Dear Readers:
I hop that I don't offended any readers, but please understand that the sentiments of prejudice expressed in this story are not my own, but are the historically accurate accounts of this time period. As you read this story, put yourself right smack dab into 17th century France and look at this situation from Angelica's POV. She is revealing her emotions, her experiences; I was trying to convey her feelings to you as the reader, nothing more. If you can genuinely feel Angelica's emotions—feel her sorrow, her regret, her dread as she comes to her final decision to leave—then I've done my job as a writer.

Thank you for understanding, and for reading!

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;
That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.
Matthew 5: 44-45 KJV

Aramis watched as the blood dripped from Athos' head onto the floor, forming a growing pool of red. He scrubbed a shaking hand down his face, worried sick for his brother. He hated that he couldn't be at his friend's side to treat his wounds personally; it was maddening that he was forced to watch from afar.

The former comte lay unmoving, his arm dangled over the side of the bed as the nurses tended to his head. The medic noticed dirt smeared across the lieutenant's pale cheek; small specks of dirt clumped with dried blood in his beard.

"Aw, Athos, what happened out there?" the medic whispered to himself.

"I need that hot water!" Nurse Angelica yelled out to the bustling soldiers bringing in supplies. She nodded her thanks as water, cloths and her other requested items appeared conveniently on the table beside Athos' bed.

"What can I do to help?" d'Artagnan asked, eager to jump in and make himself useful.

"Get a cloth and wet it with that hot water," Nurse Angelica instructed. "Be careful, if the water is too warm, not to burn your hands; let the cloth cool some before putting it to his face. We need to wash away this blood, as well as the dirt and debris from the wound, before I can assess the damage."

Aramis watched the bustling activity next to him, wearing an expression of fear and worry on his face. As the nurse tended to the patient, she blocked the medic's view, giving him a blind sense of unsettling anxiety.

"How bad is the wound, how does it look?" Aramis asked, trying to see around the nurse as she leaned over the patient. "How bad is it?" The medic resisted the urge to jump to his feet to see the patient for himself when he wasn't answered right away.

"I'll know in a minute," the nurse said without looking away from her patient. Together, she and d'Artagnan gently washed the blood and dirt from Athos' face, taking especial care around the open wound. Water dripped from the patient, forming an even larger pool of red at the nurse's feet. Angelica absently stepped in the water, splashing droplets of red across the floor.

"Merde, I think I'm going to be sick." Aramis groaned at seeing the bloodied mess.

"Now, what are you goin' on about?" Porthos attempted to lighten the medic's mood. He gave a gentle squeeze to Aramis' shoulder, his eyes conveying a silent message of compassion. "You've seen worse than this, 'Mis. Athos is goin' to be alright, you just believe that."

"I know I've seen worse." Aramis flopped back against his mound of pillows. He put a fist to his forehead as he watched Nurse Angelica tend to her patient. "But it's different when I am the one seeing to their wounds; right now I just feel so… helpless."

"Helpless?" Porthos repeated with a scowl. "May I remind you, brother, that just recently your foot was caught in a bear trap; I'll also remind ya that we didn't know if you were goin' to make it or not. Athos would understand that you can't take care of him this once."

"That doesn't make it any easier to be relegated to spectator as Athos bleeds…"

"Monsieur Aramis, it appears the ball creased the bone from his temple toward the left ear," Angelica announced. The nurse moved out of the way so Aramis could see as she pointed out the path of the musket ball. "The wound is not deep, but it is still a dangerous injury. Seeing that the ball did not penetrate his skull, let us hope there is no permanent damage."

"You mean, to his… brain, right?" d'Artagnan asked, suddenly sick with worry.

"Let us wait until Athos awakens before we jump to any conclusions, young man," Angelica smiled kindly. "The ball did not penetrate the bone—he is very blessed."

"Thank God," the group of men echoed at the hopeful prognosis.

"Thank you, God." Aramis crossed himself then went limp against the pillows, closing his eyes. Tears of relief leaked from his closed eyes and rolled down his temples to drip onto his pillow.

