This story is the result of a lot of speculation and desires for the coming season. Jackfan2 and I refuse to believe they stay separated for 4 years. After all, they were on their way to get Aramis at the end of season 2, and Athos himself was quite sure "Aramis would be here if he knew about the war." Who are we to disagree with the Comte de La Fere? So this is our scenario for the beginning of season 3. We hope you enjoy! - A huge thanks to our wonderful beta, Sharlot, who worked overtime keeping us on track and marrying two styles together seamlessly. You rock!

The Greater Good

Chapter 1

The thunder of hooves disrupted the familiar serenity of the morning, villagers and monks alike stumbling to escape the onslaught of horseflesh barreling down upon them through the open gates of the monastery. Abbé Fouquet looked up from his dealings with the farmer, Pietro, to watch the cavalcade crowd into the courtyard of the once peaceful entreaty.

"Soldiers!" Pietro whispered in awe.

Although it wasn't uncommon for regiments to pass through the area, seeking sustenance and a bed that wasn't hard packed earth for a night's respite, these men didn't appear to be seeking a momentary peace. The monk watched with trepidation as the men fanned out and dismounted, several scrutinizing the architecture of the monastery – its walls, its towers, its gates. It left Fouquet uneasy and he heard Pietro's breath hitch, echoing his concern.

"There is no reason to be frightened," Fouquet spoke with a calm cultivated from years of peaceful existence despite his apprehension. "We welcome all who come seeking our assistance."

There was no doubt Pietro's assessment of the men was correct. The men were Spanish army from the looks of them. It was not difficult to tell from their bearing, not to mention the myriad of weapons each and every one of them displayed. Fouquet had been abbé here at the monastery just outside the village of Douai for almost ten years, and he had seen many men pass through its gates, some searching for peace, some absolution, and even some, such as in the case of their most recent arrival, both. The men dismounting in the courtyard now were searching for neither, their intentions dubious as they surveyed the stone structure of the monastery.

A thin man with short dark hair, receding at the temples and deep-set eyes, tossed the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers and slowly peeled off his gloves, glancing around the compound with obvious distaste. Fouquet placed a hand on Pietro's arm, silencing the man before he could make any remarks that might cause their guests to take affront. With a simple glance to the farmer, he moved across the courtyard and nodded to the new arrival, a pleasant smile plastered on his face.

"Welcome, Monsieur," he greeted in French. "You and your men are welcome to water your horses and rest for as long as you may need."

The man – obviously an officer if his demeanor was any indication – scoffed at the remark, his thin upper lip curling in distaste. "I am Teniente Alonso de Guzman of his Majesty, King Phillip's army," the man replied in clipped Spanish. "Who is in charge here?"

Fouquet dipped his head in response. "I am Abbé Fouquet. What may we do for the King's emissaries?"

Guzman sighed, snapping his gloves against his hand. "By order of the King, I am commandeering this post for service. You and your… men… may stay, we will be in need of service until the remainder of our forces arrive."

"This is a place of God!"

Guzman's eyes locked onto the face of a young monk, standing just to the side of the abbé, color rising in his cheeks, anger apparent in his eyes.

Fouquet moved quickly to block the man's view of the novice, stepping between them and drawing the Spanish lieutenant's attention. "My apologies, señor, the boy is still learning his place. But he is correct, this is a monastery, you cannot possibly mean –"

"I meant exactly what I said. This monastery is now under military rule. You will inform the peasants to return to the village. They will no longer be allowed inside the gates."

"How is this possible? Surely His Majesty –"

Guzman sighed and rounded on the abbé, raising his hand and slapping the older man with the glove. The sharp snap was loud in the silence and Fouquet blinked in surprise at the blow. It was not painful, but he could feel his cheek warm where the leather had met skin and it took all his strength to show no reaction to the soldier's action.

"His Majesty has ordered this garrison to be prepared for the arrival of the Spanish forces. You will abide by this decree or I will have you forcibly removed." Guzman glared at the abbé, his eyes blazing, daring him to raise question again.

Fouquet nodded then turned, speaking to the novice monk who stood in shocked silence behind him. "Aaron, please go alert Brother René to our guests and see their quarters are made up." He raised his brows, giving the novice a meaningful look, holding the young man's gaze until the measure of his words registered.

"Um, yes," Aaron mumbled. "Brother René." Louder, he returned Fouquet's gaze, letting the man know his meaning was clear. "Of course, Abbé. I will take care of it at once."

Aaron scurried away as Fouquet turned back to the lieutenant.

"If I may ask, this monastery has stood here for years, a bastion of sanctuary for men of all origins. Why would His Majesty have use of our humble home now?"

