Ever since he had been a man of action. Stillness or helplessness were feelings he couldn't cope well with. Not that he had experienced them often. It just felt wrong to sit around and wait for the inevitable to happen. Out of habit he had tried to pick the locks on the chains, but only managed to scruff his wrists raw and bloody. His legs arched from having to stand for such a long period but with his hands attached to the wall near his head he had no chance to sit. Once in a time he would bend his knees until his thighs trembled from the effort and he had to straighten them again. In the dark cell he had no way of knowing how many hours or days had passed. He had been given some water twice and a hard, old piece of bread once.
It hadn't been enough to still his hunger but enough to prevent him from starving or dying of thirst. Still, his mouth was dry and his tongue felt way thicker than it should. He tried to swallow his spit to wet his burning throat, but there wasn't anything to swallow.
His hands had gone numb long ago, leaving only a burning ache in his biceps and shoulders as well as his neck. A glance to his pale and somewhat blueish hands made his heart clench and fearing for his body parts. This short moment of absurd fear caused him to chuckle. He would soon be bound to a giant wheel to shatter his bones while he was still alive and he feared for his hands to die off.
He wasn't scared off the death that awaited him though. Death was something he had grown used to to live with and he wasn't afraid to be judged by God himself. He was sure that God would forgive him for his sins.
He was scared of the moments of pain though. Not because of the pain. But he was scared that he would not be able to stay strong through the procedure, that he would give in at some point and show his weakness.
"Never show anyone when you're hurt." The words of his father echoed through his head, being hammered into it since he was a child. He feared to not be able to withstand the pain. He promised himself no to scream, but deep down he knew that he would at some point. But he couldn't. Couldn't give the King this satisfaction. And couldn't do it to his brothers, Constance an Anne. Oh sweet Anne. She would be there, he knew. She would watch. He didn't want her to see.
Didn't want her to be haunted by the pictures. The least he could do was to stay strong, so not his screams would follow her too. Oh, sweet Anne, what did she have to endure now? He had seen the pain in her eyes back in the courtroom. He knew that she had fought for him as best as she could. He knew that she hadn't forgotten their night at the convent and hopefully never would.
His thoughts drifted off to his brothers, who would be there too. He knew it. They would not leave him in times of trouble. But they would be just as helpless as he was. They would have to watch and he feared that they would do something stupid. Attack the guards, yell at the King… he shuddered at the though that they might be bound to the wheel right after him. No, they could not.
He wished he could talk to them one last time.
All these years he had served his country as a spy in between the spanish he had missed them. And now, after such a short reunion, they had to separate again. But there were still so many things he wanted to say to them. He wanted to tell d'Artagnan how proud he was of him. That he had become a great man and soldier in the years they had been separated. That he should look out for Constance, even though he knew that Constance was well capable of looking after herself. She would probably slap him when she heard him say it to d'Artagnan. He wished he could hold her in his arms one more time. Tell her that she was one of the strongest women he knew and that he loved her like a sister. After all Constance was a Musketeer in all but name too.
He wanted to tell Athos that he was good in what he was doing. That he was a great Captain and even better brother. He wanted to plead him to not go back to the bottle. Not to feel guilty for what had happened to him.
And he wanted to ask Porthos to not mourn for too long. After all he had to look after the reckless d'Artagnan and the suicidal Athos. Someone had to stay sane.
Aramis leaned his head back against the cold wall, that seemed to rob him off his last reserves of body heat with each passing moment. But it was the only way to get some pressure from his weary muscles.
And then, he started to pray. Not for him. No, he hadn't sunk down so far. He prayed for his loved ones, for the family he had built himself. Prayed that they would stay save once he was gone, prayed that they would be fine, prayed that they did not any extremely stupid reckless foolishness to try to save him.
"That's the most reckless, stupid and foolish plan I've ever heard." D'Artagnan huffed. He would never have thought that he would be the one telling this, and he would have even les thought that it would be his former Captain, now First Minister of War, Treville he told it.
On the other hand, this wasn't a situation he would ever get into either.
Who could have guessed that it would be the Musketeers and the First Minister who would plan an act against the King himself? All of this was so far away from sanity that it seemed like some kind of horrible hallucination.
D'Artagnan caught Porthos' frown. The taller man tried to stay composed, arms crossed over his chest, but failed miserably. D'Artagnan could see that the man was ready to burst any moment, a ticking bomb who would smash anyone's head who dared to stay in his way.
"Do you have a better idea, Whelp?" Porthos asked, fury and annoyance lacing his words as he stared the younger man down. D'Artagnan shook his head and raised his hands in a surrounding gesture.
"So, any more objections?" Athos then asked from his place behind the Captain's desk in the Musketeer Garrison. They had thought it the safest place to discuss such matters. Treville leaned against the same desk, the one that once had been his. His eyes roamed over the assembled men and as after a few moments no one spoke up, he clapped into his hands once.
"Then, what are we waiting for? Let's prepare."
Aramis didn't stop praying as he heard footsteps in the hallway. Instead the latin words left his lips even faster, with each step that echoed through the prison, his time was running away more and more.
He was just ending one prayer and wanted to start with the next one as heard a key slipping into the lock. He didn't want to stop, but the anticipation of who would enter and what was to come took away his breath. Was his earthly time already running out?
He gulped as the door screeched open, revealing two grim looking guards and a third man behind them. Aramis didn't recognise him, but the way he dressed spoke of royalty. There was no priest with them, so there was still a little bit of hope in Aramis left that his last hours hadn't begun yet. On the other hand he hadn't exactly been treated like it prisoners normally were. Normally, they would have been told when they would be executed. Normally, prisoners would not be chained like he was inside the cell. They would get a little bit of room to move around, to be able to reach a bucket if they needed to, or lie down on a thin mattress of straw. He had no luxury like this.
"Who dares to disturb me? I was just in the midst of an important meeting." Aramis spoke, a cheapish grin on his lips. It was nothing but a mask, but he couldn't help himself.
"I don't think it would be of any use to tell you my name. After all there's not much time for you to remember it."
"So the time has come?" Aramis asked, trying to keep his voice composed. The man grinned darkly as he shook his head.
"Not yet. But soon enough. First, I will make sure you'll e presented as the King wished to."
Aramis frowned at this. This could not mean any good.
The Noble stepped forward, a knife now shining in his hand.
Aramis bit his tongue to not make the situation any worse with his sharp comments, but it was a hard fight against himself. On the other hand he wondered what should happen, if he made it worse. The King would surely wants him alive to bind him against the wheel. So the noble man would not kill him. This realization was not as reassuring as he had hoped.
A second later he found the man's hand on his chin, nails pressing hard into his skin. Aramis could not see the knife now, but only the shining blue eyes of the man. He tensed as he felt something cold meet his cheek and then scraped across his skin. He wanted to draw away, but found that he could not because of the tight grip. He soon felt the cold air brush against his skin, where once his beard been. The Noble did not take much time to shave off his facial hair, having him cut several times in doing so.
"What's this about?" Aramis asked, openly confused. He felt strangely exposed without his beard.
But before he got an answer, the Noble made short work of his hair, cutting it so short that it was only a few centimetres long. Aramis watched his hair fall to the ground with a sick feeling.
"What this is about? Oh you will find out soon enough." The Noble answered, the Knife now ripping open Aramis' shirt.