Aside from Aramis' moonlight visit, the Comte had spent the great deal of the night slumped against the cold wall, trying to sleep. He had not succeeded. The cell was cold and draughty, not at all like the stifling, airless prisons in Spain and he was shivering uncontrollably. Perhaps I will die of cold before all of this comes to anything, he pondered. Pathetic, to die in such a weak way after all that I have endured.

Seeing Aramis through the bars had alarmingly reminded him of the five years' imprisonment he had suffered at the hands of the Spanish. The man's golden skin and dark hair seemed so similar to that of his captors, his torturers, and Rochefort could not help but remember the countless times they had appeared at his cell, grinning at the prospect of inflicting more pain upon him.

Whips. Fire. Chains. Blades.

They'd even dragged him to the scaffold, hood over his head and read him his last rites. They left him there, noose around his neck or the sound of the sword being sharpened ringing in his ears, until he cried with fear, only to take him back to his cell, laughing at how he'd begged for mercy.

He couldn't even count how many times it had happened.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Aramis' face seemed to be floating in front of him. He swiped at it, trying to scratch at the flesh. He hit nothing but air. As the face appeared again, he lashed out once more, failing still. It seemed so real, as real as the stone beneath him or the chains around his feet. Every detail seemed so perfect- even down to the band around his hat.

"Her face… let me see her face…" He gasped.

But still the Musketeer's face grinned at him, familiar bejeweled crucifixes glinting in his eyes, taunting him with the symbol of Anne's love.

I gave it to her. I gave her my heart.

I taught her to love.

And yet she would not appear before him now, in his hour of need, to comfort him.

To love him.

Rochefort cried out in frustration and slammed his hand against the wall.

"Please do not hurt yourself."

His fist stopped midair, about to crash into the wall once again. Slowly, he turned to look at the corner where the voice had come from. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, blood rushing, his hands trembling with anticipation. And when he saw who sat there, bathed in moonlight, tears pricked his eyes and he lost all words.

Her hair was fairer than it was now, bleached by the Spanish sun. It tumbled past her shoulders, soft curls brushing against her cheeks and wafting softly in the wind; not at all proper for a queen. She was wearing the same dress that he'd last seen her in before her wedding day: a beautiful pale green, silk and lace, skirts spread out around her as she knelt on the floor. Her skin glowed, no royal burdens having yet made their mark upon it, eyes luminous and innocent.

"Please do not hurt yourself. I cannot bear to see you in pain."

Rochefort felt weaker at the sight of her.

"You…you came…"

Anne beamed, with a youthfulness that did not seem possible.

"Of course I did. You are my friend. My dear, dear friend."

"You have not visited…since I was in Spain…" he breathed.

"You did not need me."

"Of course I needed you." His voice caught in his throat. It hurt to speak. "I… I thought…I thought you had abandoned me."

She wore the crucifix around her slender neck. It glittered as it caught the light and Rochefort could think of nothing but it resting against Aramis' breast instead. He pointed at it, a sickly smell of infected wound and sweat filling his nose as he moved.

"You gave it to another…"

Rochefort felt something wet on his cheeks. He could not tell if it was blood or tears, but did not wipe it away to find out. Instead, he stared, entranced at the young woman, unable to look away from her angelic face. He hoped that none of the other prisoners would leer at her. Her beauty was for his eyes only- she had come to visit him after all.

"I promised that I would always wear it. And I have." She caressed it lovingly.

Anger surged in his breast.

"That is a lie." He spat. "I saw it around his neck…why…why are you lying to me?"

She did not seem hurt at his words. Only confused.

"I would never lie to you. I love you."

"But…but you do not love me… the real Anne does not love me…" He could not hide his bitterness, his contempt for this spectral woman, so close an imitation but still never as satisfying as the real thing. He wanted to shout, but his throat was so dry from dehydration that every word felt like someone had thrust a dagger down it, cutting into the delicate flesh.

The smile did not leave her face, but her shoulders sagged a little.

"I…I'm sorry… I…" he began.

He could not bear to see her look so upset. It reminded him of the fear that had radiated from the queen's face when he had told her of his love. A fear that broke him, a horror that he did not understand. Was he so much of a monster to her?

"You are the only man I could ever love, Rochefort."

Her voice echoed.

