Chapter 6

"What's that?" Porthos stared at the tiny bottle Aramis held in his hand.

The marksman looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Cardinal Richelieu's true desire."

Confusion painted Porthos' face. "Where did it come from? The monk at the abbey gave us a book."

"They're back," d'Artagnan announced before Aramis could explain Richelieu's subterfuge. The Gascon stepped back from the doorway as Athos hurried into the room. Father Boudreaux followed, supported by the Captain, the priest's face pale, blood dripping from a cut on the side of his head.

Aramis began to push himself up again.

"Stay where you are, Aramis," Treville ordered, leading the priest to the table, and gently lowering him into a chair. "It is nothing serious. Athos and I can handle it."

Aramis was about to protest when Boudreaux smiled at him, reinforcing Treville's order. "Your Captain is correct, monsieur." He held a hand to his head, touching the wound tentatively. "It is a minor injury and has already ceased bleeding. I assure you I am fine."

Aramis sighed in relief and relaxed back against the wall.

"What happened?"

Athos poured a generous amount of wine into a cup and handed it to the priest, who sipped it gratefully. "Two men," he explained. "They were waiting for me when I returned from the cellar. They hit me, grabbed the book from my arms and fled before your friends could come to my aid." He winced as Treville patted the wound with a wine soaked cloth, lifting his eyes to Aramis in remorse. "I am sorry. I should have been more diligent."

Aramis smiled. "Do not worry, Father. As it turns out, the book was of little importance."

Athos turned to him, arching a brow. "The Captain expressed the same sentiment when I suggested we pursue the thieves. Perhaps you could elaborate?"

"He was just about to do that," Porthos crossed his arms and raised a tilted head expectantly, his attention focused on his wounded friend.

Aramis held up the small stone ampule still clutched in his hand.

"This is what all the fuss has been about," the marksman announced. "La Sainte Larmé."

"The Holy tear?" Athos repeated. "I'm afraid we are not all as versed in Catholic tradition as you, my friend."

"The Holy Tear of Christ," Father Boudreaux breathed reverently, his eyes fixed on the small ampule. "I was not even convinced of its existence."

Porthos looked from the ampule to the priest, finally returning his gaze to Aramis when it became apparent Boudreaux was too overcome to continue. He pointed to the tiny relic. "We were attacked for that?"

Aramis nodded, handing the ampule to the bigger man. "Though I'm not entirely sure the bandits knew the true prize any more than we did. Supposedly, this ampule contains the tear of Christ. According to the Bible, it was shed by the Son of God upon the death of Lazarus, caught by an angel and given to Mary Magdalene to keep safe. I have read of its existence, but…"

"You never believed it real," Boudreaux finished for him. Aramis shrugged in contrition. "Nor did I," the priest admitted. "Though we are taught to take the scriptures at face value, not everything written can be believed… or proven."

Aramis dipped his head in agreement. "Apparently, the Cardinal believes. I have no idea how he heard of the ampule's existence – or for that matter if this truly is the fabled La Sainte Larmé. But I do know if we return this treasure to Richelieu, it is his nature to use it for his own end."

Treville had finished cleaning the wound on the priest's head and Boudreaux smiled in thanks before rising and moving to the edge of Aramis' bed. Porthos immediately handed the ampule to the priest like it had grown scorching hot while in his hand.

"I have heard many stories about the tear." Boudreaux held the bottle up to the light, his eyes raking across the intricate carvings in the stone. "One of them is that the tear contains healing properties. Anyone who touches it will be blessed with eternal life."

"That's just what we need," Porthos scoffed. "Cardinal Richelieu breathin' down our necks forever."

"The Cardinal has been looking quite pale as of late," Athos observed.

"How can you tell?" d'Artagnan asked. "I've never seen him look anything but deathly pale."

"He has been complaining of fatigue more often," Treville contributed. "But considering the man's normal flair for dramatics, it could mean nothing at all. But, I have known the Cardinal far too long and understand his nature. If this relic is what you believe, I would agree his interest is probably far from sacred."

