The Cold Of Winter, The Warmth Of Brothers

Cold wetness seeps through the leather at Aramis' knee, and he shifts position where he's kneeling in the snow. He wriggles his fingers. They're cradled around an arquebus he keeps trained on the entrance of the small tavern below, never taking his eyes away. From his vantage point on the opposite side of the forest trail, he can see Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan hunched on either side of the door, muskets ready, looking grim and snow-swept. They're all waiting. Waiting and growing colder by the minute.

If their information is correct, a gunslinger and his posse are the sole guests of the remote tavern tonight. They've been terrorizing the farmers around Paris for months now, stealing anything from horses to gold teeth, killing ruthlessly, and it's time the Musketeers put an end to their raids.

Of course, they could simply storm the ramshackle building. But Thierry Morel and his bandits must be taken seriously, even by Musketeer standards. Both their shooting and sword-fighting skills are legendary among the populace, and even taking into account the usual embellishments, caution is advised. Hence Athos' plan to wait outside until the meeting is over and take the men one by one, as they step through the small door. It's a smart plan, a good plan, and Aramis is all for minimizing the risk of getting killed.

If only it weren't so bloody cold.

Aramis can barely feel his index finger resting on the trigger. The fine leather of his gloves isn't enough protection against the icy temperatures that have plagued them for days now. A snow storm that passed over Paris has transformed the landscape into a monochrome painting of black trees and blinding white. In spite of the bitter cold, the sky is threatening more snow: Aramis can barely discern the ground from the equally white canvas above. The horizon, somewhere in the distance beyond the skeletal forest, beyond the barren glare of the snow, is an indistinguishable concept.

Squinting through the cloud of his crystallizing breath, Aramis thinks of warmth, of summer. Paris is his home and he considers himself French, but sometimes, especially when in the claws of another merciless, bone-chilling winter, he misses his childhood days in Andalusia. The azure of Spanish skies meeting with the glittering waves of the Mediterranean sea. The hot sand underneath the soles of his feet when his mother took him to the beach. The caress of the water, warmed by the sun. Winter had been docile in southern Spain. A gentle drop in temperatures that meant pulling a shirt on, covering his deeply tanned skin and putting socks on feet calloused by running barefoot for months.

It was in France that he'd seen snow for the first time in his life, after his father had come and moved them to Paris. After a summer filled with the bustling activity and the sweltering heat of a large city, the hot days had dipped into fall and then, without warning, into a hard-edged cold that had chased him inside and made him huddle near the fireplace in his father's study while Antoine d'Herblay had conducted his business. Even the wondrous joy of forming a snowball for the first time, of feeling the cold bite his skin as it melted in his palms - even that had passed quickly to make room for a deeply ingrained hate for the winter season.

A hate that hadn't eased while he'd cursed and fretted trough many Parisian winters - first at the family mansion, then at the garrison. As if he'd always known that one particularly vicious winter, he'd wake up in a snowy forest, bloody and nearly frozen to death, the sole survivor of a massacre.

Aramis hates the cold.

And now here he is, toes numb and the air so glacial every breath feels like a stab, freezing his arse off while they wait for this cursed mission to draw to a violent close.

He blinks himself back to concentration, stretching his shoulders with a shudder, still holding his weapon trained, his cheek - as numb as his fingers and toes - still pressed to the wood of the arquebus. The eye that's not peering over the barrel perceives movement.

Athos.

Crouched below a fogged window, he is waving his arm at Aramis and signaling with his fist:

Get ready. They're coming.

Aramis feels his heartbeat pick up, and he takes a breath and steadies his weapon. From his vantage point, he sees d'Artagnan take position beside Athos, his young, lean body poised for action, almost trembling with anticipation. On the other side of the door: Porthos. He's shed his cloak, and even from this far away Aramis can see his determined scowl and feel the power emanating from his broad, muscular figure.

Three swords are quietly drawn from their scabbards. Three pistols are trained on the door. And one sniper's weapon.

Releasing raucous banter, the door slowly opens.

