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No 10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed — Aramis

The strident screech of clashing steel competed with the raucous roar of the crowd. Aramis threw his arm up to block a strike aimed at his head and twisted underneath his foe's blade to retaliate from the side. His sword sliced through cloth, flesh, and sinew, splattering blood through the air. His opponent staggered away and the spectators erupted in a mixture of awe and outrage; they didn't want the musketeer to win. Again.

The wounded man let out a raging bellow and charged. Aramis ducked under the swing and ran him through. His body fell to the ground to lay among the other defeated contenders. Still they kept coming, determined to beat down the lone musketeer they'd found snooping around their camp. These mercenaries had a vicious taste for violence and were only too happy to throw Aramis into a ring and give him a fighting chance against them.

If a fighting chance meant being bombarded one after another with men determined to kill him. His clothes were damp with a mixture of sweat and blood. His arm quavered as he struggled to lift his sword to meet the next man who rushed him. The clang of steel echoed harshly in his ears as this foe attacked with abandon, swinging over and over in rapid succession so that Aramis was forced to deliver only defensive parries as he scrambled backward. He tripped over a previously defeated opponent and went sprawling on his back. The blade arced down.

Aramis rolled and swiped at the man's legs, sending yet more blood spraying through the air. He scrambled to his feet and swung again. When this man went down, Aramis almost lost his balance and pitched over on top of him. A host of injuries screamed for his attention, but the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot.

The mercenaries were growing impatient, it seemed, and two decided to take him on at the same time. Aramis tried to flick his hair out of his face and gripped his sword with both hands. His strength was failing.

The two men bore down on him simultaneously. Aramis managed to stop both their blades with his, but it left him trapped and vulnerable. One kept his blade locked with Aramis's while the other slid his free and arched his arm back to cut down the musketeer from his exposed side.

A pistol shot cracked the air and the man jerked backwards. Aramis wasted no time wrenching his blade free and swinging it up and around at the other man, who was briefly distracted. More shots rent the air but Aramis ignored them, focusing simply on staying alive as his opponent recovered and fought back. Aramis staggered backward under the onslaught, his boots slipping in the blood slicked mud. Mustering one last burst of strength, he pushed back and shoved the mercenary away. His feet knocked against the body of his comrade and he fell. Aramis followed him down with a thrust of his sword.

He stumbled as he spun around, searching for the next attacker. But there was none. The mercenaries were scattering as the Musketeer regiment rode into their camp and cut them down.

Aramis swayed where he stood, too exhausted to truly process the timely rescue. His sword slipped from numb fingers to fall in the mud.

"Aramis!"

He turned toward the sound of Porthos's voice, his vision wavering slightly.

Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan were converging on his position as the rest of the musketeers took care of the mercenary soldiers.

Athos's eyes were unusually wide as he took in Aramis and the scene. "How much of that blood is yours?" he asked urgently.

Aramis furrowed his brow and glanced down at his gore-spattered coat. Even his hands were streaked with crimson. There were places on his body that stung with fire but they seemed distant. He raised one hand to cross himself and utter a prayer for forgiveness for the lives he'd taken this day, but Athos snatched his wrist out of the air.

"Aramis. Where are you hurt?"

"He's in shock," d'Artagnan said.

"We need a medic over here!" Porthos yelled over his shoulder.

Aramis blinked, everything suddenly narrowing to a pinprick. He felt his legs buckle and several hands struggling to catch him. Then nothing.

He next came aware to the sensation of a cool, wet cloth being gently run down one arm. A second joined the first, wiping at his face, his neck. He let out a soft moan and struggled to open his eyes.

"Aramis?" Porthos called worriedly.

Everything was blurry but Aramis could make out a large, dark shape that vaguely resembled his friend. "Mm," he tried to respond.

"Easy," another voice soothed. Athos. "You may not want to move right away. There's a fair amount of bandages holding you together."

That didn't sound good. But not moving did. Aramis let his eyes fall closed again.

The wet cloth resumed its bathing of his face. Aramis just lay there for several long moments before he tried opening his eyes again. His vision was clearer this time and he saw Athos dunking a red-tinged cloth in a bowl of water and then wringing it out.

"I brought fresh ones," d'Artagnan's voice spoke from somewhere.

Aramis watched the red trickle away, watched Athos pick up a clean white cloth and wet it next.

Athos paused when he noticed Aramis awake and staring. They shared an unspoken exchange of relief, gratitude, and love.

Aramis closed his eyes as his brothers continued to wash away his sins.