Treville, d'Artagnan and Athos had vanished around the corner with Rochefort, who seemed to barely be struggling. Probably, Aramis thought, because his injuries did not allow for it. He had left a bloody trail across the king's bedroom floor, which Louis was staring at with unease, face pale and drawn.

"I'd like to thank you Musketeers… I cannot believe it… I trusted him." His voice wobbled.

Aramis grinned a little at Porthos, who still had Vargas in grip. They didn't want to point out to the king that he had an appalling history when it came to employing trustworthy advisors.

"Porthos, please escort Monsieur Vargas to the guest quarters. Ensure that he is comfortable but confine him there until I send for him."

Vargas opened his mouth to protest, but Porthos nudged him forcefully.

"Would you prefer the dungeon?" He joked, steering him towards the door.

As they left the room, only Constance and Aramis remained with the king and queen. They stood in an awkward silence for several moments, absorbing what had just passed. Louis returned to his chair, slumping down into its plush cushions with a weary sigh.

"Leave me. I wish to think."

Aramis removed his hat and bowed, but looked towards Anne as he stood upright again. She gripped the bedpost, eyes closed, tears dripping quietly down her rosy cheeks. What could he say, standing in the king's presence, that would not attract suspicion but show her that he was here for her? He searched for the words but found none.

"Go." Louis sounded impatient now.

Aramis felt a gentle hand on his arm and turned to see Constance, a reassuring smile on her lips. Slowly, he followed her lead and went to the door. Each step seemed more painful than the last, the distance between himself and Anne growing at a rate that he felt may never close up.

"Aramis."

Her voice was strong. If he had not seen her face, he would never have imagined her to be crying.

"Your majesty?" He turned to her.

She smiled sadly.

"Thank you, for everything. I hope you will continue to be so courageous."

Aramis' heart thudded madly inside his chest.

"Yes, your majesty. I promise."

#

Aramis drank deeply from his tankard, gradually feeling more and more understanding of Athos' love of the drink. He knew that Rochefort was now incarcerated, facing trial and execution, and that gave him some form of relief. But no amount of alcohol could remove the nagging feeling that somehow the weasel would manage to lie his way back into the king's favour and back into power.

"I know what you're thinkin'," Porthos sat down with a thud beside him, the bench scraping on the stone floor, "I've seen that look before. You always make the same face when you're worried…and you're worried that Rochefort isn't goin' to the scaffold yet."

"The thought had crossed my mind…" Aramis glanced at him with a weak smile.

Porthos patted his back and nodded over at Athos and d'Artagnan, who were deep in conversation about wine. d'Artagnan seemed to be only vaguely listening, staring at the wall and occasionally agreeing with Athos' ramblings on how to distinguish a French wine from a Spanish wine. It apparently wasn't that difficult, but their beloved leader seemed to be finding it difficult to get his point across in one sentence, instead preferring to slur and mumble disjointed words, slamming his tankard on the table whenever he became particularly impassioned.

"You know that even if Rochefort does go free, we're not going to let him lock you up again. Although I'd take the dungeon any day to avoid that lecture. Bloody torture."

Porthos took a swig of his own drink before chuckling to himself.

"D'ya think maybe our First Minister is interested in becoming a wine connoisseur…?"

Aramis grinned momentarily, before returning to staring into the depths of his beer. He couldn't help but remember what Rochefort had said in his defense. That he had merely been following the king's orders, carrying out the sentence passed when the death warrant had been signed.

How could anyone order the death of someone they loved?

His eyes fell on Athos again and he wondered where Milady had vanished to. Probably lurking in the shadows, waiting for her next chance to gain the king's affections back.

Anne, however, was in the palace, alone and heartbroken.

Aramis wanted nothing more than to be beside her, to hold her, listen to her, feel her warmth in his arms and know that he had done everything he could to protect her. He wanted to cradle her, reassure her that she was not alone in France and need never be alone again, so long as he lived.

But he knew it could never be.

If I am seen alone with her again, he thought miserably, then Rochefort's allegations would be believed. He would be released, allowed to strut around the palace once more with nothing to stop him. Anne would die, with no hope of redemption and he would die, strapped to a wheel. And what would happen to the dauphin? He could not risk it, not even with Rochefort chained in a cell and Marguerite rotting in an untimely grave. He shook the thought of the governess from his head, guilt overwhelming him and returned to thinking of his brave queen.

How can I be courageous, as I promised, he mulled miserably, with so much to lose?

"That's fascinating, Athos." d'Artagnan's voice couldn't have dripped with more boredom, but it shook Aramis from his daydream.

"Come on Athos, leave the poor man alone." Aramis called.

Athos turned his glower on him.

