The abbot sat across from Aramis in the atrium. A single lantern flickered against the wall, backed by a mirror and a candle that glowed on the seat next to the abbot. Night had fallen, and the clouds moved swiftly across the sky. The room was quiet except for the faint sound of the breeze against the windows.

"Why are you here, Aramis?" The abbot said. His tone was not accusatory, but calm and relaxed. He sat back, rested his hands on his lap, and looked at the man across from him.

Aramis shifted uncomfortably. "You know why I'm here," he said and glanced at the flame of the candle that danced and flickered. "I made a promise to God… I must keep my word."

The abbot inhaled deeply through his nose and nodded. "Why are you really here?"

"I don't understand the question?"

"You do," abbot said. He leaned back, relaxed on the bench constructed by monks decades earlier from the remains of tree split open by lightning. The solid wood, polished and well used, was smooth beneath his hands. It glistened beneath the subtle light of the lantern and the candle.

Aramis huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I made a promise to God." His voice wavered, uncertain and hesitant. He leaned forward, clutched his hands and rested his elbows on spread knees. Aramis looked at the floor, darkened by shadows and the blackness of night. His hair fell froward and curtained his eyes. "I need to keep my promise," he said and looked up at the abbot.

There was a long pause as the glass of the window showcased the falling snow. Flakes landed and remained suspended until the breeze stole them away.

The abbot took a deep breath and pulled his brows together as he contemplated his next words. "You made a promise to God… how many promises have you made, Aramis?"

"Abbot, this is different."

"How is this different?"

Aramis tightened his fingers within his grasp and hung his head. "I can't…" It was different. This time his sins had caused his friends and brothers to curse him, it had caused the king to nearly destroy himself with grief, and France was threatened by the infiltration of Spanish spies. Aramis' sin had rolled like a snowball downhill, growing larger and speeding faster as more of his sin was exposed in the shadows of truth and lies. He didn't trust himself. The more he saw the queen, the more he wanted her, and the more he thought about his son, the more he wanted to be a part of his life. None of which he would ever be able to have. His chest hurt. He not only left what he loved most in the world, his rank as a Musketeer, his brothers, and the family he desired, but he left himself behind too. When Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos rode onto the grounds, there was a piece of himself he felt reunited with, but that reunion was quickly followed with guilt.

"In my years as a man of the cloth, Aramis, I have found that those who make decisions based on events rather than genuine commitments rarely stay long enough to dedicate themselves to what this order requires and needs. I have found that men are foolish beings who — in haste and moments of weakness — make promises they cannot keep…" He paused for a moment and looked at Aramis as he raised his head. "When those promises go against who you are as a person… who God wants you to be… and then instead of giving of yourself, you end up denying the very One you made the promises to."

Aramis opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself.

"Perhaps forcing yourself to become something you're not —"

"It's my penance," Aramis said and looked up.

The old abbot frowned and cocked his head to the left. "Penance, my son, is not about removing yourself from what temps you, but facing what temps you and denying yourself of it. Anyone can run away."

Aramis flexed his jaw muscles and inhaled deeply through his nose. "I can't," he said. His voice sounded defeated and with his elbows on his knees, he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. "I cannot deny myself when I look at her."

The abbot smiled, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "You are full of good intentions, but good intentions are not a quality we seek here." He watched Aramis shift. "Your life is a blessing. Your gifts are blessing to those who know you. God, if you let Him, will lead you no matter where you lay your head." He leaned forward, placed a large hand on Aramis' shoulder and met his eyes. "Soldiers make terrible monks… just like moths make terrible butterflies."

Aramis frowned and said, "Moths don't make butterflies."

The abbot smiled. "My point exactly. They are similar in nature, but built and made for a different purpose. God has blessed you. He has given you the gift of healing, of peace when the men you fight alongside need it most… He has given you a heart that loves… Do not deny the things He has given you because of your fear of weakness.

"You are a child of God. Serve Him in the capacity He has blessed you with, not in the capacity you see yourself serving Him by."

Aramis hung his head and rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and then slowly nodded. "Some of what you have said, Abbot, sounds very…" he paused and smiled, "un-Catholic."

The old abbot laughed and slapped his thigh. "If we cannot to learn from others, if we fail to challenge the status quo, then we will forever be locked inside an ideology that may have misinterpreted scripture either though malice or innocence, but that does not negate our responsibility to learn and accept new truths." He smiled. "Martin Luther was a very talented writer and an excellent scholar. I would encourage you to educate yourself, but hold the Biblical teachings above all else." He stood, straightened his robe and slowly ambled toward the door.

"Why…?" Aramis passed, "why after all these months have you started calling me, my son?"

"Because the man who is leaving here is not the same man who arrived."