Christmas Request fic for Aini NuFire! (She asked for me to freeze poor Aramis) Hope you enjoy this, merry whumpmas XD

It's been a while since I've written any iteration of the Musketeers but hopefully this turned out okay. Also tried to make the Christmas celebrations for this time period as accurate as the information I found.

In the Bleak Midwinter

A Musketeers Fanfic

It's the day before Christmas and Aramis has gone missing on a patrol. His brothers go out to bring him home. Cold!Aramis, h/c

It was cold. That was the first thing Aramis noticed when he woke up. It was freezing, actually, and his head was aching. For a moment he was sure that he was back in Savoy, except that he knew he had just been on patrol earlier outside of Paris.

He sat up slowly, forcing himself to breathe so that he could keep his mind clear. It was amazing he hadn't frozen to death, but he must not have been out very long. He watched his breath puff up into the air meditatively as he tried to piece together what had happened.

He'd been on a routine patrol, that much he was certain of. After that the events got a little fuzzy but he did remember bandits and a fight…

He hadn't felt it before from the cold, but there was a dull ache in his upper left arm and when he looked he saw blood seeping past a cut through his coat and shirt. He peeled the material aside with slightly shaking fingers and saw a deep cut that was still sluggishly bleeding. He remembered narrowly missing a sword slice to the throat as he dodged, taking the man out with a dagger to the ribs…

He looked around and a little bit away he saw the dead body lying there in the snow. At least his head didn't seem to be scrambled.

But there was the problem that his horse was gone, as well as the dead man's. Aramis looked around for his pack so he could find something to bandage his wound, but he didn't have that either. It must still be with his horse.

He wasn't sure if the horse had simply bolted during the fighting or if the bandits had taken it. He'd had to leave his normal mount back at the garrison since she'd thrown a shoe that morning. But still, Aramis wasn't too far outside the city. If he started walking now, he might even be able to grab a ride with someone on the road. The upcoming Noel celebrations had been brining many people to the city, which is why the bandits were taking advantage of robbing all the travelers.

Once he was confident his head was ready for him to stand he began to climb to his feet.

Only to collapse almost instantly with a shocked gasp.

His right ankle was agony. The cold had dulled the pain until he moved it, but now he realized it must have been injured when he fell from his horse. He reached down to feel the ankle through his boot and it was decidedly swollen. At this point, he couldn't tell whether it was broken or just really badly sprained, but either way, he would not be walking far on it.

Sickness settled into Aramis along with a deep-seeded panic that he was doing everything he could to push down. This wasn't Savoy, he reminded himself. He wasn't back there. There was only one dead body, the bandit he had killed in the fight, and there was snow, yes, but he was not truly alone. He had people who would miss him if he didn't return by nightfall—which, he saw now, was fast approaching. The rest of his patrol might already be out looking for him. They couldn't be too far. And for certain if they didn't find him, his brothers would come for him. He believed that with all his heart.

He had to, because if he didn't he would lose all hope and lost hope would surely spell death out here.

Aramis fumbled his rosary out of his coat and ran his thumb across the beads in comfort as he prayed silently.

Athos stood to one side of the courtyard in the garrison, watching the men bustle around, finishing chores before the Noel celebrations would begin late that night. Treville had allowed the men with families time off for the holiday, while the young men and the others without attachments, like the Inseparables and their newest member, d'Artagnan, would stay in the garrison where they would have a revellion feast of their own, provided by Serge and some of the village women, funded by the King for his personal guard.

D'Artagnan was moping off to one side to Porthos, bemoaning the fact that he couldn't spend Noel with Constance since she would be spending it with Bonacieux. Athos rolled his eyes, not bothering to add to that conversation. What else could be expected when mooning after someone else's wife, after all?

No, he was watching the sky which looked like it would start snowing again at any moment, and thinking about their brother who was not currently with them.

Aramis had been sent out on patrol that morning to watch the roads for the bands of rogues attacking the travelers coming into Paris for the holiday. Normally he or Porthos would have gone with him but they had been called to the Palace to see to the King that day. Now it was getting dark and if snow started to fall as well, it would get cold out. Athos thought of Aramis and his dislike of cold and snow, and hoped the patrol would be back soon.

He reluctantly went over to join Porthos and d'Artagnan who looked up at him. Porthos grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, turning back to the young Gascon.

"You had best be like Athos, lad. Just drink away yer sorrows this holiday!"

