"Your Majesty," Treville bowed his head, removing his hat to hold it over his heart. Behind him, his men, sans Aramis, Athos, and Porthos, of course, quickly dropped down and followed suit, recognizing the somberness of the situation.

He thought he saw d'Artagnan flinch under Rochefort's questioning gaze, and wondered whether this was from the thought of his failure, as he so clearly blamed himself for the King's death despite that no one else could, or the wound he had refused to see to before going before the Queen.

The Queen stared at him, eyes already lit with a horrible suspicion as she demanded, "Where is my husband the king?"

Beside her, standing like a snake poised to whisper poison into her ear, Rochefort gave her arm a light, barely noticeable squeeze. But notice it he did, if only because he was watching her intently, for any signs that she might not be able to bear this.

"He...was slain in our battle against the Spanish slavers, Your Majesty, and his wounds were great. Forgive me." Treville said softly.

"My God." The Queen's hand lifted to her mouth, two silent tears slipping from her eyes. She made as if to spin away then, but paused, staring at her sleeping child in Constance's arms.

Treville pitied her, that they had to come at such a time and tell her this dreadful news. He knew well enough that she and the King were not close; most of France knew this, and yet still she mourned him, as they all did.

"Did he...suffer?" she asked softly, barely able to choke out the words.

Treville bit his lip and then lied to his Queen. "His death was swift and painless, Your Majesty."

She let out a halting sob then, as if this news was worse than knowing he was dead, before turning away and clutching desperately at her stomach.

Rochefort rounded on Treville rather suddenly. "Your musketeer was tasked with the safety of the King, specifically. It is his duty as a musketeer to lay down his life for your king, as necessary, and yet he displayed a level of ineptitude that is shocking in its entirety these past few days, culminating in the death of your King on your watch!"

D'Artagnan took a step forward, hand moving subconsciously towards his sword as Rochefort continued in his tirade, but Treville ordered him back with a word. Rochefort was not yet done.

"He, and, by extension, you, have failed in your duty to the King of France," Rochefort snapped coldly. "He is not fit to call himself a musketeer, and brings disgrace to your entire regiment. I hereby revoke his commission to the Musketeers, and-"

"Only the king has the ability to do that," Treville interrupted then, finally seeming to have found himself. He glanced at his youngest musketeer; there was a grim sort of determination in d'Artagnan's face that most certainly boded ill, and yet the boy did not speak in defense of himself.

"And now the King is dead," Rochefort snapped bitterly, clearly not put off his course by the reminder. "Because of that young man!"

Still, d'Artagnan withstood Rochefort's tirade without a word, and Treville could only imagine the guilt washing through him; it was certainly as great as his own.

"D'Artagnan fought with honor for the King until the very last, and was only obeying his orders. We did what we could to protect him, and one of our own lies even now with the physician, near death," Treville cut in, choking on that last word. "And it is the Queen Regent who must now decide the fate of a musketeer, even one such as D'Artagnan. Your duties are of an advisor and soldier to the Queen, not her keeper," Treville said, as if lecturing a young child; it was his usual tone with King Louis.

Rochefort's eyes flashed. "You dare to lecture me?" he demanded, stepping forward with a hand on his sword.

"Enough," the Queen's gentle voice interrupted them, and the men in the room instantly fell silent upon the command of their Queen. "Rochefort, I am grateful to have you by my side always, for I know I can trust you. But I would hear the truth of this." Soft eyes fell on Treville. "I trust the injured man will live, Captain?"

Treville sighed, a newfound respect for the Queen blossoming then. Even in the face of her husband's death, she thought of a wounded musketeer.

He had once thought her compassion a charade, merely to endear her to the people. Now, he could only believe it to be a true facet of her.

"He was...injured, Your Majesty, almost fatally. He is with the physicians as we speak. It is too early to tell whether he will survive the wound, but he recieved it in service of his King, loyal to the end." He shot Rochefort a glare as he said these words, and the man actually had the shame to look abashed, if only for a moment.

"One hurt musketeer is not our current concern, Captain, for all that he clearly attempted his duty with honor," he said finally, ignoring the look Anne sent him. "Her Majesty is very kind, but we would know of the King."

Anne took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me what truly happened, Captain. Leave out nothing, for know that doing so could cost you not only your commission, but your life, as well."

Treville sighed. "D'Artagnan is not the one to blame, Your Majesty. He followed his orders to the best of his ability, and defended the King valiantly, as any of the musketeers might."

