The road from Belle Ile to Paris was long. But the road to get there had been even longer for some. A journey that almost seemed impossible at a time.
Aramis rode alongside her peers, taking her rightful place at the helm of the King's procession as it made its way through the countryside of France, stopping here and there for a rest or a celebratory feast given by the townspeople or a land-lord in one county or another.
Belle Ile had been nothing short of a spectacular victory. One in which both the Musketeers of the King and the Red Guards of the Cardinal participated with equal valour.
Although, admittedly, the real heroes of this escapade could be counted on one hand.
Even Count Rochefort, the proud Captain of the Red Guard, the Cardinal's Right Hand, concede his pride and deigned to show his admiration and respect for the four Musketeers: the noble Athos, the colossal Porthos, the ethereal Aramis and the newly minted and arrogant youth, d'Artagnan.
All was finally right in the world. The Iron Mask and his band of nefarious thugs had been defeated. Milady was finally dead. Manson was eliminated. And most importantly, Prince Philippe was restored to the King in an amicable reunion. Musketeers and Red Guard celebrated together and for once put their differences aside. The Cardinal sent a note of congratulations to Capitaine de Treville. France was jubilant.
Yes, all was right in the world. Nothing could go wrong now.
Even Athos, who was the most serious and prone to depressive moods, was in an unbeatably cheerful humor.
After all, what could go wrong?
"Ah!" winced Aramis. Her thumb grazed a sharp edge that cut through her white glove, slicing through the skin underneath. The blond musketeer attempted to shake off the pain, but the movement only served to promote the bleeding. In the end, she removed her glove and sucked diligently on her thumb to stop the flow.
"Back to your old habits, I see," Athos chided from the right. Aramis rolled her eyes and ignored him. When Aramis first arrived as a young musketeer, the cadet had a bad habit of chewing on nails and cuticles. Athos always saw it as a nervous habit that needed to be weeded out, lest it gave away the musketeer's emotional state which would be a fatal weakness. While Athos may have been partly correct about the underlying reason behind this habit, it had also been Aramis' way of destroying some of the last remnants that tied her to a life of comfort and an aristocratic upbringing. The life of a well-bred young woman whose beautiful hands factored into whether she would have been good for marriage or not.
"Come, come! Stop teasing Aramis!" d'Artagnan intervened. He wanted to detract attention as far away as possible from his friend. For d'Artagnan knew a secret. A terrible secret that no other musketeer knew.
D'Artagnan, through no fault of his own, had uncovered the identity of Aramis. The youngest and only musketeer to ever solve the enigma that was perpetually, Aramis.
Aramis was a woman.
A woman with a grave mission and tragic past. A woman who was also one of the best soldiers of the realm and the finest shot in all of France.
Except, of course, in the eyes of the world, Aramis could never be a woman.
And d'Artagnan swore on his life that he would take this secret to the grave. He would also protect her secret as he would protect what was most precious to his own heart.
It was thus with this spirit that he now stepped in between Athos and Aramis. d'Artagnan knew that Aramis must have pricked her finger on the broken ruby necklace that clung to her neck. The very same necklace, once intact, that Manson had worn around his neck. The one that Aramis reclaimed from him. The one that had protected her from Manson's blade as it sought out to pierce her heart. It was short of miraculous, really. As if a divine spirit had channelled itself through this ruby.
The ruby, of course, gave way to the force of Manson's sword and shattered into a hundred pieces. Manson fell to his death not long after.
Aramis' vengeance was accomplished.
All was right in the world.
…
Rowdy laughter broke out in the table adjacent to them. The procession had stopped at an auberge and the soldiers were granted a reprieve to drink and dine and pursue other pleasures.
Porthos took a swig and set down his glass before he motioned to the aubergiste for more. He let out a burp and a sigh of satisfaction. "They sure have good ale around here!"
Athos chuckled.
"Aramis is not with us tonight either," Porthos complained.
Athos shrugged.
Porthos' ale arrived. He stared at it for a few seconds, but did not touch it. Instead, he leaned across the table. "He's been down in the face since Belle Ile. Did you not remark?"
