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The last chapter...
She is nervous.
Ordering her ladies-in-waiting away she waits until the door closes after them. Purses her lips as her grasp tightens onto the bedspread under her hands and she feels her jaw twitch. Easing her clenched teeth she gives in to the urge and stands. Walks from her bed to the door and back again, over and over and over. Silently cursing foolish men and their foolish pride and their foolish, utterly foolish desire to prove themselves better from each other.
She grabs the bedpost and leans against it. Ever since his majesty had told her of this competition between the Red Guards and the Musketeers she hadn't been able to sleep properly. Food wouldn't settle in her stomach and the need to move, to talk, to speak her mind had been insistent. But Louis hadn't even allowed her to come to the event, had not seen it fit for her delicate constitution given that there will be bloodshed and possibly death.
She shudders.
What if he was chosen as the Musketeer's champion?
But Captain Treville wouldn't just accept that without proof, no, but then he would try to prove himself and if he did?
There had been word among the staff that the Red Guards had chosen a former murderer to represent them, the man was said to be built like a mountain with the viciousness to match. What if he faced off against him? Her heart pounds against her chest.
Turning away she faces the door and calms herself.
How can she think this way?
For a soldier? A Musketeer? One of the men specifically sworn to protect the king?
The door opens suddenly and one of her ladies informs her that his majesty has returned. She moves to meet her husband with the haste she had never felt before. His bright grin when she finds him offers her no ease.
"Your majesty, you are pleased," she observes.
"I am," he beams, "it was wonderful. The deceit, the rage, the thirst for blood. It was all delightfully thrilling."
"Did someone die?" she is proud that her voice doesn't shake.
"Yes," his eyes are alight with excitement, "oh it was a very dramatic affair. A magnificent fight led to a glorious end. And to the victor went the honour."
"Indeed," she murmurs.
Forces herself to not sway where she stands.
"Yes, I commissioned a new Musketeer today," his majesty says, "d'Artagnan defeated the Cardinal's chosen man,"
The relief melts her joints and she dares not let it show on her face.
"I think we should have events like this often," Louis says and turns to the man at his side, "what do you say Cardinal? Are your men up to another challenge?"
She leaves them to it and wanders back to her room. Refuses to name the fear she had felt in the day past, because it is not right, it is not possible. She is a queen and he is nothing more than her husband's loyal soldier. She will no longer entertain such a foolish notion that she cannot even begin to comprehend.
Anne frowns.
She is a queen.
He is worried.
Fingers gently probing the joint he keeps his attention on the task at hand and grabs the roll of bandages. The Captain is only half-conscious, partly from the pain and partly from the tincture he had given the man to ease it. It takes all of his concentration to wrap up Treville's formerly dislocated shoulder and fix him a support for the arm. By the time he is done the Captain is snoring lightly.
Easing the man into a better position for rest he stands back and rubs his fingers over his forehead, because it's still there, the anxiousness he cannot shake after last night's realization. Putting a cup of water by the bedside table and covering it with a piece of clean cloth, he moves on ahead to gather his things. Plucking his hat from atop the chair by the door he leaves the Captain in his room and closes the door behind him.
From the balcony he can see his friends sitting at the table, dinner well underway even as Serge loads the table with more food. Men were coming over to congratulate d'Artagnan for the commission he had won earlier in the evening.
His stomach clenches, asks for food even as it warns against it.
The coins in the inner pocket of his coat are heavy, reminding him of the reality that he had refused to accept. Last night with Madame Marchand he had been so sure, he had told himself that it was nothing but a lack of understanding, a flaw in communication if you will. But even alone in the dark of the night, even now he cannot deny that for the first time in a long time he hadn't enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman; hadn't found the charm in himself to make his libertine reputation proud.
He had been lucky Madame Marchand easily found pleasure in simple things, she had pinned the gold broach to his coat and they had danced the night away. Amidst music and light and a flock of small yapping dogs trying to trip him, he had found that there was no escaping it.
But a queen? The queen? Their queen?
He sighs.
Drawing a hand through his hair he settles the hat on his head. Moving out of the shadows he heads down the stairs and into the yard, hopes that his smile doesn't betray the churning in his gut.
"How is he?" Athos asks.
"Sleeping," he takes his place by Porthos' side, "it'll take some days for him to get back to using that arm."
Porthos fills a plate with food and sets it before him. He nods his thanks and picks at the chunk of bread; what was he thinking? When had he even began thinking this way? The queen? He shakes his head. Looks up to find Athos studying him, the slight tilt of his head telling him that his friend knew he was worried and a raised eyebrow asks him for the reason behind it.
