramis' left, and Athos and d'Artagnan sat across from him.

There was a moment of awkward silence as d'Artagnan looked from Porthos to Aramis.

"How's Treville?" Aramis said. He rubbed his thighs, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and looked at each one of them, "Or should I say, Minister Treville." He smiled shyly and shrugged. "That's going to take some time to get used to."

"Not as much as callin' 'im," Porthos pointed with his thumb toward Athos, "captain." He chuckled and watched Athos shift uncomfortably and feign a smile.

Aramis nodded. He missed them. He missed the companionship, the jokes, the laughter, the late nights talking over a glass of wine, or joking with one another as they sparred. He missed the moments of understanding when speech wasn't needed, but when their actions spoke volumes. D'Artagnan's look of determination just before he charged or challenged an opponent without considering the consequences. The way Porthos looked more confident than he felt when he knew the chances of survival were slim, but his excitement overrode his sensibilities when the moment arose and fists and blades flew. Or Athos, who stood aside, seemingly uninterested in the actions of fools and watched while poor decisions were embraced by brothers he would fight to the death to defend.

Aramis chuckled, looked at Athos and said, "It's hard to imagine the young man who bested me in a duel would later become the captain of the Musketeers."

Athos looked at him and met his eyes. "I didn't become captain on my own, Aramis."

Aramis clenched his jaw and nodded. It was hard enough walking away, but this… he cleared his throat, was brutal.

Porthos chuckled and slapped his thigh. "It's also 'ard to believe that a Musketeer has the power to bring down France because he couldn't contain himself." He smiled genuinely and shook his head when Aramis looked at him.

"What exactly were you thinking?" d'Artagnan asked. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees.

"He wasn't," Porthos laughed.

Athos chuckled. "He was," he said. "He was just thinking with the wrong organ."

D'Artagnan laughed. "A persistent problem… perhaps there's a medical explanation for that?"

Aramis blushed and leaned back in his seat. He glanced toward the entry to make sure they weren't heard and shook his head in disbelief. "How are they? The queen… the dauphin?"

Athos inhaled deeply and said, "They're fine."

"Come back with us," Porthos said. He looked at Aramis and caught brown eyes that were more uncertain than he had ever seen them before. "We need you back."

Aramis shook his head, took a deep breath, and leaned back. "I can't," he said. "I can't go back."

Porthos clenched his jaw, pursed his lips, and flared his nostrils. With both hands clutched, he shifted uncomfortably.

"Are they feeding you well?" d'Artagnan asked and ignored the side-eyed look of frustration from Porthos.

Aramis nodded.

"You look it," d'Artagnan said with a smile.

Aramis rolled his eyes and chuckled.

"First sign of becoming a monk is the losing of your masculine figure… more fat… less muscle." D'Artagnan chuckled and then glanced at the vast greenery in the room, and the wild orchids that had recently bloomed.

"I can still out wrestle you," Aramis said, and rubbed his right thigh.

Porthos cleared his throat and focused his attention on the bricks that had been laid in a circular pattern at his feet. "You, ah, doin' anythin' here that makes you 'appy?" He didn't look up as he spoke, but instead, he flexed his jaw muscles and stared at the flooring.

"There's wine," Aramis said and stood.

"Good wine?" Porthos looked up.

Aramis stood and walked toward the exit. "Very good wine," he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Porthos and d'Artagnan followed.

Athos stood, rubbed the back of his neck, and took one last look around the atrium. His powder tin tapped the ring on his belt and his sword swung at his side. His boot heels tapped along the floor as it transitioned from bricks to travertine. He could hear Aramis' voice echo through the hall as he spoke about the wine and the care the monks took in caring for the grapes in the vineyard behind the monastery. Athos paused suddenly when the abbot exited a room and stopped before him.

The Abbot smiled and nodded at Athos, who slowed his pace.

"You've known Aramis a long time?" the abbot said. He stood with his hands grasped before him.

Athos nodded, glanced at him, and then said, "Yes."

Abbot clutched the rope belt and the cross that hung from his waist and joined Athos as he continued his journey toward the cellar. "Why have you come?"

Athos stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and looked toward the floor. He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and then looked at the abbot. "To ask a brother to return home."

The abbot inhaled deeply, furrowed his brow, and nodded. He gripped Athos' shoulder when he made a motion to depart. "He's conflicted," he said and pulled his heavy gray eyebrows together in contemplation, "and the more he forces a decision — regardless of his reasons — it will look less like a choice and more like a…" he paused for a long moment and looked at Athos, "more like a punishment —"

"Abbot —"

"Aramis has a good heart, Athos, but his life… this life," he raised his hands toward the plain walls, empty hallways, and eventually moved his hands toward his face. An old face with years of experience and knowledge. "Is not for him. As hard as he tries… he will long for his brothers, for his old life, for his son." He curled his lips into a subtle smile.

"He told you about his son?" Athos said with a frown.

The old abbott pulled his eyebrows together and swallowed. "He said he was a father… nothing more." He then raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "But I would guess by your reaction that there is much more to his story."

Athos nodded, licked his bottom lip, and said, "The choice is his," Athos said, "I cannot force him to return."

"No," the abbot said and nodded, "but he's your brother… remind him of that." He patted Athos shoulder once more and then slowly left the hallway.

Athos watched him go and stood alone in a narrow hall that led to the cellars. He took a deep breath and continued his journey.