When D'Artagnan usually beheld the King, it was with the same fond exasperation as one would look at an overly dramatic child. With affection, yes, but overall a sense of… Foreboding, as if the child's attitude is a foreshadow of things to come. Grievances too difficult to name, sorrows too thick to speak aloud.
D'Artagnan had always known, deep down, that he did not serve this man. This man was a spoiled, insecure child with little concept how to run a country. Men like Richlieu, Treveille and Athos, women like Constance, Sylvie, the Queen… They truly ran and protected France. King Louis merely sat upon a throne and issued unreasonable commands and greeted guests.
That fact had never made D'Artagnan sick like it did now.
Sprawled over his throne, Louis looked like a bobcat, languid and satisfied after a long hunt. His wig towered upon his head, a mass of black curls half combed. There were bags sitting beneath his eyes, an obvious sign of sleeplessness. He straightened on his golden chair when they entered the throne room, the only other signs of life being that of the four guards standing near the entrance and exit.
"Monsieur Athos, Musketeers, good," Louis cried, as if overjoyed to see them. "I was just about to summon you."
Athos bowed low at the waist, D'Artagnan and Porthos following the movement a second behind. "My liege. You're looking well."
Louis snorted darkly. "Don't lie to your King, Athos. Treveille already tried that today," D'Artagnan felt a shiver wrack his spine at the warning in the King's tone. "He wouldn't show reason. I'm sure you won't make the same mistake," Athos's expression did not change from its usual neutrality, but D'Artagnan saw him tense. At that moment, the doors to their left opened slowly.
D'Artagnan heard Porthos's sharp intake of breath as Spanish guards escorted Aramis into the room, followed by five Red Guards. Aramis, despite the weight of his shackles, strode into the room confidently. He glanced at them grimly. "Ah, Aramis!" The King cried, eyes lighting with recognition. He rubbed his hands together. "Priesthood didn't work out for you, then?" He inquired.
Again, D'Artagnan didn't like that tone. Aramis ignored it, choosing to bow his head respectfully instead.
"I craved the chance to serve you again, Majesty," he replied, humbly. Louis grinned and gestured to the chains around his ankles.
"Well, you've got your wish. You can serve all of France, actually. I don't know or care if it's true, what the Spanish say about you being this Rene fellow, but the Spanish Emissary Alejandro has demanded your arrest in exchange for peace. It sounds like a simple enough deal, don't you think?" How did he get to the King so quickly? D'Artagnan bit his tongue to stop the torrent of curses from flowing out of his mouth. They had underestimated Miguel and Alejo again.
He prayed it would not cost them their brother a second time.
Athos stepped forward. "Majesty…" He began diplomatically.
"Quiet!" Louis snapped. "As I said, I neither know nor care if Aramis is truly an assassin. But peace is better than war. The only reason I was going to summon you is to give you the chance to say your goodbyes," D'Artagnan's breath hitched in his throat. He looked at Aramis, standing calmly to their left. As he watched, Aramis's throat bobbed as he gulped.
Athos's voice was calm but firm. "My King, please! The Spanish are liars and…"
"The Spanish, after Aramis's arrest, will be our allies. So you'd do best to watch your tone from now on, Captain," Louis interrupted sternly. Athos's jaw clenched, but he nodded obediently. Louis softened. "Besides," he continued, as if trying to reason with a hysteric child.
"You're wasting time. The Spanish should be here in a moment. This is the time to say goodbye, if you'd like to do so," D'Artagnan resisted the urge to reach out and grab Athos's arm. He could feel Aramis's eyes burning into the side of his head, the promise he had just made like a burn upon his soul.
"D'Artagnan, promise me something. If… If I am forced to leave again, or if… if Alejo takes me, promise me you'll look after Athos and Porthos. And Adelina."
His palms felt warm and wet as he clasped them behind his back, trying to still the insistent tremble. There was a strain of desperation in Athos's voice when he tried a third time to appeal.
"My King, please listen. Would you truly sentence a good French citizen to death for the sake of appeasing King Phillipe? He has never shown Your Majesty your rightful respect and veneration, nor given you cause to trust his word."
