A/N: Thanks to everyone who's still reading and reviewing this! It's always a nice escape from the soul-sucking of my day job and your continuing words brighten my day! Cheers!

Weighted Scales

Chapter 3

It was the next day and Christine, Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan had gathered in Treville's office.

The news was grim. Aramis had been thrown in a cell in the Bastille, which, while better than the Chatelet, was still a prison, filthy and bare. Once in the cell, Christine was only permitted a few moments with her husband. She tore her skirt, wetting the material in the small cup of water and delicately wrapped his wrists where the harsh bindings had aggravated the skin.

They were both quiet as the insanity of the situation sunk in. He held her, and kissed her and told her not to worry. He told her he loved her and she said she loved him back. She would find a way to get him cleared of these charges. She kissed him again as the guards arrived and forced her roughly from the cell. Aramis protested, and a guard responded with two sharp blows with his baton.

"Aramis!" she cried as she was thrown into Athos' arms and the door was slammed shut. His hoarse coughing could be heard from the other side.

"If he is harmed in any way, you will suffer dearly," Athos promised as he led Chistine out of the prison and back to the garrison where they awaited the return of Treville and the others.

"The King is insistent that the trial move forward," Treville announced grimly. "He says he can't be seen to be playing favourites. The Comte is mad with his grief. His Majesty says his hands are tied."

"But he must see how ludicrous this is!" cried Christine. "Aramis was acting on his orders in defence of his musketeers!"

Treville sighed. "It appears that there is a witness that vows that Aramis shot the Viscomte in cold blood."

Porthos growled, "One of the fleein' henchmen, I'm guessin'. Wonder how much he's gettin' to swear by such lies."

"It doesn't matter," said Treville. "We will need to prove that the Viscomte was the guilty party and that Aramis was only fulfilling his duty."

"What's wrong?" Athos asked reading the deeper anxiety within his Captain.

"The Comte has a lot of influence at court. He has provided the crown with major contributions to its coffers. I worry about that pressure on his Majesty. He is fond of Aramis, but others are envious of his quick rise to grace and of Christine's influence and position at court…"

Christine shook her head. "I know Louis. His Majesty will not suffer injustice."

"No," said Treville, "But if by the grace of God Aramis is not sentenced to death, what if the Comte insists on making an example of him? There are many ways to kill a man that aren't through formal execution. He could be whipped, stripped of his title, his duty…You could be forced to divorce, or give up your title. He could be locked away for the rest of his life, and God knows what accidents could befall him in that cell…"

Christine stifled a sob and Porthos reached out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Athos' eyes seemed to catch fire in the face of the injustice to his brother and the anguish of his friend. "We've been told the plaintiff will call forward witnesses. The Comte will testify as will his Valet, and whomever witnessed the attack."

"We were able to convince the local farrier to testify that it was the Viscomte who pursued us to the inn. The innkeeper would not testify," said D'Artagnan.

"He's scared," Porthos grumbled. "The Comte is his landlord. He's not willin' t'risk his business."

"Any luck with the blade?" Treville asked.

"No," D'Artagnan said. "We scoured the area, but it had been combed clean."

"The blade was expensive. It was unusually thin, but with precious stones inlaid in the handle along with the family crest – a stag and crow," Athos said. "Aramis removed part of the blade that had broken off when we returned to the infirmary. The surgery was too delicate for the field."

"Etienne kept the shard. If we can find the blade, we can prove the Viscomte struck first and Aramis was only acting in defence of his brother and in accordance with his duty," said D'Artagnan hopefully.

"Let's hope the trial lasts long enough to allow us to provide this evidence," said Treville.

"Porthos," said Athos, "Reach out to your contacts on the streets – any pickpockets or pawn brokers. Give them a description of the blade we're looking for."

"There will be a reward for their efforts if the blade is found," promised Christine.

"Christine," Treville began hesitantly, "You should refrain from court until the trial begins. They will attack you and attack Aramis saying that you are using your position to get away with murder. The King's judgement will need to appear impartial…and final."

Christine drew in a shaky breath and nodded, but Treville was not fooled. She might be able to abstain from court until the trial was underway, but he could tell by the fire in her eyes that she would let no harm come to her husband. Treville hoped that when he saw the matching gleam in the eyes of his men, that justice would be on their side and Aramis would be cleared of any wrongdoing, without having to compromise the Comtesse and the other musketeers.

oOo

She couldn't stop shaking. Her skin was frozen to the touch despite the warmth outside.

Christine sat in front of the fireplace in their library. The trial was expected to begin the next day. She knew there was no real case against Aramis – his long history with the musketeers was more than a testament to the kind of man he was. The King was a rational man when he wanted to be. And yet…and yet…

And yet she knew the darkness of court. She knew what others might do to discredit their family. She knew how some could see her family's downfall as a political opportunity – those who would not think twice about the lives that would pay the price for their advancement.

His life. Aramis' life.

And in that same moment, her life.

Could she go on without him? She didn't think so. It would be impossible. God would strike her down and still her heart with the final breath he took.

But it would not come to that. It could not. She would not allow it!

She did not know this Comte de Gaulle, nor his son, but she was certain that once his grief had passed he would admit that Aramis had no other action open to him. He had to defend his brother!

At least she hoped…

She hoped and she prayed and she worried.

And she cried. She cried only when she was alone.

Only their bedroom would witness her true anguish. She couldn't show Athos or Treville the enormity of her fears.