"Students…will be…SILENT…when the teacher…is…s…s…speaking…"

And with a loud grunt, his head fell forward and banged loudly against the table. The tavern fell silent momentarily, as each drunken workman, flirtatious wench and rowdy gentleman turned to stare at the source of the noise, then returned to their merriness.

"I think it wise to get him back to the garrison, before Treville finds out that we let him get drunk…" Aramis drained the last drops of beer and stood.

Athos was now snoring loudly.

"I'm pretty sure that he's probably off drunk somewhere as well," d'Artagnan smirked, hauling Athos over his shoulder, "It's been a long day."

The four men set off from the tavern, Aramis trailing behind, taking in the night. It seemed much like any other night; boots sinking into the mud, flickering candles in windows, the moon casting dark shadows across the twisting streets. The air stank of alcohol and piss. Laughter appeared to be coming from every house. He watched his companions stagger ahead of him, Porthos roaring with laughter at how ridiculous they looked. He had realised that he enjoyed life, especially now that he had come so close to losing it.

He thought of the oath he had made when praying for escape. He dreaded the time when he would have to tell the others of his resignation and dreaded his future even more. Yes, he loved God and would never deny his faith, but the prospect of a lifetime of peace, quiet, prayer and reflection left him feeling empty inside.

And of course, it meant a lifetime without Anne.

He couldn't imagine a version of his future with her in it. Not one that he found realistic. He would either be apart from her, and from his son, caged in a monastery, or die beside her on the scaffold should the truth ever be fully proven.

Suddenly, he knew he had somewhere to be.

"Hurry up will ya, Aramis?" Porthos yelled over his shoulder. Aramis knew that he had to go now, or he wouldn't get another chance.

"You go on ahead… I, uh…left my musket in the tavern."

Porthos and d'Artagnan frowned at each other, before simultaneously turning back to tell him that they saw right through his lies, even with a drunken haze smothering them. But he had already vanished, rushing away toward the palace.

"I hope he doesn't do anything stupid…" d'Artagnan murmured.

"Of course he will…" Athos had stirred, groaning and rubbing his aching head, "He's Aramis."

#

Aramis couldn't decide whether he regretted going or not. He'd told himself that it was no time to be reckless, but he knew that he would never be able to sleep if he wasn't. He had so much he wanted to say.

Louis had increased the number of Red Guards surrounding the palace and stationed at gates, evidently shaken by the discovery of treachery within the walls. However, the new recruits were no less stupid than their superiors and Aramis managed to evade them easily, without so much as having to knock out a single one. If these are the finest soldiers France has to offer, then it is no wonder that Spain finds it so easily to infiltrate the royal court, he worried.

The palace itself was quiet. Most of the rooms were dark, corridors empty and silent. Aramis' footsteps echoed slightly and he walked a little faster, knowing he was risking everything just by being there.

If someone saw him, especially a guard, they would shoot, no matter that he was still in his Musketeer uniform.

He passed through the palace, into a wide courtyard. Hurrying across it, he approached a wooden door with a heavy metal latch and passed through. Turning a sudden corner, he came face to face with a tall, broad shouldered guard, sword still sheathed, who glared at him through sunken eyes.

"What are you doing here…?" His eyes widened with recognition, "It's you…! The Musketeer! The one who…with the queen…"

He did not finish his sentence. Aramis had elbowed him squarely in the face, knocking him unconscious.

"I really hope you don't remember that."

Like a phantom, he stole through the winding passages, clutching to Anne's crucifix and hoping that there were no others on duty. Only torchlight lit his way and he decided to take one from the wall, as a precaution against unexpected darkness or opponents. It was uncomfortably warm against his face. He sweated under his hat, the alcohol lingering in him making him feel nauseous. He wanted to stop and rest, breathe, but pressed on, knowing it was only a matter of time before someone discovered the guard and realised that something was amiss.

When he reached the door, he wasted no time in pushing it open.

Several faces turned to stare at him, wondering who the midnight intruder was, but none were familiar.

Except one.

"I thought you might come."

Rochefort appeared at the bars of his cell.

"I've not finished with you yet." Aramis remained in the doorway, hanging the torch on the wall.

Rochefort smirked with a hint of his usual smugness. He rested his hands through the gaps in the cell bars and leaned, relieving the pressure from his bandaged back.

"So predictable Aramis. One sword in the back wasn't enough to satisfy your inflated ego and so now you've come to finish the job. Once again, you've proved, in true Musketeer fashion, that your stupidity is only outweighed by your arrogance."

Aramis could feel his rage boiling inside of him.

"I'm not here to kill you," he growled, charging forward, "but don't tempt me."

Coming opposite to the cell, the very same that he had spent several days imprisoned in, he saw that the Comte was only a shadow of his former self. All of the grandeur and nobility he conducted himself with had almost gone. He stood, clothes torn, wrists and ankles both chained to the wall. The guards who'd dragged him there had clearly seized the opportunity to attack him. He had scratches on his face and the scar over his eye had opened up again. He seemed to be weeping blood.

