Aramis slipped into his doublet, squared it at his shoulders, and then slipped each of the buttons through the threaded buttonholes. He had to admit it felt good. Like an old familiar friend, the piece of clothing knew his every fault, his needs, and his wants. The leather was well worn, scarred, and abused in areas. He sat on the edge of his narrow cot and pulled on his boots. They too were well worn and well abused, but like his doublet, his old boots knew his feet and had shaped around them.

He rested his elbows on his knees, folded his fingers together, and sat for a moment. His cloak and robe hung from the hook on the wall. A single half-burned candle rested on the nightstand next to the bed with his old Bible. It too was well worn and well loved. Carefully, Aramis gripped the written word and then slipped it between his doublet and chest. The heft of it was awkward, but without his saddlebags, he had no other choice for keeping it safe on his journey. The room was plain, with a single window above the bed that allowed the early morning sun to enter. He rubbed his outer thighs, took a deep breath, and then stood. He grabbed his old cloak, draped it over his arm, and then slipped his hat onto his head. Aramis then slowly took one last look around the room before he left.

The halls were quiet, and he could hear the heels of his boots tap against the bricks as he walked. Lanterns hung from the walls and their glow flickered and danced, causing shadows to shift and morph into different shapes and sizes. He could smell the freshly baked breads, and as he progressed, and he could hear the faint sounds of monks as they prepared for the start of their day.

It was a simple life, unadorned with material goods, or distracted by the world outside the walls. Aramis opened the door, took a deep breath of cold winter air, and then quickly draped the cloak over his shoulders. It would be a long walk back to Paris, but it was a walk he was willing to make.

"You're distracted," the abbot said. He smiled and held the reins of a small white mare. He stepped forward and gripped Aramis' shoulder. "You're making the right decision."

"I'm not yet convinced of that," Aramis said, and took a deep breath. He frowned and shook his head when the abbot handed him the reins. "No, I cannot…"

"You can," the abbot said, "and you will. Paris is a long walk, my son, and you need a horse."

Aramis again shook his head. "You need her more."

Abbot laughed, grabbed Aramis' hand and shoved the reins into it. "God will provide, Aramis." He cupped his hand behind Aramis' neck and looked at him. "He will provide for you as He provides for us… Take her with all of our blessings. And," he shrugged, "when you survive the war and are able… return her to us."

Aramis smiled. He clenched his jaw and nodded once. "I'll do that."

The abbot took a deep breath, content with the response, and stepped away. "Travel safe, my son," he said and watched Aramis mount the small white mare bareback. His long legs hung nearly to her knees, but she cocked her hind leg, swatted her tail and waited patiently.

"Thank you," Aramis said, tipped his hat toward the abbot, who smiled, waved and then stood back as Aramis nudged the mare's left side and turned to leave.

Aramis sighed as he exited through the gate and walked away from the high walls of the monastery. The dried grasses bowed and bent as a winter wind blew. Fog hung over the narrow stream to the right of the path, and heavy clouds threatened to spill rain or snow. The grounds looked barren, ghostly and abandoned, but once spring arrived the dried grasses would turn vibrant green, wild flowers would bloom, and the leaves of the trees would become robust.

The little white mare kept up a quick walk, and Aramis relaxed his hand as he rode. He breathed in the fresh air, looked toward the sky and then thanked God for His mercy, and the people He had placed in Aramis' life. It was the first time that Aramis realized God did not limit His work within the walls of a monastery. Not at all. Instead, Aramis smiled. God would work wherever He wanted, whenever He wanted, and He would use whomever He wanted to spread His message. Aramis pressed his hand to his Bible, felt the thickness of the book against his chest, and smiled. Perhaps God was telling him to go home, to live as an example of His mercy, and to share His word with those willing to hear.

For the first time in months, Aramis' heart felt full.

He felt renewed.

He felt like a man returning home.