Okay, I'm really sorry for starting so many new stories and not working on my older ones, but I still have a little writers block and this idea came to my mind as I watched Vikings. Have fun or cry or scream... whatever seems fitting for you.
Agonizing screams reached his ears as he turned and twisted, kicked and hit, screamed and fell. He stumbled back to his feet, didn't stop with his brutal strokes, fell enemy after enemy. It wasn't rage that filled his blood but determination to save the ones he loved. He wouldn't allow that anything could happen to them.
Blood spattered and mud filled his shoes. He didn't notice the cuts and bruises underneath his uniform, but he surely would in a few hours when the adrenaline has left his body. But not now. Now there was no pain and no thoughts. It was only to survive and to fight. And that's what he did.
Until his mind seemed to play a trick with him. He believed to have seen a familiar face between the Spanish men. He shook his head to get rid of the image and killed an upcoming opponent, but then again he thought he saw the face. He stopped, only for a second but it seemed like hours to him as he stared at the man. It wasn't an illusion, this was real.
Only a few feet away, brown leather boots searched for purchase between dead bodies that surrounded the man. Blood dripped down from the blade, sweat from his beard and hair. There were so many things that dind't make any sense. The man stood in between Frenchmen, dead Frenchmen. He wasn't supposed to kill the French, he was French himself. He didn't wore the fleur de lis, but the blazon of the Spanish troops. He screamed for someone, but not for him. For a strange name, Porthos had never heard before.
He was disturbed in his observations as another opponent ran towards him, sword raised high. He parried the stroke with ease and pushed his dagger in the man's stomach, just to return his attention towards the familiar face in the strange uniform. The man had vanished from his life three years ago, he was supposed to be in a monastery praying and singing. He was supposed be save, in France. He wasn't supposed to be standing on this battlefield, fighting for the enemy, slaughtering his own landsman.
Porthos didn't understand, his muddled mind couldn't make any sense of what he saw. He had to return to the battle to stay alive, but every now and then his gaze slipped towards the man. He looked somehow different and somehow the same. His hair was longer now, almost reached his shoulders as it had did in his youth. He had become more muscular, his back broader and arms bigger. Still, he was as agile and fast as ever, his sword sliced through throats as if they were nothing but water. He turned around, swung his swords as if all of this was just a dance, well practiced and smooth.
As Porthos was able to turn his attention once again back to the man, his heart skipped a beat. The soldier was dangerous close to d'Artagnan who had his back to him. The man killed another Frenchman and was now right behind d'Artagnan, lifting his sword to make the deathly stroke. Porthos screamed but the Gascon was still busy to fight off his other opponent – Porthos was too far away to help.
The man swung his sword. And missed. Only a few inches and he would have sliced d'Artagnan's back. But with a smooth movement, not at all looking as if it was uncontrolled, he missed and turned around, killing another Frenchman. Porthos gulped, still not making any sense out of what he had seen.
From the first minute into the battle, Aramis had searched for Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. Not to meet them again, but to avoid them as long as possible. The moment he had seen that musketeers were involved in the battle, his heart dropped. He didn't know what he would do if he met them, he didn't know how they would react – and truly didn't want to experience it. He could well imagine what they had to think about him. Traitor, deserteur. It wasn't important that he wasn't, that everything was far more complicated – it was what they would think of him. But soon, it was almost impossible to stay apart. The battlefield was surrounded by forests, making it quite narrow.
He had already seen Porthos and Athos, noticed the eyes for the first man on him but ignored him. He couldn't allow to let the façade slip. And then, he had already feared that the boy was dead, he stood right behind him. He noticed just in time and turned around, slicing another man to not have to kill his own brother. He hoped none of the Spanish had seen the moment of fear as the tip of his sword scratched at the leather of d'Artagnan.
The battle was over as fast as it had begun as the French troops drew back, having lost the half of the army in the past battles.
Aramis let his sword fall to the ground as he watched them retreat, cought they eyes of his friends for a short moment. Was he even still allowed to call them friends?
All he saw was confusion, fury and disgust in their eyes, before they turned their backs to him.