Athos grunted. "Don't ever tell him something so foolish."

D'Artagnan still just moped until Athos wanted to smack him upside the head. "I'll have Treville put you on guard duty all day tomorrow if you keep that up. A woman is never worth it, d'Artagnan. That, you can remember."

"Constance is!" d'Artagnan protested, while Porthos held up a hand.

"Don't mind 'im. Athos is just bitter," Porthos shot him a small smirk and Athos rolled his eyes, glancing over toward the gate where he had caught the sound of horses' hooves.

Finally, he thought, relieved as he recognized the patrol.

However, his relief soon faltered as he spied only three men, and none of them Aramis.

"Porthos," he called and they hurried over with d'Artagnan on their heels.

"Ducos," Athos called to one of the men. "Where is Aramis?"

The man slid off his horse, exhausted. "We don't know, Athos."

Athos felt fury rise in him, but Porthos beat him to it.

"You don't know?" the big man shouted. "What the 'ell do you mean by that?"

Ducos looked distressed. "We came across a group of bandits. They had split up. Aramis went to take position above to take some out from there, but something went wrong. There were more men than we had anticipated. We fought, Henri was injured, and by the time we circled back around to pick up Aramis, we couldn't find him anywhere. Not him, not his horse, not even a—"

"Don't say it," Porthos growled.

Ducos shook his head. "I'm sorry, it wasn't for want of trying. We thought perhaps they took him hostage. But we looked out there for several hours and saw no trace of the bandits. We think they might have a hideout somewhere out of the way where they could evade us. We would have looked further but we had to get Henri back."

Athos took in Ducos leaning against his horse and the third musketeer helping the injured Henri off his horse and took pity on them, even though he wanted to chide them further for not finding Aramis. "You did all you could. Go get Henri taken care of and make your report to Treville."

He was already on his way to the armory. The sky had gotten even grayer and even as he moved, snow began to fall in loose snowflakes to the ground. A wind picked up and began to blow it into flurries, the chill cutting through Athos' clothing.

"What's the plan?" Porthos asked, keeping stride with him.

"We bring Aramis home, no matter what," Athos told him.

"It's snowing," d'Artagnan commented, though it wasn't really a protest.

"I know," Athos replied grimly, looking over his shoulder at the boy. "You don't have to come."

But d'Artagnan squared his shoulders. "Aramis is my friend too. I'm going."

"Then get yourself a warm cloak," Athos told him.

D'Artagnan hurried off to fetch his cloak and Athos and Porthos went into the armory to arm themselves, adding extra balls and powder just to be safe.

"What do you think?" Porthos asked quietly.

"I don't know," Athos said, not wanting to think of the worst, and not wanting to hope for the best, either. "I just don't think the bandits would have been able to take Aramis captive without the others knowing. And I know those men, they wouldn't have abandoned him out there for the sake of saving their own skins."

"What are you sayin'?" Porthos demanded, fists clenching at his sides.

Athos reached up and gripped his shoulder. "I'm saying we're bringing him home," he said firmly.

Porthos calmed slightly, though his jaw still worked with worry, but he nodded, slung his cloak over himself and followed Athos out toward the stables.

They met d'Artagnan and saddled their horses. As they were trotting out the gates of the garrison, a voice called out behind them.

"Athos."

Athos turned to see Treville standing on the upper balcony of the barracks, leaning on the railing. Athos met his eyes, not saying anything. They stared at each other for a long moment before Treville simply nodded. "Bring him back."

Athos nodded back and turned around again.

"Save us four plates if we're not back in time for revellion," Porthos called as they kicked their horses into motion and trotted out the gate.

The snow blew around them and they pulled their cloaks tighter as the light began to dim even further. Athos knew they had little time to lose and urged his horse on faster to go find their missing brother.

Aramis tied part of his sash around his arm, which stopped the bleeding a bit. He was cold, and it had started snowing again. He tried not to think about it too much, about the memories it brought back. If he allowed himself to think of Savoy, he knew he would never last until help came. And he knew help was coming.

However, he was deep in the woods. And in the snow and the coming darkness, he knew he would be nearly impossible to find even for the most determined of searchers. He may not be able to get back to the main road with his injured ankle, but he might be able to get back to the forest path, in which case, he could make himself more readily found by anyone who came along to find him.

Or the bandits. However, he was sure bandits would stay out of this weather if they knew what was good for them. He would take the chance.

But first he had to figure out how to get himself there.

