Chapter Text
After, there's the empty, endless plain, frost and dirt underfoot. The sky is light without sun, a pale, cloudless blue that simply arcs to the horizon, smoothly meeting the land in every direction. Aramis is standing alone, staring at the horizon.
He is as lovely as Death remembers -- he is exactly as he remembers himself in life. Without his body to contain it, his soul is radiant. Despite all the years that have passed, all the things he has been, lord and father and man of God, he is dressed like a Musketeer, the familiar leather uniform crossed by a slash of blue, sword at his side, pistols tucked into his belt, still a soldier, after all. The rosary looped around his hand is dark hardwood, polished and well-used, old. With a start, Death recognizes it as the same rosary he'd had when they first met. Hung beside the crucifix, there are three feathers.
Death's mount is strong and swift, light footed, but its hoofbeats ring shockingly loud in the still air.
Aramis turns to look up at him, but says nothing. There's a new cast to his handsome face, a steadiness that wasn't there before, a hard-won calm.
"I looked for you," says Aramis, not stepping forward, though Death can see the tremor of effort that it costs him. "I looked for you for decades."
"I'm sorry," says Death. It comes out quiet and weak. The cold here doesn't reach him, any more than heat, but the flat, lonely plain chills his soul.
"I became a priest after all," Aramis says, with a rueful twist to his mouth. "I thought I could find you in prayer, but you never came." His voice is steady, not accusing, but he does not reach out.
"Forgive me."
"Have you no excuse?" Aramis asks, expectantly, a kindness, an offering.
War in Heaven, Death could say, and that would be the truth, after a fashion. He was called away to fight, and his duties were returned to his predecessors for a time. He had no time to see to anyone's death, let alone linger. But he made time for this.
Death dismounts. "I have none," he says, though he can see Aramis cataloguing the change in his aspect, his half-furled wings, the sword hanging at his hip, beside his usual knife. The scuffed and dirty leather of his doublet, needing care before another battle.
"I don't really have the time to be here now. But I missed you," he says. This doesn't come close to describing the way he thought about Aramis, about the light in his eyes, about the ache that he knew he couldn't bargain away.
"I am no stranger to war," Aramis says quietly, but he looks away before Death can make a reply.
Death can see that the decades he's spent fighting have cost him. Aramis has changed, again. He has become patient, and even more sharp-eyed than he was before.
"Do you know," says Aramis, looking out at the horizon. "That you taught me to pray? All those years I spent preparing for the seminary and I didn't learn how to really pray until you found me in Montauban." He shakes his head and smiles, though still he doesn't turn to look at Death. "Who would believe that the angel of death knew so much about hope and holiness?"
He thinks back to the first time he saw Aramis, a nameless youth, desperation and hope and not much else. Certainly not this self-possessed soul, who is still not afraid to meet Death's eyes, but perfectly aware of the power in the gesture itself.
"I dreamed of you, once," Aramis says. "I dreamed of a place not unlike this -- cold and quiet, only a winter-dead forest instead of the horizon." He does not describe the rest of the dream. He only crosses his arms over his chest, says, "You looked... different."
We take this form because there's merit to it, mirrored after God. Death could tell him, There are things inherent in this shape. Love, justice, faith. It doesn't matter. Death holds his tongue.
"I thought that it was a blessing, one that I couldn't fully understand, being mortal." Aramis breathes out, steady and warm, the shape of his mouth half-reflex, focused breath on a slow match. "But that was many years ago. Since then, it has occurred to me to wonder if you were lonely, waiting in all that silence, alone."
Death exhales then, surprised to be seen, recognized, even like this, without Aramis watching him, just a memory, and an acknowledgement of vulnerability.
"Surely you must have a name?" Aramis asks, sharpness and kindness together.
Porthos finds that he does. It feels strange on his tongue, his name all but forgotten when he took up Death's mantle, but at the sound of it Aramis relents, turning in towards him.
Aramis says, "I didn't miss you," and he says, "I didn't long for you."
He says, "I felt like a man on a familiar staircase, missing a step that had always been there." His callused, clever hands describe the shape of a feeling that is more absence than anything else. "Shock, fear, shame. I was afraid I had lost your favor for good," he admits.
"Never that," says Porthos, stepping closer. "I was called away. Forgive me."
Aramis spreads his hands and smiles, small and sweet, says, "Of course. I understand being a soldier. I'd do far greater things for you if you would but ask."
"Greater things, huh?" Porthos dares to smile.
"For you, anything." The way Aramis says it is as plain as a vow, tilting his chin forward, gaze steady, voice firm.
"Will you come with me?" Porthos asks, holding out his hand. "Stay with me."
"You would take me to wife?" Aramis laughs in disbelief, but there's joy there, too. "Don't you know? I won't settle down. I was never made for marriage."
Porthos takes a chance, reaches for Aramis and touches his face, curling his fingers around the curve of his jaw, running his thumb over the soft bow of his mouth. "I would," Porthos murmurs, utterly serious, "If you would have me."
He thrills to hear the way Aramis' breath catches as he pulls back. "I don't need to see you settle," he says, "I can't offer you peace, anyway. I can only offer you a place by my side, all the war and work that goes with it."
Aramis' answering grin is blinding as he takes Porthos' hand and steps into the circle of his embrace, on to the next great adventure.