Athos closes the curtain behind him, his gaze falling onto his two brothers that took the only chairs in the tent. He stripped from his bloody doublet, following their example. Porthos poured some wine into three cups and handed them over to his brothers.
"It was truly him." D'Artagnan then said what was on everyone's mind. The confusion and disbelief openly shown on his young face.
"I thought he was still in Douai." Porthos added and gulped down the content of his cup.
"I don't get it. What is he doing on the enemy's side?"
"He's just as much a Spaniard as a Frenchman." Athos answered drily as he tried puzzle all this together. "Do you mean he decided to trait us for the Spanish?" D'Artagnan asked shocked, even though he himself had thought about this. What else was Aramis doing in the Spanish army?
"But he always said he felt more french. He was nothing but loyal!" Porthos filled his cup anew.
"Maybe he is a spy? A mission we don't know about?" D'Artagnan suggested, unable to believe that Aramis was supposed to be a traitor.
"He killed our men. His own landsman. No spy would go this far. Moreover I suppose I would know about such a mission. Treville wouldn't hold this back from me." Athos sat down on his bed, his eyes fixed on his brothers as he went on. "I want to believe that he has a good reason just as you do, I really do. I don't want him to be a traitor, nor can I imagine this. But it's the only possibility. And we all knew that Aramis had more secrets we knew about, that he had his dark sides just as any man. I don't know what had made him do this – but this is high-treason, not only against France or the king, but against us. He killed Musketeers without flinching." Athos hated to speak this words. He wished to be able to think as naïve and hopeful as d'Artagnan, but someone had to see reason.
"The other Captains and Generals are discussing over the next battle. I will join them and come back as soon as possible. Rest as long as you can, I suppose we will go into battle soon enough again." Athos stood up and left his brothers in stunned silence.
"Necesitamos más información!" (We need more information!). General Hernandez slammed his fist onto the table, causing the cups to vibrate and spill some of the red wine. Aramis didn't look at the man, but hoped that someone different would come up with an idea. His mind was still not focused on the task at hand, but with his brothers. He was glad to have seen them alive, but he doubted that he would ever be able to forget the look in their eyes. His stomach twisted as he remembered that he would have to fight against them soon again.
"Un espía." (A spy). It was Raùl who had made the suggestion. A young but clever soldier, and with a little bit more experience he would be one of the best. He was a cheerful man and Aramis liked him from the start. He remembered him of d'Artagnan.
But in this moment, Aramis could have strangled him. All eyes landed on him as they all knew of the French blood in him and that he knew the language.
"Podrían haberme visto en el campo de batalla y reconocerme." (They could have seen me on the battlefield and recognize me). Unfortunately, Raúl was clever. He may agreed with Aramis that it would be too dangerous to send him as a French man to them, but then suggested that Aramis could let himself take hostage. They would surely think that he wasn't able to understand him and spill some secrets in front of him. And after a few days, Aramis would be freed by the Spanish troops. Aramis wasn't very fond of this idea but there weren't many arguments that he could make against it. He couldn't tell them that he knew some of the French soldiers, as he had always told them that he lived on the border to spain as a farmboy his whole life.
So, not very enthusiastic, he returned to his tent.
He took some more or less clean clothes and went over to the river that flowed through the forest near their camp. He stripped from his bloody clothes and walked into the cold water. He scrubbed merciless on his skin until it was raw and clean from the blood of his own landsman. He was disgusted by himself once he had dressed again in his clean clothes with the Spanish blazon on them. He washed his other clothes before he returned to the camp. He won't ever get the bloodstains of the Frenchmen he had killed out of them.
The next week came way too fast and the next battle with it. Both armies were much smaller than to the beginning of the war, but just as determined to win this. Aramis had never been anxious before a battle, but today was different. So many things could go wrong.
The battle was fast and bloody. Aramis had worked his way through the French fast and was no quite close to their defense line. Until now everything went as planned. He felt the look of General Hernandez on him as he fought. As the fight slowly came to an end he prepared to fake unconscious, in hope that the French would not take the opportunity to kill him but take him hostage. What wasn't planned was the hard stroke against his head, causing him to fall to the ground limb. Now he was truly at their mercy.