"I may only be in your mind, a companion for you when you are lost and lonely. I may be nothing more than a shadow of her. But, Anne loves you too. The real Anne." She stood and approached him silently, her feet making no sound against the stone, the scattered straw never shifting as she passed over it. She knelt beside him and tenderly took his face in her hands. Rochefort closed his eyes and nuzzled into them, not caring that no warmth came from her flesh. He savoured the sensation of her fingertips brushing over his neck, his cheeks, and the purple scar under his eye.

She pressed her lips to his forehead.

"And while she discovers this truth, you have me to love you."

She kissed his lips and he ran his fingers through her hair, gripping it and twisting it between his fingers, no concern as to how tightly he held it. She pulled away a little, but he held close, preventing her from breaking the kiss. He forced his tongue into her mouth. His other hand grabbed her corseted waist, desperate to rip away the clothing.

She is an illusion, he conceded begrudgingly, and pulled away a little, removing his tongue.

I wonder if the real Anne kisses like this?

If she would kiss me like this someday?

He panted heavily, trying to breathe, kiss and speak all at once, so consumed by his lust and passion that he could not concentrate on one.

"What… of… Aramis…?"

"She…does not…love him…truly…" she soothed, "She will forget him…you must…help her… forget him…" She broke away from him. "If she forgets the Musketeer, she will see you. The man who risked his life for love of her. The man I see now. And she will love him."

"How will I achieve this…?" He was overwhelmed by the sweet scent of her perfume.

Her smile returned to her face.

"There is more than one way to be guilty of treason."

A small sliver of orange sunlight broke through the window, as the dawn broke over Paris. The light hurt Rochefort's eyes. He screwed them up, head suddenly hurting from the intensity of it. Had he slept at all? The night had seemed both endless and fleeting at the same time.

And he could no longer feel her in his arms.

"Anne…Anne…?" He croaked.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.

#

Two days after Rochefort's capture, the queen knelt in her bedroom, at her personal altar. She prayed quietly, a small part of her still believing that Comte lurked outside her door, listening to her every word, ready to twist them into lies and accusations once more. Her neck twinged with the memory of his garrote around it, of his fingers stroking it. This was the first time she had prayed since he had attacked her, and she felt vulnerable. Uneasy.

She prayed for her son's safety. She prayed for her own safety.

And she prayed for Aramis.

She wondered when she would next see him. She knew that they had to maintain a distance now, a divide that made her heart feel as though it would break. She yearned for his company, to see the confident spark in his eyes or the caring smile on his lips. To see him hold his son.

All she could see now were a few drops of Rochefort's blood that had dried into the floor.

She hated him. She had surprised herself with how intense her hatred had become, especially as it was directed towards a man she had once considered a friend. She thought back on her time with him before she had married Louis, happy memories once, now tarnished with a sinister desire that made her skin crawl. Was I so blind, so naïve as a child that I did not notice, she wondered?

No. He was…is a skilled liar. I could never have known.

And she knew that more lies would come- Louis was still uncertain of the Comte's guilt, despite so much evidence having already been presented. The traitor had plenty of opportunities to worm his way back into the king's head. And what then? Would her throat be cut in her sleep if she did not submit her body for Rochefort's pleasure?

There was a loud knock on her door.

She stood hurriedly, brushing her skirts flat and tucking a few stray hairs behind her ears. She momentarily glanced towards an ornate candlestick beside her, but decided against it.

He is in the dungeon. And he certainly would not have knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Treville, your Majesty. May I speak with you?"

She sighed with relief.

"Enter."

The veteran Musketeer appeared around the door and stood to attention. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair seemed to be greyer than normal. He held himself steady, but Anne could tell that he had not slept for several days.

"You are exhausted. Please, sit down," she gestured to a chair, but he bowed his head respectfully.

"You are very kind, your Majesty. Thank you." He made no move towards it. "I hope I am not interrupting you, but I have an important matter to discuss. Concerning the trial."

Anne felt her face fall and she sat on the end of her bed, not caring that she did not maintain the regality that a queen was supposed to hold herself with at all times. She trusted Treville and knew that she could be open, even emotional with him. I trusted Rochefort, she began to think, but shook that from her head rapidly. If I question my belief in all of my friends, then I will become lonelier than I have ever been before. I cannot let my life be controlled by the actions of one madman.

