Chapter Text
“Don’t you dare, you damned musketeer.” The woman snatched the bundle of kitchen supplies from Aramis’ hand and threw it into the back of her small cart. Like so many other camp folk, she was packing her belongings as quickly as possible.
The woman’s hateful gaze bore through Aramis. His throat tightened. “Please excuse me, Madame. It lay on the ground and I only wanted to help.”
"Help? Really?” She turned to an elderly man packing his cart a few feet away. “Mon dieu, do you hear this? This Musketeer has ruined our lives by sending Emilie away, and now he wants to help?” She turned back to Aramis and spat at his feet. “You should have helped by leaving well enough alone. Emilie belongs with us and now she’s gone, no thanks to you and your friends.”
Aramis stepped involuntarily back with palms bared, almost bumping into his stallion, Solitario. Athos had indicated to Aramis that his thoughts were still too preoccupied by the events of the past few days. So Athos had convinced him to stay and help these people while he, Porthos and d'Artagnan returned to the garrison. Aramis had hoped this might help ease his conscience and to get his head on straight.
“I'm sorry if you feel that way,” he said to the woman. “But I was just trying to lay bare the truth. No one deserves to be deceived like that. You followed a delusion of truth that would have never led you to freedom...”
“Freedom?” the elderly man interrupted angrily. “And you think your truth has set us free? Look around. Your truth has robbed us of everything we believed in. Your truth has sent us into an uncertain future. Your truth has made us lose everything we cared about, our home, our community, our faith.”
The man's harsh words pierced Aramis’ heart. He was hurt by the fact that he’d robbed these people of their life, but the foundation of this community had been built on lies and deception. These people had been seduced and abused, used as a means to an end for a greedy old woman.
Aramis' gaze whipped between the man and the woman. “Bearing the truth is never easy. But this one truth I can tell you with certainty. If you had gone with Emilie against Spain, you would have lost the most precious thing you have, your life. Now you have the opportunity to live this life and build a new, true community.”
“Don't pretend to understand the nature of community,” the woman said in a condescending tone. “How could you? What does a musketeer know of true friendship and brotherhood? A soldier only knows one business, death.” The woman looked at him disdainfully. “Anyway, since when are Spanish bastards admitted to the Musketeer regiment? Hm?”
Not this again. Aramis was tired of having to point out that he was French and loyal to his country. Yet, in times like these, people seemed to trust their eyes rather than his words.
“I assure you, I am neither a bastard nor a Spaniard.”
Another man emerged from the small crowd beside the cart, staring at Aramis with hateful eyes. “I say no way he is a true Musketeer. I'm sure he wangled his commission the same way he gained Emilie's trust. Raymond was right from the beginning. He looks like a Spanish spy and he came to destroy Emilie. Emilie has always trusted Raymond's judgment, but this snake has fooled both…”
A murmur went through the small crowd cutting off the newcomer’s voice.
Nodding with assent, the crowd formed a circle around Aramis. Instantly, Aramis' breath accelerated and his heartbeat quickened, snapping him to battle readiness. He straightened, but refrained from reaching for his rapier. “I’m Aramis from the King's Musketeers, and an attack on me is an attack on the King. Trust me when I tell you the King is less forgiving than I am. So I advise you to do as Emilie told you. Gather your belongings and set out for a new life.”
His words didn't have the desired effect. People continued to encroach and the situation took on threatening dimensions, and the desperate cries of Emilie suddenly seemed like a promise in his head.
You liar, traitor! Blood will be shed for this- your blood.
Aramis’ hand slid toward his rapier when a chicken emerged from under a cart and ran, clucking and fluttering between Solitario’s legs. The stallion’s strong backside came threateningly close to the crowd, forcing the people to retreat.
“Woah!” Aramis parried the stallion to stop his wild circling. When the horse calmed, Aramis looked around and noticed the crowd had now completely dispersed.