"I'm not entirely sure Aramis is the perfect French citizen," Louis drawled, eyes flashing to the silent marksman. Aramis met his gaze without fear or regret, and D'Artagnan cursed his foolishness. The very act of not backing down was an admission of guilt if he had ever seen one.
"In fact, I'm not sure who he is at all. Besides an accused traitor to the Crown and murderer of innocent people," D'Artagnan's attention was so snagged on the conversation at hand, he hadn't noticed Porthos slowly inching toward the Spanish guard. D'Artagnan craned his neck to see Porthos quietly gesture to their friend.
"Aramis, come here," he gritted between clenched teeth. The Spaniards stared at Porthos, the language barrier preventing them from understanding his words, but based on how they tensed, they had comprehended his thinking. D'Artagnan strode to his side, trusting Athos to distract the King.
Aramis shook his head frantically. "Porthos, no! I know what you're thinking!" He hissed, eyes wide. "Don't, please." He made to step away, but before he could retreat into the arms of his incarcerators, there was a knock on the doors across the room from the throne.
Louis narrowed his eyes. "Come!" He called. Then, his gaze shifted to them coldly. "Your time is up. I did give you a chance, remember," he told them as the doors opened, revealing two men dressed in clothes D'Artagnan would never afford. Silky cloth of blue and purple, like the fine philosophers of Rome. D'Artagnan growled. Aramis shied away. "Emissary Alejandro, is this the man you seek?" Their King inquired, waving a hand to indicate Aramis, who looked caught between terror and resignation.
Alejo's eyes swept over them all, not an ounce of emotion or hesitance in his eyes. He's empty, D'Artagnan realized. Incapable of love or mercy. So unlike his brother. Alejo nodded and bowed. "It is, Your Majesty. I give you my country's supreme thanks for helping us bring this murderer to justice," D'Artagnan saw Athos's eyes burrow into the other man, every muscle tense and eyes aflame with a thirst for vengeance. Alejo waved a hand. "Bring him forth, men."
D'Artagnan's world split into two scenes. The first was Porthos. His elder moved with the practiced fluency of a dancer, slipping his sword free of its scabbard and quickly stepping before the brigade of armed Spaniards. He reached out, as if in slow motion, and grabbed Aramis's arm, hauling him in place to Porthos's back.
"Porthos, no!" Aramis cried out.
The second was Athos swooping, as gracefully as a bird in flight, away from Louis's throne to take up position at Porthos's side, eyes narrowed, and one arm thrown out to keep Aramis behind the protective wall of their bodies. "Get behind us, Aramis!" Aramis's horrified face was only matched by the complete shock on Louis's, and the satisfied smirks of Alejo and Lucero.
D'Artagnan saw, in that split second, their possible chances of survival. There were none. Either they died in battle defending a brother, they watched Alejo drag Aramis away and withered from shame or they were hanged for their actions.
The world snapped back into focus as he made his decision, sliding into the empty spot as the third, trapping Aramis inside a triangle of blades. He drew his sword and pointed it directly at Marcheaux, who had stepped forward to aid the Spaniards, stopping him mid-step. D'Artagnan's voice was callous and foreign to his own ears.
"Get back! One step closer and I will put you down."
Louis's shriek registered somewhere beyond the blood rushing in his ears. "Musketeers, stand down!"
Athos did not move from his spot as he shouted over one shoulder: "Your Majesty, these men are charlatans and butchers! They are responsible for the bombings in Paris, the destruction of Notre Dame and the kidnap of my men. They can't be trusted!" He hollered. Louis didn't listen, but why would that be a surprise?
"Lay down your swords this instant! I command you!"
I don't serve you.
Aramis clutched Athos's jacket, shaking him desperately.
"Athos, listen to him, please!" He begged.
My loyalty is to my brothers.
"I'll give you one chance," Marchueax sneered. "Stand down." D'Artagnan felt the weight of the Pauldron on his shoulder, the combined force of duty and pain and sacrifice that came from overcoming adversity. That Pauldron represented every dream his father had had for him.
I swore an oath.
