A/N: Thanks to my guests who reviewed the last "One For All" chapter! This fic takes place after season 1 and there will be six chapters.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Chapter 1

Aramis sat at the table in the garrison courtyard cleaning his pistols. The movements were rote and required no conscious effort on his part, which allowed his thoughts to become tangled up in a mesh of turmoil. The Queen was with child—his child.

He had never imagined that one night of indiscretion could result in such far-reaching consequences. He hadn't thought at all, as Athos had chastised him. But it wasn't out of carelessness or some bold infatuation. No, that night, overcome with grief and loneliness, Aramis had gravitated toward a strong, caring woman who had reached out to comfort him even though she was just as adrift as he. They'd sought solace in each other, ignoring their stations and the forbidden nature of such entanglement. For one night, Anne had been just a lonely woman and Aramis just a man whose heart had already begun to soften toward her.

It should have just been that, a night removed from reality, a brief escape into loving arms. The next morning they would return to their duty and never speak of it again.

Now though…now it was more. And yet it wasn't, because it could never be. Aramis could never be with Anne—the Queen. He could never be with their child.

The pain of such loss of something he had never truly had was as poignant as when Isabelle had lost their baby all those years ago. And now Aramis would have to live with yet another child that he would never be able to hold and love. Perhaps these were divine punishments for his indiscretions. But then why was he doomed to love that which could never be his? Isabelle, Adele…Anne.

"That pistol is going to go flying out of your hand the next time you try to use it."

He blinked, startled out of his morose musings, and found d'Artagnan standing before him with arms crossed and a hint of an amused expression on his face. "What?"

"You've oiled it three times now."

Aramis glanced down at the weapon in his hands and realized the metal did have an extra sheen from one too many coats. He set it aside.

D'Artagnan's expression turned sympathetic. "Are you worried about Athos and Porthos? Because it's a simple mission. There's no reason for them to have any trouble."

Right, that was also in the back of his mind, nagging just under the surface with the persistence of a dog gnawing on a bone. And since Aramis couldn't divulge the more prominent source of his inner turmoil, he quickly latched onto the latter as an excuse for his inattentiveness.

"I know. I just can never rest easy whenever Savoy is concerned."

Which was likely why Aramis hadn't been sent on this assignment with his brothers. Athos and Porthos were delivering some royal documents to the Duke, nothing out of the ordinary given France and Savoy were allies bound by treaty. But any thought of Savoy left an acrid taste in Aramis's mouth and the chill of twenty—twenty-one—ghosts slithering across his heart.

He had come to terms with the truth of what happened six years ago and Treville's role in it. He just wished someone else had been sent on this particular assignment.

"We're not on duty for a while," d'Artagnan said. "We could spar."

Aramis canted his head in thought for a brief moment before nodding. He figured it would be a good way to work off some of his pent up nervous energy.

He stood up from the bench and shrugged out of his leather doublet. It was already warm, so he didn't bother retrieving his sparring coat. D'Artagnan tossed his jacket on the table next to Aramis's and they both drew their rapiers.

Taking positions facing each other in the courtyard, Aramis raised his blade and saluted. He waited a beat and then attacked. Their swords met with a resounding clang that swiftly became a ringing chorus of clashing thrusts and parries. D'Artagnan had been notably good from the beginning, but Aramis could tell his skills were sharpening by the day.

The two of them lunged and spun, pivoted and feinted in a dizzying dance of equal match. It gave Aramis quite the thrill and he found himself grinning. D'Artagnan, too, chuckled before increasing the fervency of his attack. They'd garnered an audience and soon whoops and whistles joined the symphony of steel.

And the images of long ago battles and lost children receded into a dormant corner for at least a little while.

o.0.o

After two days on the road, the wealthy estate Athos and Porthos rode up to should have been a welcome sight. But in truth, neither of them harbored courteous feelings toward the Duke of Savoy nor relished the prospect of seeing him again. He had led the slaughter of twenty musketeers, that could not be disputed, but justice would never be done and the truth could never come out. They would have to bow with feigned respect and bear the tedious expectations of their diplomatic mission.

They pulled their horses to a stop out front and dismounted. A stableboy immediately appeared to take their mounts. Athos removed his hat and strode to the main entrance to knock, Porthos following suit. A servant answered and granted them admittance into the foyer where they then waited for their presence to be announced.

A few minutes later, the Duchess glided in, greeting them with a regal nod. "Gentlemen, welcome. Victor is out back and will be in momentarily."

Athos canted his head in acknowledgement. Other than that, no indication passed between them of their prior dealings when they had made a mad dash to the Chatelet to move Cluzet before the Duke could discover his chancellor was being held there.

"How is my dear brother?" she inquired.

"He is well, Your Grace," Athos replied.

She smiled. "I received word of the Queen's pregnancy. Please convey my well wishes to them both when you return."

Athos's stomach automatically clenched at the mention of that, and the reminder of the dark secret he carried in regards to it filled him with brimming fury. Should Aramis's treason be discovered, they would both hang. And the fact that there was a child, tangible proof…good God, Aramis had always been reckless to the point of stupidity, but this went way beyond that.

And there was nothing that could be done about it. The best they could hope for was that the child would not resemble the musketeer too greatly and no one would have cause to question his parentage.

