Forgive me for the inaccuracies and other mistakes. I admit I'm not well-versed in history or geography and I certainly didn't live in 17th-century France. But this is based on a TV show, so I guess those mistakes are forgivable?
Forsake Me Not
They are ambushed.
It's not an easy feat, which in some sense should make them feel better, but since it wasn't supposed to happen in the first place, it makes it taste bitter in the tip of the tongue. Perhaps it's the powder, and the smell of iron clashing with iron. The blood. It's not uncommon for them to be injured – they have plenty of scars covering their bodies, carving history on their skin.
The attackers aren't many and they should be easily subdued. It's not unusual to fight two or three men at the same time.
Women are a different thing.
No one can be blamed for the mistake, even if it is one. The King had planned his trip to Orleans with anticipation, and they were aware and prepared. It was supposed to be an uneventful journey, to supervise the finishing details on the new palace. They certainly can't blame d'Artagnan, for his nature is gentle and still lacks the many years of experience war gives – seasoned soldiers would've hesitated as well in front of a woman even if holding a pistol. But her shaking hands were a telltale of her uncertainty.
Athos is the first one to notice, but the time it takes him to reach for his weapon is enough for the woman to shoot.
Porthos runs towards the sound, as it's his first instinct to play human shield when he sees the Queen and the Dauphin being yanked out of the carriage and placed in direct line of fire.
Aramis is still tangled in a fight, but his voice manages to echo in the forest. It's ludicrous to believe sheer will can stop a bullet, but he tries as despair washes over him. The boy in the Queen's arms is his son, no matter how much he tries to make himself forget, and he's the heir of France. His loyalties are bind to the small child.
He can feel the blood on his ears, his heart beating powerfully against his ribs and claws sinking in his stomach. Aramis hurries to them and watches Anne turning quickly, covering her child from danger like mothers do. All she does is gasp, her body shaking slightly as the bullet hits her.
From distance, Aramis cannot see. He doesn't know if the child is fine or if Anne is actually hurt, but then her body slumps to the ground, all while the King screams madly, but doesn't move. She tightens the grip on the Dauphin and falls on her knees.
Porthos reaches her first, and in the distance they hear another gunshot. Athos has already finished the threat, but they still have danger in front of them.
Aramis' knees hit the dirt and he slides towards her, hooking his arms under hers before she falls face first once her last bit of strength is used to hand her child to Porthos. Her regal dress is soaking the blood on her side and the stain grows larger too rapidly to be a superficial wound. The Dauphin starts crying and Constance slaps the King's hands away as he himself behaves like a child who needs comforting and holds on to the woman's arm.
The sight of it makes Aramis' mouth dry. He knows they must act quickly, before she loses too much blood. And they are more than half way away from Paris, much closer to Orleans but not close enough so they can make it on time.
He lifts his head enough to see his brothers looking at him, waiting for directions. Aramis knows he's the only one who can do something, but he's terrified of not being up to the task.
The Queen's pale and small hand covers his, weakly attempting to stand right.
"Aramis," she whispers, and it's all it takes for him to make a decision. Her lips tremble as if she wishes to speak more, to verbalize her thoughts.
He reaches for his dagger and rips the side of her dress as soon as he manages to lay her gently on the ground. Athos has removed his cloak, and Porthos is almost feral at keeping the King away when the man decides to demand Aramis not to touch Anne.
"We need a doctor!" The King shouts. "I'm sure the next village will have one, we-"
"We're not in the palace," Aramis spits through gritted teeth, watching as his gloves are stained with Anne's blood. "Unless you want me to let her bleed out, you'll let me do what I can." He sheds his gloves and sends d'Artagnan for the small pouch with medical instruments he always carries with him.
The Queen shudders, but as always she tries to keep her serenity even as her breathing becomes ragged.
"I can't, I can't see this," the King babbles with eyes fixed on the blood oozing from the wound on his Queen.
"Perhaps it's better for you to return to the carriage," Porthos advises and helps him do so. Even if Porthos' attention should be focused on the regent of France, Aramis can feel the weight of his gaze on him. All his brothers are looking at him. Them.
It's eerily quiet in the forest, and it bothers him. Everything living or not seems to be holding their breaths while the woman before him battles off death. She's strong and willful, but graceful. She won't give up easily, but it doesn't ease his heart to know it. Seeing her with her dress torn up, covered in dirt and blood is not an image befitting a queen – not his queen.
"Drink this," Athos irrupts as Aramis prepares to clean and stitch the wound. She greedily drinks the alcohol he offers, and pulls a face after the bitter liquid travels down her throat.
