From the time he could understand such things, Aramis knew he would never truly belong anywhere. His father was French, his mother Spanish. France's continual disputes and wars with Spain ensured that he would always be at least partially despised by his fellow Frenchmen. The matter of Spanish acceptance was a little more complicated. Spain took pride in pure lineage, pure blood. His mother came from a respectable merchant family with a purely Spanish heritage. However, the French ties of Aramis' father meant Aramis himself would never be looked upon with the same respect in his mother's homeland. He seemed to be doomed in either respect.

Now news had reached the monastery of France's newly declared war with Spain. Since the messenger blew through town, bellowing the proclamation of war, Aramis found himself less often tasked with duties that would take him outside the monastery walls, especially those that would take him into town. This frustrated him immensely as he watched his fellow monks prepare for any number of events ranging from housing refugees to being besieged. Much of this work originated outside, the very place no one wanted him to go.

It was not that Aramis was disliked among the others in the monastery; in fact it was because they cared so much for him that they attempted to keep him within the safety of the grounds. Anti-Spanish sentiment was running rampant, more than it had in years. Aramis supposed that they kept him close at hand out of fear for his safety, and while he appreciated the gesture because, God, it felt good to be looked after (something he hadn't quite felt since leaving his brothers behind), it was quickly becoming stifling. He wanted to saddle his horse and ride out into the countryside, leaving everything behind for a time, even if he only had a few minutes out there, wandering through the fields, wading in the creek that wound through the forest. His stomach growled at that thought. Oh the fish he could catch, and had caught, in that creek…

The sudden placement of a hand on his shoulder made him jump and turn his head in surprise. He found one of the monks standing beside him with an amused smirk plastered on his face.

"Miss it?" the man inquired. All of the brothers there knew Aramis had a tendency to spend many hours among the forests and the fields, and it was clear that the unspoken restriction placed upon his was quite a burden for a man so accustomed to freedom.

With a last glance through the open east gate, Aramis turned away, hoping that for once 'out of sight, out of mind' might ring true. He nodded in response to the monk's inquiry.

"It makes me feel like a coward," he said without thinking and suddenly realized that he had unknowingly stumbled upon the root of his recent aggravation and restlessness. Being kept inside the monastery made him feel like a coward. It was not like him to run from a battle or hide from danger. And yet there he was, hiding behind stone walls while his best friends were marching to war with Spain. How could this be anything more than cowardice? He was a soldier; he was meant to be courageous and brave. Not anymore, he chided himself and, not for the first time, silently begged God to release him from his oath of service or redefine the terms of it, if nothing else. Surely he could serve God and fight. After all, men in battle needed God just as much as men in monasteries. I belong with my brothers, he mentally sighed in his frustration.

"Sometimes we mistake wisdom for cowardice and courage for foolishness. It is not always clear which is which." The monk offered a gentle smile, seeming to sense what Aramis was feeling and thinking. "I need your help with something if you're not too busy," the man called over his shoulder as he walked away. Aramis followed after, hoping to set his thoughts on other matters, even if only for a few moments.

"There is a man asking after the fastest route to the Spanish border. I believe you are the most qualified for giving such instructions."

Aramis nodded absentmindedly. I've half a mind to ride out with him.

"I have other matters I must see to. The man is waiting at the west gate." And with that, the monk went inside the main building, leaving Aramis to his task.

On his way to the west gate, Aramis considered several different routes that would quickly bring the traveler to the border, but some of them were best left to more experienced riders. He would have to get some indication of the man's skill as a horseman and path preferences before settling on the 'best' and fastest way to reach the border.

So lost in his thoughts was Aramis that he actually walked straight into the man he was meant to assist. Shocked by his own inattentiveness and apparent inability to walk and think simultaneously without incident, he hastily backed up, all the while spewing apologies for his blunder. He fell silent though when he saw the man's face.

PORTHOS!, his mind screamed, and every muscle in his body ached to embrace this man, his brother. His brain, however, failed to process all of the things racing through it. He stood there staring at Porthos.

It can't really be Porthos, can it? Surely this man only looks like Porthos. But can someone look so much like him without being him? What if this man looks nothing like Porthos and I'm just seeing Porthos because I was just thinking about him? Would Porthos show up without the others? Has something happened to Athos and d'Artagnan? When did it get so hot out here? Maybe I should sit down. I'm being terribly rude to this man. What would my mother say if she saw me now?

"'Mis? 'Mis are you well?" Porthos was terribly confused. He had meant this to be a happy reunion with his brother.

In truth, he had nearly strangled d'Artagnan when the boy insisted on gathering supplies before going to the monastery.

SURELY SUPPLIES COULD WAIT UNTIL AFTER HE MADE SURE ARAMIS WAS STILL BREATHING?!

It wasn't that Porthos thought Aramis had died during their separation, but the man did have a terrible knack for finding trouble. Athos, bless him, had seen Porthos' growing agitation and restlessness. Aramis and Porthos had not been so long separated in several years, and Athos had witnessed first-hand what such absence could do to the pair of them. Thus, Athos allowed Porthos to rush ahead and greet their friend.