"God was indeed watching over this noble Musketeer." Angelica turned to look at Aramis, her eyes warm and compassionate. "Just a hair to the right and your friend would have been killed instantly, but yet Athos was spared. There is a reason why God spared him, Aramis. On this belief, I think he will recover and be just fine."

"Athos is going to be alright then?" Captain Tréville asked anxiously as he rejoined the group beside the bed.

"I see no reason why Athos would suffer any permanent damage from this wound." Nurse Angelica replied cautiously. "However, it is still early, mind you, and we mustn't get too far ahead of ourselves. Let us put our faith in prayer and leave it in God's hands."

"I think Athos' life is in quite capable hands with you, Nurse Angelica," Captain Tréville nodded. "However, I will feel better once Doctor Lemay examines him and, hopefully, concurs with your prognosis."

"By all means, Athos should be looked after by his physician," she nodded. "Truly, all gratitude should go to God as He is the one who has spared this man's life," Angelica blushed. "Until the doctor arrives, I am merely a temporary instrument in repairing the damage."

"You are too modest, Mademoiselle." Captain Tréville dipped his head in appreciation. "Your skills make you most valuable to us, especially in regard to Athos' care."

"Thank you, Captain," Angelica returned the nod. "I will continue to do what I can for the patient until the doctor arrives. Unfortunately, I cannot do anything for the scar which Athos will bear above his eye and into his hairline. However, it should do little to mar his handsome features."

"He'll be very glad to know that," Porthos chuckled."

"He can impress the ladies with his new scar," Aramis quipped.

"Are we talking about the same Athos?" d'Artagnan retorted with a chuckle.

The Gascon's comment brought forth a resounding clap to d'Artagnan's back from Porthos. "Oi, I was wonderin' the same thing," the large Musketeer said as he smiled brightly. He glanced sideways at Aramis, "perhaps, our Athos will be a changed man after this, eh?"

"Hmm, maybe," Aramis huffed with a smile. The medic lay back against his pillow—his face still damp from the earlier tears—and snickered lightly at the thought of a changed Athos. "But on second thought, I rather like Athos just the way he is."

"Why don't we finish up with the patient, shall we?" Nurse Angelica busied herself suturing the wound closed before disinfecting it with a liberal splash of brandy. She bandaged the wound, wrapping the cloth tightly around Athos' head as d'Artagnan held it in place. The bandage was then tied off with a knot above the wound, giving him the look of a mummy with a bow.

"Now, let's keep an eye on Athos and pray he regains consciousness soon." Angelica washed her hands and dried them off on a towel. "Has everyone been tended to?"

"Yes, Angelica," Gabrielle replied with a nod. "I'm just finishing up with the shoulder wound; I believe that everyone is going to make a full recovery."

"I have tended to the men with the leg wounds; they will each recover in due time, Captain," Nurse Maria announced.

"That is good news, nurses." Captain Tréville let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you all for your help with my men; we could not have managed without you."

"You are quite welcome, Captain," Angelica said. "However, I am somewhat reluctant to inquire of the wounded men you battled against, that is the… the Huguenots you fought."

"Nurses, please, such news is not suitable for your ears, I'm afraid." Captain Tréville's succinct, almost curt, retort spoke volumes.

"Captain, there is… something you must know about the nurses and myself." Angelica bowed her head and took a deep breath. "The nurses and I are… not Catholic; we are instead, Lutherans," she swallowed. "Some of those men you battled are Lutheran missionaries. We recently joined with a band of Huguenots in Créteil to gain information regarding the meeting with the cardinal and his bishops. My group meant no harm…"

"You meant no harm?" Captain Tréville thundered. "The Red Guards were attacked on the road to Vincennes, without provocation! It was your people who opened fire first and began this unnecessary blood bath."

"Captain, please!" Aramis quickly interrupted. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace, attempting to calm the rising tempers. "Please, just hear Nurse Angelica out; allow her to explain…"

"Explain what?" Captain Tréville interrupted, nearly shouting. The captain paced for a moment, gathering his temper; alas, he nodded his consent to quietly listen as Angelica explained her companion's position as Lutheran missionaries. She revealed that the Lutherans had recently joined the Huguenots to learn what would become of the Protestants, but they had no idea their new alliance would result in such bloodshed. As the nurse continued, the captain grew visibly distressed. He dragged a hand down his face and hung his head low as she tearfully finished the account of what happened—and why.

