Chapter 9

Aaron was not a fool. He knew the reason Aramis had asked him to release the horses from the stable. While it was a sound strategy in the event some of the Spanish soldiers were able to slip through the Musketeers' defenses, it was a remote chance at best, and Aaron was under no delusion that his efforts were more for his protection than any kind of actual aid to the cause.

Though certain Aramis had sent him here to keep him well away from the fighting, he was determined to perform his duty, moving the animals from the stable, thwarting any effort to escape the soldiers may attempt. It may not have been exciting, but it was a worthwhile endeavor, and he would do it to the best of his ability.

Slapping the rump of the two mares he had just released, he rushed back inside, hurrying to the last remaining occupied stalls. The big black stallion stomped its feet, obviously aware of the tension outside in the courtyard. The only other animals still inside were Brun, the old bow-backed gelding they used to pull the plow, and Bertrand, the abbé's obstinate mule. He doubted either of them was fit – or in Bertrand's case, willing – to carry a man, so he concentrated his efforts on the agitated stallion, holding up his hands in an attempt to calm the powerful animal.

"Easy, cheval, easy." He kept his voice level, his eyes on the stallion as it tossed its head, ebony mane flying. He opened the door to the stall and reached in, grabbing the bridle as the horse nudged closer. "That's it. Easy…" he soothed. He placed a hand on the steed's nose and rubbed, smiling as the spirited horse stilled.

Aaron pulled on the bridle and the stallion moved, following him from the stall toward the open door at the rear of the stable.

A noise from behind made the horse startle, and Aaron turned to see Lieutenant Guzman burst through the main doors. The Spanish officer stumbled into the stable, eyes wide and wild. Lungs heaving, the Spaniard staggered around on stilted, jerky legs. He ran a hand across his sweating brow, knocking his cap askew, his normally pristine uniform unbuttoned and torn. Turning in a circle as he surveyed the empty stalls, he finally spotted Aaron and the stallion near the back of the stable.

He pulled his sword, lowered his head and stalked toward them.

"Move aside," he growled. "I want that horse."

Aaron shook his head, defiant. "No." Quickly he turned, slapping the horse hard on its flank. "Go!" he shouted.

The stallion shrieked and reared. Before Aaron could dodge, he felt a sharp pain in his back. The world went white, the sound of the fighting outside replaced by a loud, high-pitched ringing in his ears. As the blinding white light receded, a gray film began to close in from the edges of his sight, and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly weak, his legs wobbled and he sank to the ground, his mind frantically trying to grasp what had gone wrong.

On his knees, head down, Aaron blinked. A pair of shiny black boots wavered into focus and he followed them up to find Guzman standing before him, eyes narrowed, a spiteful grin lifting the corners of his mouth. The Lieutenant held a rapier in his hand, the tip of the blade dripping red.

"You are a traitor to Spain," Guzman sneered. "The sentence for treason is death."

Breathing became more difficult, but Aaron shook his head, gulped in a lungful of air. "I am not Spanish. I answer only to God." The pain in his back was spreading and he could feel the rush of blood down his leg.

Guzman laughed. "Your God cannot help you now, boy. Nobody can. You will die alone."

"I am never alone," Aaron whispered, his heavy lids beginning to close. "He is always with me."

"Then allow me to send you to Him."

Guzman gripped the hilt of the sword tightly and thrust forward, driving the blade into the young monk's chest.

"No!"

The officer looked up, grinning as the dark haired monk who had caused him so much trouble ran through the doors, his wide eyes locked onto the slumped figure of the boy.

"What have you done?"

Guzman yanked the sword from Aaron's chest and the young man dropped bonelessly to the ground. With a derisive snort, the Spaniard turned and grabbed the reins of the stallion that still scuffled nervously inside the doors, and jumped onto its back. Shouting, he spurred the mighty steed forward, forcing the monk – Brother René – to dive to the side as he broke for freedom.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis rushed into the stable, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Frantically he looked around, his eyes finally coming to rest on the heartbreaking tableau at the far end. Aaron, the back of his cassock stained dark with blood, knelt before Guzman. The Spaniard's sword flashed as it arced toward the boy's heart.

