Despite the bitter chill numbing his skin, Aramis could not bring himself to move any faster as he led the horses to a crumbling shed that provided no warmth but did manage to block out the wind. With slow, graceless fingers, he unpacked the horses and was slowly gathering up the bags when Athos joined him and took them out of his hands.

"Go inside and help Porthos," the swordsman ordered, handing over a waterskin for Aramis to carry. "I will take care of the animals and bring in the rest."

Aramis wanted to protest, but instead found himself nodding wearily in acquiescence. He trudged towards the outpost, bent nearly in half as he fought against the driving gusts of snow. By the time he made it inside, his legs were trembling as if he'd sprinted the entire day. Whatever thoughts he had of rest, however, were wiped away as soon as he saw Porthos slumped against the rough stony wall, head drooping. A familiar, horrified dread began to creep over him, and Aramis fiercely pushed it back. No, he promised himself. Not again. Never again.

He could hear his own breaths whistling in the silence as he heavily dropped to his knees next to his friend and grabbed his brother's limp hand. "Porthos?"

To his profound relief, Porthos' dark head lifted and he sleepily stared at Aramis. "Eh?"

"How is your arm doing, brother?"

The big man grimaced as he shrugged. "Fine."

It was an obvious fib, but Aramis let it go. "Let me start a fire and then I will check your wound. Hold this for me?" He handed the waterskin to Porthos, who tucked it under his good arm to thaw the frozen liquid inside.

Drawing up his meager strength, Aramis pushed himself upright and closed his eyes as the room tilted and spun. The physical demands of riding over rough terrain all day had completely wrung him out, and suddenly, the thought of gathering fuel and lighting a fire seemed like overwhelmingly monumental tasks. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, and it took all his willpower to stay on his feet instead of just collapsing to the ground and sleeping wherever he landed. Inhaling deeply and carefully so as not to set off another bone-rattling spasm, Aramis took one step, then another. You can do this, he encouraged himself wearily. You have to do it. Porthos needs your help.

It took far longer than he wanted, but after several misfires with his flint Aramis at last managed to coax a small fire into life. He gently blew on it and was promptly overcome by violent coughs threatened to tear his chest apart. Aramis folded over his knees as he struggled to regain control of his treacherous lungs. When his breathing finally calmed, he held still for a moment or two, dizzily waiting for the pain to fade and for his breathing to calm. As he slowly gathered his wits about himself and pushed back upright on shaking arms, he turned to a dozing Porthos, only to find the big man awake and staring. Aramis noted with a sinking heart that Porthos' normally deep complexion was ashen in the warm light of the flames.

"You sound awful," Porthos remarked, concern plainly stamped all over his face.

"You look awful," Aramis shot back, attempting a small grin.

"Still better than you, I'll bet," Porthos muttered, frowning.

"I did not realize we were having a contest," Aramis replied as he approached his friend. He lightly gripped the other man's good shoulder. "Let me see, Porthos."

Porthos dutifully leaned forward, wincing as the marksman jostled his arm while peeling away his doublet and shirt. "Sorry," Aramis whispered, cursing his own fumbling hands.

"'S'alright," Porthos muttered. He waited patiently as Aramis unwound the bandages and carefully prodded at the stitched hole.

"Well?" Porthos asked, breaking the silence.

"The wound seems clean and the stitches are holding," Aramis informed him, reapplying the dressing. He shook his head and said, "You should be in a bed, warm and rested. Not traipsing about in mountain storms, fleeing from soldiers."

"That could be said of all of us," Porthos pointed out.

"I asked Athos. I asked him to take you to Susa. He refused," Aramis said quietly. He plopped down next to his friend, groaning with relief as he relaxed against the wall.

"'Mis, we couldn't have gone back there. You know that."

"We couldn't," Aramis replied. "You could have." Regret sat heavily in his chest as he closed his eyes. He felt Porthos' phantom weight sagging against his back once more, smelled the copper tang of spilled blood. Porthos' blood, Girard's blood and that of twenty other Musketeers.

"Stop this, Aramis," Porthos said firmly. "Is this what you and Athos were arguing over last night?"

"It was not an argument," Aramis muttered. "It was a discussion in which Athos refused to acknowledge that he was wrong."

Porthos took the warmed waterskin and took a healthy swig from it. "Athos volunteered to come with me so that we could bring you home."

Aramis sighed and then coughed, pressing his lips together against another onslaught. Small spikes of pain were beginning to dig into his chest with each breath. He knew what that meant, but pushed the implications away. "I did not ask you to come."

"No. And yet here we are, same as you would have been," Porthos said, a tinge of anger in his voice. "Don't try to deny it."