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged grievous glances before also lowering their heads, unwilling to look the nurses in the eye.

"Messieurs, please, what are you not telling us?"

"Mademoiselle Angelica," the captain paused, letting out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this but… by the time we arrived on the scene, there were already many casualties. After the skirmish, after the fight was finished, the enemy…" Tréville paused, reluctant to continue.

"Captain, what are you trying to say?" Angelica asked fearfully.

"After my Musketeers were attacked—and Athos so senselessly shot in the head—we, together with the Red Guards, eradicated the enemy. That is to say, all of the Huguenots were… well," he paused. "There were no enemy survivors of this battle. I am deeply sorry."

"No!" Gabrielle screamed and fell to her knees. d'Artagnan rushed to help her to the nearest chair. "No, please tell me it's not true!"

"God has brought punishment down on us!" Angelica cried, falling on the edge of Aramis' bed. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

"Nurses, I am truly sorry, but my men were attacked and we responded justly. We had no idea some of those men were your companions; but given the situation in which we found ourselves, we had no choice. Perhaps you can rejoin with other missionaries?" the captain suggested softly.

"Captain, I'm afraid you don't understand." Nurse Maria stood to face Tréville. "Those missionaries were more than just our companions," she hesitated. "Some of the missionaries were… well, Angelica's brothers and Gabrielle's fiancé; and one was also my… my husband. Those men were our family, and now we have no one. Now we are truly alone."

Next Morning, Infirmary:

"I am escorting the nurses to Vincennes where they may claim their loved ones," Captain Tréville announced. "The women want to give their men a proper Christian burial, which is fair and right. I have five men; I need one more," he paused, waiting for a volunteer.

"I'll go," d'Artagnan jumped to his feet. He stopped as he stared at the sleeping form of Athos; the white of the bandages almost blended with the lieutenant's pale skin. The Gascon hesitated, unwilling to leave his mentor's side.

"Go on, he'll be sleeping for a while yet," Aramis said of the still-unconscious patient. The medic motioned with his head toward the doorway. "The captain has more need of you right now."

d'Artagnan left with the captain and the nurses to travel to Sainte-Chapelle de Vincennes where the bodies of their loved ones were being held until claimed. In the meantime, Dr. Lemay made his rounds, checking every patient before sitting beside Aramis.

"Has Athos regained consciousness yet?" the doctor inquired. He proceeded to examine the medic's foot as he listened to the report of the unconscious lieutenant.

"He was moaning in pain earlier, as though on the edge of consciousness," Aramis replied. "He quieted and I haven't heard any sounds from him since."

"When was this?"

"About an hour ago." Aramis furrowed his brow as he stared at his brother. "He moved his head side to side but never opened his eyes. I was hoping he would have awakened by now…"

"Hmm, just give him more time," Dr. Lemay nodded. "His stirring shows that he is gaining awareness, obviously feeling pain." The physician continued tending to the medic's foot as he spoke, applying fresh salve and rewrapping the bandage. "Athos should regain consciousness today—I would hope as such. I believe the next time he awakens, he'll be more coherent; I can better determine his condition then. I will make a more educated prognosis at that time, rather than guessing."

"How's the foot doing?" Porthos asked, motioning his head in the direction of Aramis' foot.

"It is looking very good, actually," Lemay answered. "The infection appears to be gone and the wound is healing nicely. I apologize for my late arrival but I was delayed at the palace," the doctor shook his head.

"We were very lucky to have the nurses here," Aramis whispered quietly. "If they hadn't been here, I don't know if Athos would have made it."

"Yes, I am quite grateful for the valuable assistance the nurses provided in my absence." Doctor Lemay patted Aramis' hand. "Their treatment of your ankle, as well, was brilliant—absolutely exemplary—I must admit. Given the progression of your recovery, you should be out of bed and up on crutches in another day or two."

"Good, I'm tired of being confined to this cot, especially with Athos hurt."

