Inspired by this prompt: How about the children from the monastery visiting Aramis and playing with the new King? Also Anne meeting the children that he has told her about. I'm assuming at some point he would have told her.

PART I

In only a short few months, Queen Anne has come to realize that one of her greatest fears had no basis. After all, when you have only spent a handful of moments with someone and most of what you know of them comes from observing them from afar, or simply from what your mind imagines, the reality might be quite different when comes the time when you are able to spend almost every day with them. But Aramis has never disappointed. Since he's accepted the position of First Minister and has moved to the Palace, the Queen has cherished every waking minute she is blessed to witness his smiles and his kind eyes. How he bows respectfully, how his lips move with silent words because they are being careful.

How he frowns in deep concentration whenever he reads messages and has to make important decisions. How his face lightens whenever they manage to be alone together. The guards at the open doors do not matter. Nobody cares what the Queen does at night when courtiers have retired, when the King is resting and when the grounds are mostly silent. Queen Anne may have chosen to respect the year of mourning for her late husband, she doesn't mind the black gowns and staying in the Palace as long as she has Aramis' companionship in the evenings.

After supper, when her life is finally her own for a little while, when her hair is down and she has slipped out of heavy clothes to breathe in her flowing chemises and light dressing gown, she cherishes these nights sitting in her apartments, all windows opened to let in the late summer breeze and the songs of the birds in the trees. It's quiet even though it's hot and the sound of her fan is the only one disturbing her peace of mind. She's never felt happier. Mainly because she has never enjoyed such intense moments she could share with someone dear to her.

They may not be talking for the time being, Aramis is nevertheless sitting by her side, lounging in his armchair more like, the stern attitude of First Minister gone from his gestures and emotions. The carefree man is back for a couple of hours, and the Queen could look at him endlessly without tiring of it. She has learned so much about him during the summer, now that their positions are closer than when he was a soldier. Now that they can speak more freely even in public. Now that he's told her about his family or how he came to become a Musketeer. How he's met his friends, how he liked to spend his free time, although they had so little compared to the long hours where Queen Anne had nothing to do but reflect on her sad life. There is nothing sad about it anymore and she'll never stop thanking God for everything He's given her in the last years.

All these hardships and perils were worth it in the end. She has a healthy son and even though it might never be the freedom she wished for in life, it's close enough. It feels natural and normal to sip wine in silence, to listen to pages ruffle in Aramis' hand or to hear his short chuckles.

"Only Porthos could find laughable facts to relate about the war," Queen Anne mentions, turning her head toward Aramis, finding his sharp eyes staring straight at her, his lips pulling into a smile at her voice. She's so beautiful in the glow of the candles that his heart stutters at the sight. Every time. It'll probably never stop because he cannot believe how lucky he is. He won't question it anymore, he'll simply accept all the favors granted to him. He's accepted that it might be dangerous but he's finally happy right where he is and it's more than enough.

"Some of the new Musketeers with him have much to learn about living in the field."

"Tell me."

"Roland tripped on a root and spilled the entire soup in the mud. You should have seen Brujon's face when they realized their dinner had gone wasted. If you see d'Artagnan soon, tell him to send less clumsy children. Although Rolland is on his sure way to become a better shot than you ever were."

Aramis tuts at this, halting in his reading of the letter. Rain must have soaked through the paper because some words are smeared with ink making it difficult to decipher them. Aramis leans forward toward the candle on the table. The Queen shifts in her seat, raises her head to peak at the letter as well.

"Someone must have told them what we used to do when we were fresh recruits because I found them trying to shoot apples off their head. You'd think I was promoted to be their governess and not their General."

Aramis does laugh at loud at this anecdote, having no problem picturing the new Musketeers trying to re-enact past exploits of theirs during their time away from the front. The Queen stares at the words, wondering what exactly is going on at war. The other letter the General sent and that was read during the Council meeting was devoid of all friendship and humor. A strictly formal one about strategies, losses and supplies needed. She's at least glad Porthos hasn't turned into a somber man being away from his family. Queen Anne hopes with all her heart that soon they'll manage to put an end to this dreadful war.

"How is his bride doing?" she inquires once the letter is folded. Aramis didn't read all of it but she could see the last paragraph over his shoulder. The part where Porthos asked him to look after his wife and their baby.

"She has a lot to adjust to. She used to live in a terrible place but now they're both in Paris, safe, and I do believe Constance is with them most days."

Aramis goes to call on Elodie whenever he is out in town, which unfortunately doesn't happen as often as he'd like. With the Garrison being rebuilt, he has the excuse of meeting with d'Artagnan more often and Porthos' new lodgings aren't that far. Nobody would dare contradict the First Minister of France if he wanted to delay his return to the Palace. Aramis has earned his place in a couple of weeks, making wise decisions and showing that he could be an efficient politician. Some things he despises doing, but as long as he can see the Queen and the King, he'll endure them.

