"The queen is in labour."
Aramis looked up from the bottom of his pitcher of ale and felt nausea rise to choke him. D'Artagnan sat down at the table, having just arrived with news of the eminent birth of France's future regent. Aramis's seat at the table of the local tavern had become the common place in the last week. Her time had been nearing and for reasons he could speak nothing of, getting as drunk as possible, numbing every sense he had seemed to be the only way he could make the passage of time bearable.
Aramis caught d'Artagnan's frown as the younger musketeer rose from the table to purchase his own refreshment. He knew his hair was most likely ridiculously tousled from running agitated hands through it. This new level of dishevelment was quite a feat considering that under normal circumstances, it was generally an uncontrollable mop.
"Rough week?" d'Artagnan asked with a raised brow. Athos, who sat silently beside him, just gave the new musketeer a placating look. "Another round then?" d'Artagnan continued.
Before he could replay, Athos intervened, pouring him a cup of cool water. "I believe we've had enough."
D'Artagnan's brow rose again and Aramis could understand his confusion. Athos was sober. This was an unusual sight. But since Aramis had been determined to drink all of Paris dry, someone had to be the responsible one.
Alone for a minute before their companion returned, Athos returned to the diatribe he'd been repeating all week – since realising the drinking would be constant and unforgiving.
"She is young and strong. The child is healthy, Aramis," he growled, but not unkindly. "They will be well."
Aramis said nothing; instead he remembered the letters they'd exchanged. Not because the physical copies existed, they'd made a decision to burn each and every one, never to leave any physical trace of their corrospondance once the recipient had read the contents. But the words were imprinted on his mind as a tattoo to the skin. Permanent. And in this case, nothing he regretted.
She was in labour. He frowned into his cup as he took a sip of water, trying to temper the rolling nausea which had less to do with drink and more to do with his growing disquiet. She birthed their child.
My Dearest,
The period of confinement has begun. I dread it, lying in wait for the birth of the baby. The room is dark, stifling and so hot. Priests come and go, offering prayers for the safe delivery. But it is a burden I must bare, if only to ensure that this child has the best chance of survival. Its during this time that I think of you often. I wonder what adventures you partake in, whether you are safe.
I think of your unique little habits; things I have discerned these past months or when I was so busy pretending not to be watching you. The way your smile slants slightly to one side when you're in a teasing mood, the lilt to your voice when you whisper in my ear, your fingers as they brush mine rather scandalously when we're in public.
But mostly, I wonder whether you think of me as much as I do of you.
Write soon.
Forever, YM
Back from his thoughts, to Athos he said, "she refers to herself as YM you know… in our letters. YM." Athos looked confused. "Your Majesty," he clarified.
"Yes, I do believe that is her title." Athos looked around he reasoned, to ensure no one listened to their conversation. It was impossible however, as his words were nothing more than a drunken whisper and they had secured a table in the far corner of the room. Even so, Athos was always diligent about protocols.
Aramis shook his head, the water in his hand sloshing dangerously. "Not Your Majesty as you or Porthos or d'Artagnan or any subject of France would use it. But Your Majesty as in My Majesty." He cocked his brow and bumped his chest. "Mine. Mine Majesty."
Athos rolled his eyes in disgust. The older musketeer did not approve of the liaison, but he was done cautioning against it. Aramis brooded, going back to his thoughts.
My Lady,
The thrill of adventure has been overtaken with the urgency of worry. Waking and unconscious thought is about you and the life you nourish. I pray that all goes well and impatiently look forward the moment I may lay eyes upon both of you.
May God watch over you, as I do in my thoughts and prayer.
With everything that I am, YK
"I call myself, Your Knight."
"You and your flowery words," Athos muttered, but he was listening, giving his friend the ear he seemed to need.
"She likes that," he defended. "She is mine. I am hers." It was an almost inaudible fact, whispered to no one in particular. Aramis put down the cup, an overwhelming sadness replacing the nausea that had minutes before ridden him hard. "But I'm not, am I? And she isn't mine is she? Because if she truly was, I would be with her this moment. Not here…" he sulked, "as far removed as humanly possible."
"Aramis…" Athos warned, his look rebuking any further discussion on the matter.
D'Artagnan returned to the table. "How long do you think it will take? Constance told me it could be days." Aramis choked on his water and Athos thumped him across the back. "It really has been a rough week hasn't it?"
"You have no idea," Athos drawled.
Constance, now free of her husband, had been drafted into the employ of the queen. It could not have been more fortuitous.
She has been a blessing from God. Someone I may confide in, who does not judge my actions. She speaks of her own complicated relationship and I have found comfort in the happy way her romance has blossomed. Despite the impossibility, perhaps someday, we might also be as providential.
She has the most amusing tales to tell - of even your adventures. But she does not hold back her council. It is refreshing to be able to truly be myself with her. Just a woman.
Constance, as it turned out, was willing to pass their letters back and forth with the utmost discretion, faithful to her queen and confidant. It was a secret she kept from even d'Artagnan.
I have known her for many years. Despite a fiery temper, she is loyal and the sole of discretion. I am not sure if I should be alarmed at the tales she might tell. If she paints me as brave, courageous, bold, the slayer of dragons, then she is truthful.
If not, perhaps I should caution that I am no longer who I once was? Or that I have been changed forever since our first meeting? he had teased in his response.