A small boy rushed at Solitario from behind the cart, just like the chicken before. Aramis managed to catch the boy in the nick of time before he collided with the stallion. “Watch out, young man!”
Dark brown eyes with formidable lashes stared at him from under a hazel-brow mop of hair.
“What exactly are you up to?” Aramis asked, letting go of the child and stepping back.
Knitting his brow, the boy bit his lower lip. His eyes blinked and then he seemed to have made a decision. “Did you see a chicken pass this way, Monsieur?”
“If I saw a chicken?” Aramis grinned involuntarily. “You mean a little white chicken?“
“Yes.”
“With a pale red comb?”
“Yes, yes!” The boy's eyes widened expectantly.
“With black flecks on its wings? This chicken?”
“Yes, exactly. That's Agatha!” The child's voice was a pitch higher and his nodding became more energetic.
“Ohhh, I'm sorry, but I didn't see that chicken,” Aramis said, struggling to hide his smile.
The boy slumped down and opened his mouth like a fish stranded on the shore. Disappointment was written all over his face and even his restless eyes stopped for a second.
Aramis laughed and patted the child gently on its shoulder. “Fooled you,” he said, and winked to show the boy that he was joking.
“You're not very funny, Sir.” The child's nose wrinkled sullenly, but a moment later, he grinned and his eyes searched the camp again.
“So you are looking for your chicken? Agatha?” Aramis probed.
“Yes...no... but, yes...well, actually I'm looking for Maman,” the child bubbled out. “We were at the assembly and saw Emilie and the musketeers and everyone was so excited. And then suddenly she was gone, that is Agatha, not Maman. But she, I mean Maman, not Agatha, told me to go and find Agatha and come back to the tent quickly. But I couldn't find that stupid chicken and suddenly maman was gone too. And then I saw Agatha fluttering, and there were so many people and...”
“Wait, you have to draw some breath in between,” Aramis said with a smile. “So you're looking for your mother?”
“Yes, I told you. She is no longer at the tent and Agatha has escaped again and all the people here are like ants. You know, the little red ones that always build their hill between the trees and when you walk in they spray this stuff on your feet and then it burns all day long and...”
Aramis tilted his head and crossed his arms, mimicking the gesture of his old tutor well. The boy abruptly stopped speaking and his face blushed. Aramis couldn't remember how many times his tutor, Monsieur Duvall, had interrupted him with this same gesture during his own rambling tales. To this day, Aramis was grateful to Monsieur Duvall. More than once his old tutor’s knowledge had saved his life.
“Well, your mother then,” Aramis summarized with an amused smile. “My name is Aramis, what's your name, young man?”
“Félicien. And what is your horse’s name?”
Aramis took the reins tighter for safety. “His name is Solitario, and you must be careful, because he can be very dangerous if he wants to.”
“Dangerous?” Félicien's eyes widened, and he didn't move an inch. “What do you mean, dangerous?”
“When we first met, Solitario was racing across the largest market of Paris, running over everything in his path. I had only a second to make a decision, and I decided to stand my ground like the musketeer I am and not give way to the beast. There I stood, in the middle of the square, utterly fearless.”
Well, at least in this version of the story, Aramis thought. He had actually found Solitario three months after Savoy. Aramis had been completely absent-minded, trapped in blurred images of white and bloody red when the horse did indeed careen through the market. But that part of the story wasn’t for a child.
“He very nearly killed me,” continued Aramis. “But finally I managed to grab the reins and calm him down so he wouldn't trample me or someone else to death.”
“And then you tamed him,” Félicien concluded with admiration in his voice.
“Yes, I did. It didn’t take long for Solitario to become a magnificent member of the musketeer regiment.”
Unlike myself.
Aramis reflected back to that fateful day of meeting Solitario, when Savoy still plagued his mind with nightmares. Incapable of rejoining his fellow musketeers, Aramis remembered drawing strength from Solitario, from their new found kinship, and not much later, he rejoined the ranks along with his brothers.
“Solitario, that name sounds pretty Spanish...” said Félicien.
