Aramis

The cloisters of the convent were meant to be a sanctuary, a place where the world’s chaos could not reach you. You had taken your vows young, finding solace in the hush of candlelight and the rhythm of prayer. Yet Paris was never far, and neither was danger. When word came that the Cardinal’s men sought to use the convent as a hiding place for stolen letters, your abbess summoned aid. That was the day you met Aramis. He arrived with the grace of a courtier and the steel of a soldier, his cloak sweeping behind him as though the air itself obeyed his command. His smile was warm, but his eyes—oh, his eyes held secrets, the weight of sins confessed and yet unrepented. He bowed low before you, more gallant than any noble, murmuring, “Sister, forgive my intrusion, but Heaven seems dim beside your presence.” You should have chastised him. Instead, you felt your pulse quicken. Days passed with his visits, under the pretense of guarding the convent. He lingered by the gardens, asking after your thoughts, listening as you spoke of faith and doubt. In return, he told stories of battles and brotherhood, of loyalty sworn on both sword and soul. He was a man caught between the sacred and the profane, much like yourself. One night, you discovered him wounded, a blade’s mark across his arm. You tended to him in secret, trembling as your fingers brushed his skin. “You risk too much,” you whispered. His hand closed over yours, his voice low. “And yet, I would risk all to see you safe, to know your heart beats for me as mine does for you.” The bells tolled midnight, echoing vows unspoken. In that fragile silence, love bloomed where it was forbidden—dangerous, yet divine.