"No!" Aramis screamed, knowing it was too late. Aaron grunted as the blade sank into his flesh, arching forward, his arms flailing at his sides. Aramis had been a soldier long enough to know a fatal blow when he saw one.

"What have you done?"

The breath rushed from his lungs and a numbing cold took over his body as he watched the Spaniard yank the bloody blade from the novice's chest. Aaron toppled to the ground. He landed on his side, limbs askew, unseeing eyes staring directly into Aramis'.

An angry heat built, overtaking the cold, culminating in a blind rage that Aramis welcomed. Aaron was no soldier, just a boy who wanted to help. He didn't deserve to die. He'd been a child of God… his friend.

Guzman mounted a big black stallion and pointed the animal directly toward the open doors behind him. He dove out of the way as the animal galloped past, rolling and raising his pistol to fire. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. The ball sailed, striking Guzman in the back of his shoulder, the impact enough to knock him from the horse and bring him to the ground.

Aramis stalked out of the stable, tossing the spent pistol to the side and pulled the second one from his sash. The fighting was done, the Spanish soldiers either wounded or surrendered. The Musketeers still in the courtyard froze, their eyes on their comrade as he marched across the open quad, pistol trained on the struggling Spanish officer.

Aramis focused solely on Guzman as the lieutenant pushed himself to his knees, shoulders hunched, hands held up in surrender.

"I beg you, señor. Show mercy."

"Like you showed the boy?"

Guzman with adrenaline and fear, his voice pitched high as he pleaded with the angry Musketeer. "I'm sorry. Please, you are a man of God. You cannot do this."

Aramis snorted a laugh. "I am not as pious as you would hope." He leveled the pistol at Guzman's head, relishing in the dread he saw in the Spaniard's eyes. Not a soul in the courtyard moved. After a few moments, Aramis stepped back and slowly lowered his arm to his side. "But I made a promise. You will not die on this soil. But I assure you, monsieur, after time in a French prison, you may wish you had."

He turned, searching for Athos to allow the Captain to take custody of the prisoner.

"Aramis!"

Porthos' warning had him spinning back to Guzman, instinctively ducking to the side as the man launched himself from his crouch, dagger aimed for Aramis' chest. Twisting, he grunted in pain, but easily avoided the blade. Sweeping a foot out, he hooked the lieutenant's ankle and pulled it out from under him, sending Guzman to the dirt, the dagger flying from his hand.

Aramis tightened his grip on the pistol and stepped forward as Guzman scuttled toward the dagger. The officer reached out a hand, only to have it pinned to the ground by a boot, a finger's length from its target.

Guzman screamed in pain as Aramis ground the heel of his boot into the appendage, twisting the flesh viciously before releasing the pressure, allowing him to pull the wounded hand back to his body.

A familiar touch gripped his shoulder, and Aramis let his arm fall once again, the pistol no longer needed.

"I assume this is the lieutenant we've heard so much about?"

Aramis snorted at Porthos' assessment. "Lieutenant Guzman, allow me to introduce you to a friend. This is Porthos, of France's Musketeers."

"Musketeers," Guzman all but spat the word. He glared at Aramis, holding his broken and bleeding hand to his chest. "I knew you were no monk."

"As I knew you were no officer."

"You are standing on Spanish ground." He announced petulantly. "And I am a lieutenant in the service of King Phillip of Spain. You will release me at once!"

"You are now a prisoner of King Louis of France." Athos corrected as he approached, motioning for d'Artagnan to take the man into custody. "But I doubt you will appreciate the distinction."

As d'Artagnan dragged Guzman to his feet and over toward the other prisoners, Athos and Porthos stepped in front of their friend, studying his face.

"'Mis?"

"He's right. This is Spanish soil. We have no authority here."

"It is a house of God," Athos responded. "Perhaps we should let Treville work out the details."

"He killed Aaron," Aramis said, his voice breaking on the novice's name. His eyes locked onto the Lieutenant, narrowing as d'Artagnan forced him to his knees next to his men. "Stabbed him to get the horse."