It was times like these that made it difficult to gauge just how good of a liar Treville was, he thought with wry bitterness. He wondered if Anne had ever understood how good his ability was.

"The King and D'Artagnan managed to escape from the Spanish slavers, only to be caught in the woods by a group of them. I and several men under my leadership found them there, but we were set upon by bandits. D'Artagnan," and here he motioned to the thick red line across D'Artagnan's throat, courtesy of Milady, "was injured, and unable to defend the King." He sighed. "If the fault lies with anyone but the King's murderess, it is with I, for failing in my duty and not reaching the King in time."

The Queen let out a hiccuping sob then, turning away and clutching her son from the crib, pulling him tightly against her chest and refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

But before another word could be spoken, d'Artagnan stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head in shame. "Your Majesty, I must..." he ignored the looks that the other musketeers sent him, taking a deep breath and ploughing on. "Captain Treville is...mistaken, in his interpretation of the situation."

He waited on his knees then, much to the horror of his fellows, and something like the dark amusement of Rochefort.

Damn the boy.

"I am entirely to blame for the death of the King, as I failed in my duty as a musketeer to him, and left him with one who wished his harm, and I cannot let another take my blame for what happened to him on my watch, despite the hardships of the days previous. I may have been injured deeply, but it should not have kept me from defending the King. I...the woman who killed him, the murderess, I left His Majesty alone with her for only a few moments to go and scout for trouble, not believing that she would..." he swallowed. "That is to say, I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary, Your Majesty, so long as you know of my sincerest-"

The slap that resounded throughout the hall startled even Treville, and he stared with wide eyes at the Queen, her hand still white as she pulled it away from d'Artagnan's rapidly reddening cheek.

D'Artagnan flinched, but didn't pull back; there was some small part of Treville that had gained the awful knowledge that the boy thought he deserved it, almost seemed to want the pain.

Her lip quivered for a moment, before the Queen schooled her features once more, and glared at Treville.

"Is this true?" she demanded, voice uncharacteristically cold.

The Captain took a deep breath, wondering if Gascony pride would truly be the end of him today, and if the boy had even realized the situation he had just placed them all in. "Your Majesty, D'Artagnan-"

"It is as I said, Your Majesty," D'Artagnan said quietly. "Captain Treville was not there to witness my failure, and believes that I speak out of my own shame, but I told you nothing but the truth of what occurred."

She let out another sound between a sob and a laugh, glaring between the two of them. Treville fell silent.

Rochefort's eyes narrowed, not at the explanation, but at something Treville had stated, earlier. "A murderess? I was not aware that these slavers had women in their employ."

"We have encountered her before, Your Majesty," Treville continued, now looking only at the Queen and ignoring Rochefort altogether. "She is most...dangerous, and harbors a vendetta against our men."

"And she is not dead?" Rochefort demanded, voice almost shrill.

Treville paused. "She...escaped, during the melee, though we believe she was gravely injured."

"Can your musketeers do nothing right?" Rochefort muttered under his breath, but the Queen was hardly listening to their words.

Constance, from her place beside the Queen, stepped forward as though to comfort her, but Anne jerked away, holding her child all the tighter to her chest, as if she were afraid that Constance might try and take him from her.

She looked just then to be as young as she had when she first arrived in France, wide eyes staring from the musketeers, to Rochefort, to her child, as though she wasn't certain who to look to for help, but knew that she was unable to do this on her own, in her current state.

"We will let it be known that he died during an...unfortunate illness, or there will be questions as to what His Majesty was doing in a Spanish slave camp, that could invariably lead to war with Spain, a war that we are not prepared for as yet," Rochefort suggested then, and Anne was glad for the competence of at least someone around her.

She nodded, still not turning around, her attention solely on her son. The King was dead. Louis was dead.

And her son was not even a reminder of the man she had lost, for he was not even his.

For the first time since it had happened, she felt genuine guilt for what she had done. Then again, she would not now have a son if she had not.

"The King is dead," Rochefort said quietly. "Long live the King."

And all eyes turned to the child in Anne's arms.

Anne turned, gave Rochefort a wan smile, and then turned her attention back to the matter at hand. "I cannot make a decision today regarding your musketeer's fate, Captain. Leave us, and I shall make a decision regarding what is to be done to avenge my husband in two days' time."