"Who?" Athos was clearly drunk.
"Aramis!" Porthos insisted.
"He's always down in the face."
"No, he isn't. You're probably thinking of yourself."
Athos chuckled. "Come, come. You know Aramis has his moods."
"Except, we haven't seen his moods for years now. He's no longer a budding adolescent."
Athos swung his glass around. "I don't know what you want me to say. Aramis can be strange. If you're so concerned, why don't you go ask him?"
"It's more than that. He's been waking up at night and leaving the camp. I've seen him once or twice."
Athos rolled his eyes. He leaned forward and whispered, "You know Aramis is very particular about how he goes about… 'relieving himself'."
Porthos shook his head, annoyed that his message was not getting across. "Relieving himself for hours?! He doesn't come back until dawn!"
"I'm sure you're only waking up thinking it's the middle of the night, but it is actually a few minutes before dawn," with that, Athos roared with laughter and went to join the group across from them, leaving a very irritated Porthos.
"Because you think I'm a dumb beast, don't you," he muttered into his glass.
…
The air was cool and crisp. Aramis put on a cloak as she slipped out quietly out of the camp.
Nighttime was the only time she could have to herself. Away from her duties, from the oppressive jubilant atmosphere, from the constant jabber of Athos and Porthos, and the watchful concerned eyes of d'Artagnan, who now knew more than he ever should have. Of course, if it had to be someone to discover her identity, she would have preferred none other than d'Artagnan. Who knew what the other two would think?! Athos would probably take out his sword and end her right then and there before he took his own life. Porthos would cry himself to death.
She smiled at her absurd musings.
Absurd they may be, but the fear she felt at the prospect of losing Athos and Porthos was very real. And now that her mission was complete, her vengeance achieved, it was only a matter of time. The days of their friendship were numbered. She did not yet have the opportunity to speak with Captain de Treville about what would happen next, but she could feel the time slipping away from her.
It was a familiar feeling.
The feeling of something precious slipping away… slipping slowly at first, then fast, so fast that it disappears completely off the face of the earth in a second.
Absently, her hand reached into her doublet, pulled out the amulet and caressed it.
This was a new habit – which thankfully, Athos did not know about. She had developed it when she recovered the medallion from Manson that one time she confronted him at the Palace. Rubbing it infused her with strength and propelled her forward. It assured her footing and bolstered her resolve.
It was almost magical.
And why wouldn't it be? It was imbued with his spirit. With Francois's presence.
It was imbued with his love. Their love.
A pair of warm familiar arms wrapped around her.
"Found you!"
"Ah!" she shrieked. "That's not fair! You saw the fabric of my dress from behind the tree!"
"Well, it wasn't the most imaginative hiding place!" he laughed.
She pouted.
He gently placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. "It's almost as if… you wanted me to find you?"
A wry smile tugged at her mouth, breaking her act. "Maybe."
"My clever Renee!"
She chuckled softly and blushed. He inched closer to her. "My beautiful Renee… my beloved Renee."
Their lips met in a gentle embrace that gradually increased in heat and passion. Breathless, Renee pulled away gently, as a sudden feeling of anxiety took over her. "Francois."
"Yes, my love?"
"Promise me… promise me you will never leave me."
He cupped her face in his hands and stared intently into her eyes, as if to dispel these demons of hers once and for all. "I promise you. I promise you with all of my heart that I will never leave you. I love you, Renee. I will always love you."
She smiled weakly, but something in her still felt uneasy.
"Now, promise me you will never leave me."
"I promise you… I love you, Francois… I love you…"
"Promise me… promise me…I love you Renee… promise me"
Their voices intermingled in Aramis' head. Her voice turning into his, his turning into hers. Promises… decadent moments exchanged in the forest… A love that was never meant to be…
The musketeer's hand closed on the amulet as she fell to the floor on her knees, collapsing underneath the heavy weight of sorrow and bitterness. She wept, as she did every night.
"I love you… Francois… I love you…" she sobbed. Her body heaved and the tears flooded. "It didn't work. I avenged you… I did it… but it… didn't work. I feel so… empty… so… empty…"
"Francois…." She cried again and again.