D'Artagnan grinned, roguishly, as Porthos danced on his heels and Athos flipped the sword in his grasp, loosening his wrists. Aramis continued to protest in the middle, but they paid him no mind. Before D'Artagnan had made that promise to him or Constance or anyone, he had made an oath.
All for one.
"I'll give you one chance," he replied. "Walk away." He saw the glint of defiance in Marcheaux's gaze and shrugged. So be it. He waited for the signal, for someone to move and break the stand-off. At length, it was a Spaniard who did it. He found himself impaled on Porthos's sword in a second, and then all hell broke loose.
And one for all.
Porthos knew they would hang for this.
He had spilled foreign blood in the King's throne room. They had disobeyed direct orders from their monarch, and as he fought, Porthos could feel the combined sting of sweat and tears twinkling on his eyelashes. His only wish now- all he wanted- was to not see Aramis fall into the hands of his deranged family. If they were all slain here, so be it. He could handle death if he didn't go alone, but he couldn't lose his friends again.
He slashed an incoming assailant, resisting the urge to pull his pistol. As mad with desperation as he was, he dared not introduce a gun to this fight. There were too many variables that could lead to a shot going wide, striking the King. And no matter how much he had might personally hate Louis, he knew the security of France- and Aramis's son- depended on his continued life.
Somewhere in the past twenty seconds, more guards had flooded into the room, and Porthos knew this fight would not last. Already, he had been dragged away from Aramis, surrounded by Spaniards and Red Guards. A hard kick to the gut made him stumble backwards, where a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Porthos gasped as a punch made him reel on the spot.
Aramis cried out, somewhere beyond the mass attacking him. He heard D'Artagnan too, shoving his way through the crowd to haul Porthos up with one hand while he fought off swordsmen with the other.
Porthos somehow landed on his knees, and between legs noticed that Athos was the only one standing before Aramis. He pulled his sword from a man's gut before he was shoved from behind by Aramis, who had saved him from a fatal slash of the blade. Porthos inhaled sharply when he saw that same man grab Aramis by the hair, dragging him away from the melee.
Miguel.
He roared and surged to his feet, D'Artagnan a half second behind. However, several pairs of stubborn and unyielding hands gripped him from behind. His shoulders, his neck, his ears, his hair. Porthos growled as he was yanked backwards, more hands coming to encircle his waist and shoulders, holding him in place with the inhuman strength of many.
Now the Red Guards decide to work together.
Porthos fought against the hold, gasping. "Athos!" He bellowed at their disheveled leader. D'Artagnan went down to his right, tackled to his stomach. Men sat atop him, locking his arms behind his back in a cruel stranglehold. "Athos, do something!" Athos's eyes swiveled from him to D'Artagnan to Aramis, evidently torn about who to help and how.
Porthos wriggled in the grasp of his attackers as someone tried to wrestle his sword from his grip. Porthos didn't care. Let them beat him into submission, but Aramis was in Miguel's grasp. If they died now, he would be taken away to some distant hovel to be tortured. If Aramis's guilt didn't kill him first.
"Athos, help him!" Porthos wasn't sure what he wanted Athos to do. Aramis was basically clear across the room by now, gaze set on Porthos and D'Artagnan with palpable fear. He had stopped shouting for them to stop, but only because now he was pleading for their lives. The idiot had been captured and was close to death and he wanted them to live?
Bloody idiot.
Athos closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaling a shuddering breath. Then, shocking them all, he dove to his knees before their King, taking a fistful of his robe into his hands as he bowed his head over the King's knees. Louis screeched, as if Athos had attacked him. "Majesty," Athos gasped, voice thick with emotion even from where Porthos stood. "I entreat you as your servant, a soldier, a man and a brother, please. Please don't let them take him." Louis stared at Athos as if he were some diseased squirrel.
He patted the swordsman's head awkwardly. "Athos, this will save France from war," he replied, in that whining tone of his. "Don't you want that?"
Athos shook his head, and Porthos realized he was sobbing. "I'm begging you…"
Louis slapped Athos away as if he were some bothersome fly, and Red Guards appeared over his shoulder, hauling Athos away from the King. One of the guards swatted him across the back of the head with his staff, and Athos collapsed dizzily. Porthos growled, but a rough punch to his stomach silenced him. He doubled over, choking.