Aramis pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark with anger. "I cannot in good conscience allow the Cardinal to tarnish something so precious."

Athos studied his friend for moment, exchanging a look with Porthos before moving to the foot of the bed, directly in the marksman's line of sight. "Are you sure your reluctance to give the Cardinal what he wants isn't of a more personal nature?"

The question held no accusation, but Aramis flinched all the same. He knew Athos was referring to what had happened with Adele, but, after a moment of consideration, he realized his reluctance was not born of jealousy or hurt feelings concerning his lost love, but something much deeper and more private.

"I consider my faith very personal, but no." He shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Athos', feeling morally exposed by his friend's penetrating gaze. "I would not feel comfortable handing this relic over even if Richelieu and I had no previous dispute. I can't help but believe the man intends to use it for his own gain and that is not something I can condone, let alone take part in."

"So what can we do? We can't just lie and tell him we could not recover it." D'Artagnan didn't disagree with the assessment, but he expressed a valid point.

Treville sighed, nodding in agreement with the young man. "The Cardinal would relish relaying your failure to the King. He is only looking for an excuse to dismantle the regiment."

"I will take full responsibility," Aramis offered. "The rest of you should not have to accept the consequences of my conscience."

Porthos was already shaking his head. "You forgettin' our motto? All for one…"

"And one for all," Aramis finished with a ghost of a smile. "No, my friend. I have not forgotten. But this is something I cannot ask of you."

"You're not asking," d'Artagnan stepped closer. "It's not like we have any more confidence in the Cardinal's integrity than you."

"The book was stolen," Athos reminded them. "The Father will attest to that."

Boudreaux, eyes wide at the course the conversation had taken, nodded hesitantly.

"But the Cardinal could still use the failure to steer the King's displeasure our way," Treville cautioned. "Failure is something His Majesty does not readily tolerate."

The room fell into a strained silence and Aramis leaned back against the wall, swallowing against the pain and frustration that still encompassed his body.

The soft voice of Father Boudreaux finally broke the silence. "If you could delay your departure a few days," he eyed Aramis' exhausted frame, "and it is something I heartily recommend, I may be able to offer a somewhat… irregular… solution to your dilemma."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Lying is a sin, Father." Aramis smiled conspiratorially at the priest. He held up a small stone bottle next to the original relic, admiring the workmanship. "Your friend is indeed an artist." The carvings, while not exact, were of high quality, close enough to fool anyone who had never laid eyes on the actual La Sainte Larmé… or so they hoped.

They had stayed on for two more days, resting and allowing their injuries to heal. Porthos had become restless soon after they had agreed to the priest's plan and had been frequenting the tavern, playing cards with the barkeep and whoever happened to wander into the quiet village inn. Athos and Treville had decided to help Father Boudreaux out with some much needed repairs to the little church, and d'Artagnan, unable to lift or move due to the gash across his back, had been forced to play errand boy, supplying them with tools and water as they toiled in the hot sun.

Aramis had been forbidden to rise from his bed for the first day, but had assured his friends he was feeling much stronger after his enforced rest and was allowed to join them outside the following afternoon. As long as he sat quietly and did nothing more strenuous than offer advice – and that was to be kept to a minimum – his presence was welcomed.

The village was a friendly, peaceful place, and Aramis was pleased to see that even Treville had taken to it. The Captain relished the chance to stretch his muscles and use his hands and mind for something other than the King and Cardinal's bidding. Having no formal responsibilities managed to lighten the Captain's spirit, and Aramis was pleased to see him smile easily and join in on the camaraderie that came so easily to the other four.

Father Boudreaux had taken the ampule to the village mason who had assured them he could replicate the small bottle in the allotted time. Boudreaux had suggested they deliver exactly what the Cardinal expected, just not what he believed it to be.

"Sometimes small lies take less of a toll on a soul than the results of actions we can never forgive."

Aramis smiled. "You are a wise and decent man. I believe the ampule will be in good hands."

Boudreaux blushed at the compliment. "I will endeavor to live up to your trust, Monsieur Aramis."

"Is this it?" Porthos strode toward them, his limp still noticeable, but much less pronounced than before.

