Warning: self-inflicted damage described as helpful.
If you want to skip this chapter you'll lose only the description of Queen's despair.
Anne
She lay curled up on the bed, hidden under several blankets. She could not stand to have Constance hovering over her. The redhead seemed to understand, and withdrew to a far corner of the room. However, even at a distance, her presence was stifling.
"Leave me alone!" the Queen ordered.
Constance quietly left.
Anne shivered, curling up into a ball.
He is dead. I'll never talk with him again...never again experience the joy of having his arms around me. I know it was a sin to dream about him...and about his touch. I risked everything by having those dreams. But they came to my imagination, and it helped me. All my sinful thoughts… all my dreams… and now I cannot believe that I'll never feel his touch again. I'll never see him. I'll never talk to him. How can I face this world without the knowledge that he is alive...and that he cares for me?
I never had the chance to talk to him after Rochefort took me. I never had the chance to tell him that I now truly understand his fears and pain.
And now….
Rochefort took away his voice, his gaze, his charming smile.
Anne's fingers closed on a small, sharp object in the bed. It was a broken piece from one of her bracelets. She squeezed it tightly. The pain somehow made it easier to breathe.
She remembered how squeezing the hand of one of her ladies in waiting had helped to distract her from the pain of the Dauphin's delivery.
She took out the small knife that was tucked away in a sheath on her leg. She closed her fingers around the blade. It was tempting to tighten her grip, as the pain seemed to give her some relief.
She took in a deep breath, and slowly passed her hand over the blade. Her touch was too light to cut her skin, so she pressed harder into the sharp edge.
The pain frightened her a bit. But then she saw Aramis' face, the warmth of his gaze, the few drop of blood on his cheek after he had thrown himself on the bomb to protect her… The light was dancing in his eyes. His smile…
You'll never see it again.
A strangled sob ripped from her chest. She felt the blade cutting her delicate skin. She could feel moisture on her palm.
Blood.
Have I severely injured myself?
She sat up on the bed to take a look at her hand. There was a lot of blood. She gasped.
Am I bleeding out?!
I can still feel Aramis' hand on my sprained ankle. He was so distant then, but still so caring.
I need you Aramis…
I cannot face this world without you.
Another drop of blood slowly rolled down her hand, cooling as it traveled across the skin. It was like a scream of redness on her snowy sheets.
I need you to tell me I'm worthy of you.
I need you to tell me that you love me.
I need you to tell me that I did not betray you with Rochefort.
But you've left me for good.
She stared at the delicate skin of her forearms, and brought her hand to the knife. The blade trembled in her unsteady fingers. She slowly passed it along her other hand, but she only felt its chill. A white trail was left on her skin.
She tried once again.
The same.
She put a bit more pressure on the blade, but it hurt. It hurt too much to continue, even if this time only a single drop of blood was drawn from her skin.
With my palm it was so easy-now… I should embrace the pain. It will help me to remain calm.
But her body protested when she pushed harder.
Christ! How all wounds must hurt! How Treville-and his other injured men-must be hurting.
How Aramis…
He was tortured…
They inflicted pain on him on purpose!
And now Treville doesn't want me to see his body, because it might be disfigured.
She barely managed to reach the bucket before she vomited. The heaves tormented her for several minutes, and she did everything she could to ensure that Constance did not hear her.
After the nausea had subsided, she crawled back to her bed.
Her mind went back to the happiest memories of her life. The time when Aramis held her in his arms in the convent. The times when he made love to her in amazingly tender ways, his touch and his body revealing to her pleasures that she had never dreamed of.
Each image that appeared in her mind-each sound that replayed-was like another cut into her very soul.
The pain became unbearable.
There is no Aramis.
This time she did not put heavy pressure on the knife, but instead cut herself with a quick slash. The blood immediately started to pool. The pain was surprisingly refreshing-almost soothing. She repeated the move again and again.
Finally her blade went through a previous cut, and it became too painful.
She stared at her hand, mesmerized by the sight of her own blood slowly trickling down her skin.
There is so much blood. Will I faint? Will I die?
Will I join my Aramis in Hell? We sinned against God's will as written in the Commandments-and we did not seek absolution, as to confess our sin was far too dangerous in a world where so many things are placed above the Seal of the Confessional.
I would like to believe that somehow we'll find each other in death...just as as Iseult and Tristan did.
I'll accept my sentence to burn in Hell if I am given the chance to talk to him just one more time-to feel his hand on mine, and his lips on my mouth…
Will he forgive me for what Rochefort did to me?
Will he forgive me my weakness?
My selfishness…?
Treville wanted me to live for our son… but I am too weak. I am not like your musketeers, Captain...and I am not your secret soldier, as Constance is.
Aramis… would you call what I'm doing desertion? Would you condemn me for cowardice? Would you despise me?
I need you… Even if you cannot be by my side as my lover or husband, I need to know you're somewhere, alive and well.
I love you so much…
Why I can't I see the tender gaze you gave me that night in the convent? Why do I only see your haunted eyes, and remember how you recoiled from my touch?!
You were hurt so much…
And you died alone…
Surrounded by enemies.
"Anne?! My God, Anne!"
The voice was so distant. Someone shook her, and then a hand cupped her face.
"Anne!"
She felt a sting on her forearms. It burned badly, and she moaned. But the pain made her look down at her friend, who was kneeling in front of her and treating her cuts with alcohol.
The blood, now diluted with expensive wine, trickled down her arm in small rivulets to stain the sheets.
"Let me go," Anne whispered.
"Where?" Constance glanced up at her, then dried Anne's hands with a cloth and examined the cuts.
"To him!" Anne sobbed.
"Anne! Look at me! These cuts are superficial. They don't even need stitches, but they may give you some ugly scars. I'll bring you some salve-it should help speed the healing and reduce the scarring."
"What for? The King never wishes to see me naked, and-" she could not finish her sentence.
"This is not the way, Anne…" Constance whispered, gently tending to her friend's hand.
It hurts…
These small cuts hurt so much, but he was tortured. He had to bear so much!
Her gaze washed over Constance, and for the first time she found her eyes drawn to the ugly scar on her friend's cheek. Anne had obviously noticed it immediately, but she had done her best not to show any reaction. Her poor friend needed neither pity nor curious looks.
"It must have hurt…" she whispered, her fingers gently touching Constance's scar.
"It did, but in truth, I was too focused on Athos and… the others to pay attention."
"You're so courageous…"
Constance shrugged awkwardly. "I have more freedom than you do, so I can afford to be bolder. But… now my husband wants to take me home…"
"I won't permit it...not if I have anything to say about it."
Constance gave her a grateful look.
"Constance, I cannot imagine my life without Aramis. Would you be able to carry on after d'Artagnan's-if he-" Anne could not finish her sentence.
"If I were free to despair… I really don't know. However if I had a child with him, I would do everything in my power to raise that child in a way that would make d'Artagnan proud. So often he does something, then wonders what his father would have thought of his actions. So, Anne… you have a reason to fight. For your son. For Aramis' son. He will never know the true identity of his father, but he has a mother who loves him and who won't allow him to become a spoiled replica of the King."
Anne slowly nodded. Constance was right. She had a duty to her son. To Aramis' son. But… that thought did nothing to soothe her pain.
What if I am too weak to be a good mother?
A/N
Sorry to post so dramatic chapter on the New Year but the delay has already been long.
But still I wish you Happy New Year and I'm grateful that you read that story! Thank you so much.
Know, that I treasure all your reviews!
Eternal gratitude to my Beta - Riversidewren!