Elodie is grateful for the visits, not intimidated by who he is, having met him before. There is almost no decorum between them, just like there is none between him and d'Artagnan and Constance when they are by themselves. They are friends first and foremost. The baby girl is growing fast and if Aramis gets to hold her, he likes to think he does so for Porthos who hasn't returned to Paris since leaving for the front when the Queen ordered it.

"I don't believe I have ever met her," Queen Anne ponders.

"She was there at your son's blessing ceremony."

The Queen smiles at the words, reaches and grabs Aramis' fingers. Her hold is warm and strong, blissfully loving. The callous skin, rough but fitting perfectly against her pristine one. She has taken off all her jewelry for the night, being more or less ready to go to bed but having no intention to do so anytime soon. Aramis responds to the touch, responds to the smile. It's about the extent of affection they're allowing themselves to do for the moment. It feels nice. Comforting. It's as if he's courting her. Or she's courting him. Or best, as if they've lived together for so many years that they don't need words to convey their feelings. They're natural together. Their hearts speak for them. Loud and clear even in the silence.

"I would very much like to meet her officially. That day was so hazy."

"I've no doubt that such a meeting could be arranged. Constance will be more than glad to help."

"She's an angel for all of us, isn't she?"

"Absolutely."

Aramis will never forget everything that his friend has done for him, for the Queen, for the little boy.

"I'll send word in the morning," the Queen decides, sipping on her glass of sweet wine. It's turned warm from sitting near the candle. Night has set outside but the air is still so hot. Aramis' shirt sticks to his shoulders in places. It was too hot to keep his jacket on and in their intimacy -or the somewhat safe space they can call as such- he didn't need to remain in formal clothing.

Her fan gives a little air to her face and she dares not think how long it will take her to fall asleep in such heat. Thank God for distractions tonight. Aramis is reluctant to relinquish the soft fingers in his hand because they mean it's all real, even though it seems like he's walking and living in a dream. It's a stretch to reach the golden plate.

He makes a face after the first mouthful. He always does. The crystalline laugh coming from the Queen warms his heart.

"I don't think I'll ever like this."

"Chocolate is the most exquisite treat in the Kingdom, Aramis."

"I shall leave it to you then, my Queen."

He holds a piece to her mouth, watches transfixed as her lips close around the bitter dark chocolate. They touch the tip of his fingers as they do so and maybe he dreams the soft kiss to them which follows. The Queen closes her eyes, lets the marvel melt on her tongue. She still isn't used to the look of wonder on Aramis' face once her gaze focuses on him once more. It'd make her blush but she has decided that she wouldn't be ashamed of the reactions she could spark in him. It's meant to be.

Then there's a knock on the already open doors leading to the corridor and Aramis straightens in his seat, lets go on the Queen's hand. She misses it at once.

The guard merely bows before disappearing back in the darkness. Behind him, there's pattering and the governess bows as well, holding the King's hand.

"I beg your pardon, your Majesty. The King has requested to see you."

He's so small, even more so in his night clothes, his hair a little dishevelled but such a pretty shade of blond. Close to his mother's, blessed with his father's wild curls. He won't even need wigs when he'll be older. He'll be dashing as he is. As dashing as the man sitting by the Queen's side and who doesn't even stand up to acknowledge his King's presence in the room. These are the slips in decorum that no one will ever comment upon whenever they are in a private setting.

"You can go, thank you." The Queen waves the governess away, extends her hand to the small boy rubbing his eyes, trying not to yawn. Cloth ruffles before he's sitting on his mother's lap.

"What's the matter, darling?"

The boy looks at his mother at her question. Aramis hasn't said a word yet his presence isn't questioned. The child is growing used to him, growing used to seeing him with his mother, to see them talk and laugh together. Taking walks in the grounds, having dinner together. The King misses his father yet he's growing to like Aramis, to enjoy his company, his stories and jokes. He's younger than Tréville, who is missed as well, and they can go to see swords together in the armory. Aramis always speaks kindly to him, sweetly and he's not treating him like a child.

He may only be six, the King knows who he is, understands it very well, understands that he'll have the greatest responsibility of all later in life. He also understands what his mother and her First Minister are doing on his behalf. The specifics are lost in the child but the general basis, he comprehends.

So it's not a problem to find him with his mother at night. They're friends.

"It's too hot to sleep, Maman."

His brow is a little damp, the Queen realizes after she's felt it.

"Even with the windows open?"

"The birds sing."

"That they do," Aramis smiles. "Do you have to sleep with such heavy clothes on?"

"What if he catches a cold?" He hears the concern in the Queen's voice.

"He wouldn't. Not if he's safe under the blankets. They already make for a good protection."

She's still looking at him with doubt, one arm around her son's waist, keeping him close to her chest. The little boy's head is resting against her, one shoe slipping to the wooden floor. Tired eyes are gazing at him.

"I once knew a little girl who wouldn't sleep if she was wearing clothes during summertime."

The memory comes back all of a sudden, hitting Aramis with the force of all the love and affection he once bore for small children he still thinks about but who belongs to a former life. One he'll never forget but one he hardly has time to reflect on lately. Yet, it makes him smile fondly. His eyes light up with the pictures his mind conjures up.

