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SANTIAGO CABRERA as ARAMIS and ALEXANDRA DOWLING as ANNE OF AUSTRIA THE MUSTKETEERS (2014-2016)
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SANTIAGO CABRERA as ARAMIS and ALEXANDRA DOWLING as ANNE OF AUSTRIA THE MUSTKETEERS (2014-2016)
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Seven
It had been a month since their temporary sanctuary at the convent. Life had slowly regained a sense of normality since the ambush, though no one would tell Marie the details behind the attack. She would have asked questions if the memory of her mother and Aramis hadn’t occupied every thought.
It had lingered in the corners of her mind every day since; impossible to silence once it had taken root. Every day since they had left the convent, every day since she had stood in the shadows and watched her mother in Aramis’ arms. She watched him hold her not with duty or loyalty, but with love.
Real love. The kind that survived years of silence. The kind that ruined people.
At first, Marie had tried desperately to dismiss it. She told herself she had imagined things that were not there, woven meaning into moments that had merely been born of fear and relief. But the doubt never left her.
Instead it had settled quietly beneath her skin, growing heavier with time. And then there was Philippe. She realised now that had truly begun at the garrison.
At the time, she had blamed the wine. The uproar and the emotions of the evening. Surely that explained why the memory of that night still lingered so vividly in her mind. Philippe furious and hurt, Aramis pulling him close afterward with a tenderness so instinctive it had stolen the breath from her lungs.
She told herself it had meant nothing. Yet the more she remembered it, the less it resembled reconciliation and more a father comforting his son.
The thought horrified her.
After the convent, everything became impossible not to notice. The way Aramis watched her mother when he believed no one saw him. The way her mother softened in his presence. The quiet understanding between them that no one else seemed to question.
And Philippe- God. Once she saw it, she couldn’t stop seeing it. The dark curls. The sharp line of his jaw. The expressive eyes, so full of mischief one moment and intensity the next. Even the way he moved sometimes felt achingly familiar.
Marie had tried to rationalise it. Perhaps there was some distant relation of theirs she did not know of. Some cousins hidden away in Gascony who shared the same family features, that just so happened to be similar to Aramis. An explanation that was harmless. Ordinary.
She clung to that possibility desperately, but doubt had a way of setting itself deep within.
The realisation came quietly. Not during some dramatic confrontation or whispered confession, but in the library.
Maire had been struggling for nearly ten minutes with one of the tall windows, frustration steadily overtaking her patience as the summer heat suffocated the room.
“Will you just open,” she muttered beneath her breath, bracing herself against the frame again. The window still didn't move. She exhaled sharply, pushing a loose strand of golden hair from her face just as the library doors opened behind her.
Laughter drifted in first. Louis’ voice and Aramis’ amused tone beside it. Marie straightened automatically.
“Would one of you be so kind as to help me with this?” she asked, turning towards them. She expected Aramis, eager to help. Instead, she found Louis and Philippe beside him. Marie froze, something in her chest stuttered violently.
Philippe was still smiling at whatever had just been said, entirely unaware of the way the world had just tilted beneath her feet. There he was, almost impossibly like him. The same posture, the same easy confidence, the same tilt of the head. Even the shape of his smile.
Marie’s pulse roared in her ears. Oh. The thought landed with terrible clarity. There was no denying it anymore.
Her world did not shatter all at once. It unravelled slowly. Quietly, like silk slipping through trembling fingers.
For days afterwards, Marie moved through the palace in a daze, smiling when required, speaking when spoken to, all while something heavy and grieving settled inside her chest.
She had no proof. No confession. Nothing she could present as solid evidence. Only instinct, memory, and the awful certainty of her own heart. What made it worse was that she could not even hate them for it.
Aramis had been the closest thing she had ever known to a father; steady, patient, endlessly kind. He taught her to ride, to read Latin passages her tutors deemed too difficult, to keep her head high when court became cruel.
How could she despise a man for loving too deeply? A man who was truly her brother's father?
But this was not merely love. It was treason.
Marie had barely slept in days by the time she finally sought out Louis.
She found him alone in an empty council chamber late in the afternoon, sunlight spilling through the high windows in pale streaks across the floor. Papers lay scattered before him, though he did not appear to truly be reading them.
He looked up the moment she entered. As though he had been expecting her.
“Close the door,” he said quietly. Marie obeyed. The latch clicked into place behind her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Marie turned toward him fully, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.
“I know about Philippe.”
Louis did not react immediately. “You’ll need to be more specific, little sister.”
“Don’t,” her voice cracked. “Don’t pretend with me.”
At that, Louis finally lifted his gaze completely. His expression was unreadable now; not her brother’s face, but a king's.
“Then say it.”
Marie hesitated for a brief moment.
“Philippe is Aramis’ son.” The silence that followed felt endless. Louis inhaled slowly, setting aside the papers before him with deliberate calm.
“You understand what you are implying,” he said at last, voice low and careful. “You understand what would happen if such an accusation were spoken beyond this room.”
“I’m not making accusations," Marie whispered fiercely. “I’m telling the truth.”
“Truth does not matter in this world nearly as much as survival.”
The words struck harder than she expected. Marie felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes.
“You knew?”
Louis looked away briefly. That was answer enough.
“You knew,” she repeated softly, grief threading through her voice. “All these years…”
He rose slowly from his chair and crossed towards the window.
“When I was young, I asked questions,” he admitted quietly. “I noticed things. I was not stupid.”
“And Mama?” Marie’s chest tightened painfully.
Louis closed his eyes briefly. “She loved him.”
“She still does.” Marie's voice was soft in the fragile air around them. A long silence followed. When Louis spoke again, his tone carried something bitter beneath its calm restraint.
“If I acknowledge this, everything collapses. Our mother’s honour is destroyed. Philippe becomes nothing but a bastard, and Aramis would not simply be disgraced, he would be executed.”
Marie flinched, the severity of Louis' words ringing in her ears.
“But surely he deserves to know, Louis?”
“No.” The answer came instantly, sharply. Louis turned to face her fully now, and for a brief moment she saw not the King of France, but simply her brother; tired, frightened, carrying too much.
“He can never know,” Louis said quietly. “Not unless he discovers it for himself. And even then…” His jaw tightened. “I will deny it.”
“Even if it breaks him?”
Pain flickered across Louis’ face before the mask returned.
“Even then.”
Marie stared at him, tears slipping down her cheeks now.
“This isn’t fair”
“No,” Louis agreed softly. “It isn’t.” For a moment neither moved. Then Louis straightened, every trace of vulnerability disappearing behind the weight of the crown once more.
“I command you, as your King, never to speak of this again.” Marie lowered her gaze. Not because she agreed, but because she understood. Some truths were too dangerous to bring into the light.
The council chamber remained silent long after Marie had gone. Louis hadn’t moved since. He stood beside the window, watching the pale light sink over Paris, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
For several moments, he simply breathed. Then, slowly, some of the rigid composure left his shoulders. Relief. God forgive him, but relief. His gaze lowered to the gardens below, though he barely saw them.
She knew about Philippe. That alone was dangerous enough. But she had not seen the whole truth. Not yet. Louis closed his eyes briefly. He remembered the first time he had understood it himself. Not all at once, but in fragments over the years; glances exchanged too quickly, silences that spoke louder than words, and a grief in their mother he had never known how to mend.