"I'm not," Aramis rasped reluctantly.

"Then quit blaming him," Porthos grumbled. "He is not the one that shot me."

Aramis merely shook his head. "I know," he said quietly. The warming air moved heavily in his chest. "But I do not want to see you waste your lives of this fool's errand, Porthos."

He felt the fury and confusion radiating from Porthos as the big man grabbed his arm and forced the weary marksman to look at him. "Why would you say such a thing? What is wrong with you, Aramis?"

The door flew open as Athos swept into the outpost, interrupting Porthos' planned tirade. A blast of icy air followed him in. His sharp gaze took in the scene before him and he frowned, slamming the door shut behind him. Patches of his skin were red and chapped with exposure.

"Did I miss something?" he asked coolly.

"No," Porthos responded. Thankfully, he released Aramis and wrapped an arm around the marksman's shoulders instead. Aramis slumped against his brother and observed through half-lidded eyes as Athos put down the saddlebags and rummaged through them.

"I circled the area and I did not see any signs of the Spanish patrol. The storm should protect us for tonight," Athos reported as he pulled out a couple hard biscuits and a small wedge of cheese wrapped in paper. The swordsman brought his bounty over to the two sitting men and held it out.

"Eat," he said.

The two Musketeers reached up and took his offering. Athos settled himself on the other side of the fire and in studying him, Aramis realized with sudden chagrin that the swordsman looked extremely worn. Although his expression was inscrutable as always, Aramis could see telltale signs in the dark shadows that were smudged under hooded blue eyes and the sagging droop of his shoulders. Athos had likely not gotten any sleep the night before as he had never woken Aramis for the second watch, and he had taken the lion's share of the hard work in breaking trail and advance scouting to ensure their passage was clear. Aramis knew very well that he was being unfair towards the other man, and shame abruptly washed over him.

Not trusting his legs to support his weight, Aramis performed an awkward crawling shuffle that would have thoroughly embarrassed him had he not been so tired. He made his way around the fire and sidled up to Athos, proffering his biscuit and bit of cheese. The other Musketeer had not taken any for himself.

"Take it," Aramis urged quietly. "Please."

Athos raised an eyebrow but made no other movement. "You need to eat, Aramis," was all he said.

"As do you. Besides, I'm not hungry," Aramis claimed. Which was true. After suffering through countless days of wretched hunger pains, now that food was available to him again, his appetite seemed to have entirely vanished.

"I find that hard to believe," Athos said dryly. "You look like a walking skeleton."

Aramis pursed his lips as he split the food in half. He pressed it into Athos' unwilling hands and nibbled on his own share. "Thank you for your honest opinion," he muttered as he chewed. "No need to spare my feelings."

The corner of Athos' mouth quirked in amusement. "You are welcome," he said magnanimously.

The marksman watched with satisfaction as Athos ravenously ate the small meal he'd been given. It disappeared altogether too rapidly, and Aramis wished there was more to share. "I wanted to apologize," Aramis said softly once Athos was finished. "I know I asked a difficult thing of you. I had no cause to be upset with your answer."

Athos stared into the fire, warming his hands and feet. "Perhaps not," he said, "but I understand it nonetheless. No apology is necessary."

"Thank you, brother." Aramis leaned into Athos, and was gratified to feel Athos return the pressure. They both watched in a comfortable silence as Porthos slowly succumbed to sleep. Athos stirred himself to drape a blanket over Porthos' limp figure, and then returned with blankets for himself and Aramis.

"Get some rest," Athos murmured. "I will take first watch."

"Promise to wake me," Aramis insisted as his eyelids slid shut, no longer capable of holding out against the exhaustion that was assaulting him.

"I will," Athos said. Aramis caught his words just as he dropped away into a deep slumber.

When Aramis woke, weak morning light was streaming in through the cracks between the shutters that blockaded the windows. He blinked up at the rotted wooden beams that traversed the ceiling, confused as to where he was. A shiver raced through him and he inhaled sharply. It was a mistake; his breath caught on something liquid and ignited a firestorm in his chest. Aramis curled up on his side in an effort to contain the pain that was consuming him as the coughing shredded his throat and lungs. When the spasm subsided, Aramis shakily brushed off the hands smoothing down his back and pushed himself up. He spat out the thick liquid that had gathered in his mouth and lay back down. With the phlegm cleared, his breathing eased.

"Aramis? Can you hear me?"

"There is nothing wrong with my ears," he wheezed irritably. The marksman opened eyes he did not remember closing and just caught the worried glances exchanged between Athos and Porthos. "You are a liar," he accused Athos.

