AN/ I didn't think I'd have time to enter this month, but this story popped into my head in the shower this morning and demanded to be written. This is my entry for the Fête des Mousquetaires December competition: "Frozen" / "Heartwarming". The rules, advice about judging etc. is on the forum so do go and check that out.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

War Front

The snow is drenched in red.

The battlefield is strewn with the bodies of the dead and the dying.

Amongst them lies a young man, normally so full of fire. But right now he feels frozen to the core. Right now his body is leaking red blood into the snow beneath him. His clothes are damp, his body chilled. He's racked with shivers.

Paris

The snow blankets the city.

Beyond the window the flurries fall heavy and wild.

Within, a woman lies on a bed, her body trembling, her skin burning… the fever raging.

"Come on Constance," whispers the Queen, her friend. "Stay with us."

War Front

"Mon dieu."

A warm hand finds its way to d'Artagnan's neck to feel for a pulse.

Relieved, Aramis pulls himself onto his haunches to look around.

"Here!" he yells. "Over here!"

Porthos is there in moments. He lifts the insensate and shivering Gascon into his arms, and both he and Aramis hurtle towards the last cart leaving the battlefield. There are no more living to be rescued. The war is not kind and does not allow for sentiment. The snow will have to be the one to bury their comrades.

Paris

"The streets are practically impassable," the midwife explains by way of apology as she stumbles into the room. The cold air still lingers on her body, like a shroud, as she sheds her layers and stands momentarily by the fire.

"It's too soon," the Queen tells her.

"Perhaps," the midwife agrees. She is matronly and stout, but has a face like granite. "But now we'll have to work with what we've got."

"You can save them both?" Anne asks desperately.

"We can but try," the midwife replies with as optimistic a smile as she can muster.

War Front

Aramis had stemmed the bleeding while they were in the back of the cart, pressing his hands against the deep slice wound in d'Artagnan's chest as they had rode back to the tents behind the battle-lines.

Once in the medical tent he sets to work at stitching the wound while Porthos checks over the rest of his little brother.

"Aramis?" Porthos calls to him from the end of the bed. "His leg."

Porthos nods towards the limb, which has been cut free of the Gascon's sodden breeches. It is mottled and bent.

"It's broken," Aramis frowns. "What happened?"

"He was knocked from his horse," calls a soldier from two beds over. "I think he landed funny, but he still managed to stand and take out his opponent… and mine."

"Good man, d'Artagnan," says Porthos, just as Athos strides into the tent.

Athos, now captain, reviews the tent in its entirety, clocking his friends, but fulfills his duty first and speaks to the chief doctor before crossing to them.

"How bad?" he asks anxiously. It has clearly pained him to wait before seeing to his friends.

"The wound was bleeding heavily, but it's stitched and I expect it to heal cleanly. His leg's broken. Quite badly by the looks of it," Aramis summarises. "But honestly, it's his temperature that I'm worried about. He's too cold. We need to warm him up."

Paris

"We need to cool her down," the midwife orders. "Use what we have, collect some snow from outside and bring it in here."

The servants do as they're bid and the midwife turns back to her patient.

"She's in breech," she says. "I'm going to need to try and move the child inside of her before it is born."

Queen Anne grimaces, but nods as she stays by her friend's side. In the bed, Constance lies insensate.

In the baking warm room, the midwife sets to work.

War Front

Once stripped of his damp clothes, d'Artagnan is wrapped in several blankets, and Porthos settles beside his brother in an attempt to deliver to him some of his warmth.

Aramis remains bent over his brother's damaged leg, which he straightens and then splints and wraps, before covering that in a mound of blankets also.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asks.

"It's going to take months to heal," Aramis shakes his head, "and then months more to get it back to full strength. It's broken in two places, and the knee was dislocated…"

"I think he felt you putting that back in," Porthos comments, for the Gascon had indeed shifted and groaned when Aramis had set his bones back.

"I had hoped that the cold would have at least kept him under," Aramis sighs.

"He's not going to be happy when he awakes," Porthos adds.

"He's going back to Paris," Aramis agrees. "There no space for him to recover here, as much as we would all wish it."

Paris

Constance has awoken. Her skin still burns, but the feverish delirium of the earlier hours has seemed to have abated, but now she is in the throes of childbirth, which is no more a pleasant experience than the fever which had prompted her early labour.

"Hold tight, Constance," Anne commands her friend. "You can hold as tight as you need."

Constance does have Anne's hand in a vice grip.

"Alright Constance," the midwife speaks from the end of the bed. "I need you to give a big push for me. You're ready. The baby is ready to arrive into this world."

