"Horses!" Constance gasped. She'd been staring out of the window, over the few houses of the small village and into the distance of the endless fields for hours now. The sky had turned from blue to orange and then to black.
"How many?" Aramis asked and sat up. His skin was too pale and a shiny layer of sweat covered it. He now tried to also get a look out of the window, but from his place in the bed he could only get a glimpse of the stars and the almost full moon. His hands were already clinging to the weapon he'd kept close to him, worry spreading in his chest and squeezing his lungs.
The riders could be Red Guards, who'd finally found them and would now take him back to where he belonged. Ending what they'd started. Giving him what he deserved. But this wasn't what he was scared off. They would take Constance with them as well, calling her a traitor just as well. And there was nothing he could to do about it. He couldn't fight, he couldn't run. But she could. But he knew her too well, knew that Constance would not leave him behind. If these riders were Red Guards he would try to get her too flee, but he already knew the outcome. Oh, Constance was just a too loyal friend. And if it were the Red Guards, had they already found his brothers? Killed them? Tortured them to get them to tell them where he was hidden? They wouldn't have talked, he knew.
Aramis suddenly felt sick as he thought about all the gruesome possibilities but now was not the time to let his feelings take over him. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it through his mouth.
"Three horses." Constance then answered.
It wasn't a too bad answer. They could take three men between the two of them. It could work if they prepared it right. But maybe it were his brothers who returned. But if this was true, one would be missing. And this thought was even worse. He would rather be found by three angry Red Guards and fight them to death than have only three of four of the most loyal men return.
"Can you see who it is?" He then asked, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he watched Constance. She'd leaned out of the window slightly, he normally so soft and beautiful face set into tense lines as he eyes squeezed together to see more in the dark night.
"No, it's too dark." She sighed and retreated from the window, drawing the curtain close. "We should prepare." She then added, face determined.
Aramis nodded his agreement, but he felt so useless. Constance pulled the table over the ground, probably waking the whole Inn with the screeching sound as she put it in front of the door. The chairs followed and was put exactly beneath the doorknob. Aramis wanted to help but with his injured legs there was not much he could do.
Constance then blew out the few candles that had spent them some light and sat down on the bed beside him.
Aramis stared at the door, his right hand gripping the gun while his left one fumbled with his rosary.
"Do you think this is the end?" He asked after a few tense and silent minutes of waiting. He heard Constance breath out loudly as she thought about it.
"I hope not. It would be a shame if d'Artagnan would never get to know his son."
It took him a few long seconds until Aramis comprehend what Constance just had said. He then laughed, a weir mixture of true joy and fear and sadness. He embraced Constance tightly and kissed her cheek.
"That's wonderful news, Constance. And I promise you, I will not let any harm come to you."
He lied. He could not promise such a thing and both of them knew. If the Red Guards had truly found them, this would be their end. They were outnumbered, weakened and not well armed.
"You should hide." Aramis then tried, hoping that being pregnant would make Constance look after herself more. But of course, she was still the same stubborn woman and only huffed out.
"I should not." And Aramis was ready to argue but it was already too late.
First, there was the sound of hooves on dry earth. It came to a clattering halt and was then followed by hushed voices, a door being ripped open and heavy footsteps.
Aramis felt Constance tense up beside him, her breath now coming faster as adrenaline was pumped through her veins. Hoping to be able to comfort her in the slightest, he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.
"It's going to be okay." He whispered, eyes fixed on the barricaded door.
"Yes." Constance breathed in answer. They both knew it would not. They both knew, that everything they'd done, everything they and the others had fought for, would be for nothing if the Red Guard would be barging in now. And they both knew, that if it were their friends, that one of them would be lost.
Aramis felt bad for thinking this way, terribly bad, because you should not value one life over another's, but for Constance's sake, he prayed that d'Artagnan would be one of the lucky ones. He had a child and wife he had to care for. And for his own sake, /god was he selfish/, he prayed that Porthos would return too. But then as it came to Athos and Treville, he noticed that he could not value one of them more or less. That it would be devasting to lose any of them, no matter whom. Athos, who had been of his dearest friends for so many years, who'd always been there for him, fought for him and kept his secrets. And then there was Treville, the only man who ever came close to being a father figure in his life. And even though they've had their up and downs, he knew he could always rely on his Captain, knew that his First Minister would never abandon his, knew that Treville valued all their life's above his own.