"What?" Both men looked confused.

"You promised to wake me for the second watch," Aramis said.

Athos lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I chose to exercise my better judgement," he replied serenely.

"Did you sleep at all?" Aramis asked pointedly, sitting back up. He decided to ignore the fact that he required Athos' help.

The older man merely shrugged. From the redness in Athos' eyes, Aramis guessed that he had not. Self-reproach filled him once more as Athos handed him a cup of water. "Thank you," Aramis said contritely. Athos clapped him gently on the arm and stood to gather their belongings.

"You all right?" Porthos asked. A worried look still painted his face.

"I am fine," Aramis replied.

The big man made a skeptical face. "Right."

For the first time, Aramis looked about the deserted outpost. It was no more than a small stone shed, a single room that contained nothing but a couple of chairs and the frame of a cot. The straw mattress was long gone, as was the stretched cloth that would have supported it. A small hearth that was still littered with ash decorated one wall. Aramis imagined that an assignment here would have been lonely and uncomfortable.

"Do we move?" Aramis asked.

"Not yet," Athos replied. "The fresh snow should have covered some of our tracks. I think we can afford to wait."

Wearily, Aramis nodded. Despite a full night's rest, he wanted nothing more than to drop back to the floor and sleep more. Instead, he forced himself to stay awake and to check Porthos' wound again. It appeared to have begun mending, but the man himself looked drained and wan in a way that concerned Aramis. Up close, he could see the lines of pain that had been etched into Porthos' skin and mourned the fact that he had nothing to give his friend to ease his discomfort.

"Stop looking so worried," Porthos said gruffly once Aramis was done with his inspection. "I'll be fine."

The sun was high in the sky when Athos returned from another short scouting trip and declared they had to leave once more. "The days are still very short," he said. "We will need to move now if we intend on making any progress today."

Porthos came to stand by him. "Can't we stay for one more night?" he asked softly. Aramis suspected that the question was not meant to be overheard.

Athos shook his head regretfully. "Our supplies are too short," he muttered under his breath. "We need to push on." While we still can, Aramis' mind silently added. He knew Athos' concern was not for Porthos alone.

The view outside the tiny base was breathtaking, and unlike anything Aramis had seen before. It sat on one of the lower peaks within the Alps, and yet was still high enough that Aramis felt like he was soaring. Dark storm clouds had lightened into thin white trails that hid the base of the mountains below them, swirling in long strands like an old man's beard. Above, the sky was a deep blue, nearly blinding in its brilliance. The mountains themselves looked like haphazard rows of jagged teeth, as if they had unknowingly stepped into the open maw of a giant, deadly predator. The peaks surrounded Aramis, looming over him in a sharp contrast between dark, exposed rock and gleaming cushions of powdery white. Every time the winds gusted, fine wisps of snow burst from the mountainside. The marksman had never felt so insignificant, or so awed.

Athos came up next to him, leading one of the horses. "It is magnificent, isn't it?" Aramis asked.

"Distractingly so," Athos replied. "We need to go, Aramis."

They began to make their way west, staying as high up as they dared. The new layer of snow laid down by the night's storm made travel more difficult than it had been, and the horses rapidly began to struggle with the burden of breaking trail and carrying riders. The Musketeers decided to take turns walking and riding to ensure that their animals would not be weighed down with two riders unless strictly necessary. Although Athos tried to ensure that both Aramis and Porthos rode as much as possible, after a few hours, Aramis could feel his energy dwindling rapidly. Before long, he found himself struggling to stay upright and keep moving.

The sound of barking dogs was the first thing that alerted them to the soldiers pursuing them. The strident noise rifled through them, echoing and amplifying as it bounced up the rocky walls. Indistinct shouts accompanied them. Aramis' head shot up as adrenaline surged through him.

"Athos!" Aramis called out. But the swordsman was already running back for them, taking the path that he had laboriously cut with his own body in an effort to ease the workload on their horses. His eyes were wide and alarmed.

"Get up! Hurry!" Aramis reached out for his friend and helped to swing him up on the back of his mount. Aramis kicked his heels into the animal's sides, urging the tired horse to move faster. The three Musketeers took off in a wild spray of snow, galloping as fast as they dared to escape the fate that bore down on them.

Aramis bent over his mount's neck, keeping his eyes on Porthos and his horse, both of whom had surged ahead under the lighter weight of one rider. They angled towards the edge of a ridge where much of the snow had been blown away and left a rough, rocky surface behind. Athos' arms were tightly wrapped around his ribs, and oddly, he could hear the swordsman's rough breath in his ear. Aramis could feel his own pulse pounding through his head, beating blood through his veins at a frenzied pace. Despite the relative speed with which they fled, the sound of baying grew louder. Aramis chanced a glance back, and saw a party of six or seven faceless soldiers riding along a parallel trail below them, and more worryingly, a pack of hunting dogs romping through the snow, eager to catch up with their prey.