"Rubbish, Athos is right beside you, brother," Porthos interjected. "Don't think he's goin' anywhere anytime soon; so whether you're on that cot, or in the chair beside him, you can still watch over him."

"I just feel helpless lying here doing nothing…" his voice trailed.

"Athos has gotten plenty of care by the nurses and Doctor Lemay," the large Musketeer stated. Porthos sat down in the chair Doctor Lemay recently vacated to situate himself between Aramis and Athos. "Besides, with you keepin' an eye on Athos, you're helping the doctor care for him—that's not helpless. Watching over Athos… that counts for something."

"I believe God sometimes has to knock us flat on our backs to get our attention." Aramis absently whispered. The medic had his eyes planted on the sleeping brother next to him, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

"What are you talking about?"

"When Angelica confessed to me that she was Lutheran and not Catholic, she brought up so many valid points about the feuding between our religions; curiously, many of the points I had never bothered to dwell on before."

"Like what?"

"What if we've been going about this the wrong way, Porthos?"

"Bloody hell, 'Mis, just what are you talkin' about?" Porthos knitted his brow with concern. "What did she say that has you so bothered?"

"What if they're not the enemy?" Aramis looked up. "What if the true enemy is our own blindness?"

"You're startin' to worry me, brother." Porthos studied his friend closely, though it did nothing to help him find answers. "What are you thinking in that head of yours, eh?"

"This prejudice against others simply because their belief differs from our own," Aramis began, "well, it's all wrong." The medic appeared bewildered as he stared into the distance. "The Bible teaches us that we are all children of God; we are to love our enemies and to pray for those that persecute us."

"What's your point, Aramis?"

"Porthos, where is the love that we were commanded to show to our 'enemy'?" Aramis' gaze fixed on Porthos, his stance hard and determined. "Where are the prayers for those who are persecuted?"

"You're referring to the missionaries, right?" Porthos sat back in his chair, realization splashed across his features.

"Our society dictates that the Protestants are not the same as the Catholics. No, in many cases, they're not even thought of as fellow citizens—they are considered the enemy," Aramis admitted. "We didn't question the policies—or even care—it's how we were brought up in the church. This is just the way it is and it's accepted as normal," his voice took on an edge of disgust. "When did we as a people become so prejudiced?"

"When did we become prejudiced?" Porthos huffed, his jaw set hard. "That's all I knew growin' up in the Court, Aramis. I faced prejudice and bigotry my whole life because of the color of my skin," he growled. "My mother and I were treated like rubbish because we were different than everyone else."

"I'm sorry, Porthos…"

"They never gave my mother a chance to better herself," Porthos ranted angrily. "Hell, no one wanted to deal with her… or her son."

"You and your mother never should have been judged that way," Aramis whispered. "Mon Dieu, what kind of a society have we become accustomed to?"

"We live in a society…" Porthos paused with disgust, unable to continue.

"Porthos, please talk to me," Aramis pleaded. "What were you going to say?"

"Aramis, it's not just religion or the color of our skin that people judge," he growled, clenching his fists. "They also judge you on how much money you have. I had no choice… I had to steal to eat, dammit!"

"I'm sorry…"

"Was I less valuable as a person because I had no money in my pockets?" Porthos hissed. "Does more money make the nobles better people than those barely scrapin' by on the streets?"

"No, of course not!" Aramis answered emphatically. "On that same token, is someone less valuable as a person if they are Protestant rather than Catholic? I understand what you are saying, Porthos, and why you are so angry. The same nonsensical bigotry applies to religion. How could we have been so blind to our own prejudices?"

"Because it's accepted as normal; it's all normal society knows," Porthos fumed. "Aramis, until we can get enough people fighting back and standin' up for themselves, nothing is gonna change!"

"Angelica asked if we—the Protestants and the Catholics—served the same God and the same king. I had never thought of it that way before. We all serve the same in both regards… but yet we are so divided."

"Throughout history, our leaders have ordered Catholics to kill the Huguenots as enemies of France," Porthos stated grimly. "We cannot defy the king, unless you want to lose your head!"

