NOTES: Ok. Next story will be set in the het of the summer. This one is making me cold. Enjoying all the comments. Thanks!

CHAPTER 7

Shelter and warmth is what they needed if they were to survive to see another day. Their refuge from the river wasn't very big. It did have some hardy vegetation, such as trees and shrubbery, which managed to survive the floods the little island would have to endure when the spring thaws made the river run high. There was no doubt this piece of land got submerged in the flood waters. Yet, the plant life survived by toughing it out and that is what the two musketeers would need to do; persevere.

"Athos! Get up. We have to keep moving and find shelter." Aramis reached down, latched onto the kneeling man's arm and tugged it upward.

With a groan, Athos laboriously lumbered to his feet. When he looked over at Aramis, the medic could see how white his friend was, the tinges of blue around the lips, and ice clinging to his hair and beard. He was sure he looked the same. "We look like a couple of snowmen."

"I don't think even a snowman is as cold as I am," Athos remarked between chattering teeth.

Aramis whole heartedly agreed with the sentiment. He'd never been so cold that he could remember. "I wasn't even this cold at..." Without warning, his mind made a turn down a path he didn't want to travel. The snowflakes, which were gently flurrying around him took on an ominous glint. Was that a moan he heard? Rotating his head, he scanned about him, searching for his friends or the enemy. Something moved, startling him. "Marsac!" he cried, panic and concern coloring his voice.

Athos, who was lost in his own struggle to function, heard Aramis cry out, and it took his frozen brain a few seconds to process what it heard. Then his heart sank into his soggy boots. Savoy. "Aramis!"

Flat brown eyes focused on him and Athos got the impression they weren't really seeing him, but an echo of the past. His suspicions were confirmed when Aramis said, "Marsac. Our brothers are dead. Killed. They have all been killed. Yet we survive."

Athos and Marsac had never liked each other, only tolerating each other's presence because of their mutual fondness for Aramis. They had crossed words and swords many times before Savoy, he and Marsac. The soldier had made it very clear he didn't think Captain Treville should be entertaining thoughts of making Athos, the drunk, part of the regiment, no matter how proficient the man was with a sword. It was a mutual dislike for Athos thought Marsac arrogant as well as a fool. But Aramis wouldn't let sleeping dogs lie and he kept trying to broker a friendship. That had ended with Savoy when Marsac deserted and never returned.

But now wasn't the time to get lost in the past, Athos scolded himself. He had to get Aramis back in the present, find shelter and warmth or they'd both be joining Marsac. Knowing the way his luck ran, God would probably make him and Marsac roommates together in hell. Aramis, of course, would be in heaven, as long as the Father forgave his slightly wayward eye when it came to the fairer sex.

Forcing his leaden arms to rise, he placed his wooden hands on Aramis' shoulders, at least he thought they were resting there as he couldn't actually feel a thing. In an awkward manner, he shook Aramis. "Aramis! This is not Savoy and I am not Marsac." He rocked the marksman harder. "Do you hear me? You are not at Savoy."

Those brown eyes didn't blink, or in any way acknowledge his words had had any effect on the mesmerized soldier. Shifting one hand to Aramis' face, Athos forced the ice encrusted bearded chin towards him. "You told me we are not going to die here and I believe you to be a man of your word. But I can't do it alone. I need your help, brother."

And that did it, pulled Aramis from the past to the present. A spark of life reappeared in the brown eyes, which blinked a few times before settling warmly upon Athos. Aramis' hand reached up and gripped the back of Athos' neck, at least that is what his eyes registered. Athos couldn't actually feel anything on his neck. They stood there for a moment, no words spoken, but a message sent and received nonetheless.

Eventually, Aramis dropped his hand and side by side they started heading towards the interior of the island in a peculiar shuffling gait because their feet were numb. Athos did note, as they moved away from the shoreline, that there was a lot of driftwood lining the river's edge, washed up there by the current over time. The landscape was mostly deciduous trees, bare for the winter, interspersed with a few large outcroppings of rocks. However, a few evergreens graced inner part of the island, their long feathery branches sweeping to the ground.

Just about dead center of the island, they came across a most peculiar site. It was a small lean-to made of interwoven evergreen branches. It appeared to have once been covered fairly solidly with pine boughs, though weather and time had caused a few gaps. It was big enough to fit three people, snugly, and a fire pit, rectangle in shape, had been constructed in front of the opening.

Aramis sent a short prayer of thanks to his Lord and Savior for this deliverance. The devout man hated to admit it, but he had been thinking they might meet their maker tonight. Faith restored, he looked over at Athos, and he almost had a new crisis of faith as the man began to sway like a tree in the wind before toppling over. Moving quickly, he managed to use his own body to help break Athos' tumble towards the earth. Carefully, he maneuvered both their bodies slowly and safely to the ground.

Stripping off his sodden glove, he reached out to check the downed man's pulse, only to realize his fingers were of no use. He couldn't feel them or Athos' pulse. Changing tactics, he tapped on Athos' cheek, hopefully not in too rough a manner. "Hey. Come back to me."

He tapped some more and repeated his plea until he finally saw some responsiveness in the half-hooded green eyes. "No lying down on the job," he gently chided the swordsman. "We have work to do. Get some boughs, patch that roof. Then some firewood."

As they sat there, snowflakes still drifted from the skies, and if Aramis had to judge, he'd say they were heavier than before. Wonderful. Just what they needed. More snow.