He had been younger than Marie was now. And far lonelier. The knowledge had settled upon him like iron. Not only Philippe, but all of them. The thought still carried its old weight. He saw it too easily sometimes, in Marie’s stubborn pride and fierce compassion; Philippe’s dark eyes and reckless spirit. And if he allowed himself to dwell upon it, which he rarely did, in his own reflection.
The same slight bump in the nose, the same shape to the mouth. Echoes of a man who had spent years pretending his love belonged solely to God while quietly giving pieces of it away to each of them.
Louis exhaled slowly. Marie believed she had uncovered a terrible secret, but she had only brushed its edge. And for that, he was grateful. Because if she ever realised the truth in its entirety- If she ever understood what it meant for her, for Philippe… for him. He did not know whether she would forgive him. Or whether the fragile world they had built around the lie would survive it. A small part of him still remembers traces of what had almost happened all those years ago, when he had been nothing but a boy. Being locked away from his mother, Aramis thrown into a cell awaiting execution.
His jaw tightened. No. It could not happen, would not happen. Not while he still possessed the power to prevent it. Yet one thought lingered stubbornly; Marie had their mother’s heart, and God help them all if she ever chose to follow it.
Next Chapter - coming soon
annamis edit anyone?
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Six
Marie was seventeen the first time she truly feared for her life.
It had been a gentle spring day and the carriage rolled on at an even, measured pace. Its iron wheels murmuring against the packed earth road. Beyond the glass windows, the countryside unfurled in long ribbons of green and gold. Fields of barley bowing in the wind, low hedgerows stitched with wildflowers, and the distant rise of woodlands dark against the horizon. The sky hung pale and wide above it all, brushed with the last soft light of the afternoon.
Inside the air was warm; faintly perfumed with beeswax, linen and the lingering incense of the village church they had just left behind.
Marie sat opposite her mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her fingers had long since curled into the fabric of her skirts. She could still see the villagers in her mind; their faces lined with worry and gratitude, hands rough and trembling as they accepted bread, coin, and blessings.
“You handled yourself well today,” her mother said, folding her gloves neatly into her lap. “The children took to you.”
Marie offered a small smile, though her thoughts felt elsewhere. “They were kind. It hardly felt like work.”
“That’s precisely the point,” the Queen replied gently. “If duty feels like a burden, one has already begun to fail it.”
Marie inclined her head, though her gaze drifted to the window once more. The land slipped past in long, quiet stretches; fields, trees, the occasional distant farm. It should have been a peaceful journey back to the palace. Yet something didn’t feel quite right.
“Do you hear that?” she asked softly.
Her mother paused. “Hear what darling?”
Marie frowned. “Nothing”
That was precisely it. No cart wheels, no distant voices, not even birdsong. Only the steady rhythm of their own horses and the creak of the carriage. Outside one of the musketeers shifted in his saddle. Marie caught the way his brown lowered in concern.
The carriage lurched violently. Marie was thrown sideways, her shoulder striking the frame as the horses screamed and reared. The Queen grasped for balance, one hand bracing against the seat while the other reached for Marie. The sound of musket fire rang through the air, then another.
Shouting erupted outside. Steel rang against steel.
“What is happening?” her mother demanded, but the answer came not in words, but anarchy. The door was wrenched open. A masked man lunged inside, the smell of sweat and leather flooding the carriage with him. Maire barely had time to gasp before his hand seized her arm, dragging her forward.
“Mama!” Her mother reached frantically for her, but before she could reach her the man brought down the handle of his musket in a sharp crack. Blood had already started to spill from the Queen's head.
“MAMA!” Marie let out a broken scream, fighting against her capture to make it back to her mothers side. Her feet slipped against the carriage step as she was pulled out into the harsh daylight. The world around her instantly became chaos; horses rearing, musketeers shouting, blades flashing.
“Take the girl!” someone barked. She twisted, trying to break free, panic clawing up her throat. A hand clawed into her hair, pulling her head back so hard that pain shot through her neck as she lost her balance and fell to the ground.
“Stop struggling or I’ll cut that pretty neck of yours.” She could feels the heat of her captures breath against her ear. A hot pool of tears ran from her eyes as she tired to catch her breath. Surely this would be her end…
And then the grip on her hair vanished, pulling The man holding her staggered backward with a cry, collapsing into the dust.
A figure stood between them. A musketeer. Luc.
His blade was already moving again before Maire could draw breath, parrying another strike, driving the attacker back. His dark curls had come loose from its tie, his expression sharp with focus; but when his eyes flickered to hers, something else flashed there. Relief.
“Your Highness,” he said, urgent but steady, “you must come with me. Now.”
“Luc- my mother-”
“She’s safe. You must trust me.” There was no time to argue. Another shout rang out, orders this time from another musketeer.
“Get the Queen to safety! Move!”
He was already reaching for her, pulling Marie to her feet; his grip was strong, grounding.
“Can you stand?”
“I- yes.”
“Good.”
Around them, the world continued to fragment in noise and motion. Luc’s jaw tightened. He didn’t hesitate.
“This way,” he said, already moving.
He guided her towards a horse, his hands at her waist as he lifted her into the saddle with practised ease. Before she could steady herself, he had mounted behind her in one fluid motion; one arm holding her to him around her waist, while the other hand grasped onto the reins.
“Hold on,” he ordered. Then they were moving.
They left the road at once.
Branches clawed at them as Luc urged the horse into the cover of the trees, the ground uneven beneath pounding hooves. Marie clutched the saddle, her pulse still racing, the shock of it all crashing belatedly through her.
“Do you think they will follow?” Marie bent slighting at an oncoming branch, breath catching in her throat.
“If they do,” Luc said quietly, “they will not find us easily.” He guided the horse through the narrow paths and between dense clusters of trees with unerring precision, his body encasing hers, one arm still steady around her waist keeping her balance through the unsteady terrain.
“Stay low,” he said quietly. Marie obeyed instinctively, leaning forward as he ducked below more low bearing branches. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the rhythm of the horse and the slight rush of air against her face. There was still a lingering sharp awareness that danger might be following. The sounds of pursuit failed to come. Luc did not trust it, and neither did she. They rode on.
By the time the light began to fade properly, the forest had deepened into shadow. Luc finally drew the horse to a slower pace, though his posture remained alert, his gaze scanning the treeline constantly.
Marie became aware then, of everything she had not had time to feel. The trembling in her hands. The ache where she had struck the ground, and the lingering echo of fear that refused to fully settle.
“You’re hurt,” Luc said suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
“Your arm.”
Maire glanced down. Dirt smeared her sleeve, and beneath it, a shallow tear in fabric that revealed dried blood.
“It’s nothing,” she replied quickly. He did not seem convinced. The horse slowed further as he guided it along a narrower path, one that seemed more of a suggestion than road.
“You don’t need to pretend,” he said, quieter now. “Not with me.” a lull of quiet crept between them as Luc pulled the horse to stop. He dismounted in one smooth motion, holding his arms towards Marie.
“Let me see.” There was no room for argument in his tone; not harsh, but firm. She left out a sigh as she twisted herself towards him, allowing Luc to pull her from the horse. Once her feet had landed firmly on the ground, she looked up at him. Reluctantly, she extended her arm. In the dim light, the tear in her sleeve was more obvious now, the skin beneath scraped and reddened, dust clinging to the wound. Luc frowned.
“It should be cleaned.”
“It truly-”
“Marie.”
