Anger, disappointment, and frustration radiated from Porthos. He stood next to his horse, right hand clutched around his horse's reins, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. His jaw clinched tightly, nostrils flared, and he refused to meet Aramis' eyes. Even his horse looked more alert with his head up, ears perked forward, and all four hooves were firmly planted, but ready to jump into action when needed.
D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, glanced between Porthos and Aramis and felt the tension. It was painful to watch, brothers parting, and parting for reasons that were seemingly unclear… except to Aramis, who stood strong. Two years was not enough time. Two years of defending one another, learning each other's habits, fighting alongside one another, spilling blood together. The heartache was something d'Artagnan wasn't ready for. He had lost one family; he didn't want to lose another. He nodded bravely when Aramis caught his eyes.
Aramis stood alone with his back to the door of the monastery, and he faced his brothers, who stood next to their horses. For reasons he did not understand, this departure was more difficult than the first. This time, he would be the one to watch them ride away. He would be the one left behind, and it caused his heart to hurt. With a war looming in the shadows, their likelihood of survival diminished, and the closer they were positioned at the front lines, the worse their chances became. Not knowing if he would ever see them again was painful, and he stepped forward. The sides of the robes flapped against his shins, and the heavy hood of his cloak hung behind his head. The contrast of the blue and white was a bold reminder that the man he was had retired. Gone was the leather doublet, britches, weapons, and pauldron.
Stoicism was not a skill d'Artagnan had mastered, and on impulse he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Aramis' shoulders. The moment of absolution was short as d'Artagnan relaxed his hold and returned quickly to his horse. He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, slipped his foot into his stirrup, and mounted. He watched Porthos do the same, and they both rode through the gates without uttering another word.
Athos stepped forward, quirked the corner of his mouth, and looked at Aramis a moment before he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "If," he said, "you decide to return… your pauldron will be waiting."
"And if I don't?" Aramis said. The words weren't spoken harshly, just matter-of-factly, but were just as painful to hear even from his own lips.
Athos glanced toward the door, the stained glass windows, and the high walls that protected the monastery from intruders. It was peaceful, yet cold and unwelcoming. "The first time I met you I admired your spirit… the brotherhood you had with Porthos," he looked into Aramis' eyes, "I wanted to be a part of that — I wanted to know what that felt like… you, Porthos, d'Artagnan and Treville all allowed me a part of it —"
"Don't make this harder, Athos…" Aramis said. "I can't break a promise… not this time — not this one."
Athos nodded in understanding and held out his hand. "I cannot imagine my life with none of you in it…" he clutched Aramis' hand in a tight grip and then pulled him forward into an embrace. "It's been an honor serving alongside you." He released his hold, nodded once, and then returned to his horse. He mounted, took one last look around, and tipped his hat toward Aramis before he rode away.
Aramis held his breath, caught his breath in his throat, and closed his eyes as Athos' back slowly faded from view. He could hear the horses as they galloped away, the clops of their hooves as steel struck the hardened ground. Aramis wheezed as he took a deep breath. He had been in the company of pain many times, of losing friends, losing women whom he had loved and adored, the fear of losing a son he had no right to claim… but this… this was a pain he was unfamiliar with. A feeling of finality that overwhelmed him, squeezed his lungs and his heart as though gripped within the clutches of a giant without mercy. A feeling of loss so massive he wondered if he would ever recover.
Would he ever see them again?
The moments of joy shared around a table at the Wren over drinks and cards, when thoughts of their futures were as entwined as the stitching of fine silk threads. The thought of Constance and d'Artagnan as parents with children at their feet and uncles teaching them bad habits.
Aramis stood there, staring at the gate, until the sun descended. The night grew colder and heavy clouds threatened to drop snow. He felt cold, distant, and uncertain as he replayed the images of his imprisonment, of his promises, of Milady setting him free. The events that took place that exposed Rochefort for the Spanish spy he was, the king regaining his confidence as Anne reaffirmed her commitment to him, and the joy the king felt as he carried his son.
Aramis rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. He hurt. And, at that very moment, he felt more alone than he ever had before. He placed his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and clenched his jaw. He wanted to ride out after them, join them in the fight, be there for them when he was needed, joke with them when laughter and the voice of a brother were needed.
"Aramis," the abbot said as he stepped from the door of the monastery. He quirked his mouth and then draped his arm over Aramis' shoulders. "Come," he said, and encouraged him toward the door. "I believe we should speak."
"Abbot… I cannot."
"Indulge an old man, Aramis," the abbot said. "I must insist."
Aramis nodded and followed him into the refectory.