Athos took a deep breath, releasing it through his nose. "And he will be treated accordingly, I assure you."

Aramis sighed and shook his head, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the loss began to register. "I'm tired of losing people I care about."

Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance, neither knowing what to say.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis sat on the stone steps near the entrance to the monastery, his eyes distant, impassive face turned toward the activity in the courtyard. Athos said nothing as he wrapped a strip of cloth around his friend's ribs to stabilize them, hesitant to intrude upon the younger man's grief.

A quick assessment had determined Aramis' ribs were more likely cracked than broken, but they were taking no chances, knowing the injury would be painful no matter the severity. Although his head still ached, he assured them he was free of concussion, and the bruises, while angry-looking and painful, would fade with time.

If only the other pain would fade as easily.

"It was not your fault," Athos said, tying off the bandage and taking a seat on the step below. He tucked the remaining bandages into his saddlebag, pulling it closer, hand on the flap.

"I sent him out there," Aramis said with little emotion.

"Guzman is the only one who bears the blame."

Aramis closed his eyes but didn't respond.

Athos sighed. He could see how much the young monk's death weighed upon his friend. Like everything else that had happened, Aramis was determined to shoulder the responsibility – even when it wasn't his alone to bear.

The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up to see Porthos and d'Artagnan approach the steps. Porthos stopped, one foot on the edge of the step where Athos sat and leaned forward, his eyes raking over Aramis' bruised and battered form.

"You all right?"

Athos shifted his gaze to Aramis' bowed head, watching as the marksman nodded slowly.

"I'll be fine."

He glanced at Porthos, both of them tilting their heads in doubt.

Reaching into his saddlebag, Athos removed a scarred piece of leather and held it out toward Aramis.

"I believe this is yours."

Aramis made no move to take the pauldron and, after a few moments, Athos laid it down on the stone beside him.

"Whether you return to Paris with us now, Aramis, or choose to stay, it will always be yours." He clasped a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed before pushing himself up from the step and moving off to see to his men.

Porthos waited a beat, then squat down on the step and ducked his head, trying to catch Aramis' eyes.

"I know this is all important to you." He waved a hand toward the monastery towering behind them. "And I know you feel you need to atone for whatever it is you think you've done, but I'm goin' to just say this flat out. We need you. I need you." He paused, swallowing hard. "I ain't goin' to beg, and if you decide it ain't your life anymore, I'll accept it. But do me one favor, think on it. I can't walk away if you're just doin' this to punish yourself."

Aramis' only response was to close his eyes, his head sinking lower, his hair falling, hiding his face from view.

"Porthos…"

D'Artagnan's soft murmur directed his attention to the somber procession currently making its way from the stable door.

The monks moved from the stable, lined up in rows of twos, the body of the slain novice perched high upon the shoulders of the four lead men. Lips moving in silent entreaty, eyes on the ground, they offered up their pleas for Aaron's immortal soul. Abbé Fouquet brought up the rear of the march, his head bowed, his hands clasped in prayer.

The solemn parade moved past them, quietly, reverently, carrying their fallen brother down the walkway to the open doors of the small chapel just past the chapter hall.

Aramis' head rose as the monks shuffled by, his eyes tracking the still body of the young novice as it passed. Pulling his shirt back over his head, he pushed himself up from the step, wrapped an arm around his chest and without a word, followed the procession to the chapel.

"He heard you, Porthos," d'Artagnan assured as Porthos rose to his feet, watching the dejected form of their friend slip through the door of the chapel.

"I know." Porthos sighed. "Just not sure it'll make any difference."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They laid Aaron's body upon the stone altar on the far side of the chapel, his eyes closed, his arms bent across his still chest. The monks kneeled in prayer, Fouquet leading them in a benediction before nodding to them in quiet dismissal.

When they had all gone, Aramis silently moved to stand next to Fouquet, unshed tears pulsing behind his eyes as he forced himself to look at the young novice's body.

"It seems death follows me wherever I go."

"You're a soldier," Fouquet countered. "I would be surprised if it did not."

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered. "I did not mean for this to happen."

"You are not to blame."