Her name, quieter this time. She fell silent. He moved quickly but careful, retrieving a small flask from the saddlebag and tearing a strip from the edge of his own sleeve. The sound of fabric ripping felt oddly loud in the stillness. He took hold of her arm, his touch gentle and warm as he looked at her thrown dark lashes.
“This will sting,” he warned.
“It already does,” she murmured.
A faint smile touched his mouth; brief, fleeting. Then he poured a small amount of cool liquid over the wound. Marie hissed softly, her fingers tightening instinctively against his arm.
“I know,” he reassured her, his voice low and steady. “Almost done.”
He worked with a surprising gentleness, wiping away the dirt with the fabric; his touch precise, deliberate. The world seemed to narrow in that moment; the quiet clearing, the fading light, and the careful attention he gave her as though nothing else existed.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re not hurt,” he added softly.
“I’m not pretending,” she replied, though her voice had lost its earlier certainty.
“You are.”
She looked at him. He was closer than she had realised; his focus entirely on her, brows drawn slightly in concentration.
“I’ve had worse,” she said lightly, though it rang hollow.
“I’ve no doubt,” he said. “That does not make it nothing.” He finished tying the makeshift bandage with deft fingers.
“There,” he said. “It will do until we reach the convent.”
Marie glanced down at her arm, then back at Luc.
“Thank you.”
He met her gaze.
“You don’t need to thank me for doing what I should.”
“It’s only a part of your duty.” the statement slipped out before she could stop it. For a moment, he didn’t answer. His hand lingered at her waist, just briefly.
“It is not only duty.”
Something in her chest tightened.
“Good.” She whispered. The moment stretched, quiet and fragile, suspended between what was said and what was not.
Then Luc stepped back, the spell breaking.
“We should keep moving.”
They rode again, the forest thinning as dusk gave way to night. In the distance, pale against the darkening sky, the convent emerged. Luc had reassured Marie that her mother would also be brought here by his fellow musketeers; relief flooded her chest knowing that if everything had gone to plan, they would soon be reunited.
They approached in silence. Lanterns glowed softly near the entrance as the familiar figures of the nuns moved in the shadows beyond.
Luc dismounted first, then helped her down once more. His hands firm, lingering just a fraction too long before releasing her.
“You’re safe now,” he said.
Marie looked at him. For a moment, neither of them moved.
“Thank you for protecting me.”
He inclined his head. “Always.”
Something unspoken hung between them, then the sound of voices drifted from inside the main door. Luc looked over Marie's shoulder, noting the horses stationed by the trough.
“The Queen is inside,” he added. Marie nodded, turning towards the convent. She stole one final look towards Luc before she disappeared inside.
The air was cool and hushed within the convent walls. Candlelight flicked along stone, shadows shifting softly with every movement.
“Mother?” Marie called, walking through the corridor. No answer. Then voices drifted through the hall. She quicked her pace, recognising her mothers tone.
“Mama-” she stopped as soon as she saw them; her mother and Aramis. They stood close. Too close. In a blind moment of panic, Marie hid herself behind the door taking in the scene before her.
Her mother’s hands were not merely resting against his arms, they were curled into the fabric of his coat, as though grounding herself in him. Aramis’ head was bowed towards hers, his forehead almost touching, the air between them intimate in a way that was unmistakable.
Then he pulled her into him. His arms wrapped around her fully, one hand pressed firmly at her back, the other rising instinctively to cradle the back of her head. Her mother leaned into him without hesitation, his fingers tightening onto his arms as though she had no intention of letting go. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply held each other. Marie froze where she stood, something sharp and unfamiliar catching in her chest.
“If anything had happened to you-” Aramis’s voice broke, the words rough, stripped of the composure she had always known in him. He drew back slightly, just enough to look at her, though his hand remained at her cheek; thumb brushing faintly against her skin as if reassuring himself she was truly there.
“I would not have-” He stopped, breathing unsteady. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“I am here,” the Queen said softly, though her voice carried its own tremor. Her hand lifted, covering his where it rested against her face, holding it there rather than moving it away. “We are safe.”
“You should not have been there without me,” he said, his gaze searching hers with an intensity that felt almost too private to witness. “I should have been at your side.”
“You could not have known.”
“I should have known,” he instated, the edge of fear still lingering beneath his words. His hands slipped from her cheek only to lace briefly with hers, their fingers fitting together with an ease that spoke of something long familiar.
“Evey time you are beyond my reach-” he stopped himself again, but the meaning lingered heavily in the space between them.
Maire stepped back further into the shadows. Her heart pounded. Not with fear, but something sharper. Something that unsettled her far more.
“I feared for you,” he said at last, his voice low. “For both of you.”
The Queen’s gaze softened.
“She should be here by now. I overheard one of the sisters say they were spotted along the road.”
Marie felt something shift inside her; memories aligning, small moments she had never questioned now taking on new meaning.
The way Aramis watched her mother. The quiet understanding between them. The closeness. Far too much closeness.
She stepped back into the hall, careful and silent, retreating before she could be seen.
Marie’s retreat to the quiet chapel did not last long. Footsteps echoed faintly through the corridor behind her.
“Your Highness?”
She turned. One of the musketeers inclined his head. “The Queen is asking for you.”
Marie swallowed the lump in her throat, steadying herself before she nodded. “Of course.”
The walk back felt shorter than it should have been, Or perhaps she simply noticed less of it. The flicker of candlelight, the hush of the convent; it all seemed distant now, muted beneath the weight of what she had just seen. When she reached the chamber, the door stood partially open.
“Marie?” At her mother’s voice she stepped inside.
The Queen crossed the room in an instant, all composure abandoned. She gathered Marie into her arms with a force that startled her.
“Thank God,” she breathed, the words whispered through tears of relief. “You’re safe.”
Marie held onto her tightly, the events of the day crashing over her all at once now that she no longer had to hold herself together.
“I’m alright, Mama.”
The Queen pulled back, her hands moving to Marie’s face, checking for injury or anything amiss. She noted the bandage wrapped round her arm.
“You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing,” Marie said quickly. “Just a scratch.”
Her mother’s gaze lingered a moment longer, unconvinced, before softening with quiet relief. Behind her, Marie became aware of the others that had arrived at the convent.
The musketeers stood at a respectful distance, familiar faces among them. Athos, composed as ever; Porthos, unusually subdued; D’Artagnan watchful, his expression sharpened by concern.
And Armais-
He had taken a step forward. Just one, but it was enough for Marie to notice.
For a moment, just a moment, it seemed as though he might cross the distance entirely. His expression was unguarded, the earlier fear still written plainly across his features, his focus fixed wholly on her as though confirming for himself that she was unharmed.
Marie felt it; unexpected, but unmistakable. That same fierce concern. That same protectiveness. The same she had just witnessed directed at her mother.
He moved slightly closer to them. The shift was subtle, but deliberate. His hands, which had lifted slightly as though of their own free will, fell back to his sides. His posture straightened, the emotion shuttered behind something more appropriate; something controlled. By the time he spoke, his voice was measured once more.
“You’re unharmed?”
Marie met his gaze. There was still something there; something he had not entirely concealed.
“Yes,” she answered. “Thanks to Luc.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
Her mother’s arm slipped back around her shoulders, drawing her close again.
“We’ve had quite the day,” the Queen said softly, pressing a kiss to Marie’s hair. “You must rest.”
Marie nodded, though her gaze drifted once more, briefly, towards Aramis. He had already stepped back fully now, placing distance between them. His expression composed, his attention shifting outward; to duty, to the others, to anything but Marie and her mother.