"Exactly," Aramis scrubbed a hand down his face. "But how do we justify the killing and the shedding of blood in the name of our religion?"

"I don't know, 'Mis," Porthos sighed. "It's not right, but all we can do is try changin' our own corner of the world. We as a people need to push back; we need to fight back and speak up; we need to do somethin' to put a stop to the prejudice. Maybe, eventually, society might change."

"Porthos, my friend, you astound me," Aramis smiled. "You've always been so hopeful, so optimistic for a better future."

"It's why I became a Musketeer."

"Why…?"

"Hope for change and a better future." Porthos' eyes danced. "I got myself out of the Court—I worked my way to a better life. I believe it's possible for everyone else to do the same; it can happen. Maybe with more people like those nurses, it will happen…"

They were startled from their conversation as groaning from the next cot captured their attention. The two men watched with widened eyes as Athos began to awaken. The lieutenant's brow creased in pain as awareness brought with it a wave of agony pounding through his head. He turned his head side to side, moaning in pain, but the motion only caused his temples to throb worse.

"Mngh…" Athos groaned. His head pounded with every beat of his heart; his pulse played like a drum in his ears. The lieutenant reached his hand up to touch the source of the burning pain on the left side of his head but was stopped short as an unseen hand grabbed his.

"Athos!" Porthos shot to his feet and was at his friend's side in an instant. He grabbed his brother's hand as the fingers searched the bandage covering his wound. "Easy now, don't touch that. Hey, Athos," he gently tapped his cheek. "Open your eyes for me."

"Hursss…" Athos slurred. The lieutenant's eyes remained closed, crunched tightly as the throbbing continued to wreak havoc on his senses. He couldn't remember what happened or why he felt so much pain; the fog in his brain effectively blocked his memory of everything but the pain.

"Athos, it's Aramis; I'm here too," the medic called from his cot. "Open your eyes, mon ami. You've been sleeping long enough; nap time is over."

"Mphf," Athos huffed softly. The lieutenant groaned at the constant pain in his head. He pursed his lips and clenched his jaws, fighting the wave of dizziness threatening to pull him back into the void. His stomach rolled then suddenly lurched…

"Turn him, quick!" Aramis yelled to Porthos.

Porthos had time to turn Athos to the edge of the cot just as his stomach rebelled. Water mixed with bile dribbled from his mouth onto the floor. In this instance, the lieutenant was grateful for an empty stomach. "Damn…"

"Athos, brother, open your eyes." Porthos instructed as he gently wiped a cloth over Athos' mouth, cleaning away the spittle from his lips. "I know you'd rather sleep, but you can rest later. Right now, I want to see those green eyes open up for me."

"Maybe Captain Tréville should have you begin training as the regiment's back-up medic," Aramis smiled as he watched Porthos tend to their wounded brother. "You have an excellent bedside manner, mon cher."

"That depends on who the patient is," Porthos lightly huffed. "If it's someone I don't like… well, I've had a few mean nurses I could imitate."

"Hursss…"

"I know it hurts, brother, but this is better than the alternative, huh?" Porthos suggested, flashing his bright teeth in a wide smile.

"Not ssoo ssure," Athos slurred. "I'd beg… to diff-differ."

"Rubbish!" Porthos retorted. "Who would keep us all in line if you weren't here?"

"I thinn … you… have things… well in hannd." Athos relaxed his features as sleep began to pull him under.

"Athos, would you at least open your eyes before you go to sleep." Aramis grimaced as he realized the silliness of such a request. Porthos glanced at the medic with eyebrows raised, questioning the ridiculous 'advice' from his friend.

Aramis snickered as he shrugged his shoulders, "what?"

"You heard that, right?" Porthos quipped, turning back to Athos. "That's our medic's best advice!"

"Was trying to sssleeeep… too much… chatterr…" Athos' head lolled to the side as his breathing evened. The lines on his brow disappeared as sleep pulled the lieutenant back into its peaceful grip.

"Let him sleep, Porthos." Aramis smiled. "I think he's going to be alright." The medic looked at his friend and made the sign of the cross, grateful Athos appeared to be on the road to recovery. "We'll get him to open his eyes the next time he wakes up."