The unmistakeable crack of musket fire ripped through the air and Aramis' heart leapt with fear. Their horse skittered beneath them in shock and pain. The ball had glanced off her hindquarters, tearing a long, deep graze in her hide. Porthos head turned back towards them, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Athos? Are you hit?" Aramis asked frantically.

"No," Athos replied, sounding remarkably calm despite the situation. "Just the horse. Aramis, we are not going to make it."

Aramis simply nodded. He'd known this to be true almost as soon as the chase had begun, but now with their weary, injured animal slowing beneath them, it seemed inevitable. He pulled up on the reins and grabbed the musket that was holstered off the saddle.

"What do you think you're doing? Aramis!"

"Run," Aramis ordered as he slung his leg around the poor horse's withers, weapon in hand and nervous energy singing in his blood. "Go with Porthos. I will cover you."

He was about to slide out of the saddle when Athos grabbed a hold of his arm and jerked him back angrily, his fingers like a vice. "No," he said harshly. "Do you think that Porthos and I will run like cowards and leave you to stand alone? Do you think so poorly of us?"

"It is not cowardice, it is common sense," Aramis hissed back, eyes flashing. "Now go!" Before he could wrench himself away and slide out of the saddle, however, Athos spurred their mount into motion. The startled animal leapt forward, and Aramis would have fallen had Athos not maintained his strong grip. The swordsman wrapped one arm around Aramis' waist to hold him in place, and the marksman was forced to reorient his seat lest he unbalance their weakened horse. He snarled in frustration at his own failure as they chased after Porthos.

"Do not be so eager to die, Aramis." Athos' low murmur sounded in his ear. "We will find a way to survive this. All of us, together."

Aramis heard it before he felt it. There was a noise that was immeasurably loud and yet soft at the same time, as if someone had dropped a large, heavy book onto a soft, plush rug. The snowy ground beneath them vibrated and dropped while their terrified horse whinnied, wildly prancing and spraying droplets of bright red on the white beneath her hooves. Bewildered, Aramis glanced around and his stomach clenched in near-paralyzing fear when he saw a large, horizontal crack appear in the snowpack just above them. He was not entirely certain what was happening, but his instincts were screaming danger at him. All he knew was that they needed to run.

A large sheet of snow slowly and inexorably separated itself from the one above, and it began to slide beneath them, slowly at first. Aramis kicked at their mount and she jumped forward even as the the giant slab of snow drew them down. A loud, earthshaking rumble filled the air and rattled Aramis' bones as the slide of snow began to pick up speed, bent on leveling anything that stood in its destructive path. The horse beneath them thrashed her legs wildly, fighting to stay on top of the deadly flow of snow and debris. He desperately searched for an escape from the avalanche's relentless course, and spotted something that he prayed would be their salvation. The flood of snow broke over a rocky ledge that sheltered a shallow cave. If they could reach it, then they stood a chance of surviving.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted at the big man's back. "Porthos! Make for the overhang!" He did not know if Porthos could hear him over the immense noise, but was grateful to see that his old friend was heading directly for it. Aramis tried to direct their own horse for the same stony outcropping, but he could already tell that it would not be possible. They were too heavy, and their wounded horse too weak.

Aramis saw Porthos' horse set her hooves safely on the ledge before they were swept under by a wave of snow and ice. Aramis kicked free of the stirrups and snatched at Athos, trying to catch a hold of the man before they were separated under the frozen deluge. His numbed fingers grabbed onto a what felt like a leather-clad arm, and he clutched at it with all his strength, but it was no use. The avalanche was infinitely stronger than he was, and it tore Athos away from him. The snow pummeled him from all sides, pounding at him with chunks of ice and rock as he tumbled down, utterly powerless against the relentless forces that shoved him along. He furiously churned his arms and legs, trying to stay near the surface despite the fact that he no longer had any idea where the surface was. A brain-numbing white noise filled his ears and mind and left room for little else but trickles of confusion and terror.

Aramis lost all concept of time as he was swept along. Seconds could have been hours, and hours could have been minutes. A glancing blow from an unyielding boulder knocked the wind out of him and drove a spike of pain into his ribs. Everything was white, noise, cold, pain, suffocation.

And as suddenly as it began, everything stopped.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review! And as always, thanks for reading and happy holidays!