"It is," Aramis tossed the small bottle to his friend who caught it deftly in his large hands. "Do you think it will fool the Cardinal?"

Porthos shrugged. "It'd fool me. But then I'd have no idea what it was s'posed to look like if I hadn't seen the real thing with my own two eyes."

Aramis grinned and patted a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Then let us hope the Cardinal is not so informed as you."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They stopped at a slow moving stream to water the horses, the warm afternoon sun beating down, making Aramis' skin prickle under his heavy leathers. His head still ached, but it was no longer all encompassing, a dull throb that only became outright pain if he moved too quickly or rode for too long. The furrow in his side was healing, though the stitches itched and he could feel them pulling as the horse cantered along. The others were also feeling lingering effects of their wounds and they stopped frequently to rest, ardently claiming fatigue, though Aramis knew it was mostly for his benefit.

It was the blood loss that had done the most damage, leaving him weak and sporadically lightheaded. He knew from experience the effects would not fade for some time, and he was quietly grateful for his brothers' obvious consideration of his limitations. Treville had taken his leave earlier, wanting to return to Paris as soon as possible and inform Richelieu and the King personally of their success. Aramis knew the Captain was looking forward to reveling in the Cardinal's frustration, but suspected the absurdly slow pace was more to blame for the man's curious haste.

As his horse drank from the stream, Aramis leaned over the clear, cool water and dipped his hand, raising the refreshing liquid to splash along the back of his neck. He shivered as the water ran under the collar of his shirt, tracing a line down his back, easing the heated skin beneath the thick doublet.

"Feels good, eh?"

He chuckled and ran another handful of water over his collar, not bothering to open his eyes, reveling in the sensation.

"It feels blissful, my friend."

Porthos' laugh was a low rumble. "Don't remember you ever using that word when it didn't have somethin' to do with a beautiful woman."

"Paradise comes in many forms, Porthos."

The familiar click of a pistol froze them. Aramis shifted his gaze to Athos and d'Artagnan a few paces away, already standing, arms raised at their sides. Slowly he turned, not surprised to see five men coming toward them from the trees. Only one of them carried a pistol, but it was primed and aimed straight at his chest.

Three of the other men were armed with swords, the last carried a parrying dagger in one hand, a large familiar book wedged under his arm.

"You are here to return our property, perhaps?"

Aramis grinned at Athos' query, the man's familiar, dry sarcasm always music to the marksman's ears. The bandit with the pistol found the question far less amusing.

"Imagine our surprise when we returned to our employer with this book, only to find it worthless."

Aramis shrugged, exchanging a look with Porthos. "It does seem quite a waste of their time."

"Maybe we should apologize?" the big man asked with a feeble attempt at sincerity.

"Of course." Aramis bowed formally to the bandit. "We are terribly sorry you labored under a false pretense and were forced to steal the wrong item." His voice dripped with feigned politeness, the grin on his face one of mirth, not regret.

The bandit smiled back, his tone matching the Musketeer's. "I accept your apology, Monsieur. Perhaps you could make it up to us by giving us what we came for?"

"And what would that be?" d'Artagnan joined the game, his brows raised in innocence.

The bandit raised the pistol and aimed it at Aramis' head. "I believe you know. Please hand it over before I am forced to do something your friend here may well regret."

Aramis glanced at Athos who shrugged. "I suppose we have no choice."

Aramis sighed. "Yes, I see little alternative." He reached a hand down to his ammunition pouch, pulling the Cardinal's faux ampule from its depths.

The bandit's smile increased at the sight of the small stone bottle. "That's more like it." He nodded his head to one of his accomplices. "Mouston, secure it."

Aramis shifted on his feet. "No need, allow me." With a singular motion he tossed the ampule high into the air toward the man with the pistol. As the bandit's eyes followed the flying bottle, Aramis gracefully pulled his pistol from his belt, aimed and fired, hitting the bandit square in the chest. His eyes widened at the impact of the bullet and he dropped to his knees, blood flowing from wound. He gasped once then toppled to the ground, the stone bottle landing harmlessly by his side.