So, he did not pray for a special person to return but prayed for a miracle.
The steps stopped in front of the door. A deathly silence hung over the Inn. On neither side of the door someone talked. Aramis and Constance still sat on the bed, waiting. On the other side of the door, someone turned the doorknob, just to find it blocked. He turned and twisted but the door would not open. Another man pushed him aside, and ran against the door with his shoulder. It screeched and budged, but did not open.
They knocked, loud as thunder, the sound vibrating in Aramis' and Constance's ears.
"Constance? Aramis? It's us! Open the damn door."
It was Porthos gruff and rough voice that send a wave of relieve through Aramis. But it only lasted a second. As Constance pulled the table and chairs away, Aramis remembered that there had been only three horses. Porthos was there. This was good. But what did that mean for the others?
Would Constance have to care for their child on her own, the father dead before he even knew she was pregnant?
He gulped down the bile that had threatened to come up and stared down the door. As it finally could be opened, all obstacles out it's way, Porthos was the first to barge in. Athos was the next that Aramis could see, he had an arm slung around someone's shoulder. D'Artagnan was on the other side, helping Athos carry the man. Treville was a dead weight between the two, head hug low on his chest, his shirt ripped open and a bloody mess.
"What happened?" Constance asked, already guiding Athos and d'Artagnan towards the table where they placed Treville.
"He was stabbed. We've cauterized his wound but he's already lost a lot of blood. I don't know if it's done any internal damage." Athos explained, voice rough and low as he looked down at his First Minister.
Aramis was trying to push himself up, but he had barely lifted his body off the bed as he fell back down, his feet still not carrying his wait.
"Help me up." He urged. The others shot him an uncertain worried look, no one dared to move to his aid.
"Help me up! I'm the only one who knows what to do. Or how many stab wounds have you treated, huh?!" He asked, annoyed and angry and desperate. His face was painted with tight lines of pains, but his eyes shined in determination.
D'Artagnan rushed towards him, grabbed his arm and pulled it around his shoulder. With a groan, Aramis pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pain that shot through his feet. D'Artagnan tried to take as much weight off him as possible, but it was still not enough.
"Are you sure?" The Gascon asked, eyes wide in worry. Aramis just grunted and nodded. Resigned, d'Artagnan helped him hobble over to the table, where Aramis was left panting and breathing through the pain.
Luckily, Porthos had thought with and placed a chair behind him. Nodding his thanks, Aramis sat down. It wasn't the perfect angle to treat a wound but there was no other way he could do it.
He gently peeled away the ripped fabric, worried about how still und unresponsive the Captain was. But as he touched the man's wrist and felt the cold, sweaty skin, there was still a faint pulse. It wasn't steady or strong, but it was there.
Underneath the shirt he found a red, glistening patch of skin, heat radiating from it. He nodded slightly. A stab wound on this place must have bled badly, cauterizing it was the only way to treat it. The problem was, that he now had no way to open it and see if there had been any internal damage. His fingers prodded along the stomach, gently pushing into the skin and searching for anything abnormal. He couldn't find anything but this didn't mean anything. Internal bleedings were a difficult thing. They often couldn't be detected and even if they could, there was no way to treat them.
Aramis sighed, his hands brushing through his hair before he dared to look at his brothers. All of them looked exhausted, almost dead on their legs. They were sweaty, dark bags under their eyes and their body posture stiff. Their brows were furrowed in concern, waiting for answers.
"There's not much we can do other than keep the wound clean and wait. And pray." The meaning behind his words was clear and hung heavily in the room.
"When do we know that he will live?" Athos then dared to ask, voice uncharacteristic thin.
Aramis shrugged helplessly.
"If he survives the night and the next day, it's a good sign. But we can only be sure in a few days."