So this is my second fanfiction I wrote in English. I'm still happy about reviews and help to improve my language! I hope you like it.
_

Being a Spaniard in France wasn't simple in the 17th century. Being a musketeer with Spanish roots wasn't much better. Most of the time Aramis had no real problem with dealing with stupid comments, but the past few months it got worse. Then he may have had a few incidents a year because of his spanish mother, but they increased sharply. Nearly every day he has to deal with discussions, which are not rarely ending in fights. The people, who once supported Emilie, just got more angry about the Spanish after she left them. Them alone wouldn't be a problem for anyone, but they left their camp to get back to Paris, where they infect the half town with their conspiracy theories.

Just last night Aramis had a fight in one of his favorite taverns. He got away without more than a few bruises, but his opponent looked much worse as Porthos dragged the musketeer out of the bar. Aramis usually tries to stay calm and ignore the people, but this guy just went to far. He not only insulted Aramis, but called his mother a whore and many other things. After days of keeping calm, Aramis couldn't hold it anymore.

The marksman sighs as he leaves his room. It could be such a wonderful day, but what happened the last weeks make it hard for him to enjoy the sun. He never understood and never will. Why do people hate each other so much? He understands the hate for criminals, for a man who killed your family. But this is so different. This hate is blind and brainless. How someone can be bad just because of his ancestry? As a soldier he knows better than anyone else, that a lot of French men are killed by the Spanish, of course. Nevertheless, the French also kill the Spanish. And they don't kill because of hate or because they want to. They are soldiers and they do what they are told. The only ones that could be hated are the royals, the politicians and everyone who is save behind his walls and towers. Because this are the ones who are responsible for the hunger, poverty and deaths. No one else should be punished for what is happening at the moment. No soldier, no musketeer, no Spaniard. Not Aramis.

Aramis tries to get rid of the thoughts. He can't change the minds of the people anyway.

The sun burns down on him, as Aramis walks through the streets of Paris by noon. The musketeers are searching the man who tried to break in the palace this morning. Fortunately he hadn't hid his face, so half of the regiment knows how he looks. Still, he ran away, and now – hours alter –could be gone forever. Searching for a lonely man in Paris was like searching for a needle in a haystack. To have at least a chance in finding him, they separated in small groups. Most of these also decided to split up. Even a single musketeer should be able to arrest this man.

Every now and then Aramis asks residents if they know the man, who he tries to describe as good as he can. Just now he talks with a woman in his native language, since she doesn't seem to understand French. At first she seems very eager to help the musketeer, but she also has to disappoint him. Tipping the top of his head, Aramis wanders off.

The feeling of being observed, lets him freeze. Slowly he looks left and right before turning around. Nothing. He's probably getting paranoid, he thinks to himself as he starts walking again. Aramis just turns in an empty alley, as he heard the familiar sound of a gun being pulled. Intuitive he grabs his musket, not pulling it out his holster, before he slowly turns his head into the direction the sound came from. A young man, probably a gascon – who reminds him a lot of d'Artagnan – has his gun aimed at the musketeer. It wouldn't be a problem killing him firs, Aramis thinks. Just by seeing how the boy holds the weapon, he knows that he would be the first one who pulls the trigger. But something stops the marksman from doing this. He won't kill a young man, without giving him a chance.

"Look – when you put than thing down, we can talk, okay? It's simple : You don't mean to harm me – I don't harm you." Aramis smiles slightly, trying to calm his opponent. By now Aramis faces the other man completely, never letting his hand go from his own gun. The boy seems scared, sweat drippling down his face as he holds the gun shaky. His eyes wonder off of Aramis to something behind the soldier. Before he has the chance to react his arms are grabbed and pulled behind his body. Aramis tries to escape the strong hands, but doesn't stand a chance. As he knows that his arms will be useless in this fight, he starts kicking the men behind him. At some time he apparently hit the crotch of one of them. Taking advantage of the unwariness, Aramis can get free, just in time to avoid a blow into his face. The Spaniard manages to pull his sword, getting the men off guard. Clearly they haven't thought this through. Aramis just pushed the metal into the shoulder of one of his opponents, as a numb feeling spreads in his thigh and he hears the shot of gun. Shocked he looks down, realizing what just had happened. Now he was the one who was surprised. The two men could easily overwhelm him now, throwing his sword far away.

Aramis hisses in pain as the numb feeling changes to a burning pain. His leg feels like it's tearing up, as he is pushed down to the ground. A knee against his back holds him in place, as he tries to fight again. Without a chance of getting free, his hands are getting bound behind him and a scarf is pushed into his mouth and restrained with another one around his head. Protesting against his gag, Aramis is dragged into a nearby house.

Roughly the men lead him into a nearly empty room, not caring about his injurie. He is bound to the supporting pillar in the middle of the room. The gag is removed and Aramis tries to catch his breath before he speaks to the biggest man, who seems to be their leader. "Why are you doing this? I'm a musketeer, you bring yourself into a lot of trouble. The king-" A hard smack across his face interrupts the marksman.

"Stop lying, bastard! We know who you are. What you are. A spanish pig, a spy."

"I'm not a spy, I'm not even Spanish! I'm French, I'm a musketeer, here to keep the French king save." Once again the gag is shoved into his mouth. "We've heard you on the streets. Speaking spanish with this whore. Besides... look at you. It's not possible to not see it."

Aramis sighs, even if he was able to – it makes no sense to discuss with people like him. They hear without listening. His gaze wanders off to the boy, who shot him earlier. He stands behind the two men, shaking and scared. Maybe he is forced to do it, maybe I can talk to him later.

"Can I start now?" The other men asks the leader eagerly. "Of course. But remember our plan."

The leader and the boy walking off, leaving Aramis alone with the other one. His nose is crooked and a long scar across his cheek makes him just more intimidating. Still, Aramis tried to not show any sign of fear or the pain he is in.

A hard stroke into his stomach lets the air in his lungs leave. He desperately tries to catch his breath before a few more blows hit him.

Meanwhile the other musketeers are meeting in the garrison again. Porthos looks through the crowd and starts getting nervous as he can't find Aramis.
"He will be here any minute," Athos insures. So Porthos decides to wait a while, like d'Artagnan suggested.

After one hour it is too much for Porthos. Aramis doesn't come too late without a good reason. D'Artangnan and Athos agree to go to the part of Paris, where Aramis was supposed to look for the searched.