Porthos gave him an odd look at his silence and cleared his throat. "We will, Your Grace."

The Duke entered then, strutting toward them with all the pomp Athos remembered in his bearing. Yet he wore no fine coat to match his posturing, his shirt sleeves rolled up as though he had been doing some work outside. Athos supposed it shouldn't come as a surprise; Victor Amadeus was the type of man who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

The Duke's gaze hardened perceptibly upon seeing them. There was a reason Louis had chosen Athos and Porthos to deliver the documents—they had made an imposing impression on Victor when he was in Paris a year ago to sign the treaty and Louis enjoyed wrong-footing the Duke.

"Athos, isn't it?" he said coolly.

Athos inclined his head in a forced gesture of respect and reached into his doublet for the documents. "From the King of France."

Victor's mouth pinched as he took them and broke the seal to read their contents. "A reply is requested?" he said after a few minutes.

"Yes, Your Grace," Athos answered. "We will await your response."

"I will need some time to formulate it," he said sharply.

"As you see fit," Athos said blandly, though inwardly he was restraining his irritation. He'd known this was a strong possibility, the Duke delaying in a petty show of disrespect to the Crown. It irked him not only for the waste of time but also because he'd rather not spend an extra moment here if necessary.

"You could probably use some refreshment after your journey," the Duchess put in, gesturing for them to move into the adjoining receiving room. "I will have some food and drink prepared for you."

Athos and Porthos both nodded politely and made their way into the lavish chamber with upholstered chairs and thick drapes as rich as the artistic tapestries on two of the walls. Though sore from riding, neither dared to take a seat, their clothes covered in dust from the road.

"How long you think he'll make us wait?" Porthos asked in the brief period they were left alone.

"Hard to say. He doesn't want us here, but he won't want to appear at the King's beck and call."

Porthos snorted as he roved his gaze over the furnishings. "If he keeps us waitin' too long, I'm gonna put my boots up on his fancy furniture."

Athos's lips twitched; he had no objection to that. Save that it would be an insult to the Duchess as well and she was their ally. France's most valuable spy within Savoy.

A servant brought in a tray with some grapes, a pitcher of water, and two cups, which she held as Athos and Porthos quietly availed themselves of the proffered sustenance. When they'd had their fill, Athos dismissed her and they resumed waiting. And waiting. Porthos had taken to pacing and poking his nose in every little thing in the room. Athos was getting ready to tell him to just sit in the damn chair when another servant appeared.

"Messieurs, the Duke has declared he needs more time to consider his response. I am to take you to some prepared rooms where you may retire and await him."

Athos gritted his teeth, but unfortunately he could not protest. Porthos looked equally miffed as they turned to follow the servant through the house. Athos did not anticipate much courtesy from the Duke, and half expected to be escorted to a loft above the stables, but as they turned down a corridor that led to neither proper guest rooms nor even the servants' quarters, a flicker of unease prickled the back of his neck.

His gut instinct was only confirmed when three men stepped out into the hall from the door at the end, swords unsheathed. Athos and Porthos pulled up short, Athos's hand going to the hilt of his own weapon. But heavy footsteps from behind had him casting a look over his shoulder. Three more men had come up on the rear, also armed. The servant ducked away quickly, leaving the two musketeers surrounded.

"We are King's musketeers here on business from the King of France," Athos warned as the men converged on them and started relieving them of their weapons.

"This ain't France," one of them responded.

Athos's jaw tightened as he resisted the urge to fight back. He could see Porthos struggling with the same, but they were outnumbered and breaking out into a skirmish in the Duke's own house would amount to a nightmarish international incident. Although, unlawfully detaining King's musketeers also amounted to an international incident, if the Duke was involved. But how could he not be? And what did he hope to accomplish with this blatant violation of diplomatic relations?

One of the men roughly shoved Athos forward toward the door at the end of the hall. Porthos glowered as he followed.

The door led to a set of stairs that went below ground to a cellar. Correction, dungeon. To the left looked like storage, but the right led down a tunnel that had cells fixed along one side. Athos and Porthos were pushed into one together, and while held at sword point, were divested of their coats and had shackles snapped around their wrists.

"What is the meaning of this?" Athos demanded, voice reverberating off the dank stone walls with the force of his ire.

The men said nothing as they finished securing the musketeers to more chains affixed to the walls. Then another figure joined them, a hulking shadow filling the threshold of the cell door. Victor Amadeus. Athos's stomach soured with the knowledge he was right.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded again, voice calmer but no less deadly.

Victor stepped into the cell, eyes alight with smugness and hunger. "I haven't forgotten how you humiliated me in Paris, Athos of the King's Musketeers."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "You were the one who insisted on a duel. And I apologized for letting myself get carried away."

Victor snorted. "You wanted to kill me. Still do. I can see it in your eyes." His mouth quirked upward. "Perhaps as retribution for the musketeer scum I slaughtered six years ago."

Athos stiffened at the admission. The likelihood of them walking out of here had just drastically decreased.

"You bastard," Porthos growled, seemingly unaware of the implications of the Duke's open declaration.

Victor shot him a scathing look. "I know what those musketeers were doing in Savoy, and I know my chancellor Cluzet was taken by France." He paused, stepping forward until he was only a few feet from Athos. "I want answers, and now I'm finally going to get them."