But Marie had seen what happened between them. And now, she couldn’t unseen it.
Next chapter
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Five
Marie was sixteen the first, and last time she and Philippe sneaked out of the palace to visit the garrison.
Philippe had struck up a friendship with several of the musketeers assigned to the palace guard; a friendship that came with its own set of privileges. Most notably, he knew precisely when D’Artagnan would be absent and the garrison left with a more relaxed approach at supervision. It hadn’t taken much convincing to bring her along.
“It’s just a small gathering, Marie,” he’d said, all easy charm and a witty smile. “A few drinks. Some friendly conversation.”
She had known it was a lie. They both had.
The garrison had been alive that night. Music lulled throughout the stone walls, laughter spilled into every corner; the air thick with the scent of wine, sweat, and smoke. Candlelight flickered over uniforms discarded in favour of loosened shirts and rolled sleeves. It was wild, unruly and utterly unlike the suffocating polish of court.
Marie, who had never been drunk in her life, discovered rather quickly why people sought it out. It was fun. The first glass warmed her; the second made everything brighter. By the third, the world felt like it had softened at the edges, as though she had stepped into a warm haze.
Philippe, already far beyond restraint, had joined the musicians. Loud, off key, and entirely unbothered, as he bellowed his way through a scandalously bawdy ballad that had half the garrison doubled over with laughter.
Marie, meanwhile, danced. Not the measured, rehearsed steps drilled into her at court, but something freer. Spinning, laughing, pulling anyone bold enough into her orbit. A few tried to keep pace but most failed.
“Careful, Your Highness,” came a voice near her ear, warm with amusement. “You’ll have the entire garrison falling over themselves.” She turned to find one of the musketeers; young, Philippe’s age, with dark hair and a crooked smile she recognised. Luc had not changed much since she first saw him two years ago training in the courtyard.
“And what if I intend to out dance everyone here?” she shot back, breathless but grinning.
“Then I fear for us all,” he said, offering her a mock bow before taking her hand. “Though I would consider it an honour to be among the fallen.” She laughed, letting him spin her once before slipping away, though not without a glance back. He was still watching her.
Then came the shooting contest. Because of course it would. Bottles, fruit, discarded boots; anything that could be placed atop a poor volunteer’s head became a target. Each successful shot was met with roaring approval; each miss, with louder jeering.
And then there was Philippe. Pointing a musket at her. A bottle balanced precariously atop her head. Marie straightened instinctively, silently thanking her long-suffering dance tutor for the posture drilled into her bones. The glass wobbled slightly, catching the candlelight.
If they had been sober, either of them might have recognised how catastrophically foolish this was. But they were not, and that made it all the more exhilarating. The shot rang out. Marie didn’t even flinch as the bottle shattered cleanly. The cheer that followed was deafening. Luc appeared by her side in an instant, brushing loose pieces of glass from her hair. She held onto his arms as laughter took over her, cheeks flushed in a rosy hue.
To everyone’s surprise, bar her own, Marie proved to be an excellent shot. A fact she ensured no one forgot.
“Better than half of you lot!” she declared, waving the musket around with a confidence that would have horrified her tutor. Her smile was far too smug for someone several drinks past reason.
“Half?” came Luc’s voice again from the edge of the crowd. “That’s generous.”
“Oh, you’d like to test it?” she challenged, raising a brow. Before he could answer, another musketeer stepped forward; Gustave, eyes bright with mischief.
“If you’re so good, let’s raise the stakes.” Marie turned toward him. “Go on, then.”
He plucked an apple from a nearby crate and held it up.
“Shoot this off my head.”
“Easy,” she said without hesitation. But then he produced a strip of fabric.
“Blindfolded.” Marie blinked. Normally she would have refused outright. But drunk Marie only grinned.
“Alright,” she said, stepping forward. “You’re on.” Luc took the blindfold from Gustave’s grasp, taking Marie by the shoulders to turn her away from him. His hands lightly caught against her cheek as he brushed her hair out of the way. She felt him lean slightly against her as he tied the fabric, his voice low so only she could hear.
“Try not to kill him,” he murmured. “It would ruin the evening.”
“And disappoint you?” she replied lightly.
“Deeply.”
She chuckled a little as she felt his presence move away from her. A musket was placed into her hand.
“When you’re ready Highness.” She heard Gustave call out from across the way. Lifting the musket she took a breath to ground herself, fingers ready on the trigger.
“MARIE-JOSEPHINE! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?” The voice cut through the yard like a blade. Silence fell instantly. The music stopped, laughter died, even the air seemed to still. Marie felt her stomach drop. Slowly, and rather reluctantly, she lifted the blindfold.
Aramis stood at the entrance, fury etched into every line of his face. Beside him were D'Artagnan and Constance; one exasperated, the other trying very hard not to look amused.
“Upstairs,” Aramis said, pointing sharply towards Philippe. His voice was low, controlled, and far more dangerous for it. “Both of you. Now.”
No one argued.
The haze of wine began to thin as they stumbled into the captain’s office, replaced by a dawning, dreadful clarity. They were in serious trouble. They sat side by side on the bench, heads bowed like children awaiting punishment. The door slammed. Aramis stood before them, arms crossed, a storm barely contained.
“I don’t think it’s really that ba-”
“Do. Not. Speak.”
Philippe snapped his mouth shut. Marie’s head swam, the room beginning to title unpleasantly.
“It’s a good thing I noticed your absence before your mother did,” Aramis said, pacing. “What were you thinking?” He stopped in front of Philippe.
“Brining her here? She is your sister. You are meant to protect her. And what do I find?” His voice sharpened. “Her seconds away from blowing a man’s head off!”
“I wasn’t going to-” Marie attempted to reason, her words slurring. His gaze turned to her.
“I taught you better than this, Marie.” That hurt more than anger.
“If the King or your mother saw this, how carelessly you behave, the shame you risk bringing upon this family…”
The disappointment landed heavily, pressing the air from her lungs. Philippe surged to his feet.
“Don’t you dare speak to her like that! You’re not our father!” Silence. Sharp, absolute. Marie looked up, and what she saw in Aramis’ expression made her chest ache. Not anger, but pain. The room lurched violently.
“I… I don’t feel well…” Aramis was beside her in an instant, all anger gone. A hand gently placed on her arm.
“Do you think you’re going to be sick?” She nodded weakly.
“Don’t move.”
The next ten minutes were among the worst of her life. By the time most of the sickness had passed, she felt hollowed out, exhausted, and deeply ashamed. Constance remained beside her throughout, steady and kind.
“You’ll learn,” she said gently. “Eventually.”
“I’m never drinking again,” Marie muttered. Constance smiled. “That’s what they all say.”
“Where are the others?” A quiet voice asked from the door.
“Aramis took Philippe aside. And this one has become rather familiar with the bottom of a bucket.” Constance gave her back another reassuring rub. Marie managed to lift her head slightly and was met with another familiar gaze.
“No, please. Athos why are you here?” Marie let out a groan of pain and humiliation.
“Well I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.” He replied, taking position against the door frame.
“Sylvie not with you?” Constance asked.
“No. She didn’t want to deal with Aramis in a mood.” He made his way over to Marie. “Come along, troublemaker,” he said, helping her to her feet, his grip firm and reassuring. “Time to return you to civilisation.”