He looked around and saw a large branch lying in the snow a few feet away. He started to crawl over until he reached it, and then used that and a nearby tree trunk to pull himself to his feet. His ankle ached dully any time he put pressure on it, but he kept his feet and staggered a few steps with the help of the makeshift crutch.

He shivered as the cold air cut through him. He had his cloak and hat still, but they did little good after however long he had been sitting out in the snow like that with no movement. His muscles and joints had also stiffened, magnifying every ache from falling off his horse. Hopefully if nothing else, this trek would help get his blood flowing again and warm him up a little.

He could try building a fire once he had found a place to set up and wait. It would help guide a rescue party, but with the wind that was starting up, he didn't think he would be able to keep it going enough to do anything. He would have to find as much shelter as he could and hope for the best. Hope to have help come before he froze to death.

He'd survived the cold once before, he could do it again.

Aramis shivered and shoved those thoughts away again, forcing them down as he stabbed his makeshift crutch into the snow again and again, making his way slowly toward where he was pretty sure the forest path was.

He saw some thinning in the trees ahead and was relieved to find he at least seemed to be going in the right direction.

However, the next step he took, the snowdrift was much deeper than he had realized and he staggered. His crutch slipped out of his grip and he collapsed, falling into the snow. The snow was unstable and had built up at the edge of an incline that led down to the forest path below, which Aramis currently found himself sliding down helplessly.

He let out a cry as he tumbled over the edge, sliding along with a huge drift of snow that had come loose.

Everything was white as he tumbled over and over, until he hit the ground, and then everything was black.

"It's bloody freezing."

Athos snorted as he glanced over at d'Artagnan huddled in his cloak, looking completely miserable.

"Forgot you were a southern boy," he said. "Probably don't get winters like this down in Gascony."

"Not really," d'Artagnan muttered into his cloak, which he had drawn up over his face.

Athos glanced at Porthos next who was scouting around the area.

"Ducos said they first saw the bandits around here," Porthos said as he slowed his horse to study the landscape. "If Aramis was hurt during the fight, he might not be far from this area."

Unless he had been taken by the bandits for some reason, Athos mused darkly; but he still didn't really see the point in that happening. He glanced at the forest that sat on the embankment on either side of the path.

"Ducos said Aramis went up off the road to shoot from above," Athos said.

"Then maybe we should be up there," Porthos agreed and the three men turned their horses to find a way up that wasn't so steep. The forest was silent in the snowfall, and more guarded by the wind with the trees breaking it. The horses' hooves crunched in the fresh, fluffy snow, as Athos looked around, studying the landscape.

"The fresh snow means any tracks would have been covered over a long time ago," he said grimly.

D'Artagnan looked around and pointed upward. "What about that? Broken branch, about the height of a rider on a horse, too tall to be a deer."

Athos glanced over and saw d'Artagnan was right. And the break in the branch looked fresh too, only several hours old.

"Come on," he said, urging his horse forward.

They found the dead body a few minutes later.

Thankfully, Athos realized instantly that the man's figure was too big to be Aramis, but the sight still twisted his stomach for a second. Porthos dismounted and kicked the body onto it's back. Snow covered the man's face and caked in his hair but from his rough clothing and appearance, Athos determined that he was one of the bandits.

"No horse," Athos noted, looking around the area. No sign of one either now with the fresh snow.

Porthos crouched as something else caught his eye. A blade was sticking out from under the man's ribs and Porthos yanked it free, holding it up to the dimming light. Athos saw the pale light glint off of the blade and the hilt and the familiar form caught his eye.

"Is that Aramis's?" he asked Porthos, already knowing the answer.

The big musketeer nodded, looking around. "Now the question is, where is Aramis?"

Athos wanted to know the answer to that as well. Night was descending, and the cold was truly beginning to settle in. They needed to find their brother now.

Aramis woke to the cold a second time that night. It was also dark, which made him feel disoriented. He fought against something covering him, and for a second all he could think about were crows scavenging corpses. He lashed out, too terrified to even make a sound, any cry he could have made had caught in his throat. But as he swept his arm out, he found it was just snow covering him. It was only snow.

He was freezing.

Aramis felt the cold deep in his bones now, barely having the energy to shiver, which, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew was bad. He forced himself up on weak limbs, shuffling over until his back was pressed against the embankment on the side of the road. It offered a very little shelter from the biting wind at least.

