"YOU THREATENED ROCHEFORT?" Athos snarled.

"Well, actually he probably did more threatening than I did in the end…" Aramis joked lamely.

The four Musketeers were gathered around a table in the garrison, idly wasting time before they were due to attend the first hearing that afternoon. The sun was concealed by ominous clouds and there was a bitter chill in the air, despite it being almost summer. The garrison was bustling, each soldier cleaning his gun, polishing his boots, sharpening his sword, in preparation for the trial. Normally, they would not go to such an effort- they certainly had not for Aramis- but this was high profile, the talk of the town.

A noble accused of treason. The First Minister for that matter.

And there was a possibility of a Spanish rescue attempt.

Aramis doubted that anyone would come for Rochefort. He was merely a pawn, as Marguerite had been. Easily disposed of. Easily replaced.

He had toyed with the idea of sharing his encounter with Rochefort with the others for three days. He had wondered whether he should tell them all individually, starting with Porthos, who he hoped would be the most understanding of why he went. But he hadn't found the right time, and so had had to settle with a group announcement… on the morning of the trial.

"With God as my witness, Aramis, I swear you are the stupidest man I've ever met." Athos grumbled, running his hands through his hair in frustration, mussing it up even more.

"You do realise he'll use it against you in court?" d'Artagnan looked just as exasperated as Athos.

"Yes, he made that fairly clear…"

"And he'll probably get creative with it," Porthos added, "Don't be surprised if you end up doing a hell of a lot more than ya' actually did."

Aramis couldn't help but grin a little.

"Well, just so long as he keeps it family friendly…"

"GOD DAMMIT, ARAMIS!" Athos burst, sending a flock of pigeons flapping madly from the rooftops above. Several of the other Musketeers turned to stare. As a pair of dark, sunken eyes lifted to glower at them, they took it as a cue to return to their own business, making as much noise as possible to prove that they were no longer listening. Nevertheless, Athos lowered his voice before speaking again.

"This is no time to jest. You threatened the First Minister. You assaulted a Red Guard in the process. You have given Rochefort more evidence to use against you. Against the queen."

Porthos, who had chuckled, wiped the smile from his face. Athos reached under the table and produced, like a magician in the Court of Miracles, a bottle of wine, which he placed before him with a melancholy thud. Judging from the state of the bottle, Aramis almost assumed that he had just found it by the roadside. It looked as though it had been homemade, (it certainly was not one of the refined vintages that the Comte de la Fère used to drink), and stored under floorboards, dust and unidentifiable dark stains across the glass.

"I thought I was going to need this after the trial.."

Uncaring as to who was watching, the Musketeer uncorked it and gulped down a large mouthful, trying to drown out the image of his friend's corpse rotting on a scaffold in front of the Palais du Justice. He didn't offer to share.

They didn't want any anyway. The overwhelming smell of it made Aramis gag.

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose and turned back to the point at hand.

"Porthos is right. He will twist the truth to his own advantage, to convince the king that he was right in naming you a traitor. He probably spent last night reopening any wounds that you gave him."

"It was a mistake, I know that," Aramis defended, "but I had to try. God willing, he will listen and retract his accusations against the queen."

"God willing? He may have been the Cardinal's man once, but God abandoned him long ago." Athos wiped away any liquid that had dribbled down into his stubbly beard. Aramis' mind wandered for a moment, questioning when he had taken to drinking so much again.

"But He hasn't abandoned her. I believe that these three days will have allowed Rochefort to change his mind. The guards say he hallucinates in the night, talks to her, tells her he loves her. If there is any chance that he might save himself AND have the real queen under his control, then that is what he'll do. Rochefort will probably focus on getting me arrested for…well, anything he can think of… and if that puts me on the wheel, so be it. But I will die knowing that she is alive and will remain that way. And I trust that you'll do whatever needs to be done when I am gone."

"If you think for even one minute that we're gonna let you get executed…" Porthos began.

"Keep speaking so loudly and you'll all get executed" Treville marched through the garrison gates, his boots and the bottom of his steel-blue cloak dusty from the walk to the palace, "I could hear you from the street. Rochefort may still have spies we don't know about, so keep it down when talking about such things. Aramis, with me."

The stairs creaked with the sheer force of his footsteps, the timbers shuddering and groaning. Aramis dutifully followed, leaving his friends exchanging glances. He noted that Treville was leaving behind a slight smell of salt water and damp wood.

He entered his Captain's office and shut the door behind him.

Treville slid off his cloak and threw it over the back of a chair, before starting to clear away a pile of parchments and papers from his desk. Aramis removed his hat and thumbed the brim of it nervously, a sinking feeling in his stomach telling him that he already knew that this was going to be about.

"I visited the queen yesterday."

"How is she?" He was restrained.

"She's still a little shaken, but well. She is allowed to wander the palace again, but chooses to stay in her chambers, leaving only to visit the dauphin."