The hallway was quieter now, though the remnants of laughter still drifted faintly from below. As they passed an adjoining room, Marie caught sight of Philippe. His eyes were red, tear streaked. Aramis stood before him, speaking softly now. Then, without ceremony, he pulled Philippe into a tight embrace, pressing a brief kiss to his hair. For a moment, Maire forgot her nausea.
“Are we ready?” Athos asked. Aramis stepped back, giving Philippe a firm, reassuring pat.
“We are. Porthos has the horses prepared.”
“Porthos is here too?” Marie groaned faintly.
“Of course,” Athos replied dryly. “He was most eager to witness your triumph over wine.”
She closed her eyes. “Wonderful.”
The night air struck her like a blessing. Cool, clean, and mercifully still. They escorted her carefully to the waiting horses. Philippe hovered close, subdued now, his earlier bravado entirely gone.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered under his breath.
Marie glanced at him, managing a faint smile. “Me too.”
“There she is!” Porthos bellowed at them, it was clear the moment she saw his face as to how much he would enjoy this.
They mounted slowly, the group forming around them as they set off towards the palace. The streets were quieter at this hour, the distant sounds of Paris softened into a low murmur. For a while, no one spoke. Anger had set into Aramis’ shoulders as he led their party; an awkward silence had set its roots.
“Well,” came a booming voice from behind her, “I must say, Your Highness, that was one of the most impressive displays of poor decision making I’ve seen in a long time.”
Marie groaned, this was going to be a long ride. “Porthos, please don’t”
“Oh, I absolutely must,” he continued cheerfully, guiding his horse alongside hers. “It’s a part of my duty. Besides, I was wondering what drink you were on when you started to regret it? Fifth or maybe sixth maybe?”
“I lost count,” she muttered.
“Yes, that was evident.” A quiet chuckle came from D’Artagnan. Even Athos’ mouth twitched faintly. Porthos leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a great secret.
“You know, this reminds me very much of a certain evening involving our dear Aramis.” Marie turned her head towards Porthos in confusion, the road started to spin a little once more.
“No.” Aramis said flatly from ahead.
“Oh yes,” Porthos continued, entirely undeterred. “A fine night. There was wine, excellent wine I might add, and a rather spirited debate with a priest from Rouen.”
Marie blinked slowly. “You’re lying.”
“I am not! Athos was there.” All eyes shifted. Athos inclined his head slightly.
“He did, in fact, end up hanging from a balcony at one point.” D’Artgnan coughed to hide a laugh. Marie turned, squinting toward Aramis.
“You?” She was in a slight disbelief at the image of the calm and calculated minister hanging from a balcony.
Aramis did not look back. “I was younger.” then to himself, “and no children to worry about.”
“And then,” Porthos added with great satisfaction, “he fell off.”
“I did not fall-”
“You absolutely fell.”
Despite herself, Marie let out a weak laugh, the sound fragile but genuine. Philippe glazed over at her, relief flickering across his face at the shift in mood.
“What happened after?” She asked.
Porthos grinned. “We carried him home, of course. He insisted the entire way that he was perfectly fine.”
“I was perfectly fine,” Aramis muttered.
“Mm,” Athos said. “You were reciting scriptures to a horse.”
That did it. Marie laughed full bodied this time, though it quickly dissolved into a wince as her head protested the movement.
“Careful,” Porthos warned. “You’ll make yourself worse.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” she murmured.
“Undeniably,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Still, I’m impressed with how much you managed to drink. You might even be able to out drink Athos.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
Armais cleared his throat. “There will be no further encouragement.”
Porthos fell back again, though not before Marie caught the flicker of amusement in his look towards Aramis.
The palace gates came into view soon after, tall and imposing against the night. By then, the worst of her nausea had dulled into exhaustion. As they passed through the gates, the world felt heavier again; quieter, more structured, inevitable. Consequences waited within those walls.
But as Athos helped her down from her horse and Philippe hovered anxiously at her side, Marie found that one thought lingered stubborn and bright beneath the fatigue; Armais had recited scriptures to a horse.
Chapter Six
Masterlist
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Four
She was fourteen when she first heard Aramis compare her to her mother; and it was in a way she least expected.
Louis’ official coronation was a week away; the palace thrummed with banners, clipped orders, and the metallic clink of light armour as D’Artagnan drilled the younger musketeers in the courtyard. Courtiers flitted through halls like moths around a candle; the hum of excitement for the upcoming festivities. For Marie, though, the week had become something else entirely: the slow, bewildering bloom of a crush.
It had started with a dark haired musketeer. He was not the most striking among the men, nor the loudest, but there was a quiet confidence about him that tugged her attention. He moved with a certain grace, elbows and shoulders precise in every parry and thrust. When his curls fell forward as he concentrated, something in Marie’s chest fluttered in a way she’d never felt before. It was ridiculous, and yet at the same time thrilling.
Philippe noticed, of course. He always noticed.
She had taken position in the shadowed corridor that overlooked the courtyard, tucked slightly behind a curtain. The sun spilled in through the window, casting warm shards onto her skin. From there she could watch without being seen, or so she thought. She studied the rhythm of the drills, the way the men corrected one another, the captain’s sharp commands. Marie told herself she was just observing for educational reasons, but her eyes kept drifting back to him. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.
“I wonder what we’re looking at… or should I say who?” Philippe’s voice creeped in from over her shoulder. Marie’s heart lurched. She spun, hitting out with a sharper than intended punch that landed against his arm.
“Philippe, stop!”
“Ouch! Violent, aren’t we?” He rubbed his arm with exaggerated hurt, but the grin only widened. “Aw you’re blushing!” Maire lunched herself at him, hands pulling at his hair. Before Philippe could retaliate the sounds of boots on the marble floor rang out. They both froze.
Porthos and Aramis emerged from down the corridor, their steps measured. Porthos’ broad shoulders filled the hallway; Aramis moved with his usual quiet composure. Both bowed with mock courtesy, and Porthos wore amusement like a cloak.
“Causing more trouble, I see?” He asked them, eyes glinting. Before Marie could protest, Philippe freed himself from her grip and leaned towards the window with the glee of a conspirator.
“Actually,” he purred, “it seems a certain musketeer has caught my dear sister’s eye.” Hot blood rushed once again to Marie’s face. She looked back to the courtyard in a panic, desperate to rip Philippe’s words from the air.
“Oh yeah, Which one?” Porthos asked, sauntering to the window, his frame blocking her view. Maire wanted to vanish. Philippe scanned the ranks with the demeanor of a judge.
“That one, second from the left. Tall. Dark curls.” Her stomach fell. She imagined every head in the yard pivoting in unison, the world narrowing to the single point of her shame.
“Is he Spanish?” Porthos asked, amusement curving his lips into a half smile.
“Well,” Philippe added, “it seems you have a particular type, Marie.” His gaze flickered to Aramis, seeking a shared amusement but all he was met with was a stern frown.
“I wasn’t looking at him!” Maire sputtered. “I swear, I was just passing by!” Her face was on fire. She stared hard at the marble tiles below her feet, willing the ground to open up. Philippe’s satisfied smirk lingered as he glided away, laughter slipping down the corridor.
“Whatever you say Marie!” Philippe threw over his shoulder as he disappeared from view. She pressed her palm flat to her chest to steady herself, breath shallow and quick.
“If you’ll excuse me.” She fled down the hall before either Porthos or Aramis could respond. As soon as she made it around the corner she pressed her back to the wall, feeling the cool tile seep through the satin of her dress. Her hands flew to her cheeks as if she could erase the heat from her skin; embarrassment weighing down her chest. How could she ever look anyone in the eye again?