Constance sobs.

"Think of d'Artagnan, Constance," Anne says. "Think of your husband when he arrives home to see you and your child. Imagine how his face will light up. You can do this Constance. You can make it."

Constance cries out and then pushes with all her might, tears streaming down her face, and thinking of everything her future might hold for her.

War Front

D'Artagnan drifts in a stupor of pain and cold shivers for the next few days, but eventually, he becomes more cognizant and aware of his surroundings. Unfortunately, as he fully awakes, he also grows more aware of the full significance of his injuries.

"You must understand d'Artagnan that you cannot stay," Aramis tries to reason with his friend. It is late evening, and even Athos had managed to escape his duties to be by his friends' sides for an hour or so.

"I understand perfectly, Aramis," d'Artagnan mutters. "I'm just not happy about it."

"Look," Athos sighs. "I know you'll feel like you're abandoning us—'

"That exactly what I'd be doing," d'Artagnan interrupts.

"But you would get to see Constance, and you can still be of use in Paris," Athos continues. "You can train the newer recruits, and when you come back, you can bring with you a group of trained men that I can trust, because they'll have been trained by you."

D'Artagnan hesitates momentarily. He has missed Constance for every moment that he has been away from her, and in recent months her letters have become less frequent and much shorter. He has wanted to go back to her even before now, but he did not want to betray his duty to his brothers.

"I could never forgive myself if one of you were to die in battle while I rested in the safety of Paris." D'Artagnan finally relays his fear.

"And what if we need to make a hasty retreat and are struck down because one of us is carrying your sorry arse?" Porthos points out bluntly.

D'Artagnan flushes bright red, which Aramis is actually quite glad to see as the Gascon has been rather pale of late.

"You'll be on the first cart back to Paris tomorrow," Athos says finally. "You will give our love to Constance, you will recuperate, and then you will train with the new recruits and return refreshed in a few months' time."

D'Artagnan pauses sullenly, but finally nods.

"I know it will be hard," Athos says. "But it's necessary."

"I know, Athos," d'Artagnan sighs as he leans back in his pillows. He winces as the movement pulles at his stitches.

"Rest easy, brother," Aramis soothes his friend. "We'll see you off tomorrow morning."

Paris

Constance feels sore and shivery despite the warmth that is still trapped within her.

"Your temperature is coming down, dear," the midwife tells her. "You'll be fit and healthy in no time."

"My child?" she asks desperately. "I thought I heard her."

"She's right here," Anne says softly. The Queen crosses the room with the bundle clasped to her chest, and lowers the swaddled child into his mother's arms.

Constance cries at the sight of her child.

"She's alright?" she asks.

"A healthy babe," the midwife says cheerily.

Constance can't wipe the smile from her face which is damp and blushed in fever red, but which is also now doting exclusively upon her child.

"You have your father's eyes," she coos gently. "Welcome home."

Epilogue

The cart had trundled slowly through the countryside, but eventually d'Artagnan finds himself in Paris once more.

He climbs out and onto his crutches, taking a moment to find his balance, and then hops haphazardly through the gateway into the garrison.

It is as if stepping into a ghost-town. The place is practically empty, with only the newest recruits, the earlier injured comrades, and old Serge clambering about.

"Well there you are!" Serge spots d'Artagnan and crosses the courtyard to meet him. "You can give me the news later. And I expect you have letters for Treville. But I reckon you should go up there and see your wife first."

"She's here?" d'Artagnan glances around as if Constance might appear suddenly. While he felt guilty for having left his brothers behind, he has spent most of his journey north thinking of nothing but his wife.

"Aye," Serge says. "She's in your rooms."

"Thanks Serge."

D'Artagnan carefully manoeuvres up the stairs and awkwardly manages to enter his room to find Constance propped up in bed.

She all but gasps at his appearance, and makes as if to move towards him, but then seems to think better of it.

"Constance," he breathes her name.

"Come here," she whispers softly. "I can't… you're here. I can't believe you're here. But come here now. Come and meet your daughter."

D'Artagnan is floored.

When his blood had been leaking from his side, his body had felt as if it was floating, but now his body has truly lifted, and he finds himself across the room in moments, his wife in in his arms, their child resting between them.

"I didn't now…"

"I didn't want to distract you," Constance whispers. "She arrived early. As impatient as her father I reckon. But we're all here now."

D'Artagnan cries and kisses his wife and his child, and when Treville travels down to the garrison in search of him and the letters he has carried from the front, the Minister can only look on at the two parents and their new-born child cuddled together on the bed.

He goes back to the palace empty-handed, but with a broad smile playing across his face.

THE END