Once the fabric fell open and revealed the fading bruises on Aramis' skin the noble whistled.
"I guess no one likes traitors, do they?" He grins wickedly, as he notices Aramis tense up at the accusation.
"I've never been anything but loyal to my country." Aramis hissed between gritted teeth, fury boiling up in him. He shouldn't be here. All of this was wrong and unfair but there was nothing he could do against it. He had made the King his own personal enemy and now he would pay for it.
"And which country is this, hm?" The Noble asked, the tip of the knife roaming over Aramis' exposed chest, causing his muscles to tense up in order to keep still.
"I'm French. I've been born and raised in France, why on earth should I betray my country?!" Aramis almost shouted, straining against his chains and for the first time he spoke out what he thought and let his feelings out. Back in the trial he hadn't tried to defend him once he noticed that the King turned and twisted his words like he wanted to. So he had kept silent then, let the false accusations and insults to his honor wash over him.
But now there was no reason to hold back anymore. He had nothing to fear anymore. His fate had been settled.
"Oh, don't understand me wrong. I don't think you've been a traitor from the start. But I know how persuasive the Spanish can be from my own personal experience."
Aramis frowned, taking in the man in front of him in a more detailed manner than before. If a Noble had been tortured or abducted from the Spanish he surely would have heard from it.
And then, as his thoughts raced through his head, and he desperately searched for something, anything to give him a hint, it stroke him like a lightning.
"Comte de Rochefort." He breathed. The Noble, Rochefort, grinned as he nodded.
It had been at the beginning of Aramis' career within the Musketeers that he had heard the news of a Comte being abducted and held for interrogation by the Spanish. He had never heard of his release, merely thought the man dead.
"The one and only." Rochefort bowed in a mocking gesture, the knife extended from his outspread arm.
"You don't have to do this, Constance. We still can search for someone else." Porthos offered, pity in his eyes.
"No you can't and you know that." The woman straightened her back, her head held high as she walked past Porthos and towards the front door of her house.
"What are you waiting for, Gentleman?" She asked, the door held open. She smiled at the three men gathered in her kitchen, lips tight but eyes determined.
She would have laughed at the thought of her neighbour, Marie-Anne, and what the young woman would tell her friends at the market the next day if she saw three men leaving her house - non of them her husband. But the life of one of her brothers was in danger and she didn't feel like laughing at all. Moreover, she couldn't care less about any rumours Marie-Anne and her friends spread.
"You're an angel sent from God himself." Treville muttered, placing a gentle kiss on her hand before rushing out of the house first. He had vanished around the next corner in the split of a second.
Athos, Porthos and Constance waited a few moments before following him outside, but taking the streets into the opposite direction. D'Artagnan was probably already waiting for them.
Rochefort hadn't graced him with his presents much longer. The man had been fast and effective in his work but not without taking some sick pleasure from it.
After the Comte had left him alone in his dark cell again, Aramis had sacked into his chains exhausted.
He has had worse. Far worse. Rochefort had merely kicked against his ankle and knee, making sure they were twisted or sprained. It wasn't as painful as a fracture, but enough to make standing painful. And after all the time he had already spent standing and tiring out his muscles, his legs just didn't hold on any longer.
All his weight was now on his shoulders, sending a burning pain through his upper body but he could not find the will to get back to his feet.
Alone and in the darkness of his cell, he had lost any sense of time.
There hadn't been any more visits in his time being imprisoned. He could only guess the time from the empty feeling in his stomach and the arche in his throat or the times he had relieve himself. Being bound like he was, it was an act of deep humiliation. He was somehow glad that he hadn't eaten or drank in a while, so he hadn't to dirty himself too much. Still, the smell stung in his nose and he wished for nothing else than a bath.
By the time steps echoed again through the corridor, he felt parched and dizzy from the lack of food and water. He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat as the door opened. There still was no priest in sight to grand him absolution. But Rochefort wasn't there either.
It were merely two guards coming for him.
One opened the chains that secured him to the wall. His arms feel down heavily to his side, his shoulders screaming in protest. Under normal circumstances, he would have fought his way out now easily. The guards were barely armed and now his hands were only secured with manacles and a short chain in between. He still had enough freedom in his movements to fight. But he had lost any feeling in his arms long ago, so they hang uselessly to his side. He could not lift them even if he wanted to.
Without the chains holding him upright all his weight was put on his twisted knee and sprained ankle. He would have fallen to the ground and hit it face first, if the Guards hadn't had a strong grip around his arms – not that he felt their fingertips digging into his skin. But it was enough to hold him upright.
Aramis took a deep breath to settle his stomach as he was dragged towards the corridor.
"Is it today?" He asked. Shocked from the roughness of his voice he cleared his throat but it was of no use.
One Guard grunted his agreement, dragging him further through the prison.