Then a voice broke through her bubble of panic; Aramis’, low and unruffled.
“Can’t say she doesn’t take after her mother.” The words landed like a small blow. Marie’s breath caught, half in surprise, half in dread. Confusion seeping into her mind.
“You look about five seconds away from murdering the poor lad,” Porthos chuckled softly.
Aramis’ voice came back, softer still. “I think a quiet word with D’Artagna about keeping that particular musketeer off Marie’s guard, might be… advisable.”
There was something almost light hearted in the way he said it, as though he saw the bright, slightly reckless pulse of her mother in Marie’s sudden, trembling blush. The comparison felt like a talisman and a verdict all at once.
Marie stole one final glance out of the window. The drills continued below, swords flashing in the sun. Somewhere among them, a young man with dark curls engaged in another duel, oblivious to the small revolution he had inspired.
Chapter Five
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Three
She was ten when Aramis started teaching her how to fight.
Marie had been told time and time again that the arts of the sword and musket were not befitting of a princess. She had spent hours watching her brothers as they engaged their tutors in the clashing of steel. Their faces a picture of pure delight, while she remained behind gilded doors being chastised for poor footwork; she wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to keep a mild manner towards her dance teacher.
Over time, spite had grown within her; An envy for her brothers that couldn’t be stifled.
Then one afternoon her patience finally wore thin. Stuffed into yet another uncomfortable dress, she sat in her mother’s drawing room with tea that was far too bitter for her liking, while Constance asked questions she had no interest in answering.
“I hear you're making excellent progress with your Latin. And your dancing is said to be just as perfect?” Constance smiled warmly at her from over the rim of her porcelain cup; a slight steam rising from within a swirling in patterns across the air.
“I suppose so.” Marie answered, her mind elsewhere. A slight cough came from her mothers direction, and Marie was meant with a strained smile; one that spoke plainly of irritation.
“I mean, yes, I am finding them quite enjoyable, Madam D’artagnan. I’ve been told I have an excellent waltz.” Her eyes briefly flickered back to her mother, relief sinking into her shoulders when she saw a more approving smile. The room settled back into a polite silence.
“Mother, may I be excused? I still have a little reading to do before my next lessons.” Not exactly the truth, but preferable to screaming in frustration while in polite company.
“Of course darling.” Marie was on her feet the moment the words were spoken. She set her teacup down, offered a quick curtsy, and slipped out before her mother and Constance could resume their conversation.
She didn’t know where she was going. Her feet carried her through the halls as guards and maids paused to greet her. Eventually, she found a secluded corridor with a window seat and promptly threw herself face down into the cushions. She decided, quite firmly, that she might stay there for the rest of her life.
Unfortunately, her moment of self pity was interrupted by the approach of a heavy pair of footsteps.
“Shall I call for someone, Your highness, or have you taken to lying in the halls as a new hobby?” The amusement in D’artagnan’s voice was unmistakable. At least it wasn’t Philippe that found her. He would have but bugs in her hair by now.
“Mmph” She let out a grumble into the cushion.
"Do you think she’s speaking English?” D’artagnan continued.
“I’ve heard Englishmen before,” Aramis replied smoothly. “They mostly speak in grunts.”
Marie lifted her head just enough to glare at them before letting it drop again, this time facing their direction. Neither man appeared particularly concerned at finding a princess in such a sate.
“I said that everything is boring.” she mumbled, the melancholy in her voice more pronounced. D’artagnan lent himself against the opposing wall, his arms crossed as if settling in for a long conversation.
“And why is that your highness?” Aramis questioned. At least he seemed a little more sympathetic to her current disposition.
“I feel like all I do is learn a new dance, or how to embroider flowers into fabric; yet Louis and Philippe get to do all the fun things.”
Aramis crouched beside her, his expression unreadable.
“And what is it that they do that’s so fun?” He asks her.
“They get to fight with swords, fire muskets, ride horses-”
“I thought you didn’t like horses?” Aramis interrupted mildly.
“That’s besides the point! I just feel so useless and that I’ll never learn anything useful.” There’s a moment of silence as Aramis studies her. D’artagnan quietly watches from his post.
“Well, we can’t have that,” Aramis begins. “How about I teach you?”
“Really!” Marie bolts up at the same time D’artagnan lets out; “Do you really think that wise?” Aramis only has attention for the smile now beaming on Maire’s face. He raises a finger;
“There is to be no word of this to anyone, understand?” Maire is too eager to meet his promise as she throws her arms around him in a tight hug.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She squeals. There's a slight hesitation before Aramis reciprocates the hug, but when he does he lets himself have this moment. D’artagnan checks down both sides of the hallway to make sure they are alone, then simply states;
“I never heard this conversation.”
“Now, Your Highness, I’d rather like to keep my head attached to my shoulders.” Aramis Glaced around as they slipped through the palace grounds, his tone light but his expression wary.
“So, if you wouldn’t mind not breathing a word of this to your mother, I’d greatly appreciate it.” Maire’s grin was almost wicked.
“What lesson? We’re merely taking a stroll, enjoying the fresh air.” The early morning dew still clung to the grass, glistening where the night’s rain had left the ground damp. Peacocks called, their cries echoing through the quiet gardens. But Maire barely noticed. Her pulse was racing with excitement.
“Carry these, Musketeer.” Aramis passed her the training swords with a mischievous glint in his eye, watching as she stumbled slightly under the weight.
“You’re making me carry them?” She huffed, struggling to adjust her grip.
“If you want to learn like a musketeer, Princess, then you’ll be treated like one.” Her eyes lit up. That was exactly what she wanted most. To prove herself, and Aramis, her ally, had given her the chance. They reached a quiet corner of the gardens where the ground was firm beneath their feet, shielded by high hedges and away from prying eyes.
“Here will do.” Aramis said, eyeing the space with approval. Maire’s excitement bubbled over as she set down the training swords. Her eagerness, however, was quickly tempered when Aramis launched into a detailed lecture on the anatomy of the rapiers they were using.
“This is the quillon. And this-” Her enthusiasm began to wilt.
“Do I really need to know all of this?” She groaned, crossing her arms. “Isn’t the point of a sword to, I don’t know…fight?” Or do you just distract your opponent by giving a talk on the difference between the false edge and the true edge?”
Aramis raised a brow, fighting back a grin. He had seen a glimpse of his younger self in Marie.
“Every good musketeer knows their weapon inside and out.” He tilted his head, a spark of a challenge in his eyes. “May I remind you, Princess, that both of your brothers had this exact same lesson.”
Maire’s jaw clenched. There it was; the bait. A subtle prod that compared her to Louis and Philippe, and Maire never backed down from a challenge when it came to them.
“Fine,” she huffed, accepting her fate.
“That’s the spirit!” He ruffled her hair before she coil;d dodge out of the way, earning a scowl as she tried to smooth back down the blonde curls. Aramis’ laughter was warm, filled with pride.
“Come on, musketeer! Show me your best fighting stance.”
They trained for an hour. Aramis led her through stances and guards, correcting her posture and coaxing her movements into something sharper, more deliberate. By the end her strikes came quicker, her footing more sure. The gleam of pride in Aramis’ did not go unnoticed.
“You’re a natural, Highness.” Marie’s heart soared at the praise. She lunged into another attack, her confidence growing; that is until her foot slipped on a damp patch of grass. Pain shot through her ankle as she crumpled to the ground with a sharp cry.
