Summary: tag to 2x10, the conversation between Aramis and Porthos at the monastery.

AN: For all intents and purposes, this exists separately to my other fics as I'm pretty sure I have changed Aramis's age for narrative purpose, choosing a number closer to the age of Santiago Cabrera. To everyone following, 'A Grave Miscalculation' It will be finished, I promise, I'm just dealing with a little writers block as to how to resolve the situation between Athos and Aramis.

'One at a time' They had been told, Porthos almost felt like fuming. They had arrived at the monastery, determined to see Aramis; after all they were riding to war on the morrow and time was of the essence.

When they had arrived at the monastery however, they had thundered into the stillness of the courtyard a taciturn older monk had taken their horses; one who had no idea who they were talking about when they asked for Aramis. Eventually he had left to speak with the Abbot. In reality this meant fifteen minutes of waiting in a too hot courtyard; admittedly with a cool; lemon flavoured drink that had been provided for them. Eventually, the monk had returned to them and revealed that Brother René, who had previously been known by the nom de guerre 'Aramis' was in private prayerful reflection before beginning his novitiate. It was unusual, the monk had told them, for this to be interrupted but seeing as they were here in so much of a hurry they would be able to see him one at a time.

It was not exactly the reunion Porthos had hoped for. He had imagined Aramis coming out to meet them and realising that fulfilling his oath to a God Porthos had always found distant and judging could wait until after he had accompanied his brothers to the Spanish border and fought along their side one last time.

"He is within" The monk announced as they arrived at a plain wooden door, indistinguishable from any of the others along that corridor. "He is not expecting you, it will be a surprise. When you have finished, return to the courtyard and show the next musketeer how to reach this place.

Suddenly Porthos was nervous, and he had not anticipated being so. He had been certain, or so he had thought, of Aramis' response once asked to rejoin their brotherhood. As the steps faded away, he knocked boldly on the door and without waiting for a reply; opened it.

'I've got the wrong room', was Porthos' initial reaction. The cell was plain, bare, a simple pallet and a small table with a single drawer before the small window, a cross set upon it. Before the table, knelt on the cold stone floor was a monk in a black robe, shorn head bent in prayer, familiar latin words falling from his lips.

"Sorry to disturb you, brother. I was looking for my friend, Aramis, I mean, Brother René." Porthos suddenly feeling awkward and too large for the small chamber. Religious figures had always made him uneasy, as if they could see that he had long since given up reciting prayers to a God he had never experienced. The awkwardness increased as the monk stopped in his liturgy, crossed himself and stood.

"And you have found him," Aramis's melodious tones emerged as he turned to face him. "Or does a hair cut change me so much that you don't recognise me." Now Aramis faced him, Porthos recognised him instantly, but the lack of a beard and hair shorn short changed the look of his friend dramatically. His face seemed rounder somehow, softer, more honesty and less carefully choreographed charm.

"You were just hiding your face, Aramis, I mean brother, I mean..." The attempt at humour fell flat as Porthos stumbled over what to call his closest friend. Aramis read the situation and responded as adeptly as always, taking control as the two old friends renegotiated how to relate to each other in this stranger circumstance.

"I will always be Aramis to you my brother, but in general practice I have abandoned my nom de guerre now that that chapter of my life has come to a close." Porthos felt a frisson of unease slip through him at how comfortably Aramis seemed to have cast off his life as a musketeer.

"What happened to that goatee you were so proud of, my friend. I never thought to see you without it?" Porthos managed, teasing a little as he sat beside his friend on the plain wooden palate.

"There is little room for vanity when doing the Lord's work, my friend; but tell me, why did you come? I am happy to see you of course, but I have not even been here a full week, I have not even written a letter yet, so as you can imagine, it is something of a surprise." Aramis' tone was warm, kind, inviting, more at peace than Porthos had seen him in months and Porthos suddenly felt horrifically guilty at what he was about to do.

"War has been declared with Spain." He said, guilt flooding him as the peaceful air left Aramis, replaced by a haunted look and strain which Porthos had seen all too often in recent months. "Treville has been promoted to Minister for War and Athos is the new captain of the musketeers. We ride to meet the host tomorrow as we ride on to battle. It is our hope that you will ride with us." Porthos looked steadily at his friend, the man he knew so well now unreadable in the newly unfamiliar shape of a shaven chin.