Aramis' mind started drifting off thinking about snow and Athos' lids began to droop closed once more. That might have been the end right there, had not piercing cry of some nocturnal bird shattered the stillness, causing Aramis to break free of the cold induced stupor. When he realized he and Athos were sitting, soaking wet, in the snow, slowly freezing to death, he shook his head violently, trying to clear the cobwebs and began to struggle to rise.

Athos, who'd been somewhat propped up by Aramis, slide to the ground and lay still, his eyes fully shut.

"No, no, no," Aramis chanted worriedly as he bent over and once more began tapping Athos on the face. When that brought no response, he grabbed the man by the shoulder and shook him more violently. "Wake up, Athos. Damn you, wake up!" In desperation, he used his wet glove and gave the semi-conscious man a resounding slap on the cheek. That brought about the desired results as Athos' eyes flew open and he mouthed, "What the hell?'

Knowing that sitting on the snowy ground was bad for a myriad of reasons, including making it too easy to lapse back into a stupor that would lead to death, Aramis straightened and dragged a groggy Athos to his feet.

"Unless you are trying to dance with me, stand on your own two feet," he told the swaying man who was trying to find his equilibrium.

"Slug you, maybe," Athos muttered as he finally got his traitorous body under some level of control. "Dance with you, never."

"I'll have you know I'm a magnificent dance partner," Aramis retorted. "I lead wonderfully."

"If my face weren't frozen solid, I'd be scowling at you."

"So noted," Aramis said breezily before turning serious. "We have got to keep moving to keep warm or we will freeze."

In the light available, Athos forced his exhausted brain to study the rough shelter. Boughs. They needed to place some more boughs over the holes in the roof. Also underneath, so they wouldn't be forced to sit on the cold ground. His eyes roamed to the fire pit. Wood. They needed a lot of wood to fill the long, stone-lined trough that was in front of the shelter. It was a clever design, actually, allowing the occupants in the lean-to to take advantage of the blaze.

"Boughs. And firewood," Athos announced. "By the river. Driftwood." He knew his sentences were short, even by his standards, but it was the best he could do.

"There was a stand of pines right back there. l'll get boughs."

Athos nodded, indicating he heard, then turned towards the river.

"Athos," Aramis yelled after him. "It's icy by the river. Be careful. You've had your bath for the month."

Carefully, because his feet were leaden blocks, the swordsman made his way to the leeward side of the island. It wasn't far at all before he was staring at the river as it flowed by the island. The Seine was very wide here and the shore was quite a distance away. It didn't bode well for being rescued, well, assuming they survived the night, which if he was being brutally honest, was iffy at best.

Athos knew cold could kill, he'd seen it as a child. A servant froze to death when she got disoriented in a blizzard. She'd worked in the kitchen with the cook. A pleasant woman as he recalled, always sneaking him a cookie or other treat if he wandered into the kitchen. He had no idea what happened to her husband, if indeed there had ever been one. What he did know is her son worked in the stable and she was very devoted to him. Every evening she saved him scraps from whatever had been served to the family, and brought it to him in the stables. She'd been a loyal servant with the family for as long as he could remember so no one said anything.

There had been a blizzard. One of the worst he'd ever seen in his young life. He remembered staring out the window and not being able to see a thing, not even the big tree which was only a few feet from the drawing room window. Being curious, he'd opened the front door and stepped onto the small stone landing. He didn't plan to go any further, not really, but he simply wanted to experience the whiteout conditions. Wondering if he took a few steps into it, then turned around, if the house would disappear, he decided to find out. As he was about to step off the porch, a hand grabbed him by the collar and forcibly yanked him back into the great hall where he had landed with a thump on the floor.

Stupid child, his father had screamed, amongst other things. He'd scrambled back to his feet because he knew his father wouldn't approve of him lying on the floor while being lectured. He stood there while his father berated him; the man wondering how he could be so dumb as to wander outside in a blizzard. Athos tried to explain he'd had no intention of going far, but his father only cursed him again. People died in blizzards, within a few feet of their destination because the whiteout conditions caused them to get disorientated. What if he had died? How would the Comte de la Fére ever explain that his heir was stupid enough to go out in a blizzard. The conversation had ended, the way most of theirs did, with his father shaking his head and telling him how disappointed he was in his eldest.

Sighing, Athos came back to the present and stared at the swift flowing river. Imagine what his father would think of him if he knew him today. The shame he had brought to the de la Fére name. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wondered whether his father was right to be disappointed in him. Maybe he should have walked out into that blizzard. Just like the servant from the kitchen. She insisted she had to take food to her son in the stable, as she did every night. It wasn't that far from the kitchen to the stable. But it was far enough that in the blinding snow she got disoriented and never made it. They found her after the storm broke, frozen stiff and dead a few feet past the stable door. So close, yet so far. And his father's icy glare had almost made Athos feel somehow, it was his fault she had died.

Standing there in the snow, wet, cold, numb, exhausted, he thought he understood how she must have felt. It would be easy, would feel good, simply to lie down and go to sleep, forever. The cold was zapping the last of his strength, seducing him with its icy charm.

Give in, the snowflakes falling around him whispered. Give up.

His eyes lids began to drop and his knees buckle.

Give in, give up, the river called to him.

With no recollection of how it happened, Athos found himself kneeling in the snow once more.

Give in, give up, the wind whispered in his ears.

And he shut his eyes.