She would stand behind Aramis at court, upright and proud, knowing the man she married, certain of his innocence of these conflated charges. She would give him strength and would banish any doubts from the King with her faith in the man she loved.

Tomorrow she would be strong, but tonight she cried.

oOo

Aramis paced in his cell.

This wasn't the first time he had been held against his will. He had been placed in a cell suited to his new title, which, he noted, was larger than the homes of some of the poorer people of Paris. He had a bed – a wooden pallet and a threadbare blanket – next to a small table, a single chair, a pitcher of water and a candle. The cell even had, of all luxuries, a window. All in all, it was the best cell he'd ever been kept in, but he was at by far his lowest point.

All that he could think about were her eyes when she was forced to leave him in that cell. He knew she would be strong, but as they forced her out and struck him to his knees, in that instant her horror and fear were revealed.

Aramis had been held captive or had been taken prisoner before. He had been whipped, beaten, even tortured in service to the crown as a musketeer, but this time things were different.

This time he was on trial for fulfilling his duty to the crown – for protecting another musketeer in order to complete their mission.

He had always felt that when it was his time to go, it would likely be in battle. That God would one day call him to judgement and the scales of his deeds would be weighed. He could not be certain of His judgement, but he had lived his life in the hopes that the good he did in the world would outweigh the bad. His moral compass always led north, even if the path was not always straight and narrow – but that, after all, was what made him human: the desire to do good and live rightly.

Now though, Aramis was not ready to meet his maker. He was unprepared to die for this fallacious charge. Not having found a purpose. Not having found his brothers. Not having only been married to the love of his life for such a short few months.

He thought of her eyes, the fear that was so foreign in their cosmic depths, and he paced.

He could hear footsteps approaching and the sudden creak of the bolts in the heavy oak door and he turned to face his visitors – his guards had delivered another beating with his daily rations. He may have been in a luxurious jail cell, but his jailers were no more refined.

The door was forced open and in walked Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan. He smiled as they each embraced him before taking a seat at his pallet.

"Glad to see that they're at least treating you well," Athos deadpanned, his eyes roving over his brother's dishevelled appearance.

"The service is terrible, but the room affords an excellent view of the gallows," Aramis replied.

"Seriously Aramis, are they treatin' you alright?" Porthos asked earnestly.

"Fine, I'm fine mon ami. How is Christine?"

The three exchanged glances before D'Artagnan responded. "Worried," he answered truthfully. "Marie has been trying to get her to eat but…"

Aramis nodded knowingly.

"You're going to be proved innocent," said the Gascon fervently. "The charge is ludicrous. You were only doing your duty!"

Aramis sighed and smiled softly at his younger brother. "If this had occurred before, I don't know that this would have escalated the way it did, but now that I am a comte, my death and dishonour carries more weight to it," he said bitterly.

"This farce will be all for politics. It's an attempt to discredit you within the court and in the eyes of the King. Even if the King is just and dismisses this sham at its outset, the damage may have already been done," said Athos gravely.

Aramis coughed out a mirthless chuckle and ran his hand through his hair. "I don't even know what's worse. If they execute me –"

"Don' even say that! Don' even think it!" growled Porthos. "You're gonna be proven innocent. And if not, we'll appeal it. The Captain will pop his top. I'll tear this place down brick by brick –"

"And we'll help!" insisted D'Artagnan.

Athos smiled wryly. "Do you really think your wife would let an injustice like this pass quietly? She'd join us in laying siege to the Bastille before she'd let them hurt you."

Aramis smiled and gave a soft appreciative laugh. He pulled his medallion from next to his heart and brought it to his lips – the three starred symbol of Christine's house, of his house.

A pounding on the door symbolized the end of the visit. The musketeers embraced once again.

"The key is to stay calm and rational. Control your passion no matter how they may try to bait you," said Athos.

"Can we bring you anything?" D'Artagnan asked, glancing at the thin and dirtied shirt that Aramis was wearing. He hadn't been afforded a chance to change from the clothes he had been wearing to instruct the cadets. "They should at least allow you your doublet and pauldron."

Athos shook his head. "They will want to dishonour you as much as possible – take away as much semblance of the romantic hero that you usually present," said Athos.

Aramis honoured them with a rakish grin. "Then they'll have to lead me in with a sack over my head."

"Or they could jus' break yer nose," said Porthos, hugging Aramis again. The door opened and the guards entered.

"Take care of Christine…tell her…tell her…" said Aramis desperately.

"She knows," said Porthos, "And you'll be able to tell her yerself when you get outta here."

The guard cleared his throat agitatedly.

Aramis shook his head and grabbing Porthos and Athos desperately by the arm. "If this doesn't go well…if somehow…if…promise me…"

"On our lives Aramis. On our lives," said Athos, pressing a small bundle into his hand.

"Out! Now!" rumbled the guard.

"All for one, Aramis," said D'Artagnan as they were forced from the cell.

"And one for all," said Aramis as he retook his seat on the pallet and the door clanged shut, bolts creaking back into place.

Wrapped in a white handkerchief with the three stars of his house sewn into it, were his rosary beads and a short thin blade. "For protection" was written in his wife's delicate hand. He lay down on the pallet, held the cloth to his nose, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He fell asleep picturing her smiling eyes, smelling the scent of her hair on the cloth – mint and lavender – and prayed he would have no use for the blade.

oOo