"You still have that knack of getting into trouble, brother."

x

Standing under the dark brick ceiling amidst casks of brandy, Athos feels a cloying sense of déjà vu. The dirt under his feet. The scent of honey on his tongue.

A monastery under siege.

Life repeats itself.

The barrels Aramis had tipped into their path as they'd unknowingly chased him through the shadows, remain askance in the dust in the narrow gallery. Leading into an intractable corner. Athos is loath to contemplate what the remainder of Aramis's plan might have been.

"Had you been the bandits," Aramis says, suddenly standing at his shoulder, holding a spitting candle in his hands, apparently able to read his thoughts as well as ever, "I would have pleaded for mercy and asked you to accept my blessings for your sins, and to allow me to join where my brothers are being held – which is in the chapel, incidentally."

Beyond the archway of the next corridor, Porthos chuffs and turns away pointedly at the word brothers. Athos glances reflexively, making Aramis glance also.

The next breath they take is in tandem, and Athos draws Aramis's attention back to him with a hand to his wrist. "And the children?"

"The children are here – not in the chapel."

Athos tilts his head meaningfully.

Aramis smiles and turns serious. "How would they have fared in my plan, you mean? They would have remained hidden. Having found me, the bandits would not search this space again." Aramis uses two fingers to extinguish the candle in his grip, then sets it on nearby crate, propping his elbow on the same. "They are young, impetuous at times, but know the needs of hiding well enough. As I said before, we know all about the war here."

Athos does not know if the last is said for his benefit, or Porthos's. Aramis does not glance behind them, nor raise his voice, and Athos himself cannot tell if Porthos is still listening. Still, Aramis's attention seems to drift. In the rougher light, Athos touches his wrist again. "Are there guards on the chapel now?"

"Without – not within. They have allowed the abbot's body–-" And here, Aramis falters, enough that Athos wishes he was at a better angle to see his eyes. "-– to be brought into the vestibule. I imagine our humble residents will be allowed to hold vigil until the siege's purpose is brought to fruition. Then be killed then."

Athos nods, and lets go of his wrist. The monks in the chapel are men Aramis must know well, he reminds himself - understanding as the counterpoint to Aramis's casual tone. He's worried for them, Athos can tell. "How long have you been here?"

Aramis tilts his head.

Athos clarifies. "After we saw you last, I had thought once you completed your isolation you were to remain at the priory – or to cloister in the Jesuit college, perhaps."

Even in the poor light, Athos tracks the tick in Aramis's jaw.

"It was overrun. Not long after I saw you last. The Hapsburg crown remains distrustful of the region's loyalty, and the Jesuit order has a reputation in the province not wholly trusted by France or Spain, as well you know. The dear abbot would have had me follow him into a priory after the order of Benedict, allowing me studies at the college of medicines, but rumors that spies were being placed throughout the colleges had reached the Irish exiles. And the English exiles grew nervous to have a Spanish looking former French solider in their midst. Therefore, after some… discussion… the abbot thought it smarter for me to reenter my contemplations in a quieter spot, nearer the French lines."

Athos listens for the slips in the paced tones, and doesn't interrupt. There are stories there. As many as Athos and the rest of them have buried under their own tongues. In a better time he would want to dig at them, and perhaps yet wouldn't. It was how they'd built the foundation below the feet of their early friendship, after all – loyalty and love without ripping off past scabs.

"To me, that was acceptable." Aramis gestures at their surroundings, at the children in the adjacent room. "This suited me better."

Athos rests his shoulder blades to the crate, giving it a measure of his weight. "We heard about the typhus outbreak and the quarantines of the friary last year."

Aramis changes his stance also, leaning so that they are shoulder to shoulder in the dim. "The illness traveled north," he says. "I was already here." A breath. Then another. "We heard of the heavy losses near Verdun. A lost troop fighting under a blue banner. We hosted the refugees moving north in the aftermath. We heard the stories for months."

"Different blue. We've not been on the eastern lines."

Aramis nods, quietly, and they stand for a moment in silence. If there are differences in his friend's face, Athos can't find them. And yet … see-through as they have always been to each other, there were always things they missed.

"Aramis." A small voice floats around the corner, one of the tinier children from Aramis's small squad appearing near the arch. "I can't find my hat."

Aramis's response is automatic as he moves, pressing Athos's shoulder before stepping away. "Oh, don't worry about your hat, I've got your hat." He walks gently towards the boy and picks him up, and sure enough pulls the hat from where he'd tucked it into the back of his roped belt. The boy takes it into his hands, crushing it in his fists as he rests his head down on Aramis's shoulder. He mumbles something then, in a language Athos is unfamiliar with. A Dutch dialect, perhaps, and is unsurprised when Aramis rumbles back to the boy in the same tongue.

Aramis looks over his shoulder as he rubs the boy's back, catching Athos's eye with a small smile before walking towards the other children.

A sad smile. A content smile. Brief. Genuine.

This place did suit him, Athos can not help but think. All the trouble he'd had picturing Aramis as a monk over the years, this part of the image holds no dissonance.

But then, Aramis had always been a study in contradiction. Prone to drawing faulty judgment. To being underestimated. Overestimated.

Misestimated.

More than once, Athos had thought over those last months they'd had with him – of what Aramis might have needed, and never said. Of what Athos himself might have seen and ignored. What he'd missed. What he'd dismissed. What they'd almost lost.

Losses and gains never trade without sacrifice, Athos knows. And he thinks Aramis, here, has not been the worst of those possibilities. Not the worst of blessings.

A shuffling of movement draws his attention from under the archway. Athos looks and catches Porthos's eye, but they do not speak.

One clings to family. And one loses it.

Life repeats itself.

x

Notes: As Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan did not seem to recognize the monastery in the pilot episode, it made sense to me that this was not the precise location where Aramis had started his religious journey. Douai, at this time, had a longstanding reputation of religious focus, and was built around several religious colleges and orders, notably some prominent institutions built and populated by religious exiles. The worry about interjected spies in times of conflict was not unheard of. Add to that, the entire region of the Spanish Netherlands was a politically complicated and culturally diverse place. Especially at this time. I imagine all four of our musketeers would have learned new languages to better serve their functions.

All that said, I'm playing loose and fast with these facts and how they fit into the story. No more or less than the show itself, however. For example, there was a typhus outbreak in Douai, as I allude, but in real life it happened several years later.