Part 1: The Queen (being an account of the events which nearly destroyed France)

Summary: AU of 2x02. Milady makes a different decision, one which has lasting effects on the fate of France, and our heroes find themselves fighting the greatest threat they've ever faced. Just to clarify: this fic starts in season one, but does not go AU until 2x02, at which point it almost totally disregards canon.

Warning: Will post warnings for individual chapters if needed, however, overall warnings include: swashbuckling musketeer violence, small time jumps, sensual content, character deaths, and serious angst throughout.

Disclaimer: This is a fictitious three part work based off of the BBC series The Musketeers, and many historical liberties have been taken. I started this before season three came out, obviously, so my apologies for any glaring differences.

A/N: Well, here it is. This is a slow-burn, and by slow, I mean...well, this is going to be an extremely long ride, as well as sometimes having long waits between updates. Please review.

Anne could remember the first time she had done this, visiting a group of lowly prisoners to bestow her mercy upon them.

She had been with her father at the time, still a little child, though her mother no longer lived, but her father had insisted on her accompanying him, as he wished to spend as much time with his eldest child as he could before she was sent away to France to marry it's next King.

And she had gone because she never wished to displease her father, and, inwardly, she was curious.

She understood that those who lived in prisons were a wicked bunch, that they had caused their own hardships by their evil deeds, but, at ten years old, Anne did not know the applicable meaning of the word hardship. She had lived a charmed childhood, save for the loss of her mother.

Her father's advisors had argued against allowing the Infanta to accompany him to the prisons; it was a horrific place to take such a young child, but her father the King had insisted.

After all, once she became Queen of France, as his advisors were all pushing for, she would be grateful that she already understood at least one of her duties.

She had never forgotten what she had seen that day, in the Spanish prison beneath her father's castle, and had endeavored since always to be kind to those who did not have what she did, whether they were considered "deserving," or not. It was a trait for which she was not popular amongst the French nobility, and yet a trait for which the French commoners seemed to love her, and Anne would rather have their love than simpering nobles' any day.

This particular prison was a devastating place, and though Anne came here once but every year for the holiday, she could not help but pity the poor souls who lived out their sentences here even while she was not around to see their pain. It made her feel increasingly more generous each time she came to visit them, fearful for the horrid way in which they might live out the rest of their days if she was not.

French prisons were even worse, in her estimation, than Spanish ones. She did not have nearly as much experience with Spanish prisons as she did with French, but she could not remember the prisoners being treated so wretchedly in her father's kingdom. She could, however, remember her father bestowing upon the worthy amongst them their freedom, and those who were not so worthy the supplies to last in such conditions for a while longer and, even if her husband did not cater to the needs of prisoners so readily, she would see the thing done here, as well.

She knew, as she told Treville, the Master of her husband's Musketeers, that she could not help all of them, but she would like to think that her arrival every year helped some, and that they used such help to make for themselves a better life. One that would not find them returned to such a wretched place.

The Musketeers had come along for her protection, but she knew that they were up to something, even if they would not tell her what, exactly, that was. However, since their own Captain had come along, as well, she knew that she was safe.

Anne knew all too well, despite the assurances of those around her, that many of these poor souls would only fall into depravity and destitution once more, freed from their cells, having no where else to go, even if she said otherwise to her ladies and to Treville.

She was officially here to pardon a few well-deserving prisoners from their fates. She only wished that she could pardon them all, for none deserved such fates.

She took a deep breath, and the gates opened. Behind her, one of her ladies, Comtessa Jeanette, made a sound deep in her throat, letting Anne know that she found this place every bit as distasteful as Anne had figured she would.

Hence the invitation, to come along with her. Even Queens had to have a bit of fun, every once in a while, and her French ladies spared no amount of malice toward her.

The warden stepped forward, offering her a brown, toothy smile.

She did not recognize him from the past year, and wondered at that. How many wardens left this place because they could not stand to remain?

"Good morning, Your Majesty. A few fortunate souls will be granted their freedom today." He, at least, sounded more pleased than Treville had been, with the prospect.