Louis surged to his feet like a displeased toddler, ready to stomp his foot. "Enough!" He shouted. He pointed an accusing finger at Athos. "Call your men off or I will have all of you court martialed. I understand grief, but you exist only to see my will done!"
Athos turned onto his back to face their King. "We'd rather hang," he murmured past the blood trickling out of his mouth. The Red Guards pounced on him then, merciless. Athos was dragged upright, a dark bruise already forming over his eyes.
D'Artagnan's bark of outrage was at once painful and bitter. What do you know about grief, about loss, about loyalty? Porthos wanted to shout. He turned his head, looking for Aramis. The other man was watching the fight unfold, chest heaving, eyes wide with terror for them. When he caught Pothos's gaze, he shook his head hastily.
Stop, he mouthed. Let me go.
Porthos barked a laugh. "You don't get to release me!" He yelled to their friend, voice echoing in the room. "And you don't get to be released!" Suddenly, Porthos ripped his arm free of the hands holding it. He slammed an elbow into the face of the man behind him, throwing his sword to Athos.
"Let's go!" He hollered as the swordsman caught the blade, instantly using it to jab the fingers of those holding him. They screamed, spurts of blood raining from their severed fingers. Suddenly, a shot rang out, making Porthos jerk from its loudness. Everyone froze, looking around for the source of the shot.
It was Miguel, standing over D'Artagnan. A few crumbles of the shattered ceiling rained down from where the bullet had struck, but as Porthos watched in horror, the assassin slowly leveled the pistol at D'Artagnan's prone body.
The Red Guards holding their youngest down flinched but did not abandon their posts. Miguel's eyes were cold and hard as he flipped out a second pistol, pointing it also at D'Artagnan. "Need I say more?" He inquired evenly.
Louis was near hysterical as he waved his hands. "I will not have a massacre in my Throne Room!" He screamed. Miguel didn't blink.
"Then get your Musketeers under control!" He replied. He cocked the safety loose. "Or I will," he growled. Porthos's heart skipped a beat.
Then there was a third person there. Aramis had- somehow- gotten free of his chains. He threw himself to his knees before D'Artagnan, shielding the boy with his own body, arms spread as if to catch bullets in every limb. "STOP!" He shouted urgently. "I surrender! I will go willingly!" He gasped.
"No!" D'Artagnan cried, wriggling.
Aramis ignored him, instead swiveling his gaze to the King. He held out his hands beseechingly. "My king, please forgive my friends, they were only trying to do what was in the best interest of myself and France, but I see the right path now. If it pleases Your Majesty, spare them. I will not make any more trouble for France, just please… Let them live." Porthos staggered forward, but a heavy blow on his back forced him to his knees.
"No! NO!"
Louis was trembling on his throne. "Well, how can I when they've obviously gone mad!?" He screeched. Aramis shook his head.
"They'll stand down after I'm gone. They'll be good. I swear. I swear they won't ever let you down again." No. Aramis, don't do this!
The King relaxed partially, glancing between the warring parties thoughtfully. "You'll cause no trouble?" He asked hesitantly. Aramis nodded emphatically.
"None at all. I swear it on my honor."
Louis nodded, relieved. "Very well. Do as they say," he waved a hand at Miguel. "And I will have mercy on your friends." Aramis's shoulders sagged for a moment. He reached down to lightly clasp D'Artagnan's shoulder before staggering to his feet.
D'Artagnan's voice cracked. "Aramis, don't do this! Please!"
Aramis stared down at him sadly for a moment, then returned his gaze to Porthos and Athos. Porthos's breath hitched in his chest at the complete terror in his eyes. Aramis was scared out of his mind.
But doing it anyway.
Porthos choked on a sob. Aramis smiled. "It's alright. You'll be with me," Aramis pressed a fist to his chest, bowing his head in a sign of deep respect. "So it won't hurt. Tell my sister it won't hurt." He didn't glance up when Miguel appeared behind him.
D'Artagnan growled deep in his throat, struggling like a fish beneath those holding him. Porthos held back a snarl of rage when the other man's arm snapped back, when he struck his brother from behind, Aramis collapsed, limp, on the ground.