"Haven't you heard?" Guzman's eyes gleamed, his thin lips stretched into a grim smile. "War is coming. We have learned King Louis is mounting his forces with the intention of attacking Spain. His Majesty is finally ready to deliver the fatal blow to that simpering fool and we will be instrumental in that victory." He leaned forward as if sharing a secret and Fouquet had to force himself not to recoil. "My command post here will be the most important post in Spain's plan of battle. The French army will be moving south to attack and, as soon as the rest of the forces arrive here by boat, we will attack Paris from the north. It will be a glorious victory, Abbé, and you will be able to say you were right here in the thick of the action!"

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aaron ran through the narrow corridor, dodging the other monks making their way outside to see what the commotion was about. As he approached the closed door at the end of the hallway, Aaron skidded to a stop, leaning against the cold, stone wall to regain his breath. He pounded on the wooden door, shuffling from one foot to the other as he waited for it to open.

As soon as the heavy door creaked open, Aaron pushed his way through, turning to find the dark, amused eyes of Brother René leveled directly at him.

The monastery's newest arrival had kept to himself since making an appearance a month ago, spending most of his time either out in the stable with the horses or alone in his cell, praying. Fouquet had greeted him like a long lost friend, hugging him closely and making sure he was comfortable before leaving him to his own devices. The abbé had made no introductions or explanations, leaving the monks to wonder and whisper as to the identity of their recent addition.

It hadn't taken long for the rumor to circulate that the man was one of France's finest soldiers, an elite Musketeer, and Aaron had found himself enthralled with the man's every move, watching him from afar until he had been chastised by the abbé. But brother René had also noticed his attention and had taken the initiative to introduce himself.

Aramis.

That was the name he had given, though he'd quickly waved the admission away and substituted the name Abbé Fouquet had spoken previously. But Aaron had heard, and filed it away, recognizing the name even this far north. The happenings at the palace concerning the King's new First Minister had made their way to the small village of Douai. Passing merchants and travelers coming from the French capital having been welcomed into the inn and taverns, repeating the stories they'd heard of the treacherous Comte De Rochefort and his attempt to usurp power in the name of Spain. The rumors of Rochefort's accusations against the Queen - a liaison with a Musketeer – had been met with disbelief. The name Aramis had been mentioned, and, if this was indeed the same Musketeer, Aaron couldn't help but wonder if perhaps those accusations could hold a sliver of truth.

After all, elite soldiers did not simply resign and commit to a monastery without reason. Aaron had not been able to bring the rumors up to the man as of yet – still enamored by his charm, his confidence, his mere presence, to utter much of anything coherent other than inquire of his needs and ask of his comfort.

Aramis… Brother René… had seemed to find his veneration amusing and had made a point of engaging Aaron in conversation whenever the younger man approached. But now he stood, patiently, waiting for Aaron to explain his hasty appearance at his door.

"I'm sorry to intrude," Aaron gasped between breaths. "But there are soldiers in the courtyard. Spanish."

The older man's face changed abruptly, where there was an openness about him a moment before, a pinched darkness now replaced it and Aaron knew he was no longer in the presence of Brother René, but Aramis, the King's Musketeer.

"Fouquet?" Aramis' tone was clipped, demanding.

"He was there, in the courtyard, discussing the new produce prices with Monsieur Pietro –"

A shot rang out, echoing down the stone hall and Aramis rushed through the door, stopping at an opening in the wall a few arm lengths from his room. The window overlooked the courtyard and Aramis, at a glance, took in the situation, sensing the tension below. An officer had fired his pistol into the air, and the former Musketeer sighed in relief that no one had been injured. He felt Aaron come up beside him and pushed the young monk back into the shadows as he ducked to the other side, still able to see the entirety of the courtyard below.

There were more than a dozen soldiers, all dismounted, arranged around the courtyard. The gates were closed and no villagers could be seen. Aramis hoped that meant they had been forced out instead of hurt or killed and taken away by the soldiers.

Directly in front of the officer, Abbé Fouquet stood, impassive as always, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his cassock, his face turned toward the wall of the monastery. Aramis moved forward a step, catching Fouquet's eye, silently asking the abbé how he wanted to proceed. A slight shake of the older man's head was his answer.

Stepping back into the shadows, Aramis swore under his breath, his fists clenched, knowing there was little he could do. His pistol and sword were both in his room, carefully wrapped and hidden under his bunk, but he had given his old mentor his word they would stay hidden as long as he remained within the monastery. Though Fouquet could never have anticipated the need for protection – the man's belief in God's mercy sometimes overriding good judgment - Aramis could not go back on his word. For now, he would stay out of sight as Fouquet had requested, watching, waiting, hoping the situation was not as dire as he believed.

TBC