“Well, because it is Spanish. Solitario means 'the lonely one' and he's a genuine Berber stallion. Ves, pues sí hay cosas buenas que vienen de Espana… I just said… good things do come from Spain.”
Félicien jumped back with wide eyes. “You are the dangerous one! You are a Spaniard,” the boy stammered, as if he’d seen the devil himself.
Aramis looked Félicien in his eyes. “No, my friend, I am French through and through, and a King’s Musketeer with all my heart.” Aramis pointed at his pauldron then he placed his fist on his chest and bowed slightly, giving the boy the musketeers’ salute. “But my grandmother was from Spain, and from her I learned this language from childhood.”
Félicien relaxed.
“And somewhere here must be your mother?” Aramis drew the child's attention back to his original problem and scanned the area.
“Yes.” Félicien took a position directly in front of the stallion's chest, cuddling it tightly, his small arms embracing the mighty neck on both sides.
Aramis pulled the boy out from under the horse and lifted him into the saddle. Félicien tensed, but when Solitario remained calm, he relaxed and began to search the camp for his mother from this wonderfully elevated position.
Aramis was about to place the boy into a better position in the saddle, when his eyes caught on a face between the tents.
Raymond. Emilie's confidant, and her mother's attacker.
Raymond stood motionless with a face distorted with hate. As their eyes met, Raymond sneered and made a slitting motion across his throat.
“Aramis, I asked if we can go now.” Félicien's voice penetrated Aramis' mind and the marksman looked up.
Despite Raymond’s ire, Aramis determined to go through with helping these villagers. He needed solace, and helping them was the only way he knew how.
He inhaled and turned his full attention back to Félicien. “Well then, my young friend, let's find your mother.”
Félicien's face was beaming with pride and Aramis moved forward with Solitario.
***
“Satan's language. I knew this musketeer wasn’t what he claimed to be,” hissed Raymond, as he stood between the tents listening to the Spanish language drip from Aramis’s tongue.
Hot rage scorched through his veins. If it weren’t for Félicien standing alongside this Spanish spy, Raymond would show this false musketeer what pain really meant. But the boy looked so much like his father. Saniel. An old friend. And Raymond could not break the boys’ heart. Melancholy days of long ago crept into his mind whenever he saw the young boy.
He could have been my son...
But eight years ago Félicien’s mother had chosen Saniel.
Since then, life had never held much in store for Raymond, except for disappointments and tribulations. But his fate had taken a turn when he had met Emilie. This graceful woman, so fragile and yet so full of strength, had mesmerized him from the very first moment they met, and she had become the second great love of his life. Of course, he would never be worthy of a prophetess like Emilie, but to be near her, to enjoy her trust and to experience the work of God had been more than he had ever expected. For the first time in his life, Raymond had found a deep confidence that life could offer him more.
“And this Spanish spy has destroyed everything,” Raymond muttered full of hate.
There was nothing left in the village Emilie had created but broken dreams and gazing at a cold fire pit, bitterness welled up in him like hot flames. The fire of their fellowship was extinguished and those around him were in desperate need of the guidance this musketeer took from them. They needed a new hope.
They needed someone to guide them.
But who? Who could take on this heavy burden?
A divine revelation poured over Raymond like golden heat, making his body and mind glow, and he sensed God’s purpose to reignite the fire. He would now be the new chosen one. The one to raise the community like a phoenix from the ashes. This was his real calling, the fulfilment of his destiny. To take up the sceptre after Emilie was gone and take responsibility for these lost souls. It was his sacred duty to protect them from the claws of the Spanish tyrant King and his devilish henchman. To save France.
And I will start with the one called Aramis…
When Aramis glanced at him, Raymond made a slitting motion across his neck. Aramis’s expression froze, his eyes narrowed, and Raymond couldn’t help but smirk before dashing away between the tents. He knew exactly what he would do next, what God was telling him to do. His life was renewed because now he had a mission to fulfill.