No small wonder; he had chosen those men himself, from amongst the best of his prisoners. She might have thought, from his expression, that he had chosen the worst, only to be rid of them.

But she knew that the worst offenders of this place would never be brought before the Queen of France.

She held out her hand, offering him a brilliant smile along with it. "I wish I could pardon all your prisoners," she said sincerely.

He gave her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Perhaps the thought of some of those prisoners running amuck in Paris frightened him.

It certainly frightened Richelieu, who attempted to disuade she and her husband from this course of action every year. But even he understood that, should they do so, it would make them appear suddenly malevolent in the eyes of the people, and that could not be born.

"Your Majesty should not waste her sympathy on those who do not deserve it," Treville spoke up then, taking the Queen's arm when the warden dropped it, and sounding almost reproachful.

She had heard that tone from him many times, usually aimed at the King after he had done something exceptionally foolish, or at Richlieu, when they disagreed on something.

Rarely ever toward her, for he was one of the few souls in France who were truly kind to her.

"All men need hope, Captain." She glanced at him. "Without it, why should they lead a decent life?"

Treville stayed silent. Perhaps because he realized that she knew more about that topic than she should have.

Hope, after all, was the only thing to sustain her in the early years of her reign as Queen of France.

The warden snapped his orders, and then the prisoners were brought into the courtyard.

Anne could not help but suck in a breath as they came into view, hands chained with manacles, bodies stooped with years of hard labor and desperation. They were covered in grime and soot, feet bare and eyes down, staring at the dirt as if it was their savior. Torn clothes revealed emaciated frames, and Anne could not remember them appearing so poorly last year.

They were frightened of her, and that only caused her to pity them further.

She spared a moment, then, to wonder whether they had even been told what the Queen planned for them. Did they know that she provided their freedom, or did they think she planned to kill them?

"They look half dead, poor things," Anne breathed, unconcerned by the emotionless nod she recieved from Treville at these words.

She knew that the King's Captain thought the King and Queen naive to the suffering of their people. Most did. They sat in their palace and ordered hunts and celebrations while the French people starved in the streets below.

And she knew that this small act, performed but once a year, along with several other of her charitable acts could not, in fact, change that, but she could hope that these things might help a dozen fortunate souls.

She sighed, turning her attentions once more to the prisoners. "In his great mercy, and in the name of God, the King has granted you clemency."

As if the King had anything to do with it. No, in fact, it was he who had refused to go to the prison himself today, having thrown a fit about yesterday's hunting trip and secluding himself in his chambers.

Some part of her loved some part of him, but she was almost relieved to go alone.

The prisoners glanced up then, perhaps astonished that they were being freed, rather than sent to their deaths.

Anne took a bag of silver from the servant standing behind her, handing it to the first prisoner to near her. "I hope this small gift will help you in your new lives."

She could not fail to notice that the musketeers had some other motive for coming here, and were just now fulfilling it, for just then several departed from the group, heading down towards the dungeons.

And yet she could not bring herself to worry over it, still spellbound by the men before her. "Did you see the gratitude on their faces, Captain? Mercy is more effective than any whip or gallows."

"The worst defenders would only consider Your Majesty's gentle nature a weakness," Treville responded readily, and Anne could not help the sigh that escaped her throat at the words. "Some men are just born bad."

She ignored him, continuing to hand out the little sacks of silver without comment. She would not allow his words to dissuade her from her purpose here, after all.

In that moment, she heard a shout from a musketeer, and then the courtyard was swarming with escaped prisoners, most still wearing chains about their wrists and ankles.

They thronged around the Queen and her men, clearly not organized, but all making for the escape routes.

Treville grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the exit from which they had come and unsheathing his sword.

One of the prisoners rushed at him, throwing out his arms in an attempt to strangle the man with his chains, but Treville made short work of him.

The Queen stared in horror at the man's body as it hit the ground, and then Treville was ripping her away from it.

"Protect the Queen!" Treville shouted, and then she was being surrounded by her own men, in an attempt to pull her to safety.

"Get the Queen out!" he ordered to his men, and Anne licked her lips nervously. Not in all her years had an uprising occured while she was at the prison itself.