"Is she…is she alone?" Aramis despaired at the thought of her shut in the palace, shunned and ignored by those who still found truth in her treasons.

"I believe Constance stays with her."

Aramis marvelled at the love and bravery within that woman's heart. He'd heard of her courage when she faced her death, even after witnessing Lemay's murder. And he'd seen the strength she had found after, to threaten Vargas, return to Paris and fight Rochefort.

A Musketeer in all but title.

"d'Artagnan is a lucky man," he smiled, "to have the love of such a woman."

Treville opened a drawer and thrust the gathered papers inside, leaving the desk empty, except for one plain sheet of parchment, a pot of ink and a quill that had nearly lost all of its feathers. He settled in the chair, but did not begin to write. Instead, he folded his arms and stared at the dashing Musketeer.

"You could have had the same happiness if you'd chosen differently."

Aramis shook his head.

"No. I couldn't."

The newly reinstated Captain nodded once, resignedly, before continuing.

"When I spoke to the queen, I posed to her a scenario where Rochefort is not found guilty of his crimes. A situation where she would have to choose whether to stay in France or return to Spain."

"…What did she say?" Aramis murmured.

"I left her to think about it. She seemed upset at the idea of leaving the king on his own. However… she summoned me today with her response."

Aramis felt his heart leap into his throat.

"And?"

Treville silently reached for the quill and dipped the end into the ink. The scratching it made as he wrote on the parchment irritated Aramis- it seemed to be elongating an unnecessarily long pause. The Captain had written about five excruciatingly detailed sentences before he pushed the paper to face him.

"This letter will explain to anyone who reads it, be it a sailor, soldier or gendarme, that you have been honourably discharged from the King's Musketeers. That you are not a deserter, not a traitor, and are certainly not accompanying the queen and the dauphin back to Spain. However, if the time comes to use it… the exact opposite will be true in the eyes of the law and the King."

Aramis approached the desk and tentatively picked up the letter.

"I just returned from the docks. I have the confidence of a Spanish trader, who has agreed to take three passengers on board if called upon. He does not know your identities. Simply the fact that the couple will be travelling with a small child."

Reading over the words, Aramis felt tears prick in his eyes. It seemed beyond belief that because he followed his heart, he would have to flee the country he served, the country he loved, under pain of death. That because he fell in love with a woman he could never have, he had to leave his post, his friends, his brothers. Who knew when he would be reunited with them?

Yet, a part of him felt hopeful.

A life apart from France meant a life with Anne.

With his son.

Could France's downfall give me my freedom, he imagined?

"If this comes to pass, you must take the queen and the dauphin to her brother, the King. You must wait until war has passed, until Rochefort is dead…until the time when France calls upon its new sovereign. The queen will return with the new king, to claim his throne and restore peace."

He had expected nothing less. He drifted away into his thoughts slightly, wondering what it would be like to serve as a Musketeer under his son's reign. To see him grow into fine king, one who would be remembered as a new hope for the French people. I could teach him how to shoot, to handle a sword. When he's old enough, I could teach him how to talk to girls…he smirked at the thought. Well, perhaps that's not wise…

It was only then he realised that Treville had left a terrible pause.

The smile disappeared from his face.

"What are you trying so hard not to tell me?"

The Captain straightened his back, bracing himself.

"When the queen returns to France…"

"Yes…?"

"You must stay in Spain."

Aramis felt his optimism drain away, as though someone had stabbed him in the heart and was watching blood seep out of him. He dropped the letter back on the desk, fingers unable to hold the warrant that secured him a life of lonely exile.

"Why?" He challenged, anger tinging his voice.

"The dauphin's legitimacy will have already been called into question during the trial. These rumours will be considered proven if you disappear with the queen. Therefore, the only way we can ensure that the dauphin takes the throne and see France's monarchy restored fully, with his parentage unquestioned, is to give you another role to play. That of a Spanish agent, employed by the queen's brother to protect her."

So he was to play traitor. Have his name marked in the history books as a deceitful liar, a treacherous villain, a coward who betrayed everything he stood for. Aramis knew how traitor's stories ended; at the end of a rope, to be tossed into an unmarked grave, or in a ditch at the side of the road, throat slit. Is that to be my end, he wondered?

He would never see Anne or his son again.

He would probably have to change his name. Become faceless. Nothing but a ghost.

Porthos. Athos. D'Artagnan. Constance.

They would simply be memories.

"I'm sorry, Aramis."

The hopeless Musketeer choked back his cries. His shaking hand closed around Anne's crucifix.

"Is there no other way?" He begged.

"No..." Treville stood, walked around the desk and placed his hands on Aramis' shoulders. "This is for the good of France. You chose a life of duty. You were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice… any sacrifice… when you swore your oath. But we can stay positive for now... Rochefort hasn't been exonerated yet. There is still hope that you can remain here."