“Maire?” Armais was at her side in an instant. His sword forgotten.
“Let me see,” he said firmly. His hands were steady as he removed her boot and examined her ankle. His touch cool against her skin. “Just a sprain.” His shoulders relaxed.
“You’ll be alright. Come on, let's get you back inside.” Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms, holding her close.
“The swords-” Marie glanced back towards where they lay abandoned.
“Forget the swords.” His grip tightened protectively. “You, your highness, are of far more importance.”
The walk back was quiet. Maire leaned against Aramis, her pride slightly brushed but her heart full. She had finally got to do what she had been dreaming of.
“You know,” Aramis teased, his voice breaking the silence, “You were a lot braver about your injury than either of your brothers would have been.” Marie smiled despite the pain.
“Good. And you better tell them that. Because this really hurts.” Aramis chuckled as Maire suddenly realised a slight complication.
“I know I promised not to tell Mama about this, but…” Marie’s expression turned sheepish. “I think she’s going to find out anyway.” Aramis’ smile vanished.
“Ah…don’t worry, I’ll handle her.”
“Looks like we're both being brave today.” Marie murmured.
“That we are, Your Highness, that we are.”
It took approximately five minutes for the Queen to burst through the doors to the drawing room.
“Aramis! What on earth were you thinking?” The fury in her voice made every servant scatter like frightened birds. Even the physician, who had been tending to Marie, suddenly found something very interesting on the opposite side of the room.
“Your Majesty, I-” Aramis began.
“I would like everyone to leave. Now.” The Queen’s tone was calmer, but that made it even more terrifying. The servants willingly fled the room; even the physician didn’t argue. Aramis took one step toward the door.
“Not you.” The look on her mother’s face was one Marie and her brothers knew far too well. Aramis was in trouble of unbelievable proportion. And if they were both being brave today…
“Mama, it was my idea. I begged Aramis to teach me.” Maire sat up straighter, her face earnest. “And I told him it would probably count as some form of treason if he said no.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed at her.
“Maire, I know exactly what you’re trying to do. They’ll be no digging the Minister out of any holes.”
“But Mama-” A raised hand silenced her. Aramis stepped in.
“Your Majesty, both of your sons have been trained to defend themselves. I believe the Princess deserved the same chance.” A tense silence filled the room.
“You of all people could have said no to her, Aramis.” Her mother’s voice was softer now, but no less stern. “What will people say when they hear of this? She’s a Princess. That is not what is expected of her.” Marie sank deeper into her chair, a sense of guilt growing in her for disappointing her mother. Aramis met the Queen’s gaze, his voice sure;
“I would never let anyone speak ill of her.” His words carried a strong conviction. “I swore to you long ago that I would always protect you and your children. Please… let me protect her by doing this. I won’t always be there to keep her safe.”
The tension in the room shifted into something Marie couldn’t name. She felt as if she shouldn’t be present in the conversation.
“May I speak with you in private, Minster?” Aramis bowed.
“Of course, Majesty.”
Marie was left alone, her eyes drifting to the ceiling as she counted the gold leaves in the intricate patterns.
“Thirty seven. Thirty eight. Thirty nine…” she whispered to herself, nearing three hundred and fifty when the door creaked open again. Aramis poked his head through, looking slightly disheveled and a little flustered since she’d last seen him.
“So, muskets next week?”
Marie’s answering smile was filled with delight. “Absolutely.”
A Princess of France - WIP
Summary: On the eve of her 18th birthday, Marie, Princess of France discovers that there may be more to Aramis than she originally thought. She just doesn't understand how she never realised until now.
Previous chapter
Chapter Two
Marie was eight when a fever nearly took her.
It came silently, weaving its way through Paris one bleak autumn, claiming lives without mercy. The gilded walls of the palace offered no protection. Death had started to linger in the halls, and the air felt heavy with the weight of fear.
At the beginning Marie had no reason to suspect anything different. Her lessons still continued, though her usual governess had been absent for several weeks, replaced by an elderly woman who drifted to sleep almost as soon as she assigned a task. That morning, she had dozed off while asking Marie to explain how marriage alliances benefited a kingdom. The usual bustle of the palace had been replaced with an eerie stillness, and Marie found that she rather preferred it.
As soon as her temporary tutor dropped her head, Marie would slip quietly from the library. Stopping momentarily by the lower selves to find the more educational books she would stash out of sight, and be on her way. With so few servants in the halls, her journey was met with no resistance. Once she reached her destination, she made her way straight through the door without bothering to knock.
The Minister's office had become a haven of sorts over the past few days. This was after Aramis had discovered her hiding in one of the servants' passages, clutching a book on astronomy like she had been caught drinking from a cask of rum. He had been rather amused to find her.
“Is there a reason you’re hiding in a dark stairwell?” Aramis questioned. She couldn’t meet his gaze from the embarrassment of being discovered, and her fingers began to toy with the frayed edges of her book.
“My tutor fell asleep again… and well I’ve been told these aren't appropriate for a young lady,” she admitted, gesturing weakly to the stack beside her. “So…” She had braced herself for a reprimand. Instead, Aramis crouched to examine the books, turning each one over in his hands, scanning the titles with interest.
“Ah! Johannes Scultetus. Now there's a man who knows about surgery,” he flipped through the pages, studying the illustrations. “This would have been handy the first time I had to get a musket ball out of Porthos.”
“You performed surgery? On Porthos!” Her eyes snapped up to him, in disbelief as to what he had said so casually.
“Hm?” He glanced up, as though only just remembering she was there. “Oh yes, many times, in fact.” He placed the books under his arm, offering his other hand to help Marie stand.
“I think I have somewhere more comfortable for you to do your reading. And in return, I might tell you about Porthos and his many, many injuries.” From that moment, the office had been hers as much as his.
Now as she entered the office, Marie saw her chair already placed beside his desk. The usual clutter of papers had been pushed neatly aside to make space for her books.
“I heard that you and Philippe had some sort of disagreement this morning?” Aramis raised an eyebrow over the report in his hands. Marie proceeded to gracefully take her seat as she replied;
“Philippe put worms on my pillow last night. So I put a frog in his shoes this morning.”
Aramis let out a hearty chuckle as he placed down his report. Marie noticed he looked more tired as of late. His usual colour had slightly faded, and dark circles had spread beneath his eyes.
“And what did your mother say to that?” He asked in return.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her much of late.”
Something in his expression softened, though he only smiled. It had been agreed that neither Marie nor Philippe would be told how far the sickness had spread. Better they remain untouched by it, for as long as that was possible.
The afternoon passed in a comfortable silence. Marie read while Aramis worked, the scratch of his quill and the turning of her pages the only suns between them. From time to time, she would ask a question, and he would answer.
The rain had begun to fall against the windowpanes when Marie had started to feel unwell. Her dress felt too sensitive against her skin, her cheeks had begun to burn slightly. She noticed how her concentration had begun to slip as she found herself using a loose scrap of paper as a fan. Aramis was quick to take note.
“Your Highness, are you well?” There was a sharpness to his voice now, threaded with concern. Before she could answer, the door burst open. Philippe strode in, wearing an expression that set Marie immediately on edge.
“Ah, there you are, sister! I’ve been looking all over for you.” His hands were tucked behind his back as he approached the desk. Irritation began to rise in Marie like a fast growing fire.
“What do you want, Philippe?” She could see him fighting back a smirk.