Later:

The pounding in his head literally throbbed him to the edge of consciousness. He lay still, suffering in so much pain, although he couldn't remember what happened to cause such agony. "Ssss-stop…"

"Athos!" d'Artagnan jumped to his feet beside the bed. "Athos, wake up for me," he gently patted the lieutenant's cheek. "You said stop… stop what, mon ami?"

"Stop the… pounding in my… head."

"Nurses, do you have any valerian root with you?" Aramis asked from his bed. "If you don't have any, I might have some in room—in my herb kit."

"Yes, we have some," Angelica smiled, her face brightening at the request. "I will make some valerian tea; it will certainly help get rid of that headache. See if you can get Athos to remember what happened, gentlemen. Talk to him…. keep him awake!"

"Athos, do you remember what happened?" d'Artagnan asked, sitting back down in his chair.

Athos crunched his eyes, trying to remember, when his stomach lurched. Porthos and d'Artagnan jumped to their feet to turn the sick Musketeer to his side; though he retched repeatedly, nothing came up but bile.

"God… my head…"

"Athos, the nurses are makin' you some tea for that headache," Porthos soothed. He gently ran a cool cloth over his brother's face before offering him a sip of water but the lieutenant wouldn't drink. "You need to drink some water, my friend. Come on now, you need somethin' in that stomach of yours if you're going to get better."

"Don't want anything… just come back up…"

"Well, you will drink that tea when Angelica comes back," Aramis threatened, playfully. "If you don't drink it, I'll send Porthos to find a bellows tube to force the tea in you…"

"You wouldn't… dare."

"Try me."

"Gentlemen, really, is this the time to have a showdown of stubbornness?" d'Artagnan grinned at the two men.

"See, 'Mis, I think our brother here is doin' just fine," Porthos quipped with amusement. "At least that stubborn streak of his wasn't hurt none."

"Yes, well, how about his memory?" Aramis frowned as he watched his friend, still lying with his eyes tightly closed.

"My memory is jusss fine, thank you."

"Alright, then you wouldn't mind telling us what happened." d'Artagnan stated, rather than asked. "How did you get this head injury of yours, hmm?"

"We were riding to-toward Vincennes," Athos began slowly. "We had to dis… dismount… walking…"

"Yes, we were walking," d'Artagnan eagerly prompted. "Why were we walking, what happened next?"

"We… the captain told us to leave our horses… had to hide… oh God, the bodies… I remember the bodies." Athos lurched sideways, "I think I'm… be sick…"

"Athos, is there anything we can do to help?" d'Artagnan and Porthos stood ready, watching with concern as Athos fought to control his nausea. "Athos…?"

"No…" Athos breathed out, clenching his eyes tightly shut. "Damn, I remember… they were sh-shooting at us… I saw sssomething out of the corner of my eye… it rose out of the weeds…"

"Yes!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "There was a man hiding in the weeds; no one saw him… until it was too late."

"What?" Aramis sat up on his bed at the news of how the shooting happened. "How could someone sneak up on you like that?"

"I didn't see him…"

"Athos, don't do this," Porthos growled. "No one saw that man until he had already dropped ya; he was hidin' in the tall grass like a damn snake! Shootin' you was the last thing he ever did on this earth."

"It's not your fault, Athos," d'Artagnan shook his head sadly. "Porthos is right, none of us saw that man until it was too late. Dammit, if only we had spotted him first!"

"How did it come to this?" Aramis lamented. "So many lives lost, the nurses lost their families; Athos was almost… dammit!"

"Hey, are you alright?" Porthos inquired of his friend, squeezing his hand softly. "If we had known who they were—and if they had known we had their women here with us—maybe we could have talked it out… without spillin' all that blood."

"This was all so senseless…" d'Artagnan's voice trailed.

"I wish I didn't… remember the bodies," Athos whispered, still lying on his side. "Shouldn't… have… happened."

The group of men watched as their friend fell asleep, a grimace of pain still lingering on his face. They decided it would be best to let the lieutenant sleep; the valerian tea could wait until the next time he awoke.