Aramis shook his head. "I sent him in there. I thought to protect him and instead, sent him directly to his doom. Who else is there to blame?"

Fouquet paused and turned, studying the young man beside him. "Was it your intent to put him in a position to be attacked? Or were you trying to keep him away from the violence?"

Aramis continued to shake his head, his eyes locked on the boy's slack face. "I should have made him go with you and the others. I should never have sent him out alone."

Fouquet returned his gaze to the body, his smile fond. "Aaron would never have stayed in hiding. This I know. When he first arrived here, he reminded me of another young man I'd known many years ago in seminary. A young man so impetuous and impulsive he acted without a thought to his own safety or wellbeing."

Aramis huffed a laugh, devoid of humor. "You'll have to introduce me to him sometime. I'm sure we'd have much in common."

The abbé chuckled. "Most assuredly. I'm pleased to say, that boy grew up to be a fine man, a good man."

"A future Aaron will never see."

Fouquet sighed, nodding in agreement. "My point is, no matter the cost or the consequences, that other boy always did as his conscience bade him. He trusted in his own good sense – or lack of it. Do you really believe you would've been able to keep Brother Aaron from helping in any way he saw fit? You gave him a purpose – one with meaning and one that should have kept him far from danger. But, God has his own designs, and it is not for us to judge his will."

"How could God want this?" Aramis asked. "Why would God want this?"

"It is not for us to ask why," Fouquet shrugged. "Aaron will be missed, but he will not be forgotten. Because of what he did and because of who he was." He turned and waited until he had Aramis' attention before continuing.

"I understand you are torn. It is difficult to serve two masters. René, we are all given a path and you are in a unique position to know what that path is. To deviate from it is to deny the gift you've been given. You lost your way, but you cannot shrink from the hard choices, only try to rise to meet them head on. You must follow your true calling."

"And what if I'm no longer sure what that is?"

Fouquet cupped a hand on the younger man's cheek. "Listen to those voices in your heart. The path is there, Aramis. You must choose to follow it."

The marksman's lips lifted into a tremulous smile. "I think that's the first time you've called me that. Aramis."

"Isn't that who you are?" Fouquet shrugged.

Aramis shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Perhaps. But what of my vow to God?"

"Did you not also make a vow to your fellow Musketeers? Who is to say keeping that vow was not what God expects of you?"

Aramis nodded and reached toward his chest, his fingers finding the jeweled cross that still hung around his neck. "I've made many vows." He thought of Anne, their son, how he promised to protect them, to always be there for them. "How am I to keep them all?"

"You must decide which ones are closest to your heart." Fouquet offered sagely. "God will accept any answer if it truly comes from there." He patted the younger man on the chest and silently turned and walked away, leaving Aramis to make the most important decision of his life.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D'Artagnan kicked at the dirt, sighing as he glanced once again at the unmoving form of Porthos, standing in front of the newly erected gate leading into the monastery.

Once the word reached Douai that the monastery had been liberated from its Spanish conquerors, the villagers had appeared in droves with tools and supplies, eager to help the monks repair the damage the battle had wrought. The little farmer, Pietro, who had aided the Musketeers by dropping the charges they'd used to blow the gates right under the eyes of the Spanish guards, had waved, nodding his head as he guided his mule through the throng of activity, his wagon laden with timber that would be used to rebuild the heavy gates he'd helped to destroy.

It was those gates they waited before now. Athos leaned against a tree on the far side of the road, reins held loosely in his hand, the brim of his hat pulled low to shade his eyes from the morning sun. A few paces in front of the gate, Porthos stood silently, patiently, like a statue, eyes locked on the monastery.

D'Artagnan shuffled back toward Athos, tossing a rock down the road as his impatience began to get the better of him.

"How much longer are we going to wait?"

In his defense, they had been lingering outside the monastery for over an hour. Athos had elected to send the prisoners back to Paris with the other Musketeers at daybreak, knowing Treville was eager to interrogate them to garner any information about King Phillip's war strategy. He had given strict orders to keep Lieutenant Guzman in shackles. The man had murdered one of the monks in cold blood, and Athos had made a promise he would be held accountable for it.