Treville dipped his head again. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Send your best men, sans young d'Artagnan, after this...woman who slaughtered my husband in cold blood, and bring her to me."

Treville nodded. "I have already sent them, Your Majesty."

"Rochefort, the Dauphin's...the King's christening and...coronation," she choked on the word, "shall have to be moved back and our guests appeased. See to it."

Rochefort nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."

And oh, did Treville not wish to slap that smug look off the man's face. Even in the face of the king's death, he did not even pretend to mourn the man, so long as the Queen was not looking at him.

And now, he had the Queen's undying gratitude, and stood at her side, not like a soldier, as he was, but as...

He did not dare to finish that thought.

It was as the Captain turned to go that the woman once again surprised him. "And Treville?" she called out hesitantly, causing him to turn. "Do let me know of the fate of the man who so valiantly attempted to save my husband, and was injured."

He nodded. "Of course."


The day after the King's death was met with rain, pouring from the heavens as if God himself mourned Louis' death as much as the rest of France.

Anne knew she should be at the chapel, in prayer for her husband's soul, but she could not bring herself to go.

Anne could not bring herself to leave her son's chambers that day, for, though she had not loved her husband as she loved Aramis, and yes, she knew now that she did indeed love the musketeer, he had been her husband, her king, and, at times, her friend.

They had practically grown up together, and their love for each other very much reflected that of the brother and sister Anne had always considered them, strange marriage as that was. They had weathered their battles as best they could, what with the growing animosity between France and Spain, had worked so hard to carry on France's legacy, had cared as deeply as Anne privately thought her husband was able to about someone else about their people.

And then her husband had gone and gotten himself killed playing at being a commoner.

She would not lie. Sometimes, she thought of what it might be like, to be a commoner, to be a normal woman whose life did not revolve around producing an heir and international secrets, and so she could not fully fault Louis for wondering the same.

Her ladies tip toed around her that day, bringing her meals which she did not eat, and tending to her son when they could manage to pull him from her arms.

She had realized, with the death of Louis, how terribly vulnerable they all were.

How terribly vulnerable she was, for having sinned against God and her husband, when her husband had died of no wrong but his own ignorance.

And now Aramis lay in the barracks of the musketeer garrison, dying of his own wounds incurred when protecting her husband. How cruel God was, to punish her like this.

And her son...Dear God, what might become of him? If any had so much as an inkling of what she had done to have him...

"Has Your Majesty come to a decision regarding justice for the King's death?" Rochefort's voice broke through her morbid thoughts, as he swept into the room and ordered the women out.

Marguerite sent Anne a reassuring smile before picking up the Dauphin - nay, the little King - and carrying him out with her. Constance followed soon after, though the look she sent the Queen was one more akin to concern, at leaving her alone with Rochefort.

Which was foolish. Of course the Queen would be safe with her most trusted companion.

The doors slid shut behind them, and the Comte and Queen were alone for the first time since he had returned to France.

"I do not want to think on this now, Rochefort," Anne said carefully, turning back to her vigil at the window. "I have just lost my husband, and the King of France, and I wish only to mourn him and be with my son."

"As is your right, Your Majesty," Rochefort answered calmly, and she could hear him moving closer, behind her. "However, your husband's unfortunate death must be avenged. If Your Majesty is not seen to act swiftly and decisively against those who caused his death, there will always be rumors..."

Anne glanced up sharply. "What are you implying, Rochefort?"

He swallowed. "No more than any nobles with a grudge against Spain will imply, Your Majesty. You sent letters to Spain, asking for ships and soldiers, and now your husband, the King of France, is dead."

Anne's eyes widened. "You told me to send those letters!"

"Indeed," Rochefort dipped his head, "And you were wise to heed my counsel, for you cannot hope to keep control of this country alone. However, you must also prove yourself loyal to France, and punish those who allowed your husband the king to be killed, or there will always be those who will believe that you were complicit in His Majesty's death, so that Spain could take France for themselves, and they will take action."

Anne gasped. "It was not the musketeers who killed my husband, Rochefort."

Rochefort nodded. "Of course not, Your Majesty, but the musketeer d'Artagnan was responsible for the king, and he was killed on d'Artagnan's watch. It will be considered a mercy if you do not have all four of those who were there executed for allowing their king to die."

Anne bit back a sob. "That...woman was truly responsible for my husband the King's death." Her face hardened then. "I want her found, Rochefort. Send your entire Red Guard if necessary, but find this woman and make sure she is brought back to Paris, to be executed for the crime she committed."

