I'm sorry for the long wait, but here I am !
I hope it was worth it thoug.
I wanted to thank everyone who had reviewed and read this far and who's still at it!
The travel had felt endless for Aramis and still it had been too short. He had dreaded the day they would reach the familiar walls of Paris, the day he would be put in front of the King.
More than once his brothers had made the offer to help him escape. There were only six more soldiers with them, it wouldn't have been to hard to get Aramis out of their reach by night. But Aramis was stubborn, had always been. He would not run like a coward or like the criminal, the King wanted him to look like. No. He would face trial with pride and strength. He would clear his name and get the honour back he deserved.
But no matter how hopeful he had been, his chest tightened the moment he was able to see the towers of Notre dame and the walls surrounding the city that once had been his home. It had been too many years since he had been there. And now, it didn't feel like coming home at all.
Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos flanked him on his sides, faces drawn into tight lines of worry and anxiety. Even though they understood Aramis' scruple to flee, they wished he would have accepted their help. They could have faked his death, making sure no one would search for him ever again. He could have lived.
But that wasn't what Aramis had wanted. He didn't want to live if it meant a life without honour, always on the run, pretending to be someone he was not. He had enough of this. He wanted his life back, the rank in the Musketeers, his brothers. Running would have meant being alone again and that was something he wasn't ready to face.
Instead he now had to face trial.
He was guided directly into the Louvre, with no chance to change into clean clothes or wash the dirty off himself. Unkempt and exhausted he was brought right to the King, who had awaited him with a grim face.
Aramis made sure to bow low as he approached the monarch, but then he straightened his arching shoulders and stood his ground.
…..
He couldn't hold back a victorious grin as this pathetic attempt of a Musketeer walked into the room. The man looked ragged, dirty, exhausted. There were bandages sticking out of his clothes, showing that he was anything but fit. And Louis would make sure he would never be fit again.
He had made sure that all the members of the court would be assembled, so they could start the trial right away. He saw no reason than to give this traitor any time to rest or go to his family, if he had any. At the most importantly: He would not give him thee opportunity to reach out to Anne, to force himself on her ever again. Anne was his and no one else. He should have this scum be hanged long ago, but he had needed him as a spy. This need had – fortunately – ended, once the Spy of the Spanish had been found.
Aramis was now useless to him and would finally get what he deserved.
…
It was harder than thought to stay composed as her champion staggered towards the throne. She had had enough time to ready herself for this day, but it was never enough. She had hoped that all these years apart would help to hold her feelings back, but it only seemed harder. As she took in the man in front of her, this one fateful night seemed decades ago.
The war and his mission had taken it's toll on the Musketeer. Beside the injuries he had earned, he had lost an greater amount of weight. His hair was now reaching his chin and his beard had grown too. She wondered how handsome he would look once he was bathed and his hair brushed. She smiled weakly at the image. Aramis was such a beautiful man. But not only on the outside.
She admired the strength that shone in his eyes and was seen in his posture as he stared Louis down.
After all these years apart, she didn't want anything more than to reach out to him, take him in her arms and feel his calloused hands on her skin. She yearned for his touch and his lips on hers. Oh what would she give, just to hear his voice whispering sweet nothings into her ear?
It broke her heart apart and crushed her lungs to know that she would never be able to do so again. That her husband will probably sign his death today and she could do nothing to stop it.
Louis and Anne had fought many times over the past days, crying and shouting at each other. But the King would not back down.
She may was the Queen but she was still as helpless as every woman in this country.
….
It felt like a scene, badly written and even worse played in one of these theatre plays on the market.
Nothing made sense, people shouted and discussed. There were too many emotions in one room to be real. Everything just washed over them.
None of them had noticed how they had walked closer to the centre of the room, hands on their weapons. Ready to strike. But whom would they fight? The King? It would get them nowhere.
The words vanished once they were spoken, spit flew, a feather scraped over paper endlessly.
They spoke, each in a turn. Stated what had truly happened. Porthos was called a liar. D'Artagnan a young lunatic, who was too confused by the war. And at Athos they laughed.
No shouting and now reasoning was enough.
Aramis, who had everything let wash over him like he wasn't part of the play, still stood his ground. His shoulders were still broad and his head held high as the King announced the outcome of the trial, which hadn't been a trial at all.
Once the words were spoken Hell broke loose.
Not only Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan, but also the other Musketeers who had accompanied them, rushed forward. They didn't draw their weapons – they may were reckless but not foolish. They tried to reach Aramis but the wall of Guards was just to strong.
Aramis didn't fight as his hands were pulled roughly behind his back. But he didn't make it easy for the Guards either. He remained strained, his eyes searching for familiar faces in the crowd.
As he finally caught their eyes, he smiled. It wasn't a true Aramis smile, that could lighten up the darkest nights. No, when had he last smiled like that?
It was the smile of a defended man, who knew when his end had come. His eyes were too shiny, the smile not broad enough to show his teeth.
The three Musketeers stopped in their tracks, gazing at their friend, who was guided outside the room.
"Hold on!" Porthos said, pleaded. He didn't know for what Aramis was supposed to hold on, but he knew he had. He couldn't lose his brother. He wouldn't.
A deathly silence then fell over the room until the King ordered the Musketeers to leave.
They walked out, none daring to talk until the doors was closed behind them.
"He won't die a traitor." The voice - though familiar – was a surprise. It wasn't loud enough for the other men to hear, but enough that the three friends turned around to the corner. A figure stood there, half hidden by the dark and walls shielded him from the view from the other soldiers.
"Treville." D'artagnan breathed.
There was still hope.