The garrison was home. Whether Aramis wanted it or not, this was the one place he could be himself, be accepted for who he was, and where he could best relax. He had missed the aromas of horse manure, leather, sweat, and hay. He had missed the daily conversations that took place under the awnings, at the old table next to the stairs, and within the commissary. Aramis missed the sound of the flag flapping during all hours of the day, and the sight of it as it stretched when the winds blew, he missed the sounds of blades striking as musketeers sparred, and he missed the clicks and taps of pistols as they were cleaned and readied. Most of all, he missed his friends and his family.
He watched Athos walk Roger through the archway, hand his reins to young Jacques, the stable hand, who nodded and agreed to give the big black some extra care. Athos took a message from a Musketeer, read it, and then walked up the steps to his office. Aramis quirked a smile. Things had indeed changed in a very short time.
"You stayin' for good this time?" Porthos said as he stepped behind Aramis. There was an air of overwhelming power about him. With his shoulders back, his chest puffed, and his arms crossed, he looked taller and meaner than Aramis had seen him before. It was not a wonder why he had gained the reputation of a man who could best a bear if challenged. Porthos was as strong as an ox, with a sharp mind, and a keen sense of awareness. If his size alone didn't intimidate the enemy, his fighting skills would. Porthos inhaled deeply through his nose, looked at Aramis, and clenched his jaw.
"I'd like to," Aramis said. He turned suddenly when he felt a tug on the reins and young Jacques took them. It had only been four months, but the young man looked older, taller, and broader through the shoulders.
"I'll see to her," he said, and led the small mare to the stables.
"Thank you." Aramis watched him walk away and then looked at the recruits who, in the coming weeks, would be commissioned as the threat of war grew near.
"Good," Porthos said, and then smiled, "it 'asn't been the same since you left."
"Looks that way."
Porthos stepped forward, wrapped brawny arms around Aramis, lifted him from his feet and squeezed. "You ever do that again —"
"Porthos," Aramis gasped, "I can't breathe."
Porthos chuckled and released his hold.
Aramis took a few steps back, inhaled deeply, and patted his chest. He then laughed. "It's good to be back."
Porthos tilted his chin toward d'Artagnan, who exited his quarters while buttoning his doublet. He looked up, raised his hands to his side, and then shook his head. His face turned red, but he stepped forward anyway and wrapped his right arm around Aramis' shoulders and patted his chest with his right.
"Welcome back."
"You, ah, done?"
Porthos snickered and then clutched a big hand on the back of Aramis' neck. He pushed him toward the stairs and nodded toward d'Artagnan, who followed while adjusting the weapons belt at his side. A chilly breeze caused the musketeer flag to flap. A gust of the wind caused it to blow upward and extend in all its glory. The fleur-de-lis waved and several musketeers stopped what they were doing, looked toward Aramis, tipped their hats, and then continue with their duties. Athos was right, it would take some time, but the Musketeers were a breed unto themselves: brave, noble, dedicated, and bound.
The familiar taps of their boots on the steps brought comfort as they got closer to the door of the captain's office. Aramis grabbed the hand railing and took another look around the garrison. He patted the rough wood twice, nodded once when he looked at d'Artagnan, and then followed Porthos into the office.
It looked the same. The desk had not been moved, nor had the cot that Treville had frequented when the nights grew long and the days longer. A fire blazed in the fireplace to the left of the desk and provided enough warmth to heat the room comfortably. Lanterns were lit and positioned against the wall on either side of the fireplace. One rested on Athos' desk. The old chair that had become synonymous with Treville had been left behind and now rested near the hearth. The only thing that had changed was that it was now Athos' hat and cloak, that now hung from the rack near the door.
Athos stood beside his desk, four cups of wine already filled, an ornate leather pauldron that had been cleaned and polished rested next to the glasses, along with a pistol and sword. "If you're going to rejoin us," he said, "you should have these back." He pushed the items toward Aramis and watched him slowly reach for the pauldron.
Aramis ran his fingers over the fleur-de-lis. There was a moment of guilt associated with it, a fleeting moment of betrayal, but then there was a feeling of calming warmth in his chest that he had missed. The abbot had been right, what Aramis had assumed what he was supposed to do may have conflicted with what he was born to do. He was skilled on the battlefield. He was skilled at healing. He thought with his heart and not his head. Aramis closed his eyes, raised the pauldron to his nose and inhaled deeply the scent of leather. It was as scarred as he was, but every indentation held meaning for him, for those who stood beside him, and those he was proud to stand alongside.
Porthos picked up his glass of wine and raised it. "Welcome 'ome," he said and looked at Aramis.
Aramis nodded, grabbed his glass, and said, "To Musketeers."
D'Artagnan and Athos each grabbed a glass and tapped the edges.
"To brothers," echoed in unison.