"Do you want to try to make him move without Aramis?"

D'Artagnan studied the big man for a moment, then shook his head. "Do you really believe he'll come?"

Athos shrugged. "Porthos does, and he knows Aramis better than anyone."

Although he had no doubt Porthos' faith in their friend remained steadfast, Athos was not as convinced. He'd seen the marksman's face after Guzman had been taken away. It was obvious Aramis had seen something special in the young novice, and he had always been far too ready to heap guilt and accountability upon his own shoulders. It was that characteristic that had driven him from them to begin with, and Athos had no idea if it would be enough to steer him back to them now.

"What if he's wrong?"

What if Porthos was wrong? What if Aramis decided this was truly where he wanted to be. Athos wasn't sure Porthos could say goodbye twice. For all his strength and bravado, he held those he loved close to his heart. To lose Aramis again – for good… Athos wasn't sure if he wanted to see what that would do to Porthos' carefully constructed sense of belonging.

"You'd better pray he isn't. Bear in mind," he looked at the Gascon from the corner of his eyes, "I'm not half as skilled as Aramis in patching you up."

The three Musketeers stood silent, every passing moment a weight in their hearts. After another thirty minutes, Athos sighed, knowing they could not delay any longer. He took a breath, about to tell the others they should go when the heavy gates creaked and opened.

Porthos arms dropped to his side and he tensed as the familiar figure stepped out.

Aramis was fully clothed in his leathers, weapons belt securely fastened, pauldron in place. He froze at the sight of his three friends, hat halfway to his head, his eyes wide in surprise as Porthos let out a booming laugh.

The big man stomped toward him, picked him up in a bear of a hug and squeezed him tight.

"Porthos!" Aramis grunted in pain. "Careful, ribs!"

Dropping him, Pothos stepped back, but kept his hands on his shoulders to steady him, face lit with a smile. "Sorry." His voice held a hint of apology.

Aramis raised a brow and returned the smile. "I'll live." He glanced down at his hat, which had been crushed between them. "Not so sure about this, though."

Portho's grin widened. "I'll buy you a new one." He released his friend and placed his hands on his hips, his expression one of reproof. "It's about time. I missed breakfast. Was startin' to get hungry."

"Can't have that, can we?" Aramis tutted, making a show of smoothing the brim of his hat with his palm.

Porthos laughed again and threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the road where Athos and d'Artagnan awaited with four saddled horses. D'Artagnan jumped forward and wrapped his arms around him with almost as much enthusiasm as Porthos. When he stepped back, Athos took his place, taking Aramis' hand in both of his, a rare smile gracing his face.

"I fear if you didn't walk through those gates soon, Porthos would have stormed them again."

Aramis dipped his head, chuckling. "I think the monks have had quite enough excitement for a while."

He released the marksman's hands as d'Artagnan handed him the reins of his horse. Brushing a palm against Aramis' pauldron, Athos sobered, his eyes inquiring.

"Is this what you want?"

Aramis responded without hesitation. "Yes."

"You said that before."

The marksman nodded, his lips pursing as he considered his answer. "I know. And I was… then. But I have come to realize the greater good is perhaps not as important as the greater need." He raised his gaze and met his Captain's, and Athos saw no doubt in the dark eyes. "I know where I am needed for now."

"For now?" Athos asked, one brow raised pointedly.

Aramis shrugged. "I cannot know what the future may hold, but the present is something I can influence."

Porthos, still hovering just behind Aramis shoulder, clapped him on the back and grinned. "Then what are we waiting for? I believe we have a war to fight."

fin

Well, that's our take (albeit a bit Aramis-centric) on the season 3 premiere. Feasible? Since Douai, at the time, was smack dab in the middle of Spanish territory, we couldn't help but decide Aramis made a decision based on something other than location - but was that just a throwaway line? Or was the name of the town planted for a specific purpose? Our devious little minds decided they knew exactly what they were doing. :) We'd love to hear what you thought! What do you expect or hope to see when the boys return? Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Sarah, UKGuest and the other guest commenters who I can't respond to directly, thanks so much for all the encouragement! We hope you enjoyed!