"You're right, it shouldn't have happened," Aramis whispered softly, "but it did. Look at what it has cost us on both sides," he lowered his head sadly. A tear leaked from the medic's eye and dripped onto his pillow, he quickly wiped away the wetness from his face. "We all need to step back and take a serious look at this feuding; we need to ask ourselves if it's worth it."

Nearly Two Weeks Later:

"The king has agreed to allow the Musketeers to escort you ladies to Le Havre, should you decide to leave the country." Captain Tréville reported to the nurses. "His Majesty is grateful for the care you provided so willingly to his Musketeers that he has agreed to provide you safe passage to England."

"What?" Aramis exclaimed in surprise. "Angelica, you're not seriously thinking of leaving, are you?"

"Yes…"

"But, France is your home!"

"Not anymore, Monsieur Aramis," Angelica replied sadly. "The battle claimed the lives of my two brothers; I have no family left. I have nothing left in France to keep me here."

"And I lost my husband," Maria added grimly. "We were quite ready to accept whatever punishment His Majesty decided, but I am more than willing to accept his gracious offer for safe transport to a new country. We cannot continue to be a part of this bloodshed—this senseless killing—for our faith. Not anymore."

"But, where will you go?" d'Artagnan asked with concern. "What will you do?"

"We have a friend who escaped to England a short while ago," Angelica answered with a smile. "She is waiting and has made arrangements for us to join her. I have faith the good Lord will provide for us and He will open the doors of provision."

"When are you leaving?" Aramis asked glumly, his features downcast.

"As soon as you Musketeers are ready to escort us, we are ready to travel," Maria informed the captain.

"My men will escort you to Le Havre in the morning then." Captain Tréville nodded, glancing at his three men.

"I would like to accompany the group," Athos quickly inquired of the captain. "My wound has had more than enough time to heal, Captain. I am quite fit and ready for travel."

"Do you think it's wise, Aramis?" Tréville asked, looking to the medic for his opinion.

"Yes, he should be well enough for travel by now," Aramis replied. "An additional sword, if necessary, will only help ensure our safety to the harbor, Captain."

"What about your foot, Aramis?" Captain Tréville inquired, pointing to the bandaged ankle.

"Captain, I can ride with a bandaged foot," Aramis countered. "It's the horse that will do all the walking," he smiled. "I can strap my cane to the saddlebags for when I'm on foot."

"Fine, alright then," the captain agreed. "Have your things packed and ready—you will leave at first light."

Harbor, Le Havre:

"Will you ever come back to France?" Aramis asked Angelica. The couple stood near the gangplank of the large wooden ship. Men scurried by with armloads of supplies, loading the ship before its journey across the English Channel.

~§~

"Aramis sure grew fond of Angelica, didn't he?" d'Artagnan whispered as he watched the couple talking. The three Musketeers stood by their horses chatting, while giving the couple privacy to say their goodbyes.

"She is a right pretty lady." Porthos commented sadly as he watched his friend. "The women shouldn't have to leave their own country because of their faith. This is just wrong; we're losin' good nurses there."

"Yes, it is wrong," Athos agreed with a sigh. "In order to ensure their safety, however, leaving France is the best choice they have. Until we can all learn to get along, going to England is their only viable option."

~§~

"Perhaps we will return to our homeland if our people ever stop warring with each other; if they ever stop causing such unwarranted bloodshed and death." Angelica sadly looked around the port, soaking in the sights of her beloved country. "Maybe someday our leaders will see that we are all God's children and there is room for all to live together in peace. If that happens, I will return to my beloved France."

"You and the nurses, you all gave such a valuable service to the poor people of France," Aramis reminded. "Do not forget, these are your people, Angelica. France will be a lesser place without you nurses here. You will be greatly missed."

"I will miss France, 'tis true." Angelica's eyes filled with tears. "But more than that, I will miss you… Aramis. You have a heart of gold and a genuine love for God; use both to make France a better place for all."

"Ahoy, all passenger please board!" the ship's first mate announced.

"You take care of yourself," Aramis whispered. The medic leaned on his cane then took Angelica's hand with his other and held on, unwilling to let go. "Write me and let me know how you and the other nurses are doing in England; would you do that for me, please?"

