A/N: A series of vignettes framed by a flower. Linguam, these are for you.

Of Love and Memory

Aramis's first memory of his mother was of the flowers in her hair. As a child he didn't consider it. It was always just something that defined her. They weren't always the same flowers, but quite often they were simple white daisies and, thinking back, he would remember the white complimented her complexion the best.

As he grew older, he would watch her set out in the morning to pick them from the field and pin them behind her ear amidst her dark locks. When he would set aside the childhood dream of being treated like a man and sneak a hug, he would draw in a breath of soft floral scent and it became extra arms for her embrace.

In the winter when there were no flowers to collect, he never questioned that she became sad and pensive. And when he was old enough to earn coin from his father, Aramis walked three hours into Paris one winter to buy a single flower from a merchant who claimed to have sailed all the way from Morocco. When he returned with his gift, his brothers thrashed him twice, once each, and his father beat him blue for disappearing, but all he had eyes for was the light kindling in his mother's tear-filled eyes at the wilted flower he'd set in her hair.

When his mother died, he had thought he was the only one who knew to line her grave with flowers, but his father surprised him by setting a flower of his own over the carpet of daisies. The flower was deep red with petals that burst about it as if it were perpetually in a state of unfolding; the dark red reminded Aramis of blood, as if his father had set about to cover Aramis's love with reality.

He was angry when he asked his father what kind of flower it was. He had never seen it grow in the fields around their home and likewise he had never seen it in his mother's hair. His father's answer was clipped, but he didn't rebuke his son's tone.

"It is a Spanish flower. A carnation. A flower from her home." And that was all he said as he turned away from the gravesite.

Every winter after that, Aramis left a flower at her grave until he was a man married to war, and then he would come at the anniversary of her death. And then not even that, after his brother inherited the land. Instead, he found himself buying a flower for his windowsill when the opportunity presented itself. In the summer months, when his role as a musketeer required his services beyond the walls of Paris, he would cast his gaze across fields of flowers and feel the echoes of home.

TMTMTM

It was Porthos who first began to suspect that flowers held a certain sway over his friend. The revelation was slow and natural, born of time shared and flowers left on windowsills.

He held his peace on the matter after his first advance of teasing earned a riposte (a reaction so vital to Aramis's survival that it was second nature) and an undercurrent of quiet melancholy. Aramis's laughter was light, but the smiles didn't reach his eyes for the rest of the day.

Porthos resigned himself to waiting for his answers.

On a mission that took them through a provincial town, a young girl took a fancy to Aramis as he rode atop his horse in the front of a band of musketeers like a classic knight in tales of chivalry and honor. She darted onto the street and breathlessly reached up to hand him a simple white daisy. He took the gift on impulse, his head tilting his surprise. The girl reddened and danced away, giggling as her friends folded her back into their flock.

Aramis stared at the flower, his eyes, which normally darted with alertness, were rooted in place as if a feeling and a thought that had long been denied was rushing back to him.

Athos glanced at Porthos, sensing the significance but wondering at the cause. Porthos frowned in answer, not knowing either. Athos echoed the frown and watched their friend with a measure of concern and contemplation. Aramis continued ahead, paying no mind to the busy street or the mission set before them and Porthos decided it was time he asked his questions if only so that Athos wasn't tempted to pry it out by force later for the good of their mission.

In the heat of the dry summer day, they stopped at a creek to water the horses and Porthos joined Aramis at the bank where the man was rubbing cold water across the back of his neck.

"So what was that about?" Porthos tipped his chin at the flower that had found its way through the top knot of Aramis's coat.

Aramis grinned, "I'm sorry Porthos. I can't help it if I'm better looking than you."

"I'm serious 'Mis."

"It's just a flower."

"No it ain't. It means somethin'. What does it mean?"

Aramis glanced at him, furrowed his brow, then glanced away.

Porthos wasn't sure he was going to get an answer and then, "My mother wore these in her hair."

"What, daisies?"

"Sometimes other flowers, but everyday she would pick something fresh from the fields. I don't ever remember a time when she didn't, except of course during winter, but she never did well in winter."

Porthos stared at his friend, realising that for all their shared memories Aramis had never once spoken of his mother.

Aramis had gone back to twisting the flower in his fingers. "It's strange to think that it's been so long since I thought of her. I guess this small token just… reminded me is all. But no matter, that was long ago now." He leaned forward and set the white flower into the stream. It spiralled away on the current, seeming to draw Aramis's melancholy with it. He turned back to Porthos with humor glinting in his eyes.

"You know, if we found you a wig, I bet you'd get just as many flowers yourself."

"Why you…" Porthos growled. He reached out and shoved Aramis into the creek. Water splashed everywhere as the marksman let out an undignified yelp. Porthos roared with laughter until Aramis swept an armload of cold water across his face.

Porthos leapt up, intending to wrestle Aramis into full submersion, but the marksman was faster to his feet, grabbing a fistful of Porthos's sleeve and using his momentum against him to lurch back onto dry land and effectively swapping their places.

Now knee-deep in water, Porthos growled at his friend.

Aramis bolted – laughter trailing behind him like the wake on a ship.