Athos looked away, agony flashing in his eyes and Porthos felt his heart scream. Why? He wondered as tears ran from his eyes. Why him? Haven't we suffered enough? Hasn't he suffered enough? D'Artagnan tried a last plea. "Majesty, please… They'll torture him. Please," he cried.
Louis stood from his throne shakily, hands gripping his armrests as if he had been the one to fight for his brother's life. His eyes were absent, unsympathetic as he swiped at his shirt sleeve. "Don't be dramatic, D'Artagnan," he snapped irritably. "Your behavior today has disgraced The Musketeers enough."
By this time, the Spanish guards had already bundled Aramis's gangly limbs back into chains, slinging him over Miguel's shoulder like a sack of grain. Miguel's eyes roamed over them for a long moment, and Porthos could have sworn he saw a flash of doubt in his eyes. Had their loyalty inspired something in him?
The younger man jerked his head to the door.
"Let's go." Porthos remembered that this man had saved Aramis from torture and death once before. Maybe he could be reasoned with. It was the only hope Porthos had to save his friend.
"Lucero," He hollered across the room as he was manhandled into a standing position. D'Artagnan and Athos suffered the same treatment a few feet away. At hearing his birth name, the Spanish assassin halted mid-step. Porthos saw one fist clench at his side and plowed forward in his plea. "He's your brother! You can still save him!"
Alejo joined his brother, one arm round his shoulder as if to protect him from Porthos's words. He narrowed his eyes at the Musketeers, hatred glinting in the depths. "He's a murderer, and I will find my justice. Shall we?" He asked his brother coldly. Miguel nodded and moved forward.
Just as Alejo was reaching for the doors, suddenly they swung open of their own accord. Porthos's head snapped up, a rare hope jumping to life in his chest. If that was the Queen or Treveille, then they still had a chance of escaping this entire ordeal together. Maybe not alive or with their honor intact, but at least together… He gasped when he saw the stricken eyes of the woman standing on the other side.
"Oh, what now!?" Louis cried. "Who are you?"
"Adelina," Athos breathed. Aramis's apprentice took in the room's occupants shrewdly, eyes locking for a second with Porthos's before swiveling to regard Alejo coolly.
"You have the wrong person," she told them, with utmost calm. "The Musketeer Aramis is not Rene, el francotirador. I am." Porthos inhaled sharply, understanding washing over him. He felt a pang in his chest, even as the hope inside him flared. Aramis would never be able to live with himself if this worked…
"Who are you? And how did you get in here?" Louis demanded, aghast.
"Friend of yours, Musketeers?" Marcheaux hissed, giving D'Artagnan a rough shake.
"They don't know me," Adelina answered for them, barely sparing a glance at the King or Red Guards. "My name is Adelina, and I am the one who murdered the Spanish Minister Alvaro. I murdered senorita Justina," her eyes burned into Alejo, silently daring him to contradict her.
He only gawked. Evidently, he hadn't planned for this to happen. "Your wife. I am the one you seek. Not him. Take me, if you must."
Their King sank back into his throne as if his legs had been taken from beneath him. He waved at Marcheaux tiredly. "Oh, for goodness sakes! Arrest her, man!" He commanded, before addressing Alejo's back. "Emissary, I wholeheartedly apologize for these interruptions. Clearly this girl is mad. I shall have her…"
But Alejo was staring at Adelina with a new light in his eyes. He swiveled on a heel and bowed deeply. "No, no, my liege. It is I who must apologize. This girl isn't mad. We always did believe the assassin who killed our beloved Minister was a woman," he explained. Miguel gave a start next to him, and Porthos swallowed a gasp of astonishment.
What?
Alejo continued with a voice oily with manipulation. "Their wicked sex was responsible for our banishment from Eden, why not this?" He continued.
Louis squinted at the petite woman dubiously. "Are- Are you quite sure? She's just a girl! She doesn't even look strong enough to hold a pistol much less use it to kill people. How do you know?" He asked. Alejo waved away the question breezily.
