This chapter is a little bit shorter than the other ones, but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer!

Thank you for all your reviews, I'm always glad to know about your thoughts about a chapter.

He felt his heart hammering against his constricting chest. He breathed faster and faster, but there was no oxygen entering his burning lungs. He felt cold sweat trickle down his skin, soaking through the thin shirt, clanging to his body and causing him to shiver. His hands scratched on the floor, the walls, the door. Nails on stone – the sound screeching and causing his teeth to arche. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He scratched and scratched until his fingernails were nothing but bloody stubbles, the skin on his tips raw and red. A low, broken whine left his dry mouth, sending waves of agony through his body.

And then, as he was crumbling on the floor, knees drawn to his chest and head bowed, he recognized the sound of a wooden wheel being turned and turned and turned. He couldn't hold back the bile and retched right beside him – too exhausted to move away from the mess.

"No. No."

He sobbed without tears – there was no water left in his body to shed. He placed his hands over his ears, desperately trying to block out the sounds but it was of no use. He could still here the scratching of wood against stone, the rattling. And then there were footsteps. Coming to get him.

The door, marred by his scratches, was ripped open. Instead of the Guards he had expected, there were other men in the door. He felt his lungs constrict as he recognized their faces. Rochefort, Louis, General Hernandez and Girard. Behind them he noticed more figures standing, watching him with disgust. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan – their eyes showing open disgust. Anne, sweet Anne, crying while hate glistening in her eyes. Louis grinned, wickedly as he took in the shell of the man before him.

General Hernandez truly looked disappointed. Aramis knew that the spanish General had always held enough of him, wanted him to reacher a higher rank in the spanish army – but after all Aramis was nothing but a miserable, disgusting traitor. To both France and spain.

Rochefort was the first to move, way too excited and happy with what was about to happen. Between him and Girard they hauled Aramis to his naked feet. He wanted to stand on his own legs, but they would not cooperate. So the last spark of dignity was lost as he was dragged outside.

He gulped as he took in the scene in front of him. The courtyard was a horrifying mixture of white, grey and red. Snow covered the tiles on the ground, while the sky was grey and clouded not letting a hint of sunshine. On the snow he found familiar faces – lifeless, judging eyes staring up at him and letting the blood ins his veins freeze. The blood of twenty innocent soaked through the white of the snow. Uncaringly of the corpses scattered around their feet, Girard and Rochefort pulled Aramis forward. His naked feed froze as they were dragged through the snow. He was too weak to lift them the times they passed a body – so his feet were carelessly dragged over the dead ones.

An infinite long time later they had reached the wheel. He was hauled onto it, bound too tightly against the wood.

There were no last words, only gazes of disgust from the people he once had called family. Laughter from the ones who wanted to see him dead.

Then, the wheel started turning. He felt his feet crunch beneath it's weight – fire consuming his body.

"Aramis! Aramis wake up!"
And angelic voice came through the heavy clouds in his ears. His eyes snapped open, air filling his lungs as he gasped audible.

The snow was gone, replaced by brown, muddy walls. Instead of the wheel there was something soft beneath him, a bed he recognized.

"Aramis." He felt a gentle, warm touch on his arm. He flinched back at the unexpected touch, wild eyes snapping to his side to find the owner of the angelic voice by his side. Constance sat beside his bed, her brow furrowed in concern, a small hand hovering just by his arm, not really touching it anymore but reluctant to move it away completely.

"Constance." Aramis breathed as if he had to confirm it to himself that she was there – real and alive.

He looked around the room they were in, recognizing it as the Inn they had found shelter in. Right, the Inn. They were waiting for the others to return. They were safe.

Constance smiled strained, her hand now touching his arm again. This time Aramis didn't flinch but leaned into the touch until Constance had him in a tight embrace pressed against her chest.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, carefully as not to frighten a dear. Aramis gulped, shaking his head. He had never been the one to speak about his troubles. Never had bothered anyone with his nightmares, his constant companion since many years. He would not start now.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you, Constance." He forced himself to let go of the hug and sat up straighter in the bed.

The woman frowned but didn't dare to argue with him.

Aramis looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed for the open display of weakness from him. As he stared out of the window and noticed how the sun stood high on the sky his heart skipped a beat.

"It's already noon? Where are the others? They should have arrived by now. And Porthos? He should have come yesterday evening."

He felt something painfully constricting in his chest as worry laid it's heavy cloak around him.

Constance looked away, afraid. He noticed how her hands fumbled with each other nervously and her gaze drifted to the window, searching for something but finding nothing.

"Athos has left two hours ago to find them. None of them have reached us yet."