Wow, two chapters in one day! I hope you enjoy.

All the translations I have gotten for the Spanish I put into this chapter are from Google Translate, so I am sorry if I am mistaken and Spanish is your native language.

Either way, I hope you like this chapter. Please make sure to read and review!

-M


Throughout the night, awful dreams plagued him.

His friends often sat beside him, trying to calm him down as he thrashed and screamed.

His mind kept showing him pictures of men dying, begging him to help, screaming and crying. It left Aramis trembling, because as much as he wanted to, he couldn't help those poor people.

But it got to the point where he couldn't take it anymore. He gasped awake, his pain making itself well known. With a weak cry, Aramis curled into himself, trying to steady his breathing.

"Woah there!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

It was Porthos. He was looking at him with nothing but warmth in his dark eyes.

"You're alright," he said, taking Aramis' hand. "You're safe."

Aramis nodded slowly, holding his head in his hands. "What is the time?" he asked quietly.

"Almost dawn," the bigger man replied. "Athos is with the General. I think we have a new mission."

Right at that time, Athos walked into the tent, along with d'Artagnan. The two of them smiled when seeing Aramis awake.

"We have a new mission," Athos announced. "And I don't think you two will like it … The four of us and the remaining men have to go on Spanish territory and kill whomever we can see, particularly their General. Aramis, you will have to do it. Our General wants to see exactly what you can do."

"That bastard," Porthos muttered. "Can't he see that you're injured?"

"I will do it," Aramis said. "I do not know how this is going to help the war, but if that is what he wants, then I will do it." He smiled, the smile never reaching his eyes. "Besides, I really don't want to stay here any longer. When do we leave?"

"In an hour," replied d'Artagnan. "We should start getting ready."

In less than half an hour, the four Musketeers, the General, and fifteen other soldiers were on their way to a Spanish camp, walking through a forest to try and avoid being caught.

It was cold, too cold for Aramis' liking. He forced his body not to shiver, afraid of his General finding out.

When they did make it to the Spanish camp, they were above it. That was where they were going to set up.

As Aramis was taking out his musket and began to load it, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw that it was the General.

"You better not miss, soldier," the older man said coldly. "There will be consequences if you do."

The marksman only nodded, unable to say anything in return. He continued loading his gun, amazed that his fingers were steady.

Finally, he was ready and in position.

Porthos was standing next to him. "You can do it, Aramis," he assured him. "You never miss."

Aramis chuckled wryly. "I don't know about today," he murmured, letting his eyes search for his target.

After finding him, he took a deep breath - but not too deep to keep his ribs in place - and put a shaking finger on the trigger. Something was off. He was shaking way too hard…

… But he still fired.

And he missed.

"¡Mierda!" Aramis cursed, fear crawling into his heart.

The musket ball hit the Spanish General's shoulder, setting off chaos in the camp.

Spanish soldiers located the Musketeers and ran towards them, ready to fight.

Aramis jumped up and looked at the General, who was looking at him with total disdain. He mentally prepared himself for the punishment.

But for now, he knew he would have to fight as hard as he could … despite all his injuries.

It was grueling, and he truly did not know how he was doing it. Still, his good luck streak did not last as long as he had hoped, and soon enough, he was overpowered by the Spanish.

They grabbed him and knocked him to the ground, beginning to beat him. Their hits were strong, strong enough to make Aramis' body feel the agony. He screamed, his last bit of energy leaving him as he fell into unconsciousness.

But before total darkness claimed him, he heard someone calling his name, and then somebody else saying, "leave him!"

Aramis recognizes that voice as the General's.

XxXxX

"How could you just leave him like that?!!" Porthos yelled when he, his remaining friends, the General, and the surviving soldiers finally came to a stop. By that time they were back at their camp, and the Spaniards were nowhere to be found. "He's injured, and those men have him. Do you have any idea what they will do to him?!"

Athos was practically holding him when Porthos finished with his rant. He had this sad expression on his face, and he was looking down.

"We had to, or else everyone would have been slaughtered," the General replied.

"Since when do you care about that?" Porthos snarled.

"You watch your tongue," the other man snapped back. "If you really want your friend back, then we will have to form a plan over the next few days. Let's just hope that the soldier will last that long."

"His name is not 'soldier'," d'Artagnan said quietly. "It's Aramis."

The General pretended not to pay attention to the comment, and chose to continue, "We will get him back, but in time. You all just need some patience."

The three men nodded and began to make their way all the way to camp, where they would spend the next few days forming a plan as to how they would save their Aramis.

XxXxX

As Aramis woke, pain engulfed him. He opened his eyes to find a man staring at him. It was the Spanish General.

"¿Dónde está tu campamento?" (Where is your camp?) the man asked.

Aramis wasn't sure as to how he knew that he was Spanish, but decided to answer anyway. "Yo no se." (I don't know.)

Looking around his surroundings, Aramis saw that he was in a dark room, with nothing but a small torch giving off light. He was chained to a wall, manacles wrapping around his legs and wrists, preventing him from taking even three steps.

"Preguntaré de nuevo: ¿dónde está tu campamento?" (I will ask you again: where is your camp?)

Aramis repeated what he said before, and received a heavy punch to the face for it.

And so it begins, the poor man thought, hanging his head and trying to clear his mind.