"You have a daughter?" The innocent question coming from the child makes Aramis shake his head. Curls bounce around his face, rendering him more handsome than he already is, in spite of how curious his statement has made the Queen.

"So to speak. I...I wasn't always a Musketeer you see, Louis. For a few years, I used to live in a monastery and there were orphans living with us. Boys and girls whose parents had been killed in the war or who couldn't protect their children anymore. I was the one taking care of them. Teaching them about the Bible, teaching them how to read and write. Playing with them."

"You can be my teacher, too!"

"Soon, perhaps, yes. If you wish."

Aramis rejoices in these moments when he is allowed to speak freely to the boy, to act as if everybody knew what the King's actual parentage was. Carefree and loving. Affectionate and caring. A small family of sorts, Queen Anne looking at them both with pride and joy. She's listening intently to Aramis because she had never heard much about his time at the monastery. It was partly her fault if he went, gone to protect her, her son. To protect himself. It did no good in the end. Except that they may have grown more cautious with their surroundings. And that it strengthened their bound.

"The point is, they used to sleep in a dormitory by themselves, my own bed by the door. Some of them were menaces, running around at impossible hours and disturbing early morning prayers. It fell to me to make sure it didn't happen too often. That's how one day, I caught a running girl with no clothes on who had deemed it too warm in the room to sleep at all."

The King laughs out loud, the Queen chuckles at the story, trying to imagine Aramis first as a monk, which is somewhat impossible, and then Aramis chasing the child. This, she can picture more easily. She loves how his face shines with what he is telling them. Queen Anne can plainly see how much love he bears for these children who had somehow become his own through all the care he bestowed upon them.

Once he loves, Aramis loves fully and without restraints. It's pure and magical and she knows, because she's a recipient of such emotions. Ever since the convent all these years before, she's known how strongly he felt and yearned for family and children. It's been denied to him time and time again, even though he might have finally found it in a way. They'll never be conventional, they can never be, but it doesn't matter. What's important is that during his years away, Aramis didn't waste his love, didn't let it wither. She's glad less fortunate children were able to enjoy some of it.

"Caroline, that was her name, almost made it to the bottom of the stairs before I could catch her and wrap her in a blanket. How old was she? Three, perhaps? Running around barefoot. I was as afraid as you were that she would be sick but she turned out fine. As long as you don't decide to run outside with no clothes on, Louis, you might be able to fall asleep tonight."

"Can I, Maman?"

"If Aramis assures us that it's harmless..."

"Or you could place a damp cloth on his brow. It helps, too."

"But then my hair is wet," the King protests, his small legs dangling in the air, his second shoe slipping off. He's only a child after all.

"In that case, let's take these clothes off your back. Say goodnight to Aramis, darling."

The Queen is on her feet, her son's hand clasped in hers because the governess might be waiting for them to return to the King's chambers, she is his mother first. She's been kept away from his care for long years in spite of how she battled to be included. So if she can take part in these ordinary tasks, she'll always seize the chance to do so.

"Goodnight, Aramis." The small boy waves to the man who has stood up as well, who has gathered his letter and is also ready to retire to his own quarters. The tender gesture makes Aramis smile even more. He's ever so thankful when he bows his head only a little, grabs the Queen's left hand to kiss the back of it.

"Sweet dreams, Louis. Goodnight, your Majesty."

Aramis leaves before them, in plain sight of the two guards. It started at a precaution so that there wouldn't be any rumors about the Queen, so close after the late King's death. They'll always be afraid that their relative peace and comfort could be broken by jealousy or people trying to undermine the power of Queen Anne. They're doing it for their son. As far as she's concerned, the Queen couldn't care less about what they think of her. They have always despised her, showing respect and deference but talking behind her back. It'll never change, but she won't fuel the fire. She's confident in her feelings, in what Aramis feels for her, what she means to him. It's more than sufficient.

Alone in his bedroom, larger than what he is used to, but the sheets far more comfortable than what he used to sleep in, either at the Garrison or in Douai, Aramis gives thanks for the brilliant day, the quiet evening, the unexpected visit which is still making his heart beat faster and which will definitely help him sleep better tonight. He also gives thanks for all the wonderful memories brought back to the fore. All the children back in the countryside, all that they did together, their good deeds and mischiefs. The light and heart of the monastery. Nobody could have wished for better charges to brighten their days.

They have made his retreat more bearable. More than the prayers or the work or the silent companionship of the Brothers. They had filled Aramis' heart with more compassion and glee than he believed possible in a place of seclusion and worship. He loves them all, still. Those who came and left, those he left behind when he decided to come back to Paris with his brothers, his true brothers. Talking about Caroline has made him realize how full his days -and nights!- were thanks to them, how much the children had grown on his heart. How terrible it was to leave them behind.

But a soldier cannot take care of children as he used to be able to. They're better off in the care of the monks, safe from danger, lungs filled with fresh air, running in the fields, running after the cats or the rabbits, climbing trees to harvest fruit. Merry in their hardships, stronger in their cluster.