"Your brothers are waiting."
x
There is a tingling in his palms. An itch steadily increasing.
He dislikes being separated from the children, perhaps. Now, as ever. And that is true enough. But no, that thought identified, settles nothing.
The itch increases, winding into his bones in a way he's learned through the years to neatly ignore. But now...
They will be lucky, he thinks, if the dawning day closes on no more deaths. Unusually, exceptionally lucky, to Aramis's mind. The kind of luck that comes with an unkindness of ravens or a murder of crows. The kind of luck Aramis has received as both blessing and curse, and for that last, he hesitates to pray for it.
"Are you certain you can get back into the chapel without being seen?" Athos asks him, standing at his shoulder.
His voice sounds unaffected.
Aramis once felt well versed at finding the urgency within Athos's lack of pretension. And that, at least, does not seem to have changed. He nods. "I'm certain. The challenge will be getting the others out without being seen. We are a peaceful order. They will not be of our kind of use if we run into trouble."
Athos breathes a pace. "I'll go with you."
"No." Aramis stops a hand to Athos's chest, feeling the itch writhe under his palm. "They know me, and I know the way. Better for just one of us to go."
Porthos snorts. A short, puffing sound of derision. Athos throws him a gentle but warning look and Aramis has to backtrack the sentence to locate the phrase that snagged Porthos's scorn.
One of us.
One of us.
He exhales and finds a hitch in his lungs. He doesn't let it show on his face. Moving through. Moving on. "The monks will not be able to move as quickly through the tunnel as the children. There are a handful more youthful than myself that will do well enough, but the others…"
"Go now, then," Athos says, handing him the wrap and robe that will act as his cover.
"Pace the timing," Porthos instructs, as though Aramis has not considered it. "Don't rush it. We'll keep eyes on the hall."
Aramis catches his eye and nods, regardless, holding the gaze without meaning to. Porthos.
Porthos.
The name rests on his lips, but he smartly keeps his mouth closed.
Porthos blinks his focus to Athos, withdrawing half a pace. "I'll update d'Artagnan," he says, and turns away. Walks away.
Aramis breathes through another hitch, ignoring it with honed precision, until Athos grips his elbow, unexpectedly pulling him into a quick embrace.
Startled, Aramis clings in return, fingers clenching convulsively.
But he cannot lose it now.
"Give him time," Athos says again, rubbing the back of his head, once, before releasing him.
"All the time he wishes," Aramis agrees, and swallows down the jagged barbs of icker in his throat. He means it. Though, how much time do they have, really, before they part ways again? One way or another?
Probably not enough.
There never was.
"Go," Athos prompts, patting a hand to Aramis's chest. "Get your brothers, then return to us."
Return to us.
Return to us.
His palms itch as he turns away, donning his cloak and marking the way to the chapel and the sequestered monks.
Return to us.
God, how he wants.
x
On his left, Francis keeps his eyes lowered, even as Aramis holds a quiet finger to his lips at the other heads that turn his way. "What's happened?" Francis asks.
Aramis throws him a look at the daftness.
"Yes, yes," Francis whispers. "Our sanctuary overrun; bandits nefariously plotting to kill us; our beloved abbot—" His lips thin, but he proceeds, "—murdered. You look worse than that."
"Now is not the time."
"Aramis?" Francis sits back, shifting on the bench more than he should to not draw attention, and turns his head, eyes worried. On the pew in front them, Aramis can tell John is also awaiting his answer.
"My brothers are here," he confesses. "To help us. Luc… After Luc rang the bell, he found them on the road."
John nearly turns around, but Aramis taps his shoulder as reminder to keep himself bowed.
"The abbot would have said it is a sign from God," whispers Francis. "To ease the resolution of your heart."
In front of them, John lifts his head, the shadow of his bushy red beard appearing from below his hood.
While still listening for sounds from the bandit-guards roaming the portico, Aramis gropes blindly for his rosary.
It does not protect you from others, only from yourself, he recites internally.
He crushes it in his palm, until the itching that was already there sharpens with the pain. "My dear Francisco," he says. "I'm afraid the abbot would not, at this moment, be at all pleased with what is in my heart."
He lets go of the cross on the rosary, feeling the dark imprint in his skin.
"Bow your head now. It's nearly time."
x
Notes: (1) Much as the show's budget seemed only capable of portraying the monks of the monastery as nameless, faceless props. We all know that would not have been reality. (2) As a reminder, "It does not protect you from others, only from yourself," is what Aramis says to Grimaud in episode 3.8 after he takes his cross from him.