Athos, true to protocol, shouts a sharp warning: "Hands up! You're under arrest!"

As expected, Morel's men don't care. With a death-defying scream, the first one storms out the door, pistol in hand, and Athos takes him out with a left-handed slice of his sword. Unimpressed, more men swarm out of the tavern, roaring. Three more bodies drop to the ground as the Musketeers' pistols go off, and a fourth when Aramis finally, finally gets to pull the trigger as well, hitting his aim even through the billowing gun smoke. Without leaving his stance, he discards the arquebus and reaches for the rifle that lies beside him, prepared.

In front of the tavern, swords clash, and the metallic song of duelling rings through the forest. Aramis counts at least eight hostiles against his three comrades.

Too many.

One of them, dagger raised to strike, is sneaking up behind Porthos who has one robber in a headlock while swinging his sword at another.

Bang!

Aramis eliminates the threat with practiced calm. Then he drops the rifle and runs down the slope at full tilt, pulling his sword and, with a battle cry, throws himself into the fray.

It's chaos, arms and legs moving everywhere, blades swooshing through the air, the impact of fists and elbows on leather, gasps of surprise and blood dripping into the snow. While he sees d'Artagnan blocking a blow with his main gauche and, face wild, running the attacker through with his own sword, he body-slams into a tall man who's giving Athos, already engaged with two others, a hard time.

The man ouffs, the wind momentarily knocked out of him, and topples to the ground. He won't get up again: Aramis yanks his pistol from his belt and shoots him in the chest.

"Watch out!"

At Porthos' shout, Aramis swivels, sword raised protectively, and he just blocks a thrust from a craggy-faced and screaming opponent. The ensuing duel, though, is quick and ends deadly for the other man: even on the slippery ground, Aramis is light-footed and fast, sword dancing in his hand, his muscles welcoming the warm-up. A few cross-steps, a few thrusts and parries, one valiant sweep, and arterial blood sprays Aramis' face as his attacker falls, hand clutching his sliced jugular.

"Care to help?"

Porthos, fighting off axe-blows from a man equalling his size, kicks another man in Aramis direction. This one's more proficient. He meets Aramis scimitar-first, and the impact of metal on metal almost sends Aramis off-balance this time. Scimitars are tricky, and the brown-skinned man's fighting style is different, oriental. Aramis tries to adjust to the foreign movements, but he pays for the lesson with a few close calls and a nick on his chin. At least he's not cold anymore. Sweat mixes with the blood welling in his beard.

Athos spins past him, warding off inefficient hacks at his face from a brutish giant and looking completely unimpressed as he does.

"Need help with that?" Athos shouts at Aramis and his scimitar-swinging dance partner, waiting for his own opponent to tire so he can end this farce of a duel.

"No," Aramis replies, ducking. "I think…" He swipes deftly, and blood spurts from the man's knees as he drops to the ground, howling. "...I've got this."

A premature statement, as it turns out. There's a bang. A kick against his shoulder from behind. No. Not a kick. Something slams into his shoulder, a foreign object shredding through skin and tissue and blood vessels and causing him to stumble forward. Sheer luck and d'Artagnan's dagger, now somehow sticking in the oriental man's neck, prevent him from getting speared by the scimitar. Aramis sinks to the ground. The pain is blinding.

His cheek hits the packed snow, hard, his good arm barely breaking the fall. All air leaves his lungs in a loud gasp.

This is a bad one.

He tries to get up again, but he can't. Feet move around him. There's shouting. Someone steps over him. The cling-clang of a duel close by.

He really tries to get up, push himself up on one arm since the other one refuses to comply. Is it even still there? Pain judders through his shoulder, back and chest in nauseating waves, and wetness spreads at the back of his shirt. Warmth, quickly turning cold.

"Aramis? Aramis!"

"Careful, d'Artagnan! Let me!"

Hands on his hip, leg and shoulder. They're rolling him on his side. Athos' face appears in front of him, composed, those intense eyes catching his.

"Lie still. We've got you."

