A/N: Thank you Suzy Apple and pallysAramisRios for reviewing the last episode!

Chapter 1

Aramis walked through the palace corridors, trying not to look like a man condemned. He'd been summoned by the King, alone, and he was slightly worried he was about to be severely dealt with for aiding the Queen in her misguided attempt to initiate peace talks with Spain. It had led to utter disaster, and Aramis regretted how many people had been hurt in the wake of it, though he couldn't regret trying to help the Queen in a noble cause. So he would have to accept responsibility and the consequences for his part in it.

He took a steadying breath as he was admitted into the room where the King was waiting. "Your Majesty," he said with a deep bow.

"Aramis," Louis replied. He looked composed and stiff, which made it difficult to guess where his mood was. "You are to accompany me on a pilgrimage."

Aramis blinked. "A pilgrimage, Your Majesty?" he repeated dumbly. That was not at all what he'd been expecting.

"Well, you are a man of God."

Aramis faltered, unsure whether this was some kind of bizarre test. "Yes, I suppose I am…"

Louis inhaled heavily. "I wish to visit my father's tomb at the royal mausoleum, but I do not want the fuss of an entourage. A single Musketeer guard will suffice, though you will have to leave the uniform behind. I do not want to draw attention. Return in an hour ready to depart."

Aramis hesitated for a beat before bowing again and turning to leave and do as ordered. He was confused by the strange request; why would Louis not want his normal fanfare to escort him to Saint-Denis? Did that mean he didn't even plan to take his carriage? Aramis shook his head, perplexed, as he returned to the garrison.

"Yer still in one piece," Porthos commented, though there was a thread of tense worry running through his tone. He'd also been nervous when Aramis had been summoned to the palace that morning.

"Was the King angry?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No. The opposite, in fact. He's ordered me to accompany him to the royal mausoleum in Saint-Denis."

"Just you?" Athos asked carefully.

Aramis nodded. "Just the two of us. He doesn't want to draw attention and ordered me to leave the uniform behind."

The others exchanged piqued looks at that.

"He's not even takin' a dragon?" Porthos asked.

"He didn't mention one, so I'm assuming not."

"Why?" d'Artagnan blurted.

Aramis shrugged; he had no idea. He continued past them and went into his room in the barracks to change.

It was a good thing he'd kept his simple clothing from his time at the monastery. He slipped his doublet with his pauldron off and draped it across the back of the chair. He took off his weapons belt so he could remove his blue sash, then buckled it back on around his waist. Finally, he grabbed his dark brown cloak and settled it over his shoulders. He almost looked like a monk again—albeit a heavily armed one.

He double-checked the pouch on his belt with his powder packets and extra rounds, even though he'd already done that earlier. One could never be too prepared when protecting the King, though. Picking up his gloves last, he headed out and made his way back to the palace.

When the King came out, he was dressed in close-fitting trousers and a plain white shirt, with a cloak and hood pulled up to cover his head. It was his best attempt appearing as a simple man, though the fabric quality was too fine and clean not to signify his wealth. Louis had a walking stick as well. He seemed to be taking this pilgrimage idea rather seriously.

He gave Aramis's garments an approving nod. "Let's go."

They set out on foot with no other guards or attendants, to Aramis's continued surprise. And apparently he was right about the King not taking his carriage. Aramis drew his hood up over his head and slipped his gloves on. Being out alone with the King and exposed like this put him on edge, and he kept roving his gaze around the streets carefully. They earned a few glances, but people mostly minded their own business.

They passed a church, and Louis drew to a stop, giving the building a considering look before turning to go inside. Aramis followed, still on guard as the King went and deposited some coins in the coffers. They then departed, leaving Aramis even more confused by the King's odd behavior.

They stopped at the next church they passed, and the next. Each time, Louis went inside and handed out coins to not only the church collection boxes but any patrons currently inside praying. It was starting to draw attention, which Aramis thought was something the King didn't want.

"Word is spreading of the generous man handing out coins," Aramis whispered to him as they left the most recent church. "We should return to the palace."

"We are almost there," Louis replied and pressed on, unconcerned.

They finally reached the royal mausoleum, which was thankfully empty. Not many people had cause to visit it. As they entered, Aramis swept past the King to check the alcoves and dark corners. Once he'd confirmed the location was secure, he hung back to give the King privacy as Louis approached his father's tomb. The royal mausoleum was resplendent in its solemn architecture and ornamentation. Marble columns were spaced evenly down the main aisle with sculptures of past kings nestled into arched alcoves over chiseled tombs. Pale light filtered down through sparsely placed windows, adding to the somber atmosphere.

"Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?" the King spoke up after a while.

Aramis shifted slightly. "Yes, I believe I do."

"Do you ever wonder which one your soul is slated for?" Louis asked, voice taking on a somewhat distant quality. "Who can count the sins of a man and weigh his fate but God himself when the time comes?"

Aramis fidgeted again. He didn't think this was some roundabout way to reprimand him for his actions, and if the question had been posed in all seriousness, he didn't know what to say to it. He may have been a man of God, but he wasn't a priest; he wasn't ordained to give counsel on such matters, especially to the King. But the King had asked him of all people to accompany him, and Aramis had to say something.

"That is true," he answered carefully. "But I also believe in mercy, and that God weighs the intentions of a man's heart along with his actions. At least, that is what I hope, for myself anyway."

And the Queen, if the King by chance was thinking of her recent actions…

Louis nodded sagely. "I imagine, as a soldier and a priest, you are well acquainted with death."

Aramis dropped his gaze for a moment. "More than I'd have wished."

"Yes, I too am acquainted with death more than I'd have wished." He continued to gaze upon his father's tomb. "Death has a grip on me. One I cannot break."

Aramis furrowed his brows in confusion, trying to decipher what Louis meant by that. Then it hit him—the King's wan appearance in recent weeks, his decreasing participation in activities…the stolen medicine he'd been desperate to get back. Aramis's expression slackened in shock as he gazed upon Louis with new understanding.

"I…am so sorry," he breathed for lack of anything else to say.

Louis shook his head. "It's not fair." His voice broke and he turned toward Aramis. "What great sin did I commit that I deserve this?"

Aramis floundered for a response to that. "It's not always punishment. Sometimes these things just happen, even to good people."

"It's not fair!" Louis wailed again. "I want more time! With my son." His knees gave way and he sank to the cold floor, sobbing.

Aramis didn't move, stunned by both the display and the reason behind it. Of all the things that had gone through his head regarding this outing, this had never entered his wildest imaginings. And he didn't know how to console a man, a father, who was dying.

"He will never know me," Louis lamented brokenly. "He won't remember my face. I will be no one to him." A choked sob hitched his breathing. "I can barely remember my own father. My memories of him have faded over the years, and my son isn't old enough to hold onto any of me."

Aramis took a tentative step toward him. "There are many people who will not let your son forget who his father is. His mother, Minister Treville…the Musketeers. They will tell him of you." He swallowed hard in the face of such profound turmoil. "You will live on in him."

Louis let out another broken sob.

Aramis had no idea what else to say. What was there to say? So he stayed silent and let Louis grieve openly while he struggled to process the earth-shattering revelation that'd been dropped on him—the King was dying.

.o.0.o.

Treville wasn't prone to exaggeration but he was ready to say he was literally drowning in paperwork. Just because the King had been postponing meetings with his Council lately did not mean that affairs of state simply paused themselves for a future date. And as First Minister, it fell to Treville to keep everything running smoothly. It was a task he'd grown into over the years, though the war had certainly increased the load and weight of the decisions that had to be made. And with the King less engaged as of late, things were even more difficult.

His office door opened and an attendant entered without knocking. Treville almost scowled at him.

"What is it?" he asked tersely instead.

The man didn't say anything, but he was carrying a parcel, which he brought over and set on Treville's desk. Treville arched a brow expectantly, still waiting for an answer as to what it was. He didn't recognize the attendant, so maybe the man was new, in which case he needed a stern introduction to protocol and etiquette.

The attendant opened the parcel and reached inside. Treville was about to wonder whether the man was mute when he lifted out a pistol and shot Treville point blank in the chest. The force of the ball ripping through his body punched the air from his lungs and flung him backwards out of the chair. He landed hard on the floor, body spasming from the shock and inability to draw in oxygen.

Treville jerked and rolled onto his stomach, trying to move. In his peripheral vision, which was sparking around the edges, he saw the man reloading the pistol. Treville stretched his hand out toward the bottom drawer of his desk, gasping when it pulled at the hole in his chest. He fumbled at the handle, struggling to get it open. A spare pistol lay in the bottom, a habit he hadn't broken in all his years as First Minister even when he had a squad of palace guards at his disposal. None of whom had arrived yet at the sound of the shot.

Treville got his shaking fingers around the grip of the gun and lifted it out of the drawer just as the assassin rounded the desk and took aim to finish him off. Treville rocked back against the floor and raised his pistol as well. Two shots rent the air simultaneously.