Aramis smiles back.
He is a musketeer.
The Sky remained distant.
The Earth stood firm.
No matter what they longed for, it could not be.
She had spent the day with him.
The horror of seeing Caroline dead and the fear for her own life had melted away in the warmth of this man at her back. With Aramis it had been an adventure through the woods; she had even cooked, truly she had burned to the bone those fish he had so skillfully caught but it had been a delight to watch the four men bravely eat what they could and dispose of it when they thought she wasn't looking.
She rolls to her side on the hard bed and her smile fades. She remembers Sister Helene lying dead in Aramis' grasp, can't forget his shaking hands and bowed head, she remembers his tears. She rolls onto her back again and frowns at the thumping from outside the monastery walls that just would not let up.
Sitting up she moves to the edge of the bed. Through the door she sees him sitting on a bench, head bent and clutched in his hands.
"What are they building?" she asks.
He looks to her and draws a hand through his hair
"Battering ram perhaps, or a ladder,"
He lets his head hang between his shoulders again. Without his coat, hat and the weapons bristling around him he seems exposed. Her heart clenches. She moves off the bed and leaning against the doorpost studies his profile. He had told her of his love and his loss and something in her wants him to know that she understands, watching him sit there with a musket in his lap and a tiredness in shoulders she wants him to know that he is not alone.
"A few years after I married, I too fell pregnant," she finds herself speaking before she can check herself and he looks to her suddenly, surprise and heartache in his eyes.
It is that which encourages her to go on.
"It was perfect. I could feel my child inside me, moving and kicking. I had his whole life planned out, what he would do and be like," her smile falters, "and then I lost the baby. Six years, and I've never forgotten that child, not for a single day."
He winces and looks away but she is closer to him now.
"I am certain that Sister Helene never forgot you or your baby," she says.
He stares ahead.
"All these years, I believed Isabelle was the only woman who could make me happy. But she was right. It was a lie," he is defeated.
"You're grieving," she clutches his sleeve.
He shakes his head and doesn't look at her.
"She knew me better than I know myself. She was right to stay away from me," he says.
She crouches before him and finds herself finally looking fully at the man behind the Musketeer. The person she had glimpsed often and with whom she had fallen in love with.
"No, Aramis. You are brave and honourable and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you," she says.
He watches her, pain and disbelief and yearning fills his gaze but he holds back. He is on the edge she can tell but wary, patient. For all his recklessness it is that calm of a sharpshooter she finds at his core, poised and ready but waiting.
This is her chance to pull away.
Anne does not.
He had spent the night with her.
The pain of Isabelle's death and the sound of their enemy at the door had muted, for a time there had been peace, safety, belonging. He wonders if that is what love means. Suppressing a shudder so as not to disturb the woman at his side he stares at the ceiling, memory bringing the smell of grapes and honey back to him. Reminds him of his father's beatings and the grand halls he had lived in, of opulence and learning and planning and hoping.
A light touch to his face and he looks down to the side.
There are tears on Anne's fingertips; he didn't know he had shed them.
"She believed that a part of me was glad that the baby died," he whispers, "She believed I could never want a family,"
"Did you want one?"
"Yes," it's hushed and salty and clinging to the back of his throat.
She curls closer to him and he tightens his arm around her.
"I lost four babies, I don't know what is wrong with me," she says close to his ear.
He presses his lips to her forehead.
"Nothing," he tells her, "there is nothing wrong with you,"
"Everyone seems to believe otherwise,"
"They're wrong," he tips up her face and looks into her eyes, "you are perfect the way you are,"
She smiles at him and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
"Did you look for her," there's an odd longing in her gaze, "did you search for Sister Helene when her father took her away,"
"For months," he swallows the unbidden sense of betrayal that clogs his throat, "She asked him not to tell me where she'd gone. I –," he clears his throat, "I didn't know that until today,"
And hadn't she done the smartest thing he asks himself. Because what had he ever brought with him but death; death for the baby and then death for her.
"She was right to leave," he says, "she was safe without me near,"
A slim hand presses to the side of his face and turns his gaze away from the ceiling.
"Her death is not your fault Aramis," Anne tells him, "and you cannot be responsible for the decisions she never let you be a part of. Perhaps she didn't know you as well as you believed."
Though softly spoken her words are insistent and her gaze though gentle is wrapped around the firmness he admires. There's a fierceness about her that he had seen around the edges of all she does and he loves that about her.
This is his chance to deny what he feels.
Aramis does not.
And the Sky broke apart at the sight of shattered Earth, showered it with kisses to wipe away its grief.