"If you're not here to kill me, then why would you risk…"

"Because I'm here to threaten you."

Aramis could see the relief in his eyes, although he had clearly tried not to show it. The Musketeer went a little closer, hand resting on a small, concealed dagger and lowered his voice.

"You know as well as I do, Rochefort, that nothing can save you. The king may be unwilling to execute you immediately, but this trial will be just a charade. The moment they find you guilty of being a Spanish spy and a traitor, which they will, that is certain, the king will have your head."

Rochefort rolled his eyes.

"And you tell me this, why?"

"I want you to do something."

"Enlighten me."

Aramis took a deep breath. He had one shot at this.

"I want you to retract any allegations against the queen concerning her fidelity. And I want you to do it when they call you to give evidence. You've got nothing to lose by showing some compassion. If you know you face the executioner, and even if I stand up there charged with the same fate, do not take Anne down with you."

A low chuckle came from the prisoner's throat

"Not all of us are so willing to lie under sacred oath."

Aramis lunged forward and grabbed the front of Rochefort's shirt, who grunted in pain as he was pulled into the iron bars.

"You'll be lying about everything else. Why not this?"

Rochefort smiled a little, something like triumph crossing his face. When he spoke again, Aramis heard a mad lust behind his words, one which he could only imagine Anne had heard when he'd attacked her in her chambers. It sent shivers down his spine to think of her cornered by this monster.

"If I cannot have her, then no one can. If I cannot have her, neither can you."

Aramis felt bile in his throat. Angered, he rammed Rochefort into the bars again, taking some form of satisfaction from the clang as the man's skull collided with the metal and the cry of pain that followed. A prisoner from opposite cheered. Aramis shot him a furious look and the prisoner quickly fell silent, retreating away back into the safety of his cell. Turning back to the Comte, whose face was now even more bloodied, he released the shirt fabric from his fists. Rochefort staggered back, dazed, and tripped over his chain. He tumbled to the ground, a pitiful heap covered in dust and straw.

"Reconsider. Now."

No response.

"SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU, DAMMIT," He didn't care if he was heard, " I WILL NOT SEE THE WOMAN I LOVE DIE BECAUSE OF YOU."

Rochefort was on all fours, spitting blood. He raised his head slightly.

"Perhaps, if you ask nicely, she can see you die first."

Aramis pulled out his musket and loaded it, fumbling with the ammunition in his rage. He aimed it at the prisoner. Rochefort clumsily stood up and approached the bars again, chains scraping along the stone with a painful screech. The Musketeer felt his finger squeeze the trigger gently, aching with the urge to pull. He hadn't felt this nervous taking a shot since the first time he killed a man and the memory of it made keeping a steady hand even harder. He wished Porthos was beside him, to calm his nerves. Or Athos, to tell him how stupid he was being.

Rochefort came close and, with a fierce look in his eyes, rested his bruised forehead against the barrel of the gun. His skin was slick with sweat and he trembled slightly.

"Shoot me."

Aramis gaped at him.

"You're a Musketeer, aren't you? Shoot me."

Aramis did nothing.

Rochefort smiled triumphantly.

"You see, Aramis," the Comte murmured with slick confidence, "my forthcoming trial is like this gun. Loaded with ammunition. That's your testimony. Vargas'. Anne's. Even Madam Bonacieux's if she decides that she's not needed to be meddlesome somewhere else that day. The gun is then aimed at my head. The craftsmanship is sound. The bullets well designed. If it were to be fired, the result would be exactly as desired."

"Where are you going with this…?"

"Don't you understand, Aramis? The only flaw in this perfect method of execution is the marksman. He acts strong. He pretends to have the courage to shoot a man squarely in the face. But when the time comes, his stomach turns. He sweats into his boots. Can barely hold the weapon. When people question why he cannot perform his duty, he cries and whines about how he cannot kill his friend, a man he trusted, a man who served him loyally. And when the man with a gun to his head provides proof, undeniable proof, that those telling the marksman to shoot… a Spanish stranger adept at lies and tricks… his soldiers… his queen… … are mere traitors… then the marksman falters, drops his weapon and the condemned is spared."

Aramis did not lower his weapon. "The king no longer considers you a friend. He will not fall for more of your accusations about the dauphin's legitimacy."

"I think he may give them some attention when he discovers this conversation took place."

Aramis suddenly realised that he'd made a huge mistake.

Rochefort leaned in close.

"You mark my words, Musketeer," he hissed, "When the time comes, it'll be you, and not I, walking to the scaffold. You and the queen. And I'll be the one swinging the sword."