A/N: Thank you guest Uia for reviewing again!

"Cold Comfort"

Aramis stoked the campfire, orange flinders floating into the air as a charred piece of wood crumbled in on itself. He removed his gloves and set them on a rock to warm near the flames as he went to check on his patients.

He'd laid Porthos and Athos side by side next to the fire so they could share body heat. A bloodied bandage was wrapped around Porthos's head, his complexion almost gray in the chilled winter afternoon. He'd regained consciousness a couple of times, but had been lethargic each instance and had quickly fallen back under. The cold could have been partly responsible, so Aramis tried not to worry too much. There was no give in the skull where Porthos had been struck, so that was a good sign.

Athos was in equally dire straits, having sustained a stab wound in the side. Nothing vital appeared to have been punctured, but it had bled quite a bit before Aramis could close it, and the cold didn't help blood loss either.

For the dozenth time since they'd been stranded in the woods, Aramis cursed winter. Snow lightly dusted the ground and sprinkled the bare branches of trees. The sun was hidden behind a heavy pall of pewter clouds, adding a dreary tinge to everything, and Aramis prayed there would be no new snow. They had already been out there, exposed to the elements, for two days. They'd lost three horses in the ambush, leaving just one, and there would have been no way for the poor beast to carry both Porthos and Athos, the men too senseless to keep a hold of the reins.

So Aramis had told d'Artagnan to take the horse and ride for help. As their appointed medic, it made sense for Aramis to stay and tend to their wounded friends until d'Artagnan could return.

He checked their heartbeats and found them both steady, though perhaps a little slow, so deep in sleep they were. There was no sign of their wounds festering—a miracle indeed, and Aramis kissed the rosary around his neck. He changed the bandages to keep it that way.

His fingers fumbled with the fold of cloth around Athos's abdomen, numbed by the chill in the air. He finished as quickly as he could and retrieved his gloves, letting out a shuddering breath as the warm leather sent painful prickles through his hands. He tucked them under his armpits to keep the warmth trapped a little longer.

Exhaustion and gravity tugged him toward the ground, but he couldn't rest, couldn't leave Porthos and Athos defenseless. He just had to last until d'Artagnan returned.

He started pacing around the perimeter of their camp, both to stay awake and keep his blood flowing. He hated the cold. With a passion. And though this was not Savoy, the image of two of his brothers lying wounded in the snow was stirring up dreaded memories he thought he'd buried long ago.

He hurried back to Porthos and Athos, crouching down and removing his glove to hold his hand above each of their faces in turn. The faint puffs of breath were a relief, and he adjusted the blankets to tuck the edges tighter around them. They lived. And as long as he stayed vigilant, they would continue to do so.

He heated water to drink, desperately trying to thaw the bone deep ache that was settling into his marrow. He coaxed Porthos and Athos to take some when they could, both of them barely conscious enough to do anything but moan and swallow when Aramis prodded and prompted. The sky darkened with the coming of dusk, and Aramis felt a chill of fear at another night to spend in the woods.

He built up the fire as much as he dared. The bandits were all slain, so there was no fear of another attack, leastways not from them. He couldn't imagine anyone else wanting to be out in this cold either.

Yellow eyes glinting in the shadows proved him wrong. They stared at him as he sat by the fire, and he stared back. He should have expected predators to be drawn to the blood, and there had been no time to properly bury the bodies, their corpses left for carrion not far enough away, not when it came to animals that could catch a whiff of more blood trails.

Aramis waited, one hand on the hilt of his rapier.

Eventually the creature slunk forward, firelight dancing over a wolfish snout and hungry eyes.

He slowly rose to his feet, drawing his sword. The wolf paused to consider him, its gaze darting to the vulnerable targets just to his left. Aramis sidestepped to put himself bodily between them. The wolf's lip curled upward, baring its fangs. It was lean from the winter months, but Aramis did not underestimate its brute strength. He bent down and picked up a piece of wood from the fire, lifting it up and out as a makeshift torch.

A low growl reverberated across the scant distance between them. Aramis surged forward a step, wielding the flaming branch in place of his blade. The wolf snarled and scampered back but didn't retreat. Terror sang through Aramis's veins at the thought of his brothers, and he attacked somewhat recklessly. The flames licked the wolf's hide, eliciting a yelp, and Aramis followed up with a swipe of his sword that scored a thin gash along the beast's flank. With a snarled snap, the wolf finally decided the effort wasn't worth it and loped off into the trees.

Aramis didn't move, chest heaving and white puffs billowing past his lips as he waited to see if the beast would return. It was several long minutes before he set the burning branch back in the fire. He didn't sit down again, afraid he would drift off and wake to find himself some predator's morning meal. Or worse, Porthos and Athos, ravaged by wolves while he slept.

No, he had to stay awake.

He gathered more wood and kept the blaze going. He melted snow to drink and checked and rechecked his pistols. The night was endless, only the sound of the fire crackling to break up the shroud of death hanging over the copse. At some point, additional bodies started appearing in the snow, lying just behind Athos or off to the side. Sometimes Aramis couldn't tell them apart when he went to check on them, reaching to find a heartbeat of a ghost that wasn't there. He was surrounded by them now, his lost brothers coming to join him again. He had a duty to watch over them. He'd failed to save them in that ambush; the least he could do was guard their bodies until they could be laid to proper rest.