The Earth gave up its armour, let that crust soften, dissolve and be one with the Sky. Let the Sky seep through all its layers and reach the core, baring its most guarded spots.
It is raining in Paris.
After the sunny morning she was not expecting the grumbling clouds that had darkened the evening. The palace staff is in a flurry since the announcement of a possible heir on the way. After years and years of silence everyone seems to think that this time would be different; that this time there will most definitely be a healthy, happy Dauphin for France to call her own.
Standing by one of the arches in the corridor she rests her hand on her stomach, feels the same surety in her bones that had gripped those around her. Never before had she seen such fierce hope in the eyes of the courtiers watching her, such respect in the nobles curtseying and such happy shine in the staff's gaze as they fussed to make her comfortable. The naysayers, the whisperers, the doubters, they had all turned grudgingly to her favor after knowing she was with a child. Love has secured her future.
She smiles.
Louis is happy.
Even the Cardinal has smiled at her and for the first time it had not looked forced.
Her smile falters; the Cardinal had planned to assassinate her because he believed she could not give the country an heir, what if he finds out the truth about this baby. She swallows thickly, her fingers holding tight to her gown over where they rest on her middle. Would he be a danger to her child? Would he try to take her baby's life?
She starts at the crack that splits the air, a rumble follows it and heavier downpour.
She wants to talk to Aramis. He would understand, he had promised to keep the child safe, he will protect the baby.
And yet she had not told him of the child when she had sent for him that morning, needing him to deliver her letter to Charlotte after the Count Mellondorf had been pardoned. She knew he would be the only one to accomplish the task with the discretion it required, still in their rare encounter alone she had not availed the chance to tell him about the baby. She had wanted him to get to know with the others, wanted his majesty and the court to witness his surprise so that there would be no suspicions.
She sighs, it is a delicate matter, malleable, and she will have to mould it carefully.
"There you are!" Louis hurries over to her, grasps her hands and kisses them both, "I have been looking for you,"
"I didn't know, your majesty,"
"That is alright. I simply wanted to go on a walk with you,"
She inclines her head and takes his arm. As they walk down the corridor she pays half a mind to what the king has to say. The edges of her dress tracing over the moist dust at her feet fascinates her, it leaves thin trails of mud on the tip of the lace that circles the end of her gown.
"...and I was thinking we could create a list of possible governesses," Louis grins at her, "has my excitement shocked you into silence?"
"I am grateful to see you are pleased, your majesty,"
"Well it is the best news isn't it?" Louis waits for no reply, "we will have an heir for the country, I will have a successor to pass on my legacy to and you would have fulfilled your duty as a queen."
She nods.
And once words had hurt her, once she had sought to evade the derisive looks, tried to escape the suspicions and shy away from anything that could add to that. But she cannot anymore.
She will not.
The truth she carries will never leave her and the threat of it splashing all over her life will stay with it.
Anne cannot avoid the puddles anymore, but now she is not afraid of them either.
The rain is not letting up.
The men had assumed it would just be a shower when the evening sky had darkened, no one paid mind to the light patter until with a rumble the clouds had spilled their burden. And then there had been a dash to empty the table in the yard, to put away the targets set up there and toss the bales of hay back into the stables.
That is where he stands, in the doorway of the stables as the horses tap the ground at any particularly loud thunderclap. Crossing his arms he leans against the doorpost at his side and remembers the thunderclap of his own from the morning. Tries not to feel too bad for not having been told when the queen had summoned him to deliver a letter to Charlotte Mellondorf upon her departure. He understands, he cannot claim to be the father, he cannot be anything more to the child than a loyal servant; and he will be the most devoted one.
He smiles.
That surge of protective affection tastes just as sweet as it had when Isabelle had told him of their wants to be with Anne, wants to watch her grow, to wait on her and grumble just to listen to her explain how it was all his fault. He wants to tease and coax smiles from her sudden tears like he had for Isabelle. But he can't.
He won't ask for it either. He knows why he had been told of the news with the rest. The queen is afraid of suspicion, is scared for her life and their child's. Pushing away from the doorpost he walks out into the muddy yard. Vows to himself that no harm would come to the family he wants but cannot have.
And once such a loss had hurt him, once he had sought that elusive home and family, tried to find a place to belong and gave everything to find his place in the world. But he cannot anymore.
He will not.
The lie he will live now defines him and the threat of it splashing all over his life will stay with it.
Aramis cannot seek out the puddles anymore, but he had never been afraid of them either.
For all the wisdom of the Sky
Despite all courage of the Earth
At any point they meet, there will be mud.
END