"I won't lie," Aramis announces grimly. "This will hurt badly. And I can't promise it'll stop any soon."
"I know," Anne smiles feebly at him, her eyes shining with a range of emotions that goes from fear to rage to affection. "But I trust you. God is on our side."
He wants to be furious at her and ask her why she thinks that. If God were on their side, wouldn't they be happy together? If it were true, wouldn't he get to hold his son and teach him about life while she spends night after night in his arms? But he hushes his mind, and starts working on the injury. He needs to get the ball out, and it becomes very hard to see her squirming and shrieking as he tries to take the small piece of metal out of her body. Athos holds her down, but he can't quiet her moans. No one can comfort the crying child in Constance's arms.
Aramis knows that even if he manages to clean the wound and stitch it up, there's still the chance she won't survive. The blood she has lost is plenty, and it could turn ugly if it doesn't heal properly.
There's a tug at his heart when the needle breaks her skin, and it prickles as if he were sewing his own flesh each time she hisses and bites back the screams. When he finishes, Anne is paler and weaker, her forehead covered by sweat and her hair spilling out of its righteous place. Since her dress is practically cut in half, and all everyone can see is the angry red mark on her taut stomach and the smeared blood, Aramis unties his sash from around his waist and wraps her with it. It's enough to cover the wound and for her to keep her modesty.
Anne looks much better like this, without the sumptuous dresses and jewelry. And in musketeers' blue, she looks like the life it could've been.
Blood clings to Aramis' hands and the significance of it upsets him. He just doesn't dare to touch her again. No when he feels responsible for this. Athos must read it in his face, since he offers to carry the Queen back into the carriage, so they can continue their journey and finally find a proper physician that can treat her. But before Athos can take her in his arms, Anne grabs the sleeve of his doublet and tightens her grip with all the strength she has left.
"Promise me," she murmurs. "Promise you'll look out for him, much more than you've already had. Make sure he's happy, and never leave his side again. Not for war, not for God. You've paid for your sins. For mine. Please, Aramis. See him become the man I imagine he'll be." She swallows thickly, her fingers loosing around his sleeve.
He leans forward and without apprehension he presses his lips to the back of her hand, turning it to then make silent promise of his devotion by kissing the palm of her hand. "You'll see him. You will care for him. And I'll care for you both."
Still with his knees sunk in the dirt, he watches Athos taking her away. The Dauphin is hiccupping, seemingly tired of crying as loudly as his little chest allows him.
"I believe it's best for the Dauphin not to see his mother in this condition," Athos tells Constance, who promptly nods and helps ease the Queen in a position that won't cause her more pain than necessary.
The King looks away, as if the mere sight of the injured Queen and her current state disturbed him. He's always been cosseted, but there's so much ingenuity behind the surface that it's laughable. He sent them to war and decides who lives or dies, yet he cannot bear to look at the scars and death his decisions leave behind. It's the Queen who reassures him, claiming she's much better.
"He'll be in safer hands," the Queen offers to Athos. "Take him with you." She winces as she stretches to kiss her son's plump cheek, caressing the side of the four-year-old and the unruly dark hair. The bright blue eyes of the Dauphin blink at his mother and his worries subside. "Surely Constance will help us if there's need."
Athos bows. "Your Majesty." He takes the boy with unexperienced hands. He's determined, though. They need to arrive as soon as possible to Orleans.
Struggling to hold the boy, Athos is mildly surprised when the Dauphin squirms in his arms at the sight of Aramis. Of course he knows about the scarce and stolen moments Aramis has gotten with the child, but he doubted blood ties could be so strong.
"What are you doing?" Aramis shows his irritation quickly. "He needs to be with his mother!" he hisses.
"Do you wish him to see her suffering and bleeding? Hasn't he gotten enough of that already?"
The King is always saying how much the Dauphin looks like him, about his eyes being just like the Queen's, but when Aramis takes the boy from his arms, everyone can see the similarities. Their skin is light, but not like the Queen's porcelain tone or the pasty complexion of the King. And even then there's the hint of a nose straight and sharp.
Porthos only ducks his head when Aramis speaks in a hushed voice to the boy, in Spanish as if it were some secret language for them. D'Artagnan tries to tame the smile on his face, but the way the Dauphin's face alights with a grin is infectious.
They still have little less than half-day ahead of them to reach Orleans, and it's surprisingly easy to pretend not to notice how close and protective Aramis becomes with the Dauphin as they ride. But they see it. They see how when the boy is free of the confines of the castle and propriety, he's just a small lad, curious and funny like all children are at that age.
o~o~o
As soon as they arrive to Orleans, a physician is summoned to tend the Queen. She's weaker, but refuses to let herself show it. Resilience is one of her best qualities, one that is necessary to survive a life of duty.
