Aramis watches her scroll through the names, some of them known, some not, some all too well, and feels the blood drain from his face for this Portia d'Herblay. He stands, wiping a sudden cold sweat from his face, his hand going to his shoulder after to rest against the pauldron.

"It is a...common practice for a soldier to leave their old life behind," he explains. "We live as Musketeers, and we know we will die as one - what reason is there to be anything but?" Aramis' gaze is distant, unfocused, even as his fingers trace the fleur-de-lis. "When I joined the Musketeers, Aramis is the name I took for myself. Before that, I was an Herblay." Aramis looks back to Allison, his stricken expression a far cry from the one he usually bore.

"René d'Herblay."