Aramis nodded, biting his lip to keep from crying.

He rarely felt fear. He didn't even fear death, with the comforting notion of Heaven waiting on the other side. But when faced with this life of solitude? He'd never felt so helpless, so unable to control his own fate. It was like staring into an abyss that absorbed all light, sound and sensation. He knew that he could survive there.

But he did not want to just survive.

"She doesn't know, does she?" He smiled sadly. "You didn't tell her."

"She would not leave without you. And she will want to return to France with you." Treville couldn't look him in the eye, "You must have disappeared before then. She must never know that this was the arrangement all along."

Aramis said nothing. He turned away and headed back over to the door, without putting his hat back on. He could feel Treville's eyes on the back of his skull.

"Forgive me. This is the last thing I wanted." The Captain's voice was weak with emotion.

As he passed through the door, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Sometimes God decides we can't have what we want."

#

The Musketeers stood inside the expansive halls of the Palais du Justice, awaiting the arrival of Rochefort. The cart that was transporting him from palace dungeon to courtroom had almost reached its destination, having had to navigate through the winding streets of Paris, and now was half an hour late. Aramis could hear Louis on the other side of the door, becoming agitated at the delay. Turning to his companions, he teased:

"Let's hope he's delayed another hour. Then maybe the King will just skip the trial, pass judgement and we can all go to lunch."

He knew the others could tell he was putting on a brave face.

"This half an hour delay will be nothing compared to how long this trial is going to take. Rochefort has had three whole days to prepare his defence. I wouldn't be surprised if in that time he'd somehow managed to resurrect the Cardinal to defend him." Athos drawled.

They all shared in a unanimous shudder at the thought.

The door opened and Constance slipped out, closing it quietly behind her.

"Are they here yet?"

"Not yet," d'Artagnan answered, "He clearly wants to make an entrance."

"Well I hope he's not expectin' a fanfare, because my trumpet playin's a little rusty." Porthos took the weight off of his feet by leaning against the gilded wall, but immediately stood to attention again as Treville rushed around the corner, hair windswept and out of breath. He approached the Musketeers and bent over, holding his side, gasping in large gulps of air.

"How…late…are…we…?" he wheezed.

"Well… let's just say that the King's not happy…" d'Artagnan reported.

Treville sighed.

"Those words will be written on my gravestone…"

As the Captain entered the courtroom to announce their arrival, the sounds of a collection of footsteps came closer. Aramis felt his hand twitch towards his sword again and tried to shake any thoughts of reckless behaviour from his mind. This man may have the power to take everything I love from me, but killing him out here will just ensure that I have to leave France, he reasoned, steadying his breathing.

However, looking at the other's he could see the same fire in their eyes. Porthos mindlessly fiddled with his musket. D'Artagnan had wrapped his arm around Constance, no doubt remembering how Rochefort had almost had her beheaded. Athos was gripping something pale blue in his pocket. A silk handkerchief, Aramis wondered disbelievingly, frowning with how uncharacteristic it seemed for the man who had worn the same worn-out hat for ten years?

It must be something of Milady's, he realised.

A crowd of Red Guards appeared from around the corner, armour shining in the afternoon sun. Each man was armed to the teeth and had immaculate helmets atop their heads, a display of France's strength, no doubt, for when they had passed through the streets. Aramis searched for Rochefort amongst them. No one was limping. No one was being forcefully shepherded towards them.

He couldn't even hear chains.

"Where is he…?" he began, but his words were cut short.

The Comte was stood in the middle, not at all as he was three days previously.

He had regained the swagger in his walk, strutting alongside the guards as though he was walking to someone else's trial. His hair was slicked back handsomely, face cleaned of blood, free from bruising and beard trimmed. His eyepatch had returned, hiding his scarring. He was dressed once again in his finery, leather doublet, new knee-high boots and fingers adorned with rings. Only his wrists were chained, but he did not struggle. Though his back could not have possibly healed in that short time, he made no show of it, not even flinching as he walked.

There was a victorious glint in his eye.

"Well, let's hope he spent the past three days doin' his hair and not preparing his defence…" Porthos snorted.

"Maybe he wants to look good when his head's on a spike…" d'Artagnan grinned.

The group met the Musketeers at the door. Aramis glared at the prisoner, who returned his hatred in a single contemptuous glance.

"Are there actually any other Musketeers, or are you the only four…?" Rochefort hissed.

He stood perfectly still as Porthos searched him for any hidden weapons, looking mildly agitated.

"Nothing."

Rochefort raised his eyebrows.

"You thought I'd be armed?"

A smile crossed his face when Porthos did not respond.

"I'm no fool, Musketeer."

He cast another glance at Aramis, a venomous stare, before stepping forward into the courtroom.

"Only an idiot threatens those who seek to destroy him."