I decided to write a Musketeers fanfic, since I've recently become obsessed with the show and hope you enjoy reading it!
Aramis sprinted through the forest as fast as his current condition allowed. The wind whipped at his cheeks and the feeling had long gone from his fingers. He wished he hadn't lost his hat a few miles back as the dew from the trees was dripping into his hair and down the back of his neck, which certainly wasn't helping his weary state. However, that was currently the least of his problems. Aramis willed himself not to turn around and just keep running. Just keep running. He repeated it like a mantra in his head, refusing to give in to the enemies that plagued him. He had to make it back in time for the arrival of the ambassador of the Spanish army. He was visiting Paris and evaluation whether it was worth signing a treaty with France. Aramis had to be there to represent and support his country. It was one of the most vital days in the history of France.
The paranoia overtook Aramis and, eventually, he couldn't resist and turned his head to scope out the trees behind him. The good news was that the Spanish soldiers were nowhere to be seen. However, as soon as Aramis spun around, a tree branch came out of nowhere and hit him square in the face, causing the musketeer to cry out in pain and surprise. Simultaneously, the wet undergrowth under Aramis' feet gave way and he was soon sprawled on the forest floor.
Aramis' quick gasps as he struggled for air came out as mist as the warm breath condensated against the harsh dusk air. The musketeer took his fall as a signal for a short respite, and he sunk as low as possible to avoid being seen while still frantically struggling to get his breath back. He reached for his leather water skin and let the last few drops of water fall onto his parched tongue. Nevertheless, it wasn't enough and there was still a dry spot in Aramis' throat which refused go away.
Aramis was a skilled huntsman, and adequately adept with the concept of time. Therefore, he knew well that a man needed five minutes to get his breath fully back after running for ten minutes. His head was foggy from the run so he estimated a couple of minutes, and controlled his breathing. He focused on it fully until only his heart was still hammering wildly. The thrill of the chase. Aramis cursed his excitement in such a perilous situation. He allowed himself a few more minutes before pulling himself up, quickly surveying the environment around him, then setting off at a steady pace again.
The many lights of Paris were twinkling on the horizon, and Aramis knew that, from the edge of the forest, the gates to Paris were a mere seven kilometres away. Setting forth with new optimism, Aramis failed to notice the tell tale crack of a twig and horse hooves cantering gently, until the riders were right on top of him. Cursing himself for being so careless, Aramis ground to a holt.
Three men on horseback blocked the road ahead, with one on either side of Aramis and two creeped up from behind. There was no escape.
Pulling out his rapier, Aramis winced as he was painfully reminded of the wrist he had sprained punching a soldier when he had first been attacked. The familiar weight of the sword, on the other hand, made him more sure of himself, and he was content with the fact that, if he were to die tonight, he would take a few Spanish soldiers with him. At least his he was relatively close to Paris; his friends would find him soon enough and be able to grant him a proper musketeer funeral.
Aramis did a quick sweep of his enemies- assessing who was most important, therefore who to attack first. A memory came swimming into his head, and suddenly he could hear Athos speaking calmly: First, assess the threat. Next, establish what the enemy wants. And, after that, just rip their heads off. Aramis snorted at his friend's analysis, and wished with all his might that Athos was there right now and could help his brother out of this impossible situation. Since that wasn't going to happen, Aramis at least tried to follow his friend's advice. First of all, the threat was... Big, it was seven versus one. And for the second point...
"What do you want?" Aramis' voice cut through the air like a knife through butter. A knife speaking perfect Spanish through cold, wet butter. At that precise moment you could have heard a pin drop.
"We were sent to dispose of a thorn in our leader's side." A rider stepped forward, smirking at Aramis' hopeless position.
"Ah. Right, well then..." Aramis twirled his rapier and adopted a battle stance. "I'd really rather you didn't." The cold sarcasm was Aramis' way of stalling to assess his opponents, which the leader quickly realised. With a wave of his hand, he set his soldiers into action. Aramis would have noted his impatience for further strategic use if Spanish soldiers hadn't started closing in on him on all sides.
With a driven shout, Aramis launched himself at the man to his left. The duel was quick and intense, however Aramis triumphed fairly easily and was soon standing over the dead Spanish body. The victory was short lived, however, as five more men rushed to replace their fallen comrade. Aramis steeled himself for the upcoming attack when three shots rang out in the night. One narrowly missed the top of Aramis' head and would've struck his hat, had it still been on his head. A horse whinnied, collapsing to the ground and a soldier cried out as the other two shots found their mark. Aramis looked around frantically to locate the source of his sudden ally, but took out his own pistol when he failed to see through the gathering fog.
The cold metal drew Aramis' concentration and, for about four seconds, there was only him, the pistol and the Spanish soldier on the receiving end. The bullet, as ever, didn't fail to hit its mark, and the soldier dropped onto the ground. As the last two soldiers arrived, Aramis was ready with his sword and impaled one soldier under the armpit, skilfully grabbed the loaded pistol from its holster, and fired a shot in between the last man's eyebrows. Breathing heavily, Aramis took a minute to regain his composure before turning to the fog behind him, intent on discovering his saviour when it struck him. Seven men. Six had come at him. The leader had hung behind. Realising this fact too late, Aramis felt two shots ring out in the night, and a bullet ripping through his left side. Darkness overtook him before he even hit the ground.
I'll write some more soon, the best bit is yet to come!