Hey there!
So this is my first fanfiction I've written in english. My native language is german, so it was a challenge for me to fit my writing style to the English language. It would be great if you could correct me and give me tips to improve my writing. I'm thankful for every kind of help.

He cursed his numb fingers, while running away from his persecutors. Aramis stumbled but continued to run, as he heard a shot behind him. „Don't shoot!"

Shocked the musketeer saw how Grimaud came out of the woods. He was surrounded, it was hopeless to flee. Nevertheless Grimaud gave him a glimmer of hope. „You need me alive." A poised smile was on the lips of the hunted. At least he didn't need to fear for his life anymore. It gained him time to find a way to escape.

„Alive, but not intact," clarified the man as he climbed from his horse and then commended his mercenaries to bring Aramis back into the ruins, in which they kept him.

The musketeer didn't fight back, as he knew that would bring him more suffering. New chains were placed around his hands and feet, before two men lifted him up again and onto the buttress. Now, as the adrenalin finally left his body and he was brought back into the unnatural posture, Aramis felt the sharp pain in his shoulder and the throbbing in his head. But there wasn't much time for self-pity. Grimaud came back through the old archway, the crucifix, which helped Aramis open his chains, in his hand.

„I'm sure your god wouldn't like it, seeing such an important symbol misused for your own selfish purposes." The mercenary threw the crucifix back into the fire and turned to the soldier, who looked at him with hatred eyes. „You wouldn't even notice god, if he opened you the gates to heaven," he replied. Grimaud styed unimpressed as he took the glowing crucifix. Aramis watched how the leather of his gloves slowly burned.

Roughly Grimaud ripped his shirt apart and hold the hot iron in front of Aramis' eyes. „I wonder if God is still by your side." With these words he pressed the crucifix onto his prisoner's chest. Endless seconds went by, in which Aramis tried to suppress his pain, until he finally gave in and let out a groan. Before he even had the time to catch his breath, Grimaud pressed the cross on his chest again. Three times, until he finally stopped.

„A soldier knows no pain, huh?" Grimaud threw the crucifix back into the ash. In this short unobserved moment, the musketeer took a deep breath. But, before even noticing that his tormentor has turned back to him, he felt a fist in his stomach. Three, five, ten. He lost counting sometime and concentrated on breathing. But even at this simple task he failed. Everything was blurred, while his head throbbed harder than ever before. As soon as he tried to breathe in the next punch hit him. It felt like hours in which he thought he would pass out in any moment.

Grimaud stopped, as Aramis couldn't even groan in pain anymore. His ribs hurt and as soon as he tried to get air into his lungs, a sharp pain spread in his thorax. Exhausted and only half conscious Aramis let his head fall down onto his chest. At least this pain distracted him from the one in his shoulders on which his whole weight hung.

„I always thougt a soldier, a musketeer, a protector oft he king would be stronger." Aramis didn't answer, he didnt even look up. Even if he always had a cocky commentar on his tounge, he didn't have the strength for it then. Furthermore he was scared. Scared to show that the words hit him indeed. Fear. Something others thought, Aramis wouldnt even know how to spell it. Why should they? He never showed weakness, he would have given his life for the queen, the king and the dauphin without even thinking twice. Though it always followed him. Everytime he pulled his sword or the trigger, the fear pulled him into her darkness. To fail was always his greatest – and only – fear. To fail like in Savoy. To fail like right now in this moment. He failed at the peace negotiations and at hiding the secret letters from Grimaud.

Lost in his thoughts Aramis hadn't noticed that two watchmans changed place with Grimaud. Meanwhile it got dark and the fire didn't spend warmth anymore.

Without someone to talk to and without anything to do, Aramis got lost in his thoughts again. They were chaotic and tangled. From his brothers to the queen and back to his escape plan. He did not only lose any sense of time but consciousness too. From time to time he fell into a restless and short sleep. Four times he woke up scared and sweaty. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he saw how Grimaud murdered his brother, the queen or his son. After the musketeer decided that he could not endure such a nightmare one more time, he prayed. After four years of doing nearly nothing different than that, it brought him peace and a feeling of safety. Of course he never prayed for himself, but for his loved ones. Again and again he muttered his prayers like a mantra, his gaze fixed on the burned crucifix.

The first rays of sun lightened the sky as Grimaud came back. „Haven't you learned, that you god won't help you here, musketeer?" Clearly still angry because of the attempted escape, Grimaud took Aramis chin in between his fingers and forced him to look into his eyes. Eyes that never have seen love, eyes that are the gate to a lost soul, Aramis thought. „You should know that I don't like it when someone tries to escape." He let go and reached for a musket. „Sadly we have to let your beautiful face untouched. Your loved queen shall want you back after all. A hard stroke hit Aramis knee, who let out a painful groan. He didn't know how many times the musket have hit his legs, as they started to feel as numd as his arms. Only as Grimaud hit his ankle and a loud crack followed, the soldier coudn't hold back a cry of pain. Fortunately Grimaud let off of Aramis after that and sat beside his mercenaries.

Groaning, Aramis tried to ease the pain, but didn't find any satisfaction. So he hadn't another choice than living with it and to watch the three men, how they ate and drank. His throat burned, from not tasting any water in nearly a day. He literally would do everything for just one sip. One of the mercenaries noticed his gaze and walked towards him with a cup of water. Hope filled the soldier, even though he knew it was stupid tot think he would get something of the precious liquid. As expected, he got the drink denied. Instead the man wasted the water, with spilling it into Aramis face. Thursty as he was, Aramis lowered himself to licking the leftovers off his lips. It was nearly nothing, still he tried to convince himself, that it was at least something.

The laughter oft he mercenaries got interrupted by a shot. Instantly the men spread to the openings, which once were windows and they reached for there muskets. Aramis didn't need much time to react and to warn his savers. „10 men and 16 gins!", he shouted as loud as possible, before Grimaud silenced him with a hard hit into his face. For a while Aramis was only able to hear the shots fired and how metal met metal. But after a few minutes Porthos bursted into the ruins. Two men attacked the colossus, as two more dragged Aramis down. The musketeer gave his best to fight back, but soon the strength left him. So he was dragged out of his prison, without knowing if Porthos was winning or losing his fight. Not far away he got thrown into the arms of Grimaud, who held him right in front of his body. The gun pressed hard against his temple, as he tried to stay on his feed. But even in his state, Aramis understood knew directly what was happening, as he saw Porthos, the musket aimed at Grimaud and him. „Shoot Porthos! Shoot us both!", screamed Aramis.

Repeatedly he requested his brother to kill him and this monster, which held him captive, until a gun was shot right beside his ear. Grimaud pushed Aramis to the floor, before he fled in to the woods.

„Why haven't you shot?!" Furious Aramis tried to get up and stumbled. Porthos should've killed them both, he had to! Without reacting to the curses of their brother, Athos and d'Artagnan ran up to him.

„You're hurt," realized the youngest concerned and laid an arm around his shoulder. With the support of his friends Aramis was able to stand up. It was quiet, no shots fired, no horses or swords were heard. With the sounds, left the adrenalin. Suddenly Aramis felt the pain in every part of his harassed body. His ribs, shoulders and ankle burned, while his head throbbed. Only his arms didn't hurt, lifeless they hang down to his sides. He leaned more into d'Artagnan and was led to the horses by the Gascon and Athos.

„Can you ride?", asked the captain concerned. Aramis wasn't sure, but hat else should he do? So he nodded and was helped to get on the horse.

The ride back to Paris seemed endless. Every time his horses hooves hit the ground a sharp pain filled his chest. His right leg hang down useless and the rains laid loose in his still numb hands. Since the atmosphere between him and Porthos was so tensed, no one dared to say a word. Trying to distract himself from the pain, Aramis started counting the steps. At 1000 he counted only every second step. At 2000 he closed his eyes every now and then. And at 3000 he sat loos in his saddle.

Only half conscious he didn't notice how the captain and d'Artagnan appeared to his sides, to lead his horse. Also he didn't notice how they stopped. „Aramis, you need to get down." Startled the soldier straightened himself and nodded. „Yes. Yes, of course." One look down changed his opinion. Normally it wouldn't be a big deal for him, but now, with his damaged ankle, he was scared of touching the ground. Not only because of the pain, but also because the others could see in how much pain he really was. Somehow he got down anyway, but he stumbled a bit.

„A physician should see after you," suggested Athos, but Aramis rejected instantly. He lived through much worse situations without the help of a medic, he wouldn't need it now. „Only a few bruises, nothing big." Skeptical, but too exhausted to discuss this, Athos let him alone. He would send Constance after him. Held by d'Artagnan the marksman limped up to his room. After sitting on the bed, he asked the Gascon to leave him alone for a moment. Only after the door has closed, Aramis tried to get off of his shoes. Pain shot through his leg, but he made it somehow. After years of experience he knew that this wasn't a simple fracture. Careful he felt along his ankle, a small cry of pain left his lips.

He just tried to patch up his ankle, which turned out to be difficult with numb fingers, as the door opened again and Constance came in. A concerned look was on her face, as she saw the injured. „Let me help you," without waiting for an answer, she kneeled in front of the bed. Aramis wanted to protest, but he knew it would be useless.

After she patched up his ankle, Constance looked up to the soldier. „Do you have more injuries?"

„No. Everything's fine." „Aramis." With a strict look, like only mothers can have, she saw into the soldiers eyes. Sighing, he finally gave in and opened his shirt.

A shocked shriek left the womans body, as she spot the three cross-shaped burns and his bruised rips. Quickly she reached for a cream, which she carefully rubbed in. Aramis flinched at the painful touch. As sorry as she was, she couldn't do much for his ribs.

„Anything else?" Worried she sat down beside him and inspected him from head to toe. „And I warn you hold back anything from me."

The musketeer sighed once again. He hated to be fussed over like this, but even more he hated to seem weak. He could look after himself very well. In all these years he patched up more men, than he have killed. He can deal with some bruises himself. But Constance strict gaze frightened him a little bit.

„My head. Nothing big. Just a hit, throbs a bit." The woman looked after it with careful fingers. It was just a bump, nothing more happily.

After assuring that the musketeer didn't hide any other injuries from her, she went to get food and water. Aramis was dying for some fluid.