Rochefort bowed. "Of course, Your Majesty. However, you had Treville send musketeers-"

"I do not know that I trust them to get the job done, when they hesitated before," Anne snapped irritably, and instantly regretted it at the look that crossed her old friend's face. She sighed. "Forgive me, Rochefort, I-"

"There is nothing to forgive, Your Majesty," Rochefort responded coolly, taking her own, silky hand in his and pressing a light kiss on it. "You are understandably upset by the recent events. Trust that I will track down the loathsome creature who committed this crime and bring her before you. But in the mean time, France must see her Queen strong after the death of the King, as must our neighbors, so that they do not dare take advantage. You must act with what we do have."

She sighed. "And yet, I do not want to."

"We must all do things we do not wish, Your Majesty," Rochefort said softly.

She nodded sagely. "You are correct, Rochefort, of course. I am glad to have you here with me, in my darkest of hours." And she did not say that, though she valued his presence, she would have preferred another's.

He gave her a reassuring smile, eyes crinkling at her compliment. "I am glad to be of service to my Queen."

She truly did not know how she would have survived with this sudden burden on her shoulders, without Rochefort by her side.


"Oh, Rochefort, please, I need you, I want you-" the woman panted, her breasts heaving in the too tight corset she wore as she trembled on his bed.

"No," Rochefort growled, lurching to his feet then, and the painted, pretty whore gave him a look of confusion. He spun away from her then, pacing. "I don't want you begging. You're the Queen of France. She doesn't...she won't beg."

The woman frowned at him, and he forced himself to remember that she was only being paid for this, was not Anne and would not intrinsically know her ways, no matter how much he wanted her to. "But I thought you wanted her - me - to want you."

"I do!" he snapped, turning back to her then. She flinched back, and Rochefort sighed. "Her husband has just died. I want her to...I want to comfort her, somehow."

The whore smiled. "Well, I think that I can..." she moved forward then, reaching out to him in supplication. "Rochefort," she started, but he moved then, putting a finger to her lips.

He closed his eyes then, breathing in her scent with a smile, her need, her yearning for comfort, for him.

But - no. It was wrong, so wrong, he realized, as she opened her mouth to say his name again.

"Don't speak in my presence again," he told the woman who was not quite Anne, for he couldn't bear the sound of her voice, not Anne's.

The whore pouted, but only for a moment. He had paid her well enough that he suspected if he had asked her to throw herself from the palace roof, she would do it. So she simply smiled, and pulled him back onto the bed in silence.

And that was enough, for now.


"Don't lose hope, D'Artagnan. I will speak to the Queen again when she is...recovered, somewhat, and see that this travesty can be solved in some way," Treville told him, when they had returned to the garrison and far from the accusing eyes of Rochefort and the pained eyes of their new Queen Regent.

Treville walked up to his office then, and d'Artagnan found himself feeling utterly alone.

Mostly, for he found his feet dragging him in the direction of the infirmary, where Aramis lay, injured and possibly dying.

Because of him.

Some part of him knew that wasn't fair, as Porthos had said, though his heart did not want to admit it.

Milady had done this, had killed their king, and yet d'Artagnan could hardly separate this from the fact that he had been the one to let her. That, after she had sliced open Louis' throat, she had gone for him, and he had been too weak to fight her off.

To kill her, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes on her again.

The door to the barracks' infirmary swung open, and d'Artagnan stepped hesitantly inside.

There were very few still here. A man whose eye had been sliced open by one of the slavers; one of the men Treville had brought with him on the rescue. A recruit, arm cut rather brutally from his first mission, and Aramis.

Aramis, lying wounded on the farthest bed, wounded because D'Artagnan had been unable to kill a woman.

Unlike the others, his injuries were hardly superficial, and D'Artagnan winced slightly as he took in the sight of his brother, bleeding from his stomach and his forehead, eyes closed and body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and blood that smelled of death.

D'Artagnan lifted the back of his hand to his nose as he came closer, as he watched the garrison physician sew Aramis back together with hands far steadier than D'Artagnan's own.

And then the physician left, giving D'Artagnan a sympathetic smile, no doubt as yet unknowing of D'Artagnan's blame in the matter, though he was sure the garrison would know of it by the end of the day.