That became his sole focus come the light of dawn. When a crow alighted on a stump and turned its beady black eye to one of the bodies, Aramis raised his pistol and fired. The shot missed, striking the ground instead. But the noise and spray of dirt sent the bird flapping into the air with a raucous squawk.

Aramis quickly hunkered down to reload, numb fingers tripping over themselves as he wrestled with the powder packet and musket ball. There was no time to rest though. No time.

A low moan had him jerking his head to the side. One of the bodies was stirring. Aramis struggled to his feet again and stumbled over. Shadowy specks floated in the air, but when he turned to follow them, they'd vanished like embers devoured in a frigid gust.

He dropped heavily to his knees beside the frozen form. Dark eyes opened to slits and gazed up at him blearily.

"Aramis?" the revenant croaked.

He gazed back, heart clenching. What was worse: the utter silence of being completely alone, or the ghosts starting to talk back?

The musketeer furrowed his brow. "Aramis," he repeated, forcing his eyes open to more alertness. A hand slipped free of the heavy blanket and reached for him.

Aramis couldn't help but recoil sharply. He staggered to his feet and backed up. "No," he said hoarsely. "It's not my time. I pr-promised Athos and Porthos."

The man's eyes widened in alarm, and he started to shift under the blankets as though trying to get up. Then his face went white and he collapsed back with a strangled sound, clutching his side. "Agh, damn it!"

Aramis moved away. He had to remain on guard. Had to be there for Athos and Porthos.

"Aramis," the firm voice called again, but it was becoming distorted. Everything was blurring and tilting.

He'd reached his limit, he realized with a numb sort of resignation. Perhaps it was his time after all. Or long overdue.

"'M s'rry," he mumbled, and then finally surrendered himself to winter's bitter arms, five years in the waiting.

"I never should have left you."

"You had no choice. And if you hadn't returned when you did, we wouldn't be here now."

The voices burbled around him like a bubbling brook, calm, soothing even. He thought about climbing through the fog to reach them, but he was too heavy, as though a physician had let all the blood from his body and somehow replaced it with lead.

Warmth was a cruel mistress, wrapping him up in her embrace and caressing his cheeks with breaths of balmy heat, but he knew it was fickle, fleeting. The cold would return for him. It always did.

"I got lost on the way back," the first voice spoke again, self-recriminating. "I should have been there sooner."

"Stop blaming yourself. We all survived."

A wooden chair creaked. "I just wish he would wake up."

"He was awake for days. He could use the sleep."

That sounded like a good idea. He let himself drift back into the undulating current of darkness and oblivion.

The next time he woke, it was with more clarity, and he finally felt as though his spirit had settled back into his body. He could now identify the warmth shrouding him as heavy blankets, and the kiss of intense warmth on one side of his face was from a fire. He cracked his eyes open and blinked groggily at the familiar walls of his room at the garrison.

"There you are," a voice as warm as the hearth spoke.

Aramis turned his head to find Athos reclining back in a chair padded with cushions and blankets. His brow furrowed. "A little pampered that, isn't it, Monsieur Comte?" he joked, startled by how raspy his voice was.

Athos's lips twitched. "It wasn't my idea, but d'Artagnan has been a right mother hen lately." He leaned forward to pick up a pitcher from the nearby table, wincing as he did so.

A flicker of memory tried to worm its way through the haze in Aramis's mind as Athos poured a cup of water and then helped him sip it. "What happened?"

"We were attacked by bandits and sustained some serious injuries—"

"Porthos!" he blurted.

Athos put a firm hand on his shoulder. "He's fine. Still a little wobbly on his feet. He's confined to bed, much to his chagrin, otherwise he would be here now. D'Artagnan just went to check on him."

Aramis sagged against his mattress with a sigh, then snapped his eyes open again. "And you?"

"You stitched me up well and proper. We all just have a little more mending to do."

Aramis closed his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered.

"And I you. Here I finally regained consciousness only to see you collapse in the snow." Darkness entered his eyes. "I couldn't reach you. I don't know what would have happened if d'Artagnan hadn't returned with an escort of musketeers less than an hour later."

"I don't remember. I just remember…it was so cold. And you and Porthos looked so much like…" he trailed off, throat constricting. He tried to shake the shadows away. They weren't real. They hadn't been real. Not this time.

Athos was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry you had to go through something like that again," he said solemnly. "I'd promised myself if you had to face anything like Savoy ever again that I would ensure I was there with you."

"You were there with me," Aramis murmured.

Athos let out a soft snort. "In the worst way possible."

"Not your fault you were wounded."

"No, but I still regret what it put you through."

"I'm all right," he whispered automatically. Or, he would be when the images in the snow weren't so fresh and a nip in the air didn't send chills down his spine. At least at this moment he was warm.

Athos's eyes crinkled with sadness and sympathy, and he reached out to squeeze Aramis's arm. "We'll all be all right."

Aramis nodded sleepily. That, he could take comfort in.