“Oh I just wanted to bring you a gift.” His hands flew open in an instant and Marie let out a shrike as an enormous spider landed on her lap. In a heartbeat, she was out of her seat and screaming at an ecstatic Philippe.
“Both of you, enough!” Aramis’ voice of reason faded into the racket as he tried to find the insect now scurrying around his desk. The spider vanished beneath a stack of papers as Philippe lunged after it, still laughing. Aramis caught his arm with a firmness that stilled him at once.
“That will be quite enough,” he said, his voice low but edged. “You’ve had your amusement.”
Marie barely heard them. The room had begun to tilt. She felt herself stumble against the back of her chair. The air felt thick, difficult to draw into her lungs. Heat pulsed behind her eyes, dull and insistent.
“Marie?” Aramis was beside her now. She hadn’t seen him cross the room. One hand hovered at her shoulder, as though unsure whether to steady her or not.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though the words came out thinner than she intended. “It’s only-”
Her words broke into a cough. At first it was nothing, dry and shallow, but it deepened into something harsher. She doubled over slightly, one hand pressed to her chest as the cough tore through her.
“Easy,” Aramis said, his voice sharpening. Marie tried to wave him off, but the coughing only worsened. A second, then a third, each one more violent than the last, until it seemed to pull the breath entirely from her. She brought a hand to her mouth and froze. For a moment, she only stared. A thin smear of red marked her palm. The room seemed to fall away beneath her.
“I think-” Her knees gave way. Aramis caught her before she struck the ground, one arm bracing her back, the other steadying her head. The sudden movement drew another weak cough from her, and this time there was no mistaking it. Blood.
“She’s burning,” he said under his breath, though his focus had already shifted, sharpened into something urgent. Philippe stood frozen, all colour drained from his face as he stared at his sister.
“She was fine this morning,” he said in a frantic voice, “She was perfectly fine.”
“Go,” Aramis ordered. “Find the physician. Now.”
Philippe hesitated only a moment before bolting from the room, the door slamming hard against the wall behind him. Marie stirred faintly in Aramis’ arms. The world had narrowed to fragments; light, shadow, the steady cadence of his voice somewhere above her.
“You’re all right,” He murmured, though his voice betrayed the panic within him. “Stay with me.”
She tried to answer, but her tongue felt heavy and uncooperative. A tremor ran through her, sudden and violent. Her fingers curled weakly against the fabric of his sleeve. Cold followed the heat, seeping into her bones just as fiercely. Another shallow cough escaped her, weaker now.
“Marie?” Aramis brushed back the pale curls that had fallen loose against her face. Her skin burned against his hand.
“Where in God’s name-” He muttered, glancing towards the door as though willing someone to appear. He shifted, lifting her more securely and carrying her to the small settee by the window. The rain had strengthened outside, tapping insistently against the glass, a steady relentless rhythm. Marie’s head lolled against his shoulder. For a fleeting moment, her eyes opened again.
“Aramis?”
“I’m here.”
“You won’t tell Mama… about the books?” The words were barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain. Despite everything, a brief smile flickered across his face.
“No,” he said softly. “That shall remain our secret.” She seemed to settle at that, the tension easing from her expression. Then her eyes slipped closed. This time, they did not open again. Aramis stilled, one hand pressed lightly at her neck, searching for the rhythm of her pulse. It was there, but too fast. Far too fast.
Beyond the door, hurried footsteps began to gather in the corridor. Voices, urgent and overlapping, broke through the quiet that had once settled so comfortably in the room.
Marie remembered little of those harrowing days, and was grateful for that mercy. Her body had burned like a furnace, her joints wracked with unbearable agony. What little food she could stomach never stayed down. Her mind drifted in and out of a fevered delirium.
Everyone had been kept away to protect Louis. Fear had gripped the court for the young king's life. The royal apartments were sealed, with only the physician permitted to cross the threshold. Time blurred; days stretched endlessly, broken only by fragments of whispered conversations from outside Marie’s door.
“I’m afraid there has been little improvement, Your Majesty” The voice of the physician drifted through the haze. “If the fever does not break tonight…the princess may not see morning.”
Darkness pulled her under once more.
She dreamt of daisies in the summer, of jasmine drifting through an open window. How the snow had felt melting against her tongue during the winter. She dreamt of her earliest memory, of chasing a feather that had caught in the breeze. Stumbling, scraping her knee and crying from the sting. Gentle hands wiping away the tears and a soothing voice.
“Papa’s here.” But she could never see his face.
When she woke, it was to the sound of muffled sobs. The soft glow of candlelight spilled into the room from the partially open door. Her mother’s voice broke through the quiet, raw with grief.
“She’s our daughter! I cannot leave her on her own. How could you ask that of me?” Marie’s heart ached at the anguish in her mother’s words. She tried to move, to call out and let her mother know that she would be okay, but her body refused to obey. She was trapped within herself, too weak to even lift her head.
Another voice sounded beyond the door, low and steady, just like in her dream though she couldn't make out the words this time. It was enough to calm her mother, if only a little.
“I’ll see to Louis and Philippe, and make sure you’re not disturbed. But if anything changes…”
A quiet reply followed, and her mother’s sobs quieted.
“Thank you, my love.”
Sleep claimed her again before she could hear more.
Marie had no sense of how much time passed. But when she woke again, something had changed.
A cool hand brushed gently through her damp hair, easing the heat that still lingered. She instinctively leaned into the touch, seeking comfort. She tried to turn her head to see who was beside her, but the darkness of the room was too deep and her eyelids felt like lead. A small groan escaped her lips.
“Shh, you’re all right.” That same deep soothing voice came; low and tender, filled with warmth. Marie’s heart fluttered. She tried to open her eyes again, to see the face that belonged to that voice, but the effort was too great.
“I want Mama…” She whimpered, barely above a whisper. All she wanted was her mother’s arms around her to make the pain go away.
“I know, my love. I know.” The cool hand brushed against her cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall. “We have to keep Mama safe for just a little while longer,” the voice murmured softly. “But once you’re feeling better, I’ll bring her to you. I promise.”
Marie’s fevered mind struggled to place the voice. It was familiar, safe, but her thoughts were too clouded to make sense of it.
“Papa?” The sharp intake of breath was almost imperceptible, but she felt it. Another hand, warmer and stronger, slipped gently into hers holding fast as though afraid to let go.
“I’m here, my little Marie.” Her heart clenched at the words. “You must get better for Mama and I… We’d be so lost without you.”
“Please don’t leave me, Papa…” Marie’s voice trembled as she clung to his hand, afraid he might vanish if she let go.
“I will never leave you, my darling girl.” A gentle kiss brushed her forehead, cool and soothing against her fevered skin. And with that, Marie surrendered once more to sleep.
By morning, the fever had broken.
When the physician at last declared her out of danger, her mother was finally allowed to see her. Marie had never heard her mother cry the way she did that day; her sobs of relief echoing as she held Marie close, saying prayers of thanks. Marie’s small fingers gripped her mother tightly, too afraid to let go. She had barely caught her breath when she whispered with a weak voice;
“Mama… Papa was with me. He stayed with me all night. But I think he has gone now.” Her mother’s body went still. Marie was too exhausted to notice the fresh tears that slipped down the Queen's face.
“Of course he did, my sweet girl,” she murmured, pressing a trembling kiss to Marie’s temple. “Of course he did.”
There was a part of Marie, deep down, that believed it hadn’t been a dream. He had been there. And even now, when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the lingering warmth of his hand in hers.
Chapter Three