He looked down and saw his rosary lying in the snow and he reached out to drag it to himself. His hands were so frozen and numb, he could barely hold onto it but he cradled it in his hands, wrapping it around his wrist, whispering prayers to himself until his teeth chattered too much and he resorted to saying them silently instead.

He could barely feel any part of himself anymore. His face was numb, his hands and feet too. The only upside was that his ankle didn't really hurt. The cold had wormed its way through his flesh, feeling like it was poisoning him, and once it finally reached his heart, he would die.

It was all too much like those long days and nights at Savoy when he was alone, and there was nothing but the dead and bloody snow and the ravens that had come to reap the spoils of war.

Sometimes Aramis thought that he had died at Savoy. He'd felt like he had died with the others, and by all accounts, he never should have left that field. So afterward, when he tried to make sense of it all, tried to make sense of his guilt, he told himself he had died there with his comrades, and every minute he had after that was a gift. A second chance. He wasn't sure if he was doing honor to that second chance, but he tried his best.

You would think that if you thought of yourself as already dead it would be freeing, though. Sometimes it was. He had survived death and Hell and so it stood to reason that nothing after should be that bad. But he didn't feel free now. He just felt like he was back where he had started. It was almost cruel.

He looked up at the sky. It was night, long after dark and the snow still fell. No one had come yet.

He tried to remind himself that they would, but it was getting harder and harder by the minute to forget he wasn't just back there.

Perhaps this was the end of his borrowed time and he would just have to accept that and die for real this time.

Unlike last time, though, he realized he didn't want to die. But wasn't that always the way? He thought he might be fine with it if it wasn't snow again. But perhaps that was all he deserved after all.

He huddled closer to the embankment and continued praying.

They went a little farther to see if there was any other trace of Aramis, then backtracked to make sure they hadn't missed anything.

Porthos shook his head. "I don't understand. He couldn't have just disappeared."

Athos was feeling just as frustrated, but trying not to show it. "He didn't. We just have to figure out where he is."

D'Artagnan was shivering as he looked around and Athos regretted bringing the boy out here in this weather since he wasn't used to it. However, the young Gascon suddenly pointed.

"Hey, what's that!"

They all looked and Porthos, who was already dismounted, ran toward the object.

"Wait!" Athos called suddenly. "Stop!"

Porthos instantly skidded to a halt but glanced over his shoulder curiously.

"You're at the edge of the slope, you'll go over if there's snow hiding it," Athos told him.

Porthos cautiously stepped forward and retrieved the item d'Artagnan had pointed out, half buried in the snow. It was Aramis's hat.

"He was definitely here," d'Artagnan commented.

Athos got off his horse and cautiously approached the area.

Porthos looked around and saw a patch of rocks that weren't covered by a thick layer of snow like everything else.

"Athos," he said. "It looks like someone has gone done there."

Athos looked at the spot he indicated, and crept closer to the edge, peering over. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, but…

"Aramis!" he called.

There was no reply. Athos hurried back toward his horse. "Come on."

He hoped their brother was down there. He wasn't much for praying, but he said a small one now.

Aramis was drifting. He thought he heard someone call his name, but couldn't be sure. He was sure that it was probably an illusion. He was too cold. He could barely keep himself awake and knew that falling asleep was death. He might care if he wasn't so tired. Right now though, the thought of anything to escape this cold sounded better than where he was right now.

"Aramis!"

There it was again, but louder. He thought he might have also heard—no, rather, felt—hoofbeats through the ground, approaching. He fumbled clumsily for a weapon, hoping it wasn't the bandits, but couldn't make his hand clasp his pistol well enough. He slumped back against the embankment, deciding that they could deal with him if they thought he was worth the trouble.

"Aramis!"

This time, the voice was so close and so real that he blinked his eyes open, and saw a dark shape hovering in front of him, then two more behind it. The voice was familiar, and the face appeared in the dim moonlight that was reflecting off the snow.

"Athos," he whispered, his mouth barely cooperating with the syllables. Maybe he hadn't said anything at all.

"He's here!" Athos called over his shoulder before he reached out and took Aramis's face between his hands. Aramis couldn't even feel the touch his skin was so cold.

"Aramis, speak to me," Athos commanded.

"Mm," Aramis tried, blinking slowly.

"We need to get him out of here," Athos said.

Porthos was already taking his cloak off and offering it to wrap around Aramis. Aramis wanted to protest that he would get cold too, but he couldn't.