Aramis closed his eyes at that for a short moment of weakness. Only for a second the feeling of dread overwhelmed him. He caught himself fast enough, trying to straighten as much as possible and slow down his racing heart.
As much as he tried to, he wasn't able to stay on his own feet as he was pulled towards the exit.
She had squeezed and twisted her fingers for such a long time that they were red and swollen, the rings pinching into her skin. But this small discomfort was nothing against the corset that seemed to close even tighter with each dreadful second they waited. She wished she wouldn't have to see this but she could not leave. It was the least she could do. Let him see her one last time.
And a little bit, she had to admit, Anne was doing this for herself. See him one more time. Try to soothe her guilt, which was eating her up slowly and painfully.
She was glad that Constance was with her, a constant present by her side. The young woman smiled at her weakly, sad. But there was something in her eyes, shining bright. Hope and strength. Anne admired her, she had done so from the very first day they had met. Constance had never shown any weakness or fear, no matter how dire the situation.
Anne tried to be like her and lifted her head high and proud as Louis took place beside her. She didn't return the squeeze of her hand he gave her, instead she watched down into the courtyard as the doors opened with a thud.
Between two Guards a man was dragged inside. She gasped, couldn't hold it back as realization hit her.
This man was Aramis. Gone was his long hair and well kept beard. He looked dishevelled, his shirt torn and open revealing almost everything of his upper body. Only half clothed, naked feet scraping along the floor, he was carried into the middle of the yard. As the Guards stopped and turned to Louis and her, Aramis tried to find his footing again.
He seemed to manage somehow, swaying dangerously as he looked up.
She cought his eyes, brown and shining. Then, there was a twitch of his lips, almost resembling a smile – weren't it for the bitterness in his eyes. She knitted her fingers again, lips pressing on each other hard. But she didn't look away. She gulped, trying not to let the tears fall – they could not see, no one could know. She took a deep breath, caging her feelings back inside. A comforting hand was laid on her shoulder and as she looked to the side, she found Constance there, having crept closer to offer comfort.
As she looked back down to Aramis, his attention had already divided to something else. His eyes were searching the cheering crowd. Anne looked out too, sure to find the familiar faces of her Musketeers there.
There were some she recognized but not the ones she had searched for.
The words Louis spoke about honor and justice washed over her in a daze and suddenly it was silent. Aramis was pushed by one of the Guards to walk towards the horrendous wheel. He staggered, lost his balance and feel gracelessly to the ground. As he tried to catch himself, his arm gave in beneath him, sending him face first to the ground.
The crowd cheered, laughed. The guards couldn't hold back either as he pulled him upwards roughly.
A fire was enflamed in Anne. What had they done to him? Why did they have to humiliate him in his last seconds? She did not see any honor in letting a man die like this.
As he was strapped to the wheel he felt like he would vomit any moment. The wood pierced into his skin like needles and the manacles were closed so tightly they cut into his flesh.
He gulped as he looked again into the crowd, somehow hoping to find his brothers now and praying at the same time that he didn't. He didn't want them to see him like this. But he wanted to see them one last time. All this time he had hoped for a miracle. He had wished that they would visit him in his cell, that at least this small comfort would be granted. But it wasn't. And now, he would die alone.
Once the Guards also secured the manacles around his ankles, he felt all hope leave his body and the end coming close. It was somehow like in a battle. Like the moment when you've lost your weapon and saw a wave of enemies run towards you. But in difference to the battles, he was alone now. There wasn't Porthos who would throw an opponent through the air or Athos who would stab him for him. Or d'Artagnan, who would have his back. Now, he was completely exposed. Half naked, strapped to a wooden wheel that soon would crush his bones into a thousand pieces.
Strapped like he was, there was not much he could see anymore. But he could still look upwards and see Anne, his beloved Anne, sitting on the balcony. Beside her the child that called himself King.
"Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they are doing" Aramis spoke, eyes never leaving the two figures above him – hovering over him like Gods. But as much as Louis thought he was a God, he was just a pathetic poor man, who knew nothing of forgiveness or mercy. If he was anything biblical, he was the devil himself. And Anne, always proud and strong, but still powerless. No God would have been as helpless as her. No, she was just a human.
In the end, they were all only human. Shells of flesh and skin, tearing apart as easily as anything else on this world. Bones, that broke just as easily as a branch. Hearts, that shattered and souls that got lost on their way. In the end, they all died and God would judge them. Only God. Aramis found comfort in this. It didn't matter for what he was executed, important was the truth and he was sure that God knew it. The thought that even Louis, the oh so almighty King, would sometime stand in front of the same God and would be judged like anyone else, satisfied him. Aramis' God would not forgive Louis his sins and this monster would burn in hell – while Anne would be finally his.
They would meet again. He would wait. For her, for Constance and his brothers.
He only hoped that he would have to wait a long time – that they would live a fulfilled and long life to tell stories about later.