A criminal-one of those worst offenders that Treville had mentioned, she suspected- suddenly grabbed her from behind, and she let out a scream of terror as a gun, a gun impossibly acquired, for a prisoner here, appeared in his hands.

The other prisoners surged around them.

She gasped, breath catching in her throat, as the man's gun pressed against her temple.

"Oi!" he shouted, and she wondered at her own men's ineptitude, that they had not even noticed her missing from their small party till now. "Oi!"

Even still, terror raced through her. She had never been the victim of a hostage situation before, not in all her years as Queen, and the thought that she might die now, on a day when she had only been attempting to help those like this man, terrified her.

"Stop! Or your Queen dies!"

She was too afraid to notice that, though the boy beside the criminal holding her looked familiar, she could not place him.

"Hold your fire!" Treville shouted, and she could see some of her fear reflected in his own eyes.

"Back," the criminal hissed, and then louder, "Back!"

"Open the gate. Open. The. Gate." He shook her then, as if to remind them of his power over them. Treville gave the order with a mere sweep of his hand, and Anne gasped again.

None of the her husband's musketeers moved forward, clearly too frightened that the criminal would kill her if they did.

The gates behind lazily swung open, she heard running footsteps behind her, and then, "Vadim!"

So that was the name of her captor. She recognized it now; he was a notorious criminal, one that the Cardinal was rather overly concerned about, according to Louis.

She could not help but wonder now, that, when he got what he wanted, he would not still shoot her out of pure spite.

Tears stung at her eyes, and her breath was coming faster now, in loud gasps that filled the courtyard.

The boy, well, a young man, dressed in shabby rags and exchanging a frightened look with her. She wondered at that, for this boy certainly appeared familiar, though she wasn't sure why.

However, in the next moment he proved himself very much on the side of Vadim, for he stepped up behind the man and hissed in his ear, no longer looking at Anne.

"You see?" Vadim spoke to the boy now, sounding almost triumphant. Yes, she did know this boy from somewhere, Anne decided, watching him carefully. "I told you they'd let me walk out of here."

The boy spoke then, and it was with his softspoken words that she placed his identity.

A rush of relief swept through her, though she took great effort not show it. He was a recruit of the musketeers; she recognized him, from the time he had come to the castle and reported before the King.

She was safe. At least, safer.

But then, what was a musketeer doing beside this criminal?

"Hurt the queen, and we're all dead. You don't need her anymore. Let's go. Come on!" the boy hissed.

There was a pregnant pause, during which Anne was certain Vadim would shoot her anyway.

Then, "Your Majesty, my apologies. I hope that, apart from this, you've enjoyed your trip."

He kissed her forehead, and she knew that the vulgar feel of his greasy lips against her skin would never wash away, no matter how many hours she spent trying.

Rough hands shoved her forward, and she flailed, hardly aware of the men running around her, of the guns exploding in the courtyard. She thought she could hear the sound of horses, wondered if that was the direction she should move toward.

Perhaps she was to die here anyway, in the crossfire. She did not know what to do; she could hardly think.

Strong arms wrapped around her, and for a moment, she was terrified that Vadim had caught her again, that he had not let go of her to begin with, and that he was going to take her as his hostage.

That, in itself, was her greatest fear. Even more so than death.

It had been eight years since her marriage to the King, eight tumultous, barren years, and the thought of being abducted by a common criminal...she felt the breath stop in her lungs, knew that she would rather die...

Then those strong arms were shoving her to the ground, and the body they belonged to went down with them. She let out a cry that was quickly stifled as the air flew from her lungs at the sudden movement.

It was a musketeer; though she did not yet know his name, she at least knew now that she was safe when she recognized the inisignia on his shoulder, pressed into her nose.

As if aware of her remaining fear, the kindly musketeer placed a gentle hand over her head, shielding her from the mayhem but also blinding her from the bloodshed around them. The hand cupped her head, strong yet gentle, at the same time, and Anne found herself leaning into it, grasping for some sense of comfort.

She closed her eyes as she did so, hoping that when she opened them, all of this would have gone away. Pretended that she did not press into his hand, running comfortingly through her hair.