Something is pressed against the back of his shoulder, and he bites back a scream. Whatever hit him, it must've injured nerves for the pain to be so bad.

Porthos' voice rumbles in his ear, a low, soothing string of words while his wound is being packed.

"'S alrigh, Ar'mis'. 'S alright, hang in there! You'll be fine."

The streetfighter's big hands cup his cheeks, gloves off, the comforting warmth of his palms a stark contrast to the cold that is seeping into him from the ground.

"More bandages! I need more bandages!"

The pressure against his shoulder increases. As the pain rockets and the wetness still spreads, Aramis realizes that he is losing a lot of blood, and fast. Against his will, he starts to shiver, and leaden tiredness tugs at him. Shock. He's bleeding out.

Panic seizes him. He doesn't want to die. Not here, not in another snow-covered forest, not in the godforsaken depth of winter.

He sucks in a breath. "Cauterize," he manages through gritted teeth.

"What?" D'Artagnan's eyes are looking into his now, round and wide.

"You've got to… cauterize… the wound. Now."

D'Artagnan, eyes widening even further, nods.

"Athos, did you-"

"I heard him. Porthos, get inside! Heat up a fire poker. A dagger. Anything!"

Hectic activity keeps buzzing around Aramis, but his brain is going fuzzy, and his vision is blurring. Footsteps in the snow. More pain as they keep manipulating his wound. Athos, slapping his face and sounding more urgent now:

"Hang on, Aramis! Hang on!"

There's the tearing of fabric as his shirt is being ripped open. The shock of his skin being exposed to the icy air. And then, without warning, white-hot pain and the smell of burnt skin.

Aramis screams.

The world implodes into white.

XXX

Warmth envelopes him, and he drifts in the comfortable limbo of half-waking before the onset of pain makes him open his eyes. He blinks his surroundings into focus: A familiar wooden ceiling, the orange glow of a fireplace lighting a room furnished with beds and shelves stocked with bottles and bandages, drying herbs dangling from a clothes line strung wall-to-wall.

The infirmary.

He's not alone. Of course he isn't: Porthos' sleeping figure is folded into a chair near him, snoring softly, d'Artagnan is sprawled across a cot to his right, and Athos is leaning over him, a soft smile crinkling his tired eyes.

"Welcome back, brother."

Aramis clears his throat. "How-"

"We did what you told us," Athos cuts him off with a shush. "Brought you here, Lemay did the rest. You lost a lot of blood, but you're out of the woods. And your arm should be fine."

Grateful that Athos can read his thoughts, Aramis twists his head to squint at the thick bandage wrapped around his shoulder, then at his hand. He wriggles his fingers and lifts his arm a little. It hurts, but everything seems to work as it should. Sensation, too, has returned to the injured limb, tendrils of pain fanning from the back of his shoulder down his back and his arm. It's a relief.

Aramis looks back at Athos who's watching him contentedly.

"Do they… know I'm alright?" he asks Athos and faintly flicks his head at Porthos and d'Artagnan. Each word, each tiny movement is a momentous effort. Blood loss, he thinks. It takes its toll.

"They know." Aramis is treated to another of Athos' rare smiles. "Lemay came in to check on you earlier. They both fell asleep right after he told us you were over the worst."

Aramis huffs, wincing when it sends a stab of pain through his shoulder. "It's late," he observes weakly, becoming aware of the ink-deep darkness he can see through an opposite window. "Why aren't you… asleep?"

The expression on Athos' face changes. His pale eyes grow intense.

"I didn't want you to be alone when you woke up."

Savoy. None of them had forgotten what it did to him. Aramis' heart swells.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Athos dismissively waves his hand and reaches for something on the nightstand.

"Here. Lemay said you need to drink a lot."

Helping him lift his head, Athos brings a mug to Aramis' lips. Steam rises from the hot, spicy tea that he sips with Athos' careful assistance. Warmth fills him, and when he's done, his eyelids are so heavy, he can't keep them open. Dozing off, he feels Athos tuck a second blanket around him as the last traces of coldness seep from his bones.