Through her sobbing, she did not hear the rustle of leaves behind her, nor the footsteps that made their way towards her. It was only at the last second, that she felt a pair of arms encircle her and a man crouching down beside her.
There was no point in resisting. She did not was to resist any longer. She let herself go and d'Artagnan held her until the sun came up and two fell asleep at the foot of a boulder.
…
"I told you… Aramis was asleep when I arrived, but then he was gone!" Porthos said.
"Sshhh! Well keep your voice down!" Athos chided, partly because he could not tolerate loud noises in his drunken state.
"And now d'Artagnan is gone too!" Porthos continued.
"I'm sure they had gone on to do some reconnaissance. Oh, to be young and keen again!"
"The reconnaissance pair was already dispatched and they are not it. Athos, would you focus for a moment, for Heaven's sake!"
Athos stopped in his tracks. "Why are you so invested in this? Aramis has always been discrete and strange, plus, he is wounded, and d'Artagnan is always up to some antics."
"But this is different… I can feel something different since Belle Ile… Aramis seems… lost and…"
Athos waited impatiently for his comrade to finish, but the words Porthos wanted to say would not come out. Aramis seemed lost, yes. But also, as though he lost the will to live. The sparkle in the eyes was gone, the posture drooped, the smile disappeared, and a shadow lingered on the face, and Porthos could have sworn he had heard him weeping once or twice. And no, it was not because Aramis was moved by that morning's sermon.
"Fine, let's go," Athos said and gestured towards the road that led to the adjacent forest. "Let's go find them. If you are right, then we would have found them in a precarious position and we would rescue them. And if you are wrong, then all is well and we would have nothing to worry about. Whichever way, one for all and all for one, n'est-ce pas?"
With that uncharacteristically cheerful attitude, Athos led the way into the forest and the two walked silently until they came upon a clearing just before dawn and happened upon the slumbering Aramis d'Artagnan.
"And voila!" Athos exclaimed as he approached them. "See? All is well! And they look too peaceful to disturb."
"Make sure they're breathing before you claim your victory, won't you?" Porthos glared at Athos.
"Come, come! They're well and alive and quite spent. Who knows what they have been up to! Here, help me. I will take d'Artagnan and you take Aramis, hm?"
As Athos and Porthos began to move the two unconscious musketeers, a bright glint emanating from the person of Aramis caught the first light from the sun and drew attention to itself.
"What is that?" Porthos inquired, inching his head lower to Aramis' chest.
"I'm not sure…" Athos replied, equally intrigued.
Porthos held the medallion in his hand and twirled it around.
"Where do I know this from?" he squinted at it.
Athos thought long and hard. He had seen it before too. A bright red ruby on a golden chain… Where, but where…
He suddenly snapped his fingers, startling Pothos. "Manson's necklace!"
"Yes!" cried Porthos in agreement. How could they forget? This amulet marked a tremendous moment in their friendship. The moment it had fallen off Manson's chest at the palace when Porthos pushed him. Minutes later, Aramis would pick up that medallion and betray Athos and Porthos.
"But how did it end up in Aramis' hands and…" Athos stopped short. "What's this?"
Porthos said nothing as, he too, stared at the tiny portrait that now made itself visible underneath the cracked ruby shell.
"Is that… Aramis?" Porthos whispered, unable to comprehend the weight of his own words. It was a picture of a lovely young woman that looked exactly like Aramis.
Athos, too, was stunned.
Aramis stirred, rousing the two musketeers from their shocking discovery.
Porthos hastily tucked the amulet back into Aramis' doublet and hoisted the blond musketeer up onto his shoulders. For some reason, he did not want Athos to dwell too much on this portrait. After all, they knew nothing about it and surely, surely, there was a reasonable explanation.
Besides, it was not something that Aramis had intended for them to see. As to why d'Artagnan was privy to it, well that certainly did not sit well with either of them.
"Leave it. Let's go," Porthos said to Athos.
The latter, not used to obeying orders from his comrades, decided that that was probably the best course of action.
For now.