"Women are manipulative creatures, dear King. You know this," Louis's eyes hardened, and Porthos could see the reminder of his mother in his eyes. He nodded. "I do believe she is the one. Take her!" He ordered, jabbing a finger at Adelina crudely. His guards seemed stunned by the command, but they moved forward obediently, yanking Adelina's arms behind her back and securing them with rope.
She allowed herself to be restrained with uncharacteristic obedience. Porthos watched, grateful beyond measure, but sorrowed beyond words. Aramis would never forgive himself for this, and Adelina was a good person, a great woman. She didn't deserve to die any more than his best friend had. "W-what about Aramis?" Miguel demanded, stuttering in his shock. Alejo rolled his eyes.
"We no longer need The Musketeer," he replied, giving his brother a keen look. He jerked his head to Adelina. "We have what we came for," he said slowly, holding Miguel's eyes until he clenched his jaw with a nod, slowly lowering Aramis to the floor. Porthos could hardly believe their luck.
"So, all of this foolishness was for naught!?" Louis squawked, waving a hand to indicate them. Alejo's eyes swept over them, causing a chill to run down Porthos's spine when their eyes met. Alejo smiled victoriously.
"On the contrary, your Majesty. Your Musketeers have proven just how loyal they are to their own. They are worthy of you, and France, and each other," Alejo turned to face them and executed a dashing bow that somehow conveyed more disrespect than Porthos could have believed. "I hope you gentlemen live long enough to reap the benefits of what you've sown," he continued.
Porthos looked past Alejo toward Adelina, who was standing in the midst of Spanish soldiers quietly, chin held proudly. When she noticed Porthos staring, she gave a jaunty little half shrug and a tremulous smile.
His heart snapped. "Please tell your friend," she choked, voice cracking. "That I am sorry for any harm my actions may have caused him." Before Porthos could reply- could beg for her life in Aramis's stead- she was yanked away and marched out of the door, the Spanish envoy swiftly piling into the hallway behind her.
For a long moment after their departure, the throne room was silent, the air itself holding its breath. Then, it was broken by a grunt of pain from one of the men holding Athos. "Ow!" he cried, reeling backward and clutching at his nose, which had just met Athos's elbow in an unfriendly square off.
"Get your hands off me, Red Guard," Athos drawled.
"Why, I oughta….!"
"No!" Louis shouted. They all halted. "No more violence in this chamber. I tell you, this always happens whenever the Spaniards come around. Complete chaos. I don't even know what to say. I really don't," he mumbled to himself, massaging his temple. Their King regarded the three of them sourly before waving a dismissive hand. "Release them, Marcheaux. My head hurts too much to contemplate these past ten minutes right now," Porthos was heaving himself from his captor's clutches before the King had finished his command, eyes set on Aramis's unmoving body on the floor.
The bruises on his arms and torso sent tingles of agony shooting all around his body, but Porthos ignored the minor pains, sprinting over to his friend. He knelt beside him as D'Artagnan and Athos appeared over his shoulder. "Aramis?"
"You Musketeers are lucky the Spanish took no offense at your inappropriate…. Outburst," King Louis harrumphed. "I'd be a lot angrier right now. As it is, I think I need a long nap. And mayhap a few drinks. Marcheaux, return to whatever duties you have here. I'm retiring. We'll discuss your blatant disrespect later, Captain," he sniffed. Porthos was barely paying attention. He lifted Aramis's torso into his lap, cradling his neck in the crook of his elbow and pressing trembling fingers to Aramis's neck.
"Porthos?" D'Artagnan asked softly as he held his breath.
There. Porthos slumped in blatant relief and gratitude, a sob bursting free of his chest. "He's alive," he breathed. He heard Athos heave a sigh above him and D'Artagnan bark a mildly hysterical laugh. "Thank God, he's alive." And they had escaped a lifetime where they did not have him.
He swiped away a few tears leaking from his eyes, looking up. Athos had set a hand on his shoulder, his own pupils shining with identical joy. His blue eyes struck a chord in Porthos's heart, and suddenly his heart dropped when he remembered what had happened. His gaze swiveled back down to their unconscious brother, who would wake in a world without his sister. Without Adelina.
"Oh, Aramis…"