It took a while to become accustomed to her forthright manner of speak. She admits to forgetting who I am at times and doles out advice as she would to a friend. Continued exposure has ensured that I no longer take offense where none was intended. There are times when my other ladies do sometimes raise a cursory brow…
I do not need her to tell me tales of your bravery or your courage. I have experienced this first hand... many times.
I do believe I might be slightly red-faced My Lady.
Perhaps I should have a word with her. Or perhaps not. We have known each other for ages. She is likely to box my ears should I broach the matter.
If I may enquire… when you say you have known her…?
I have known her as a friend. That is all.
I thank you Monsieur, for the speedy clarification.
A pleasure Madam, if it sets your soul at peace. I have want nor need for any other.
I believe, Sir that now I am the one blushing.
"Constance says the child is large and that the birthing will be difficult. I dare say God knew what he was doing when he made women responsible for the continuation of our species," d'Artagnan prattled on, oblivious to the tense undercurrents.
Aramis did not hear d'Artagnan, lost as he was in his own throughts and worries. He knew women birthed babies, he knew they were created in such a magnificent way as to manage it successfully. It didn't stop the bone chilling terror he felt taking root at the base of his spine, holding him hostage. The hours passed as if they were years. He knew there was nothing he could do, and yet news, any news would be a welcome distraction from the oppressive silence.
After sunset, a knock came at the door of his room at the garrison. Constance, her form completely shrouded by a large, black cloak rushed past him and into the room.
"Discretion," she murmured as she removed her large hood when the door was closed securely behind her. He felt his heart would burst at the sight of her. Half hope, half agony at what she might say. "I do not have much time." She must have seen the stress and worry on his face because she placed a kind hand on his forearm. "She is well. The babe… Aramis, he is a fine boy. Strong and healthy."
He exhaled audibly and turned away from her, leaning against the wall for support. It felt as if his entire life hinged on this moment, the words, she is well. She was alive. He could breathe again.
"She knew you would be anxious," Constance continued in hushed tones, the fiery colour of her hair intensified by candlelight. "She is tired, but very very proud. She sends you this." She passed him a wax sealed letter and he looked at the note from somewhere outside of himself. "It is not by her hand, she was not strong enough to pen it herself. There is a token inside."
He cleared his throat, focused on the letter. "Thank you."
"No one will be permitted to see the boy for a few days yet." Her eyes were sorry. "But soon," she promised. He knew the words were from Anne.
He nodded and she moved to leave, bringing the hood of the cloak up to cover her face.
"Constance… tell her-" His throat constricted and he couldn't get the words out.
She nodded, understanding. She hesitated a moment. "Aramis. I do this because I care about you." Concern was etched across her face. "And I have come to care for her too. Please, be careful. With the child born, if anyone suspected-"
"I know. We both know. It is the risk we take."
"I do understand," she said softly, squeezing his arm. "If it were d'Artagnan, I would risk the same." She paused, a small smile playing across the lips. "Well, it was easier since I wasn't a queen and he wasn't quite a musketeer back then."
They grinned at each other, sharing in a moment of amusement. Before leaving, she cocked her head to the side and observed him with a small smile. "Your hair…" She shook her head, it seemed in equal turns amused and exasperated.
He just shrugged, assuming she made reference to the uncontrollable mess. Alone in his room after her departure, he tore open the letter, the words a blur as he inhaled them.
My Dearest Aramis, (His chest constricted at the direct address. It was the only time she'd ever used his name. He suspected the lapse was due to the fact that the letter was dictated and Constance the scribe)
He is beautiful. God has blessed us with a healthy boy, just as I knew he would. Have courage for the both of us. The separation is not yet at an end. But I pray that we will see each other soon. And that you might meet the one who is so beloved to us both.
I enclose a token to tide you over. I am delighted to inform that he has his father's unruly hair. It is plentiful and curls madly. He has already stolen every part of my heart that does not already belong to you.
Forever, YM
Folded inside the pages was a tiny lock of hair. Even in the dim candlelight, the lock, he was certain, the exact shade of his own.
It was then that he doubled over, his eyes burning with the weight of unshed tears. Aramis made no attempt to control his raging emotions. For so long he had kept it all back, now it threatened to crush him. The anxiety, the worry, the dizzying relief poured from him in waves as incessant as those on the high seas.
On his knees beside his bed, he raised the cross around his neck to his lips, sending a prayer of thanks to God.
This is how Athos found him, intuitively understanding. He left after watching from the doorway for a minute, but returned a moment later with two cups and a pitcher of ale.
Without any other words, he poured the liquid, clapped his brother on the shoulder and held the cup aloft.
"To the continued health and safety of your heart."
Aramis smiled at his choice of words. "I might accuse you of using flowery words."
"There are times when it's called upon," Athos drawled with a small smile. "I shouldn't say it, and yet this once, I will. Congratulations."
"It is bitter sweet. He will never know who I am. I will never be able to lay claim to him."
"Do you regret it?"
Aramis grinned. "Not at all." He took a long drink. "So… when do you get me into the palace on official duty so I might see my son?"
Athos rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. "Unbelievable."
He was smiling into his cup though – barely - but Aramis did not miss it.
a/n: There is some more story to tell. I had planned 3 chapters, but I've expanded the story a little. Expect at least two more chapters. Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing.