After writing the first chapter in german at first and then just translated it, I decided to try to write it in English immediatlely and I think this was the right decision. It was a lot easier to fit my writing style into the English language now. I'm still thankful for every review from you! After eating properly, drinking, washing himself and having a quiet long sleep, Aramis awoke from a scream. His own one. Sweat dripped from the Musketeers bare chest, as it raised heavy. He needed a few moments to realize that he was in the garrison, home and safe. Grimaud was nowhere near him and his brothers were outside, making sure that he wouldn't have the chance to get to him ever again. Still, the fear clenched to him like a lost child. This feeling was way too familiar to Aramis. After just getting over Savoy, he didn't need another years of restless nights. Sighing, he searched for his clothes. He hissed, as he lifted his arms to get his shirt over his head. The numb feeling in his arms had left, instead they now burned just as much as his shoulders. His lungs still troubled him while breathing, but not as much as in the beginning. Just a second before standing up, Aramis remembered his ankle. Right beside his bed stood two wooden crutches. No, he wouldn't embarrass himself like that. Never in a million years. So, holding back a groan, he stood up. Pain shot right through his leg, but he clenched his teeth together and walked – or more likely limbed – out of the house. Outside, a few musketeers trained with swords or muskets, while others sat together eating lunch. He really had slept long. His gaze wandered around until he found his friends on one of the tables. Trying to suppress the pain, he walked over to them. Smiling, they greeted their injured brother.

"Aramis! Come on, sit down." D'Artagnan patted the place to his left side. Thankful, Aramis sat down, letting out a breath he didn't noticed he had hold in. "How are you?" Athos asked concerned, with tired looking eyes. Probably he wasn't awake much longer than Aramis was, after a night full of alcohol and blaming himself for nearly everything. "Good. I'm good. Only aching arms." He smiled with the easiness, he always had. It comforted his friends, knowing he was still the same. Nevertheless, all of them were still skeptical about the marksman's well-being. After realizing the concerned looks, Aramis once again assured him that he was fine and was going to be back in a few days. And he didn't lie. Physically he really felt well, except from his ankle, which probably would need a bit longer than a few days. About the fear that still hadn't left him, he wouldn't talk with his brothers. They just would get worried. Something that wasn't more than unnecessary in times like this. All of them needed to stay focused on finding Grimaud and keeping the royal family safe. The Spaniards gaze wandered over to Porthos, who hasn't talked since his appearance. Aramis knew him too well, to not to know what was going on. "You don't have the right to be angry at me, Porthos", he exclaimed, trying to keep himself calm but anger building up inside him. How dared Porthos to be angry at him, when he was the once who had all the right to blame his friend? Because of Porthos Grimaud had the chance to escape! They could have killed him, ended this whole nightmare. Porthos shot a glare to the marksman. Unbelief and anger laid in his look.
"I have no right to be angry at you? Are you serious? You wanted me to shoot you, and then you blamed me for letting you alive! Have you really expected me to kill a brother?" The colossus stand up, showing his whole height and strength. Others would be afraid of him, knowing he could kill them with ease. But Aramis knew better than to be scared of his friend. Porthos had a big heart and wouldn't lay a hand on him – if not completely necessary. To beat one level, Aramis also raised from his place, holding on to the desk to support his legs. "You HAD to do it! When you have the chance to kill Grimaud, you have to do it!"

Porthos was about to shout something back, as Athos interrupted the fight. "Enough! Sit down, you're worse than an old couple." He massaged his temple, before continuing. "Porthos, stop being angry at Aramis, it's just childish." Aramis grinned satisfied, but stopped as Athos looked at him. "And Aramis, stop blaming Porthos for the decision he made. Every one of us would have done the same, you included. You know too well, that you also would never kill one of us for Grimaud. Think about." Ashamed both looked down, before mumbling apologies. Athos was right; Aramis would never kill one of his brothers just to get Grimaud or any other monster in this world. Still, he wishes Porthos would have done it. It may would have taken his life, but saved and revenged a lot of others. "And now, let us go. We have to be on time at the palace, before the feast starts."
Agreeing the musketeers stood up. Simultaneously d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos looked at Aramis. "You stay here. You can't even walk, you have to rest." Not giving Aramis the chance to argue, d'Artagnan explained that the marksman wouldn't be useful in his state. The youngest was right, of course. So Aramis had no choice but to stay behind, while his brothers went. He didn't like that at all. The Spaniard didn't want to seem weak. He wanted to show, that he was strong as every other musketeer in the regiment and that such an incident couldn't hold him back. But it could. Angry at himself and his broken ankle, he kicked a wall, crying out in pain. Limping around the garrison useless, Aramis got more and more frustrated. He needed to do something. He even asked in the kitchen to help, but they were already down with the meals. IN the training area he caught sight of a musket lying around unattended. Grinning, the marksman walked over to it and picked it up. He loaded the weapon, aimed and shot. Ignoring the increasing pain in his shoulder, he looked up to the target. He only hit it on the edge, far away from the red ring in the middle – which he used to hit every time he shot. Frustrated, tried again. He lost count how often he had shot. But it clearly was too many times. Just once he streaked the red circle. Some bullets even missed the whole target. He let out an angry scream while throwing away the musket. That was impossible. Aramis was good in just a few things. Using his charme, stitching wounds and fighting were mainly these things. But he was only very good in one thing. And that was shooting. The only thing he was actually better than the most people. His only talent. The only thing that made him important for the musketeers. He nearly never missed his target, no matter how far away he was or fast it moved. He never missed. Until now.