Aramis still holds the Dauphin when the King is escorted some place inside the palace, away from his Queen and heir. Treville makes a gesture, as if signaling he'll take care of it — because keeping the King away from reality seems to be one of his main tasks. Meanwhile, it's Porthos who carries the Queen to her chambers. She lifts her gaze only to see Aramis and her son, to get that perfect image of how things could've been in a different time.
"You need to find the physician and bring him here," Athos announces as Constance takes the Dauphin from Aramis. "You can explain everything on your way back so he's ready."
Aramis nods curtly, already stepping away from is friend and captain.
"Do I need to tell you how urgent this is?"
Aramis tilts his head to the side and presses his lips in a tight line before running to his horse.
Fortunately, the physician is not far from the palace. A middle-age man with light hair and glasses who looks twitchy at the mention of the Queen, but at least his reaction is fast. He only hums and nods as Aramis explains what happened and how the wound looks, what he did to sew it.
"There's not much I can do, then," the doctor says. "Only to look at it and provide some medicine for the pain. God will do the rest."
Fidgeting with the cap in his hands, Aramis only watches as the doctor is led by Constance into the Queen's chambers.
A heavy hand falls onto his shoulder. Porthos shoots him a pitiful look. His brothers all know how he has never been able to close that chapter of his life. It doesn't matter if he went to Douai to become a priest or if he went to war and many times saw death in the eye, the only things in his mind were his son and the woman he loved. The crucifix around his neck burns with memories and nothing can ever erase them. The bond is too strong to break it.
"She'll be fine," Porthos mumbles, in that sombre voice that Aramis has never appreciated. It's on seldom occasion he does use of it, and only when they are in serious danger.
Aramis nods, but decides to keep his gaze on his boots.
It seems to take forever for the doctor to come out, and as expected the man doesn't inform them of anything. They are simple musketeers and there's no need for them to know more than necessary.
"The Queen is resting," Constance announces as she approaches them. "The wound was cleaned, but despite that, we'll need to wait. She will be bed-ridden for at least a week if not more." She glances at d'Artagnan at her side and purses her lips, struggling with something. "I'll let the King know, so she's relieved from her duties for the time being. If some of you could escort me." The men furrow their brows. There's no need for them to go with her through the palace, but she shoots them a pointed look, and even if Athos is intimidating, he has nothing compared to Constance.
Aramis is about to follow them when Constance stops him. "She's resting and no one is allowed in her chambers. Perhaps a couple of you should make sure of that?"
D'Artagnan nods dutifully, and shoves Aramis down the hall. Since the Gascon got married, he seems hell-bent on fulfilling his wife's every desire. It's perhaps one of the consequences of spending so much time apart. The heart grows fonder. Aramis knows this. The longing for watching the Dauphin growing, the baby becoming a child, was overpowering.
They stand outside the room. D'Artagnan standing with a soldier's posture, while Aramis fidgets in his place. It's not difficult to guess why, and it doesn't take long for the Gascon to sigh deeply and encourage his friend to just go in there.
"Go," he mutters and gestures with his head. "A second," he warns quickly. "And, if you ever cared for my life, you better be out before anyone comes by."
Aramis smirks. It'd be easy to mock d'Artagnan's worries, but he's too preoccupied to even come up with a witty line. And so he moves quietly into the room, making sure his movements are precise and slow. Taming the anxiety is probably one of the most difficult things for a man who so often gives into his cravings. He trusts God will lead him, and as a sinner man he hopes He takes pity of the poor decisions he has taken.
Anne is lying in bed, her brown golden hair fanned over the pillow and a wet cloth on her forehead. She looks peaceful, but the small crease between the eyebrows signs she is in pain, and her slumber is unrestful.
He approaches the bed in a couple of long strides. Once at her side, he takes the cloth and soaks it in the bowl with water that's near.
"Constance?" Anne mumbles, without opening her eyes. Her frown deepens, and Aramis can't help but to smile at the way her lips purse together in a pout.
"Not unless she's grown a mustache and her voice has turned grave," he quips and that forces her eyes to flutter open. "In my opinion that would be a shame, considering how graceful she is currently. Not that I'm an eyesore."
She smiles in that soft and slightly innocent way he adores. "No. You are not, Monsieur." He'd fight a thousand wars to keep her from seeing the ugliness of life outside a palace, to keep that expression as pure as possible. He knows she hides her struggles very well, because she's a queen and it's her duty. They can both pretend to be light-hearted from time to time.