The rest of the bandits, stunned at the sudden demise of their leader, turned to Aramis as one, the movements leaving them open to Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos who were already advancing, swords drawn.

The fight was quick, over in mere minutes, leaving all five bandits dead or bleeding on the ground.

Aramis made his way to the man he'd shot and placed a hand on his neck, sighing and dropping his head in remorse when he felt no sign of life. His hand closed over the bottle on the ground, squeezing it tight.

He felt a presence behind him, a familiar hand landing heavily on his shoulder.

"They chose their own fate. They left us little choice, Aramis."

He nodded, knowing Athos was right. Death was not something foreign to him, but he still regretted its occurrence, especially when he had a direct hand in it. He closed the man's eyes and made the sign of the cross on his forehead, saying a silent prayer for his soul.

"Wonder who this mysterious employer is?" Porthos grunted as he stood, having kneeled to check on one of the other men.

"It won't matter," Athos intoned. "As soon as we get back to Paris, this will all be the Cardinal's problem."

Porthos snorted a laugh. "And good riddance if you ask me."

D'Artagnan retrieved the troublesome book from the grasp of the fifth bandit, and held it out to Athos. "At least we no longer need to explain how we lost this."

Athos took the book and opened it, leafing through the blank pages. "Not the most stimulating read, but not the worst." One corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile. "But presenting it to the Cardinal will make the ruse all the easier to sell." He handed the tome to Aramis, who wedged the ampule into the binding where he had found the original. It fit perfectly.

"Fate shines upon the just," Aramis said with a poignant smile. "I will take this as a sign we are doing the right thing."

Porthos shrugged. "Not goin' to argue with that."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"It's about time, Treville," Richelieu growled, his voice low in the confines of his office. "Do you have my book?"

The Captain stepped back and indicated for Aramis to step forward. With a flourish a bit more restrained than normal in deference to his wounded side, he presented the prize to the Cardinal, who yanked it from his hands without hesitation, his eyes shining with lewd anticipation.

"Finally, it is in my possession," he breathed, running a hand across the front of the book reverently. As if suddenly remembering he was not alone, Richelieu pulled the tome to his chest and looked upon the two Musketeers with a haughty air. "You are lucky your men were able to retrieve this treasure, Captain." He shifted his gaze to Aramis, narrowing his eyes and smiling as if they shared an intimate secret. "I would hate for the King to find you had failed in something so straightforward as the retrieval of a simple book. Although I'm sure you are quite familiar with the disappointment of losing something you thought was safely within your grasp."

Aramis stiffened, but did not allow any emotion to show. He did not believe the Cardinal knew of his relationship with Adele, but if Richelieu did suspect, Aramis wouldn't put it past the man to openly gloat.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Treville responded, either not noticing or ignoring the Cardinal's attempt to intimidate his subordinate. "My men always perform their duties to the best of their abilities. I am sure you will relate that sentiment to the King."

Richelieu smiled coldly and bowed his head in response. "Now, if you don't mind, I do have urgent matters to which I must attend."

The Musketeers bowed and exited the office, both sighing in relief once they had removed themselves from the Cardinal's presence. They marched through the Louvre without a word, relaxing only when they stepped out onto the portico to find Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan awaiting their arrival.

"Well?" D'Artagnan's thin patience had been stretched to its limit. "Did it work?"

Aramis looked to Treville who simply raised a brow in response.

"He suspected nothing," Aramis assured the young man. "I believe the Cardinal will be pleased with his treasure – whatever his intentions."

"I can't believe we lied to the Cardinal," Porthos said sotto-voiced. "Seems kind of…" he shuddered without completing the thought.

Aramis dipped his head, knowing his reticence in turning over such a valuable artifact to a man whom he had little faith in was the only reason his friends had agreed to this subterfuge. "I am sorry if this brings you distress, my friends, but I am confidant we have done the church a great service by our actions."

"Distress?" Athos remarked dryly. "I for one am quite pleased with the outcome. It's not often we are able to come away from a mission for the Cardinal with our integrity intact. I believe this is a cause for celebration."