"The king is overseeing the arrangements. He thought it best that I not be involved. It would probably be wiser to discuss your matter with him."

Treville shook his head seriously.

"This matter does not concern the king. It concerns the arrangements that need to be made should Rochefort not be dealt a guilty verdict."

Anne inhaled sharply.

"I am sorry, your Majesty, but it is a prospect that we need to consider."

"Yes, of course…"

She had hoped that it was a prospect that she merely imagined, but Treville saying it so bluntly suddenly showed her that it was an all too real possibility.

"What sort of arrangements?"

Treville took a small step forward, pristinely polished boots clacking on the wooden floor.

"We may have to entertain the idea of your travelling back to Spain, with the dauphin…" he glanced over his shoulder, to listen for footsteps outside the door, before continuing in a low voice, "...and Aramis. If Rochefort is released, it will be because he has managed to convince the king of the illegitimacy of the dauphin. All of your lives will be in danger."

Anne shook her head.

"Running away will leave France vulnerable to Rochefort's schemes. I may not be French by blood, but I am at heart, as is my son. I cannot allow that to happen."

Treville approached her now, and knelt in front of her to look her in the eye.

"They say Rochefort speaks your name in his sleep. That he talks to someone who is not there. It is far too dangerous for you to stay here if he is free."

Anne paused to think. Be courageous, she had told Aramis. She needed to be brave too. Could there be courage in fleeing, especially if it were to save her son's life?

"What about the king? Are you making arrangements for him?"

"Our first priority is to you and the dauphin."

"But you are the King's Musketeers."

Treville gave a sad smile.

"If Rochefort is reinstated back into power, to poison the King's mind once more, war with Spain could be imminent. And it is likely, with a Spanish agent placed so perfectly within the royal court, that his Majesty will be assassinated. The French people will look towards their new king… and the Queen Regent. If you too are lost, then France will come to ruin, fall victim to a Spanish invasion."

Anne gracefully stood and walked over to the window. It overlooked the grounds, which were normally so beautiful, but now seemed to have wilted and died, all colour and life faded from the leaves and flowers. She couldn't imagine leaving it all behind.

I felt the same way about leaving Spain, she admitted.

"Be assured, your Majesty, the Musketeers who remain at the King's side will endeavor to prevent that from happening. I am simply describing the worst case scenario."

She wished that she could make Louis see sense. She wished that he would prove himself a wise and just king, that he would see beyond the toxic words from Rochefort's lips and see the consequences of freeing him. She wished, just for once, that he would listen to her and trust her judgement.

"If I stay here, I will be able to protect my husband, but not myself, or my son. If I leave, I save my son and condemn the king to death."

She turned back to look at the Musketeer, the weight of her decision lingering on her face.

"How could I possibly make that choice?"

Treville gave her a sympathetic look, one that suddenly reminded her of her father, who had often looked so sincere and empathetic.

"I trust your judgement, your Majesty. You must do what you believe to be best."

He stood to attention and bowed.

"I will take my leave, to give you time to decide."

He strode towards the door, disguising a small yawn as reached it. Anne saw his gloved hand rest on the handle, ready to pull it open and her stomach dropped. She didn't want to be left alone again.

"Treville…"

"Yes, your Majesty?"

Anne dropped all sense of propriety and rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder. She felt him tense, before he tentatively wrapped his arms around her. He smelt like gunpowder and alcohol, which strangely comforted her, the slight scratch of his beard against her skin calming. She could not remember the last time she embraced her father, but she imagined that it felt something like this.

"I am so tired of all this talk of treason..." She whispered, "Rochefort has ripped everything apart…"

"Your Majesty, this is not appropriate…" he protested.

"Promise me… if Rochefort is released, you will force Aramis to flee, with or without me."

Treville stumbled over syllables and removed his arms from around her. She in turn released him and took a step away, cheeks slightly tinged with embarrassment, but her gaze firm and stoic. He bowed once more, humbly fitting back into his proper place.

"I cannot promise that, your Majesty."

"Why not?" She had an angry edge to her voice.

He straightened his back.

"I cannot force Aramis to ignore his heart. If I could… if I had….then things would be a lot simpler."

He paused to take a solemn breath.

"And there would be a lot less to lose."