It was a terrible shock then that Aramis, seeing Porthos for the first time since leaving Paris, did not look even remotely pleased to see his brother again. Aramis had actually paled significantly which had prompted Porthos' questioning. Porthos observed his brother with keen eyes; Aramis was barely breathing, his eyes unfocused, and…trembling now?

"Aramis? It's me. It's Porthos. Talk to me," he pleaded. All at once, Aramis' knees buckled, and his eyes rolled back. Porthos, with all the grace he possessed, stepped forward and caught Aramis, cradling him in his arms and heading inside the monastery.

- : - : - : - : - : -

Aramis woke to muffled voices (probably coming from outside his door, he decided) and endeavored to open his eyes. He could not escape the feeling that owed Porthos an apology although he could not recall why.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and keep them open, he failed spectacularly at suppressing his immediate panic. His mind told him he should be in his room at the garrison, but what he saw was certainly not the garrison nor even the lovely apartment he kept in another part of Paris. His battle reflexes took over, and his gaze desperately moved about the room attempting to locate his sword, his pistol, anything that could act as a weapon. When his search ended with less than satisfactory results, he decided escape may be the best course of action.

"Porthos!" Aramis yelled before falling from the bed, tangled up in the blanket, and managing to hit his head on the bed side table during his descent.

"Aramis!" Porthos was instantly through the previously closed door and crouching beside his still-too-pale friend. Porthos extended his arms to steady Aramis who responded by clinging to him like a lifeline with one hand while the other cradled his now injured head.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered as his surroundings finally began to make sense to him. He looked as if he was about to say more, but he suddenly turned pale green, the precursor to his stomach purging its contents. When it seemed Aramis' retching had run its course, Porthos gathered the once again trembling Aramis in his arms and settled with him on the bed.

Aramis desperately wanted to protest being cradled like a babe, but he had missed Porthos too much and was now too weak to fight his friend on the matter. Instead, he relaxed into Porthos' firm yet gentle hold and laid his head against his brother's shoulder. He found himself on the shore of sleep's ocean but desperately fought to remain awake. What if this has all been a dream? Granted it had been a relatively unpleasant dream thus far, but a dream where Porthos was there with him was certainly one worth continuing.

Porthos managed to pick the blanket up off the floor with the tip of his boot and reach around Aramis to grab it. Miraculously it had emerged unscathed from Aramis' sudden, albeit not entirely unexpected, stomach rebellion. As he set to tucking it around the man in his arms, he took note of Aramis' losing battle with sleep and guessed the reason for his friend's hesitation to give in. He placed a soft kiss to Aramis' mass of curls and whispered, "Sleep now, 'Mis. I'll still be here when you wake."

Aramis gave the slightest of nods but still wouldn't sleep. He had something he needed to say, something he wanted to have said before Athos and d'Artagnan arrived.

"I'm sorry I fainted. I had just been thinking about you, so when I ran into you, I was afraid I had only imagined it was you, but then you called me "'Mis", and only you and maybe Athos call me that, so it had to be you, andthenIfeltlightheadedbutmyfeetwouldn'tmoveandthenIfeltafoolforhavingeverdoubtedyouespeciallysinceI'veyelledatd'Artagnanfordoingthatverythingand-".

"Shhhhhh," Porthos interrupted. "You won't do yourself any good passin' out again 'cause you ain't breathin'." Porthos started gently rocking, hoping the movement might soothe Aramis and, God willing, send him to sleep.

Aramis hiccuped several times while attempting to stave off the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

"Porthos, I am so, so sorry."

And with that, the dam of Aramis' pent up emotion erupted, and tears began running freely down his face and onto Porthos' shirt.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated as he burrowed his face into Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos felt a rogue tear stray down his cheek as he understood what Aramis was truly conveying; his brother was apologizing for their separation. He was sorry for every moment they had missed together, all of the inside jokes that Aramis wouldn't understand because he wasn't around when they began, every mission that had gone well, every mission that had gone wrong. There were new scars that Aramis had not been around to tend to, and the list went on and on. It was true that Aramis had not been gone for a terribly long time as most would understand the passage of time, but for Musketeers, that same measure of time meant facing life-and-death situations hundreds of times over, and Aramis had missed it all.

Porthos struggled to find the proper words to put Aramis' mind at ease, so he gently placed his head on Aramis' and began murmuring senselessly until he could come up with something infinitely more sufficient to say.

"Hey, there. It's all gonna be fine.* Shhhhhh…"

On and on he went until Aramis fell asleep; then he laid Aramis down on the bed and sat beside him. He began carding his hands through his best friend's hair, the motion helping him keep his own emotions in check. Then he switched verbal tactics and opted for reminding his brother of all their adventures over the years.

"Remember the time when we…"

A/N: Just in case reading Aramis' super rambling gave you a headache as much as it did me, broken apart it says, "and then I felt lightheaded but my feet wouldn't move and then I felt a fool for having ever doubted you especially since I've yelled at d'Artagnan for doing that very thing and"

The * is to note that "Hey, there, It's all gonna be fine" comes from a song I was listening to while writing that bit. The song is called "Forgotten" by The Punch Brothers.