The Trial

This story is my contribution to the Aramis-Treville pairing challenge, with Joelle-same and Yael92 (I highly recommend you check out their cool profiles on !)

s/13463319/1/La-femme-du-capitaine

s/13386715/1/%C3%94-Capitaine-Mon-Capitaine

The story includes elements for a mature audience 18+

Chapter 1: Treville

Capitaine de Treville picked up his quill and dipped it anew in the ink. He gently shook it, then approached the tip onto the parchment. He had barely scratched a word when he realized that the musketeer he had been interviewing hadn't really left the room.

"Well?" he said, eyebrows raised in her direction.

She clasped her hands together in front of her – a gesture that struck him as oddly feminine. She hesitated. How should she approach this, if at all?

The past two weeks flew like a blur. There was no time for anything. After rescuing Prince Philippe and causing the destruction of Belle-Isle island, along with its occupants, they hurried to reunite the Prince with his brother and then escort them both back to the Louvre.

Athos had relayed all the events of what happened on the Island in great detail to the Captain and also to the King, with a few details injected here and there by Aramis, Porthos or D'Artagnan.

Since then, Capitaine de Treville had been at the call and beckon of the King, who was as anxious and as excited to ensure the safety and happiness of his newfound brother.

She had been burning to have a moment with him, to tell him what happened, but he had been too busy. She only caught him in his office early in the morning and, although, he had brushed her off at first with excuses of having to write some letters before he had to be at the Louvre, she insisted.

He sat in shock after she finished telling her own account of what really happened at Belle-Isle and the events that led to her becoming the interim Capitaine of the Musketeers in his absence. About who Manson really was, what he had done. And then she finished by confirming that he had, in fact, died by her hand. Oh yes, and that D'Artagnan was now up to date on her identity.

He had nodded his head slowly, taking it all in. The only thing had said was, "So, it appears you completed your mission, then," and promptly returned to his paperwork as if nothing had just transpired.

What had she expected? A hearty congratulations? A sympathetic gesture? Or maybe at least some reproach about being more careful regarding her identity. But then her heart sank. Maybe she was expecting something worse: that he would dismiss her right then and there from the regiment. Why would he keep her there, anyway?

Her hand lingered on the door handle to leave when she turned around to face him. For the first time in many years, Aramis felt this horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach: fear. The worst part, was that she realized that her destiny from now on relied heavily on what this stoic man in front of her decided. This gave her a bitter taste of what it was like to a woman all over again: powerless, at the mercy of others.

She swallowed with difficulty. He was expecting an explanation to this strange behaviour.

"Well, it's just you haven't really… that is…" she exhaled deeply. Here it goes. "At the time that you took me on, we hadn't really discussed what would happen… after. That is, after I accomplished what I had set out to do."

The Captain of the Musketeers put his quill down once more and enlaced his fingers under his chin. He looked directly at her, meeting the gaze of these mesmerizing azure eyes. The same eyes that came to him six years ago, filled with nothing but loss and grief. The same ones that gradually stored that grief away – or at least most of it – and that instead carried a fiery resolve mixed with a perpetual subdued melancholy. Then, with time, thanks to Athos and Porthos, he knew, he could see in them glimmers of hope, of belonging, and maybe even of love. But now, there was a shade of uncertainty and defeat that was uncharacteristic of this warrior. His warrior.

For the longest time, he wasn't sure in what capacity to think of this young woman. Young women were either daughters or spouses. But he was not the same man he had been six years ago and now, he knew a lot more about the world and about women than he knew six years ago. Treville was a proud man. He would never admit his fallacies to anyone nor answer to anyone. He didn't have to. He was the Captain of the King's elite Musketeers and that was a reputation that echoed far and large even to the dustiest most abandoned little corners of France.

He was neither "charmed" nor emotionally entangled in any way when he made that decision six years ago. She hadn't been a seductress, nor had she been a damsel in distress. She was a passionate and fiery young creature – a wounded animal – who only wanted justice. So, why shouldn't she have it? He had thought. There was something in her that emanated such power, such ferocity and determination. It would have been a waste to let her wilt away. So, he took a chance.

In those six years, he saw her blossom from the young provincial aristocrat with the tragic story, to one of the most capable and talented musketeers in all of France. He watched her grow, her guided her, he deliberately surrounded her with those who will nurture her – namely, his other best two, Athos and Porthos. She became his secret, his prodigy, his pride. Did he ever demonstrate any of that? No. Would he ever? Never.