The world stood still, and, in that moment, there were only the two of them, her savior and herself.

Above her, the musketeer was breathing heavily, his broad chest pressed against her. "Don't worry," he whispered, pushing himself up. "It's fine."

The fact that he did not call her 'Your Majesty,' for once, comforted her. For, while her ladies conveniently forgot the title out of malice, he spoke as though to a friend, and she was glad for it.

Still, she could not bring herself to open her eyes, for fear that the words were not really his; that he was dead, lying above her, covered in blood.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, and when she did not open her eyes, repeated himself. "Look at me."

Slowly, her eyes pried open, and she found herself gazing into the most beautiful pools of brown that she had ever seen. Brown, not red with blood as she had been expecting.

She took a deep breath, giving him an almost-smile.

"It's over," he said, those beautiful eyes so earnest, so sincere, "I've got you." And, this time, she believed him.

And neither of them moved from their position on the ground. Anne feared that, should she attempt to stand, her legs would only give out beneath her.

In an effort to deflect her embarrassment at being so close to a man who was not her husband, and yet having no intention of leaving that presence, she whispered, "So you have." Then she smiled, and he took entirely the wrong concern from it.

Peeling himself away, his voice suddenly clear and ringing, as a soldier to his queen, rather than the friend he had been moments ago, "My apologies, Your Majesty."

When he was gone, she missed his soothing presence.

She gripped his shoulders, tightly, and allowed him to pull them both to their feet, not certain if she did so for her own unsteadiness or as an excuse to keep him near.

It was only then, when they were standing and his hair had brushed away from the nape of his neck, that she noticed the small trickle of blood, just below his right ear.

"You're hurt," she noted, and hated that she sounded so fascinated by it. That this man, injured even a little, had protected her so valiantly.

She feared that her own husband would never have done so.

The musketeer blinked at her.

Slowly, giving him a moment to protest, she lifted a hand to his ear, inspecting the wound for herself. Something within her fluttered when he did speak, only continued staring, as if he might bend down to kiss her.

Then his hand closed around her own, pushing it gently away, and she wondered at that, her eyes going wide and innocent.

Had she pushed too far beyond the limits of familiarity? She had not meant to frighten him, and some of her emotions must have shown on her face, for he was quick to reassure her, "Hardly a scratch, Your Majesty."

The Captain spoke up then, shouting from across the bridge, "Aramis, get your Queen to the carriages!"

Aramis. So that was the name of her rescuer.

She would have to remember it, though she doubted she would have a hard time doing so.

Aramis quickly took the Queen's elbow, leading her out of the prison and to the waiting carriages, where her ladies in waiting had already fled.

She supposed she was as glad to leave as the men she had just freed, both purposely and the traitor Vadim.

"Come, Your Majesty," Aramis whispered in her ear, and she nodded breathlessly, letting him lead her out of the prisons as though she were seeing the gates to freedom for the first time herself.

If he noticed the way she stumbled, leaning against him for support, he said nothing, for which she was grateful.

She was not normally this fragile, she liked to think.

Most of her ladies had already found their way to the carriages on their own, and she did not take the time to note how disloyal they were, to abandon their Queen in the line of fire.

"Your Majesty," Lady Jeanette, her first lady after the exile of Marie, broke out at the sight of the Queen, and looked almost suprised to see her alive and unharmed. Almost disappointed, part of her couldn't help but think.

Anne lifted her chin, giving the woman a kindly smile where she would have preferred to frown. It would not do, after all, to appear anything less than a Queen. "Jeanette. I am well. We shall return to the palace once the prison is secure."

She could remember the Comte de Rochefort drilling that lesson into her before she had even arrived in France.

"Yes, Your Majesty," her ladies dipped their heads, none meeting her eyes.

Of course, she reminded herself, she was not their Queen; she had never quite been that. She was Anne of Austria, the Spanish Queen, and they were French ladies. Yes, they would have been punished had she actually been killed, but it had been avoided.

She glanced back at her savior, at the valiant musketeer.

Aramis, the Captain had said his name was.

She would not soon forget him.