"I will."

"Be safe, Angelica." Aramis leaned in to softly kiss the nurse's lips. The couple parted and stared into each other's eyes, as the busy activity on the dock simply faded away in the background. Their lips met again for one last, tender kiss of goodbye, each knowing in their hearts they would never see each other again.

"Goodbye, my sweet Aramis!" Angelica cried before tearing herself away from the medic's arms to run up the gangplank. The nurse paused a moment on the ship's deck to gaze in sorrow at all that she was leaving behind. Her roaming eyes stopped on Aramis and, with one last tearful wave goodbye, she turned and disappeared from sight.

"Goodbye, my angel," Aramis whispered quietly. The medic stood on the dock, watching as the ship slowly floated out of the harbor and into the open waters. The marksman departed only when his brothers took him by the shoulders to lead him away.

"Maybe someday the world will change and prejudice will disappear…and she'll come back." Porthos softly squeezed the medic's shoulder.

"Maybe someday we'll be more accepting and people's differences will be an asset, rather than a source of division." d'Artagnan added with a sympathetic smile.

"You really believe that will happen?" Aramis scoffed. "Let alone in our lifetime?"

"It is quite a lofty goal, my friend, but anything is possible." Athos clapped Aramis on the shoulder and squeezed gently.

"It is a goal that we, as people of France, can hope for," Porthos clapped Aramis on the opposite shoulder.

"It's a false hope," Aramis muttered under his breath, though everyone heard.

"It's not a false hope, my brother," Porthos softly reassured. "Without hope, we're dead as a people. I believe a world without prejudice is a goal worth strivin' for."

"Perhaps you're right, Porthos." Aramis sniffed as he wiped his eyes dry. "It is a goal worth striving for, as any worthy goal is. If there are enough voices calling out for change maybe, just maybe, our hope will become a reality."

"Hope has to start somewhere, eh?" Porthos smiled.

"It starts at home," Aramis chimed with a nod.

"Then let's go home, shall we?" Athos wrapped his arms around the shoulder of Aramis as the medic limped with his cane toward the horses.

"I'm ready to go home," Aramis declared as he mounted his horse. The medic sighed as he turned his horse to get one last look at the ship, now fading into the horizon. "I'm ready to make France a more accepting place to live."

"I'm ready to race you to the river!" d'Artagnan challenged. The young Gascon kicked his horse and galloped down the road with Aramis close on his heels.

Athos and Porthos eyed each other with mischief, as an unspoken challenge passed between them. They each nudged their horses into a run, following after their brothers and leaving the waters of Le Havre far behind them.

~§~

"France is my home; maybe someday it will be safe to return to my beloved country." Angelica watched the port city fading away as she stood at the stern of the ship. Strands of blonde hair broke loose in the wind and clung to her wet cheeks, but the nurse merely continued to stare into the distance. "Goodbye, my sweet Aramis… you will always have my heart. Farewell… and God bless."

The End

A/N:

Sadly, the hope for a country without religious prejudice would not happen within the lifetime of the Musketeers (of this story). Not until Louis XVI, in 1787, would the country of France allow all citizens—Catholic and Protestant—to worship freely, without persecution.

To escape the persecution, many thousands of French citizens fled their beloved homeland to find religious freedoms and refuge in a new land. The bulk of Huguenot refugees relocated to Protestant European nations such as England, Wales, Denmark, Sweden, Switzerland and Ireland. They also spread beyond Europe to the Dutch Cape Colony in South Africa, the Dutch East Indies and the English colonies in North America, where they were generally accepted and allowed to worship freely.

Since the Huguenots of France were in large part artisans, craftsmen, and professionals, they were usually well-received in the countries to which they fled. Their talents in the arts, sciences, and industry were such that it is considered a tragic loss to French society.

Just as France suffered a notable loss though the emigration of these intelligent, capable people, so the American colonies (in this specific example) gained. The Protestant colonists became farmers, laborers, ministers, soldiers, sailors, and people who engaged in government. The Huguenots supplied the colonies with excellent physicians and expert artisans and craftsmen.

France's loss was the world's gain.