"I knew you'd come," Aramis managed to whisper, fighting back the lump in his throat.

Athos squeezed the back of his neck in a comforting gesture Aramis could barely feel, not saying anything, but his eyes spoke volumes.

"Can you get up?" Athos asked as he and Porthos each took an arm and lifted Aramis to his feet.

Aramis groaned in pain and staggered. He couldn't feel his feet, but he could feel his ankle now. He collapsed but Porthos caught his weight and steadied him while Athos swiftly looked him over, checking for injuries.

"Where?" he demanded.

"Ankle," Aramis managed, trying to hold onto Porthos with his frozen hands. It wasn't working, so he mostly just leaned against his friend while Porthos held him upright in his strong arms.

Athos pressed his lips into a thin line, but took Aramis's arm again and helped him over to his horse. "We'll fix you up later, right now we just need to get you back and get you warm."

Aramis blinked blearily as Athos mounted his horse and held out his hand. "Help him up."

Porthos maneuvered Aramis as well as he could and between him and Athos the marksman found himself settled in front of Athos on the horse, shifting woozily.

Athos wrapped Porthos's cloak more tightly around Aramis and then pulled him back against his chest. Aramis could barely feel his body heat past the leather coats and the fact that he was just so cold. Athos reached around him to grab the reins and then whistled to the others to indicate they were ready.

Aramis was so tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. The swaying motion of the horse was only making that worse. He huddled into Porthos's cloak and tipped his head backwards to rest on Athos's shoulder.

"Hey."

The sharp reprimand startled and confused him. He murmured a protest as Athos shook him slightly.

"Don't fall asleep," the swordsman said firmly. "We still have a ways to go."

"Tired," Aramis murmured.

"You stayed awake this long, you can stay awake a little longer," Athos told him. He shifted and wrapped the front of his cloak around Aramis to cocoon what little body heat they both had together.

Aramis tried to nod his head, but even that seemed more of an effort than he could muster.

He didn't know how long they rode, he was simply drifting. And he didn't care. His brothers had come for him and that was all he cared about now. He hadn't been left out in the show alone. It seemed his second chance was not yet over.

The glow of Paris could finally be seen on the horizon, more lights than usual decorating the streets with everyone going to-and-fro to mass and revellion parties. From this distance and due to his woozy head, Aramis thought it looked like stars had fallen to earth and decorated themselves across the French landscape.

Bells began tolling in the distance and he sighed. "I'm missing midnight mass," he murmured.

"I believe God will forgive you on this occasion," Athos told him.

Aramis realized then that he still had his rosary looped around his frozen hand. He closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks.

Then he felt himself falling. Arms wrapped around him, keeping him upright, and someone was practically shouting his name into his ear, but he didn't have the strength to open his eyes again. He just had to have faith that he would wake up again.

They burst into Aramis's room at the garrison before lowering him as gently as possible onto the bed.

"D'Artagnan, fetch wood for the fire. Get it hot," Athos commanded and the boy hurried out.

He and Porthos turned to Aramis and began pulling off his leathers. Every time Athos came in contact with Aramis's freezing skin he wanted to wince.

Porthos was going to find extra blankets from his room as Athos took off Aramis's boots, and realized that his injured ankle was quite swollen, making it difficult. He tugged a little too vigorously perhaps, and Aramis moaned softly.

Athos squeezed his knee in silent apology as he prodded the injury. It didn't feel broken to him, hopefully just a sprain. He'd also spotted the makeshift bandage around Aramis's arm, seeping blood.

Upon further inspection, Athos ran his fingers through Aramis's hair, feeling a bump. He frowned, always worried when his friend got head injuries, but Aramis hadn't seemed delirious from anything but the cold so hopefully the bump to his head wasn't too bad.

But his injuries were minor. What they really needed to worry about was getting him warm.

Athos piled as many blankets as he had in the room on Aramis and then ripped his own leather coat off before sitting on the bed and pulling Aramis back against him to share body heat until they got the fire up and running. He hissed at how cold Aramis was, and his friend groaned softly as he tucked the blankets around them both.

"Don't worry, brother, you're not alone this time," he murmured softly. "You're home with us and you'll be okay."

Porthos and d'Artagnan returned then, Porthos's arms stacked with blankets and the Gascon's with firewood. Behind them came Treville and the medic.

"How is he?" the captain asked, casting a worried glance over Aramis's prone form.