And D'Artagnan was left, staring at Aramis' body as he took in few, shaky breaths, too long of pauses in between each one.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't sit on his hands and do nothing, couldn't keep thinking about what had happened today, and in the days preceding it.

He had to do something.

But D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to move, as he waited for Aramis to wake.


The King's Will was very clear: Anne was not to be named Queen Regent after his death, for he had seen what the ambition of a mother could do to tear apart a country, and he did not believe Anne capable of such horrible responsibility. He requested that a council be made, of men who would protect his son with all of the love and care that they could provide France, men who could be trusted in such a position.

Naturally, the Duke of Savoy offered his candidacy, as brother-in-law to the King, before the King was even in his grave, somehow knowing of the Will before Anne herself had even read it. She could only thank God that his brother had not done the same.

"I cannot fight this," Anne said, voice hollow. "It is the Last Will of the King. To go against his last request as my first order... I have lost France, Rochefort. We have lost France. A Council will raise my son, not I, and I will never be able to see him unless I ask their permission. He won't trust me; he won't..."

Rochefort was squinting down at the parchment. "The Duke of Savoy will tear this country apart for his own means. Merging Savoy and France will make him the most powerful man on any such council, and his first act would be to take any and all power away from you, Your Majesty. We cannot allow it to occur."

Anne swallowed, turning back to him. "What can we do? I will not become known as another Marie de Medici, stealing my son's throne for myself."

"It is not his throne until he comes of age, Your Majesty," Rochefort explained calmly. "His betters must mind it until then." He rubbed his thumb over his upper lip then - something Anne remembered him doing when he taught her of French Court, lost in thought over it - before continuing. "I believe that we can seize the power of Regent without violence, relatively easily, with the right support."

"And whose support would that mean?" Anne demanded.

"Cardinal Mazarin," Rochefort responded, without hesitation. "If we have the support of the Church, the other members of the Council could be...persuaded, to fold their own power, Your Majesty."

Anne stared at him. "The Cardinal," she repeated, voice blank. Then, "I have spent many years playing fire with a Cardinal, Rochefort, and was nearly burned beyond redemption for it once. I will not risk such a thing again."

"I understand that, Your Majesty, but Cardinal Mazarin is not Richelieu. I genuinely believe he has France's best interests in mind, and understands that, right now, its best interest is you. He also has Spanish interests, and has had for many years, which can only help you."

"And when the best interest is not in me?" Anne demanded. "In several years, when my power is consolidated and he does not have enough?"

Rochefort shrugged. "Then you must give him what power you will now, and ensure that he remains indebted to you and unable to reach for more. And, when the time comes, you must take back that power."

Anne blinked at him, confused, and Rochefort went on, "Make him the First Minister of France, beneath your tenure as Queen Regent, as Richelieu was for the King. And let him know that he has this position only because you wish it, for now. With the support of the Church and the second most powerful figure in France, you will not need to worry about the outcry from the Duke of Savoy, and whoever else knows of this wish of the King."

Anne swallowed. "What do we know about Mazarin?" she asked finally, for the plan was a sound one, much as she disliked it.

Rochefort sighed. "He was Richelieu's man, from the very beginning of his career. I suspect that he is not as...devout as most would expect the Cardinal to be, but then, neither was Richelieu himself. And he studied under the late Cardinal. He will understand the merging of politics and religion." He raised a hand, when she moved to speak. "I do not say that we should trust him, Your Majesty, only that this will be the best course to avoid any sort of a battle."

Anne nodded. "I understand. I want you to find out more about him, though. Where his loyalties lie. Whether or not he will go to the Council about a coup if we approach him, or if he will keep our secrets."

Rochefort nodded. "In the meantime, while we wait for Spain's response, bring our army back to Paris, to protect the Dauphin at the palace until his coronation."

Anne's forehead wrinkled with a new concern, at those words. "Won't that worry the people? Our bringing in troops to secure the palace? Surely they will think we are bringing them in to defend the king against...uprisers, and that will only cause chaos."

Rochefort shook his head. "Your Majesty, you must protect the Dauphin at all costs. You must not let anyone see your weakness until you are officially named Queen Regent of France."

Anne sighed. "I know," she whispered hoarsely. "I just do not wish to tear France apart before my son can claim it."

Rochefort reached out, placing his hand over Anne's. "We will not allow that, Your Majesty," he promised her, and Anne smiled hesitantly at him, removing her dainty hand and clasping it in her other.