His entire body turns cold instantly, but he forces himself not to react. He has had no warning, nothing at all to tell him that his entire life was about to change, about to have new meaning.
It is announced in front of everyone, by the man who thinks it is his news to tell. One glance at her tells him otherwise.
He feels his friend's eyes boring into him, but he will not glance around. He couldn't stand to see what was there: anger, shock, fear, or sympathy. He knows it will be the latter, and it would be the worst of all of them.
How does he move on from here?
Does any of this ever get to become part of his life? In any way at all?
He glances at her again, and he can see how happy she is. It is shining out of her and she looks more beautiful, more radiant and somehow more innocent than she ever has in his eyes. He can see that she keeps darting glances in his direction, but he will not focus on her eyes. If he meets her gaze he will fall to pieces, and neither of them can afford for him to react.
He wonders if she knew he was going to be here today. To be present for this pronouncement that would shake him to the core and devastate him completely all at once.
He hopes not, as it would suggest some cruelty in her and he cannot ever believe that she would do that to him. It would suggest that what happened between them meant nothing, and he could not live with that either. Certainly not now.
He feels a tug on his sleeve and realises that he is being signalled to move. He walks proudly from the room, in his usual stance, but almost stumbles as he crosses the threshold into the hall. His brother is there to catch him. His brain is blurry but he can hear that words of reassurance, of comfort, are being whispered to him, by the only other person in the world who knows the truth of what has just happened.
He is desperate to run away, to flee the people around him and scream his pain, his anger.
This was his test from God. It had to be. Either that or it was his punishment.
Everyone else is now ahead of them, as his brother waits for him to catch his breath and be ready to move. Instead, a maid appears and a note is pressed into his hand. He reads it and spins away with no explanation, leaving his friend staring after him in concern as he answers his summons.
She is beautiful. He could love her if he was free to, but he never will be. They will never have that chance, or that life.
She confirms his fears, but she is happy. She tells him the child will be like him, that she has no fear for it. This one will survive.
He is passionate when he tells her that he will protect the child with his life. He will. It is his child, as well as his future monarch.
She smiles at him, glowing, and obviously blind in her happiness to the pain that this is causing him, but he cannot blame her for that. If he was allowed to be happy like her he would be able to think of little else either.
He could weep as he kisses her hand to take his leave, ignoring their enemy who has appeared behind him and is making his suspicion-filled presence felt. When she leaves he turns to look at their common enemy, hopes that he hides his turmoil but displays his disdain for the suspicion lurking in the cruel man's heart, however correct.
He swallows down his sorrow, trying not to think of a laughing child with olive skin and his mother's eyes, or an elegant young girl with dark eyes and hair, and an innate kindness in her soul. He shakes his head as he finds himself wistfully daydreaming as he makes his way blindly out of the palace. He tells himself that for all he knows he could have a number of children scattered around France, but he knows in his heart that this is not the case.
Angrily, he dashes away tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. He must get a hold of himself. This is the consequence of doing what he has done, what they have done. This is what happens, what love is designed for, and he cannot regret it. He cannot regret this child; his child.
He is barely aware of mounting his horse, the animal sensing his disquiet and moving peacefully to where his brothers are waiting at the road away from the palace. Now he is resolute; he is decided. He will love his child, as he is meant to, and he will protect the future monarch of France, as his devotion to his country and his role within it demands he that does. This child will be his focus as a musketeer, and no one other than her, and his brother, will ever know the truth. He cannot risk it for her sake, or for the sake of the child he is already longing for.
As he reaches them he swears that his other brothers will never know the truth. He cannot bear to think about their sympathy, their shock at what he has done, their anger at his lack of control. It is enough to know that one of them must be feeling all of these things, although he recognizes at least that he will never be forced to talk about it if he doesn't wish to.
As if reading his mind, the excuse for his lateness when joining the others is given as a liaison with a woman he has never looked at in his life. He wants to thank his brother but he can't, just sharing a look that he hopes transmits all that he can't put into words.
Instead he distracts them with melancholy, with reminiscence about what they are left with at the end of it all. They share his mood, but relax when he makes a joke. He forces down the sadness he feels as he looks at them and realises that he will be alright. These men will protect his child, and the woman who carries it, without knowing what it means to him, but that doesn't matter.
What matters is that he could give this gift to her, to his country. What matters is that he is not alone, and that they will continue to do this, together.
For honour.