"I think you've earned a few days off," Treville agreed. "And if you are not in the Cardinal's direct line of sight for a while, all the better."

Aramis smiled, grateful. Porthos still limped, his wound healing but obviously causing him some discomfort, and d'Artagnan moved stiffly, despite his claims of health. Athos' face was still bruised, the darker purple and blue hues faded to lighter greens and yellows, the swelling gone, the injury no longer quite so daunting.

Aramis still felt moments of weakness, his body slowly adjusting, rebuilding the energy he had lost with the precious blood. His head no longer ached, but he still felt a lingering dizziness that made moving quickly a challenge – especially when mounting or dismounting a horse. After nearly losing his balance when they'd made their way to the Louvre, Porthos had made him promise to stay away from riding until he could raise himself to the saddle without his vision graying around the edges.

As they made their way through the gardens to the main gate, Aramis watched his three friends, allowing himself to finally relax in their company. He could still feel the shadow of fear that had gripped him while they'd searched, the doubt as to whether he would ever see them again a heavy burden on his heart.

"I know that face," Porthos sighed, moving closer and placing an arm across Aramis' shoulders. "That's your thinkin' face. Nothin' good ever comes from that face."

Aramis chuckled in reply. "I was merely considering how lucky I am to be amongst the best men in France."

"Only France?" Athos asked, a mischievous smile lifting one side of his mouth.

"Since I have rarely traveled outside the borders of our country, I cannot swear to the honor born of other kingdoms." Aramis quipped. Porthos pushed him away with a laugh.

They walked on for a few moments until Aramis stopped, causing the others to halt and turn toward him in curiosity.

Aramis felt his heart fill with affection for these men – his family of choice, brothers he knew he could never replace, never let go. "I want you to know, when I couldn't remember what had happened, when your fates were shrouded in mystery, the only wish I had was to find you alive and whole. I don't know what I would've done if… I don't think I would've survived if –"

Porthos stirred. "Don't go there, 'Mis. We're not goin' anywhere. You won't be alone again."

Aramis smiled; leave it to Porthos to understand his distress without having to hear the words voiced aloud.

He nodded, his throat thick with emotion. "I'm grateful you were all right." He leaned to the side, his eyes raking over Athos and d'Artagnan, alive and whole. "All of you. It was the only thing that was important to me."

"Don't let the Cardinal hear you say that," d'Artagnan grinned. "I doubt he would share the sentiment."

"That is indeed proof the man is a fool," Aramis said, his voice soft with fondness.

Porthos laughed and placing his arm back across his friend's shoulders, steered him out onto the street. "Then let us drink to him. A man who will never know true friendship is a man who deserves our pity."

"Pity the Cardinal?" d'Artagnan scoffed, "I hardly think he deserves it."

"The merit of all things lie in their difficulty," Aramis mused. "But considering that this time the good guys seem to have won, I believe we can afford to be generous."

They were alive. They were together. And despite the fact that Richelieu would probably never know, they had won this one, and for now, it was enough. He stepped forward and bowed, his arm extended to his side, content to be in the company of his brothers. "Shall we, my friends?"

With an air of everlasting camaraderie, the four Musketeers disappeared into the bustling streets of Paris.

Fin.

La Sainte Larme, the holy tear of Christ held at the Abbey of La Trinité in Vendôme, boomed in popularity during the mid 17th century, leaving behind a trail of associated ampullae across Europe. This tear had been shed by Christ upon the death of Lazarus (John 11:32-37). According to the apocryphal version of the Gospel story, the tear was caught by an angel in a phial and given to Mary Magdalene to keep. This primary relic of Christ was so revered that at least eight French churches claimed to possess it during the thirteenth century. Since Richelieu died of heart failure in the show, I decided he was feeling the effects earlier on and was interested in the tear for its rumored healing powers. It sounded like something he would do. I would love to hear what you thought of this little adventure! This may be my last story for a while as my daughter is getting married in early August and preparations are now in full swing, but I will be back! As soon as I come up with another idea for a plot. any suggestions or prompts will be considered! Thanks for reading! - Sue