She had taught him so much, shown him so much of what not just women were capable of, but any one who set their mind to something. She taught him never to underestimate those who are "unlikely", or who are deemed to be "lesser", making him question the validity of the claims of who was actually "lesser" and who wasn't. Not that he had never thought about it before. But now he actually had proof. Did he long to share it to the world and show them just what can come out of someone like her? Yes. Would he ever? Never.

He had grown to respect and admire her, so much so that his feelings around his musketeer would sometimes become muddled with something else. For the most part, he himself convinced himself of her false virility. But there were moments when an intrusive thought here and there made him break out in a sudden sweat. Thoughts that reminded him that underneath it all, she was a woman. Worse, she was no longer a young girl but rather, a woman. With a woman's body underneath the men's clothes.

In spite of all the complexity and risk that this blond musketeer had brought him, one thing was certain: he could not remember what life was like before her and it had become difficult – rather impossible – to imagine life without her. In fact, he had to reproach himself on multiple occasions when he would secretly hope that she would never find the assassin of her fiancé, thereby never be able to complete her mission, therefore, she would remain in the regiment. Under his watchful eyes, that is. Under his wing and under his protection and… an intrusive thought would interject here and he would forcefully shake his head to return to other things.

All that is to say, that he had not been particularly jubilant when she broke the news to him this morning. A part of him wanted to embrace her, to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to tell her how proud he was. But mostly, he felt a certain anxiety. What did this mean? Will she want to leave? Can he let her just leave? This wasn't about the musketeers' honor any longer.

In that moment, he finally found himself face-to-face with the truth that he had been avoiding for so long. How could deny it? His heart sank into the floor when he learned of her injury on the way to Calais. A reaction not usually produced with such intensity had it been another one of his musketeers. He had clutched his own chest in pain, as if a part of himself was also injured. His blood boiled with anger and reproach during the Buckingham affair that led to her arrest. His spirit was elated when he found out that it was she who had replaced him as Captain, especially after hearing about her stellar performance. His prodigy, yes. But also, he now realized: the woman he loved.

He regarded her silently for what seemed like an eternity. He could sense the tension in the room growing. What could he possibly tell her? He could never come out with the truth. She was a woman, yes. But she was also a musketeer. His musketeer. His inferior. Like Athos and Porthos and D'Artagnan. That would be like telling one of them he had feelings for them! How absurd! And yet… Here she was, expecting an answer from him now.

The sound thing would be to dismiss her. To end this strange relationship, to end his agony, to stop risking the reputation of the regiment by keeping her and more importantly, to stop risking her life. And his, for that matter.

He exhaled, folded his paper and simply said, "You may stay in the regiment if that is your wish."

He could now see her eyes sparkle like never before. She was ecstatic, it would seem. It was what she wanted. It was what she knew. What else would she do outside of regiment, anyway? It wouldn't be possible for her to go back to the provinces and become somebody's wife. A pang of jealousy swept over his heart. No, his Aramis would not become somebody's wife.

He could tell she was concealing her true excitement, trying hard to control her limbs from jumping up and down. He smiled faintly. She was adorable and beautiful and… Dear God, not again!

"Thank you, Capitaine!" she saluted him like a real soldier and turned around to leave.

As if possessed by an entity outside himself, he heard his own voice fill the room once more, causing her to stop short in her tracks.

"However," he began.

She turned around. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes return. They both knew that there wasn't much of a future or a prospect for a happy life outside of the regiment. Not after all that time. She might be a woman, but being part of a fraternity was something very difficult to give up. The only problem with their scheme, however, was that Aramis was the one who paid the price for her disguise. And it was an expensive price. She had to isolate herself. She had to thoroughly acquaint herself with loneliness, enshroud herself in a lie that prevented her from fully amalgamating her friendship with Athos and Porthos – always having to maintain a certain distance, a certain reserve.

Even if Athos and Porthos were to finally discover the truth and accept her as is, what happens next? They were still soldiers. They both had reputations to uphold in terms of their status as talented lovers. It wasn't as though the truth about Aramis will prevent either of them from going home with a woman or two. Then what happens to Aramis? She would have no choice but to confront her own loneliness. It might have worked until now, since she was clearly fuelled by her mission, but until when could it go on? What happens in a year? In five years? Can he be content with himself to see her whither away like that? What happens if she does decide she wanted to marry? Can he lose her?

"However," he repeated, "I urge you to reconsider the first proposition I made you six years ago when you came to me. I will keep you under the condition that you at least think about it."

Aramis stood glued to her place, her eyes wide open and her cheeks a flaming red. That was not something she was expecting: a renewed marriage proposal. To Capitaine de Treville. To her Captain.