"How are you feeling?"
"It hurts, but less than when we were on the road." She swallows thickly. She's thirsty, and so he takes the pitcher with water and pours some in a cup. "The physician praised the delicacy of your work."
He holds the back of her head gently and aids her to drink.
"It'll leave a scar, no matter how delicate my work was."
The memory of the night they spent in the convent is engraved in his head and heart. Her skin was pale and smooth, a contrast against his calloused hands and his scarred body. Now her beauty is marred, and he's the one to blame. Not that she could look any less than magnificent in his eyes.
"It wasn't your fault," Anne mutters.
"I should've protected you."
"You did. You saved me. Again."
It's futile to argue with her, much less now that she's so weak.
Aramis watches her, before leaning forward to press a kiss to her cheek. It's chaste but it lingers making it much less appropriate than it already is. "I must go."
"I know."
Her fingertips caress his cheek and she lets go of him.
He can feel his heart aching, just as he takes one step away from her.
o~o~o
The King leaves the fourth day after their arrival to Orleans. He claims he's feeling unsettled and distressed. Besides, he's quite certain that since the Queen needs rest, he should just allow her to have peace.
They know it's all nonsense. He's bored and no one can blame him for such thing. He is king, and he's accustomed to a certain way of life. The Palais-Royal isn't completely staffed, and as regal as it is, doesn't have the constant movement that the Louvre has.
Since the Queen is still to stay in Orleans, Treville commands d'Artagnan and Porthos to watch over her and the Dauphin, as some other musketeers. It's Constance who demands the presence of Aramis, defying the older man's orders.
"He has some medical knowledge. If we were to need it, I'd feel safer," she explains in front of the King. The man relents and scolds Treville lightly for not thinking about that before. The King might not be passionate about his wife, but he's fond of the Queen and he'll always make sure to keep her safe.
And that's how Aramis ends up in the gardens watching the Dauphin rolling on the grass under Constance attentive gaze. He lets out a raucous laugh when the boy stands up covered in grass stains and his dark hair tousled. It's quite strange to witness a future king playing like any other boy.
He bows when they walk pass him, but soon crouches and stops the boy. There's a ladybug on his cheek and Aramis gently takes it to show it to him. The boy's eyes widen, but Aramis is quick to appease him. "It's good luck. Nothing to be afraid of."
The ladybug climbs up Aramis' hand and the Dauphin grins delighted.
In moments like that he thanks God and Constance for the opportunity they've given him to allow him to see the child.
o~o~o
"Here," Constance tells him as he hands him his blue sash. "The Queen asked me to return it to you. She's thankful." She smiles and moves away.
Instinctively he brings the piece of clothing to his nose. It's warm, like roses blooming in the spring. It smells like Anne, and he wonders if that's just a coincidence or she planned it that way.
He doesn't see Anne that much. It's not that he's not tempted. The craving of being near her every waking moment is strong, but he doesn't need to put her in danger again. And so he looks at her from afar, and they exchange longing and furtive glances. Things become increasingly platonic. But he can't deny sometimes his body yearns to feel her touch. It's both a blessing and a curse. Being so near of the woman he loves and the child he sired and loves more than anything in his life.
Aramis walks down a corridor. It's midafternoon and a nice glow of sunlight bathes the place. He hears the small footsteps before he can see the little boy with unruly hair running towards him. He's red-faced and, as he nears him, Aramis can see the tears running down the boy's cheeks. He's surprisingly strong for such a small creature when he tackles his legs.
"What's the matter?" Aramis asks softly as he kneels to be at the same level.
"I fell!" the child whimpers and points at his knee, scraped and breeches torn. A trickle of blood stains the clothes, but it's nothing to be scared of.
Aramis comforts him, and Constance only smiles faintly at him from the other side of the corridor. When Aramis lifts his gaze, he notices movement and soon finds Anne with her hair falling around her shoulders, and wearing a nightgown, clearly struggling to remain standing. She's sweating and her breathing is labored, but she did the effort for her son. Anne holds onto the doorframe, and her bare feet are as pale as the rest of her against the cold floors.
Constance goes in her aid, and Aramis takes the boy in his arms, lifting him in a warm embrace.
"I'll make it better," he promises.
The boy hiccups, and pouts. "Like Mama?" And it's impressive he can even remember that, but Aramis smiles and nods.
He knows Anne can hear them, because like the stubborn and brave woman she is, she refuses to go back to bed before she's sure her child is fine. He walks closer to her down the corridor and says what he knows it's true. "I've got you. I always will."