"The others are here?", Aramis asked quietly.

"Did you think they would stay away?" Porthos grinned back, a sentiment that was not returned.

"No I suppose not", Aramis murmured, turning his gaze to the cross by the window. "Porthos, you are my dearest friend and you will always be my brother but I cannot go with you." Aramis said gently looking Porthos straight in the eye. "I made a vow to God and I will honour it."

"The monastery will still be here when you return, you are one of the best soldiers in the regiment, you cannot leave just as war is announced." Porthos felt incredulous.

"If you recall I left before war was announced and I am surprised that you expected me to jump at the chance to fight a war once again against the country of my mother."

Porthos suddenly found the guilt returning in an unpleasant rush.

"I am sorry my friend, that was unkind." Aramis murmured. An uncomfortably silence stretched between friends acutely. It had been a long time since it had been awkward between them.

"Do you know how old I am, Porthos?" A hint of bitter humour played around Aramis's tone.

"You know full well I don't." Porthos grumbled affectionately. "You've given me a different answer every time I've asked. You said 27 when we first met and at your last birthday you drunkenly assured me that it was your 26th. I can hardly be blamed for not knowing if you don't tell me."

"I suppose not." Aramis grinned, "but I will tell you now. I am thirty four, my friend. I am saying this so you understand, I joined the army straight out of seminary school when I was sixteen. I have been a soldier for over half my life and I have both seen and dealt enough death to last more than a lifetime, and what is more I found exhilaration in it when to kill another person goes against the essence of Christ our Lord's fundamental teaching, to love. This is not the first time I have grown weary of the soldiers life, you know this, you were there with me after Savoy, but never before have I had such compelling reasons, both logical and spiritual to follow through with my decision.

"I will always be your brother, Porthos. My prayers and my letters will travel with you, I just cannot be with you in person this time. Few men are soldiers forever my friend, it is merely time for me to move on." Aramis finished, the reason and conviction behind his words painfully clear.

"Don't say it like that, it sounds as though you died or something." Porthos joked, pushing humour through the pain he felt at the rejection, no matter how well it was the right choice.

"Well I suppose in a way it is, the death of Aramis, or at least his retirement, so that Brother René may live." Aramis's tone was carefully light, but no steel was needed in his resolve so comfortable was he in his choice.

"I'm not going to change your mind, am I?" Porthos asked, standing. Aramis stood with him, and embraced him.

"You are not, but the pain in my decision is and will always be the physical separation from you, and Athos and D'Artagnan. You are the truest brothers I have ever known and I will be with you in prayer and spirit, if not in person." The embrace tightened for a long moment, before Aramis stepped back and squeezed Porthos's upper arms.

"Come, I will walk with you to the courtyard and say goodbye to Athos and D'Artagnan, a blessing for the road ahead as well I think." Aramis stated as they started out the cell and down the corridor, Aramis deftly navigating the maze the monastery seemed to be.

"You think they will understand?" Porthos asked.

"Athos will, he knows what it is like to move onto another stage in your life, D'Artagnan, I am not so sure about. He might be too young, after all, he has never seen war, and as both you and I know, war can change people."

"I think D'Artagnan may have more understanding than you think."

"And why is that?"

"He got married." Porthos grinned looking forward as he strode on, before stopping abruptly as he realised Aramis was no longer next to him. He turned to see Aramis stood in the centre of the corridor with his arms folded, his expression confrontational.

"Did I miss anything else, I wonder?" Aramis asked, sarcastically. "Prehaps, the court of miracles has been declared an independent state; or maybe the Seine has been sanitised. War has been declared, Athos promoted and now you tell me that D'Artagnan is married. I've been gone less than a week, were you all just waiting for me to leave. I'm almost offended."

Aramis maintained his straight face for another two... three... four seconds, before cracking into a smile. Incongruously to their surroundings, laughter erupted from the pair and the sound of friendship echoed down the halls of the peaceful monastery.