Athos moved to one side, reluctantly relinquishing his hold on his brother as he helped Porthos with the blankets. "He has a few minor injuries, but it's the cold that will kill him if we don't act fast. I can't wake him up."

D'Artagnan and Porthos built up the fire and Athos stayed by Aramis's side as the medic crouched to tend to the marksman.

"I'll get some canteens full of hot water to place around his body and help get his temperature up," the medic said after his examination. "Other than that, just get this room as warm as possible."

He hurried out, leaving the musketeers and their captain alone with Aramis.

Porthos went over and tucked blankets firmly around him as the fire crackled. Athos could feel the heat start to permeate the room and hoped Aramis would feel the effects soon as well.

"How is he, though?" Treville asked again, more meaningfully.

Athos pressed his lips into a grim line. "He's not out of his head. But I'm sure he'll have nightmares."

Treville sighed heavily, then glanced around the small room that had gotten quite crowded. "I'll get out of your way. But keep me updated."

Athos nodded and the medic came back as soon as the captain left, carrying a basket with water bottles.

He pulled back Aramis's covers briefly and began placing them around his body. "If you put them near major arteries they will start to warm his blood back up," the medic explained.

Athos and Porthos helped before piling on the blankets again and tucking them firmly around their unconscious friend. Aramis made no move or sound and Athos felt tense. Porthos looked helpless, and d'Artagnan just stood to the side tending the fire as if trying to keep himself busy.

"What else can we do for 'im?" Porthos asked the medic helplessly.

"Keep him warm, try to wake him," the medic said with a shrug. "Aside from that, only time will tell."

Athos settled a hand on Porthos's shoulder. "We'll stay with him until he wakes." He said firmly. "That will be enough.

Porthos nodded and glanced around, spotting a stool, which he pulled over to the side of the bed and sat down firmly. Athos and d'Artagnan soon joined him and they began their long vigil.

The third time Aramis woke up that night, he was no longer cold, but warm.

He wasn't entirely sure where he was at first, but he knew he was comfortable. He could hear the low murmur of voices and smelled food, which made his stomach growl. He pried his eyes open and blinked several times at his surroundings. He found he was in his room at the barracks. A fire was built high and warm in the grate, and Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were all sitting on stools by his bed, eating and chatting. Porthos must have seen him move because he turned around and smiled.

"Hey, look at that! Told you he would wake up!"

Porthos's jovial tone couldn't hide the relief in his voice as he set down the plate he was holding and came over to Aramis, leaning over his bed as Athos and d'Artagnan followed after.

"Mm," Aramis tried as he fought to pull his arms out from under the blankets. His left one twinged and reminded him that he'd been injured there too. He glanced down and saw the lump of bandages under his shirt.

"How are you?" Athos asked, concern in his eyes as he pulled his stool over to the bed and reached under the blanket to grab Aramis's hand, seeming pleased that it wasn't chilled to the bone. The puff of air that he let under the blankets set Aramis shivering again, though, and Athos carefully tucked the blankets back around him firmly.

"Still a little cold," Aramis said reluctantly.

"You scared us when you passed out on the way back," Porthos chided, hovering as he was wont to do. "We thought the cold had gotten to you."

"Sorry," Aramis said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

D'Artagnan came up with a steaming cup in his hands. "Do you think you can drink a little mulled wine?"

Aramis smiled. "Yes, I think I would like that very much."

Porthos helped him sit up while Athos arranged his blankets around him to keep him as warm as possible. D'Artagnan placed the cup into his hands and Aramis took a cautious sip. The wine, warm with added spices, was heavenly and it settled in his belly to warm his core.

"Thank you," he said after a few sips gave him more life.

"There's food too when you're ready," Athos told him.

"It's fantastic," Porthos told him. "Best revellion feast I think I've ever 'ad!"

"My mother's were the best," d'Artagnan said with a soft smile. "But this is really good."

Aramis smiled at them as they gathered around his bed and ate, handing him a plate of his own once he thought he could manage it. A sense of peace washed over him. Peace and goodwill toward men. Perhaps it was because of the day, or perhaps it was because he knew that his family cared about him and would always come for him when he needed them.

That, more than anything chased away the lingering cold.

Aramis looked out the small window and realized that the snow had stopped and the clouds had opened to show a single star. And like the guiding light that led the wise men to the birth of the Lord, he couldn't help but feel that this star was indicating the end of his own journey. Telling him he was indeed home.