Many thanks for the kind comments I've received so far. Writing this story has been a lot of fun, and it's definitely taken some turns I had not anticipated. The feelings and angst are a little more prominent in this chapter, but action will follow soon. I'm ahead in the story right now, so I may post more frequently until Christmas slows the pace. Let me know what you think...

CHAPTER IV

Constance was on edge, and found herself pacing back and forth across the sitting room that adjoined the royal nursery. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but she could not will herself to sit and continue knitting the woollen cap she was making for the small prince. After all, she was risking everything-her friendship with the Queen, her position, and possibly her life-by allowing herself to be drawn into the plan that was now unfolding in the last hours of Christmas Eve. But once the door opened soundlessly and Aramis' eyes met hers, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had done the right thing. The person standing before her was not the carefree, dashing musketeer that she had remembered. Instead, she saw a man that she barely recognized. Aramis was thin- too thin. His face, drawn and pale, hinted at an abundance of sleepless nights. In striking contrast, his deep brown eyes burned with an intensity that bespoke a determination bordering on desperation.

"Constance," he said quietly, his voice devoid of his usual teasing tone. He held out his arms, and she hugged him tightly, her eyes filling with tears. "I've missed your common sense," he whispered, holding her close. After a moment, she pulled away to hold his face in her hands. There was so much she wanted to say, but all she could manage was a whisper. "Go to him." She nodded towards the door to the next room. He stared at the ten feet that separated him from his son, but remained motionless. "Go on," she said encouragingly.

"I don't know if I can," he finally replied, his voice breaking with uncertainty. A dull laugh escaped from his mouth. "How ironic is that? I've done nothing but long for this moment for months, and now that it's here, I'm actually afraid." he stopped, and his gaze met hers. "What if I can't stand the pain? To be so close-to cradle him in my arms-and yet know he can never be mine? Perhaps that is to be my punishment from God."

"No, Aramis, you know that's not true. Your God is a God of mercy. You've said it yourself, many times," said Constance soothingly, pained to see him so tortured.

"Yes, so I have," he replied bitterly, and wandered over to the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass as his arms braced against the frame. "But Constance, maybe God has finally given up on me. After all, I didn't spend a second to think of the consequences for Isabelle-to say nothing of the possibility of a baby-when we became intimate. All I thought about was myself and my own pleasure. What was I thinking? We were only teenagers, for God's sake. And did I learn from my mistake? No." He shook his head and turned to perch on the sill and face her. As he slumped against the window, the tears he had held at bay for several months finally defied his self-control.

"You know, the first time I heard the King talking so proudly about his heir he'd sired, I honestly thought I would lose my mind. I had no idea how agonizing it would be. And now I will suffer, and Anne will suffer. My son will have to grow up dressed in stifling, princely clothes that no little boy should have to wear. The carefree life I had as a child will never be his. He will never be more than ten feet away from a tutor or a guard. He will be forbidden to climb trees and pick apples, for fear he might be hurt. He will never be able swim in the river on a whim, or spend all day exploring the countryside with just his dog for company. There will be expectations, and etiquette, and the pressure of having a king for a father. A king who is pompous, self-centered, and petty- and doesn't love the mother of my son the way she…"

"Stop it," ordered Constance firmly, moving to his side and kneeling next to him. "There is nothing that can be done about it now. What's done is done. You can still be important in his life. Look at Treville. With the exception of the Cardinal, the King trusts no one more. Aramis, you're the finest of the king's musketeers—a man any little boy would idolize. A word from you will have more influence than you can possibly imagine." She stopped and smiled at him knowingly. "Especially if you teach him to shoot." Enthusiasm radiated from her face, and he found himself smiling at her through his tears. "You are a rare woman, Constance. I treasure our friendship—despite all the times your hand has somehow made contact with my face in a somewhat aggressive manner."

"It was nothing that wasn't deserved," retorted Constance briskly as she rose to her feet, secretly relieved to finally hear a comment made in true Aramis fashion. "Now put down your weapons—I'll not have you armed to the teeth when you see your baby for the first time—and take off that rain-soaked jacket before you drip all over my carpet. I'll fetch you a towel to dry your hands, and then we'll go meet your son." He nodded and did as she instructed, grateful to have her taking charge, thus allowing him several more minutes to collect himself. He unbuckled his sword belt, and laid his arquebus and pistols on the small table by the fire. He shed his leather jacket quickly, his hand running absently over the pauldron. He hung it up neatly to dry, fearing Constance's wrath if he did otherwise. Standing in front of the hearth, he warmed his hands, trying to decide if he should actually wake the baby, or merely have a look at him and allow him to sleep. As he deliberated, Aramis suddenly realized that he had no real idea of how much time had already passed. A few moments might be all that was left. He began to panic, and fervently wished that he'd thought the whole thing through well beforehand. When he heard Constance re-enter the room, he decided he had waited long enough.

Turning, he blurted out, "l can't wait any longer. Let's…" His words died away as he saw Constance approach him with a small bundle wrapped in a white silk blanket embroidered with a gold fleur-de-lis. A tiny fist stretched up, and Aramis stared at it, transfixed by the impossibly small fingers. The look on his face was one of pure wonder, and absolute, unmistakable joy. He scarcely heard the words that were spoken next. "I guessed you wouldn't want to wait, so I brought him to you. Say hello to the most beautiful baby in all of France."