"Aramis! Athos!" Porthos screamed as loudly as he could, not caring that panic was making his voice crack. "Aramis!"

The avalanche lasted only a minute or two, but as he helplessly stood in the shelter of the shallow cave, they were easily the longest minutes of Porthos' life. He thought that the mountain would keep sliding forever, carrying his companions away from him into the valley below. Lost forever to him. He kept his eyes locked into the spot where he saw Athos and Aramis succumb to the avalanche's power, and tried to estimate where they might have landed. It was a hopeless task, but Porthos kept his mind on it. There was nothing else to do.

As soon as the terrible rumbling stopped, Porthos abandoned his frightened horse and ran out onto the wreckage that the slide had left in its wake. He had thought that it would be soft and unstable, but instead found the snow had packed dense and hard. He skirted around the dead trees that had been uprooted and the boulders that had been displaced. Porthos stumbled across the upended snow, his feet tripping in their haste to find his friends.

"Athos! Can you hear me?" Porthos staggered to a stop and whirled in place, searching for any sign that his friends were still alive. "Aramis!"

And then by some miracle, a booted foot kicked its way through the icy crust. With a cry, Porthos lurched his way towards it, his heart pounding with hope. He began to dig at the compressed snow, ineffectually scraping away thin handfuls. With a cry of frustration, Porthos punched down at the snow, feeling an unpleasant tearing sensation in his shoulder as he did so. Ignoring the warmth blooming along his back, he tore frantically at the icy pack and was rewarded with a leg, then a woolen cloak, and finally a head of long, bedraggled hair. "Oh, thank God," Porthos whispered fervently.

With the marksman's help, Porthos cleared a hole that was large enough so that he haul his brother out of it. He pulled Aramis free of the dead avalanche's grip and carefully set him down, curling protectively over the other man as he lay gasping and hacking on the snow. Pure agony contorted Aramis' features as he struggled to breathe.

"Come on now, you can do it. You are safe, Aramis," Porthos murmured soothingly, gratefully running a gentle hand over the marksman's head. "You're safe. Calm down, 'Mis. Breathe. You can do it."

"Alright?" Aramis weakly choked out when he was able to hold onto a lungful of air.

"Fine, Aramis. Just fine." He held Aramis' face in his hands, looking down into his friend's pained eyes. "You?"

"Yes. Ribs," Aramis panted. "Athos?"

"We need to find him, Aramis. He is still missing."

The distress in Porthos' voice made Aramis snap to attention. He pushed Porthos away and forced himself into a sitting position. "Buried?"

"I hope so," Porthos replied. Better that than the alternative, he mused, shuddering at the thought of the sheer cliffs that cut through some of the slopes. He helped to pull Aramis to his feet.

"Athos? Athos!" Aramis shouted. He drew another deep breath and bent over, coughing uncontrollably. The marksman collapsed back to his knees, clutching at his sides.

"Athos! Can you hear us?" Porthos took over the calling duties, while placing a worried hand on the marksman's bent back. "Athos!"

"Go," Aramis wheezed, waving Porthos on. "Find Athos. You must find him."

Porthos stepped away from Aramis, walking in a slow, steady path that slowly spiraled away from where he'd found the marksman. "Athos! Give me a sign if you can hear me!" His heart sank with despair as he surveyed the destroyed landscape. If Athos was unconscious or buried too deeply to hear them, Porthos had no idea how they would find the swordsman. It would be impossible to dig up the entirety of the avalanche's path. Each minute that ticked by was one more Athos had to survive on his own, cold and alone.

"I lost my grip on him," Aramis whispered despondently as he finally rejoined Porthos in his search. "I had him, and then he was gone."

The two men called out for their missing friend, the voices growing more anxious. Tension coiled almost unbearably between the two of them when Aramis suddenly stopped.

"Do you hear that?" The hushed hope in his voice made Porthos freeze.

"What?" he whispered.

"That... Athos! Athos, if that is you, answer us!"

And then Porthos heard it. It was a muffled, indistinct noise, but it was undoubtedly one made by a human throat. He dropped to his knees and placed his ear close to the packed snow.

"Keep talking, Athos, we are going to find you!"

It was incredibly difficult to tell, but Porthos kept crawling until he reached a spot where the faint noise seemed loudest. "Here," he said, fervently praying that he was not wrong. It would mean the swordsman's death if he was. "Athos is here."

The two Musketeers scrabbled at the snow. Porthos tried to punch through it again, but it had settled further and was like trying to break stone. Aramis disappeared and raced back moments later with shards of rock that were thin and flat. He handed one to Porthos.

"Be careful," Aramis warned as he fiercely attacked the frozen ground, using the flat rock as a shovel head. "We do not want to hit Athos by accident." Neither man mentioned that Athos would likely prefer to be mauled by stone than to remain buried alive.

Porthos did not know how long it took to uncover their friend. Too long - his arms trembled with weariness by the time Athos came into view.

"Oh God," Aramis murmured as they lifted the swordsman's limp body from his snowy coffin. They lay him on the snow and Aramis brushed his fingers against the man's throat. A trickle of sticky blood traced the side of his face. "Athos? Please, brother."

"He's freezing," Porthos observed, feeling the tremors that ran through the unconscious man's limbs. "Come on now, Athos. Wake up." Grimacing at the strain it placed on his reopened wound, Porthos grabbed Athos under the shoulders, intending to hold the man against his chest in an effort to warm him up. Athos' eyes snapped open as he came to with a pained gasp. He sucked in deep lungfuls of clean, fresh air as he rolled away from Porthos' grip. Athos knelt on the snow, clasping his left arm close to his chest as he fought to regain his equilibrium.

"Athos? What is it?" Profound relief and concern colored Aramis' voice as he gently wrapped an arm around the trembling man.

It took a moment or two before Athos managed to control his shivering enough to speak. "My shoulder," he whispered.

Aramis delicately ran his hands over the offending joint and winced at the deformity he found. "It is dislocated," he said.

"Oh shit," Porthos said, his face draining of color when he realized he had pulled on it. "Sorry."

Athos waved his apology away. "That I am alive to feel the pain is something I am grateful for," he said quietly. "Thank you."

"It is something we are grateful for as well," Aramis said, shuddering as he pulled the swordsman in close and placed a light, thankful kiss on the side of his head. "Anything else we should know about?"

Athos silently shook his head as Aramis' fingers continued to explore his injured arm. "I'm sorry, Athos, but the joint must be relocated or you will lose use of your arm," the marksman said. He frowned unhappily. "I know how to do such a thing in theory, but have yet to put it into practice."

"No better time than now, I suppose," Athos replied bravely.

The three men made their way back to the protected overhang where Porthos' faithful horse stood waiting. "Porthos, I must ask you to do this," Aramis whispered to his friend. "I...I am afraid I may not have the strength needed for the task." Porthos clasped the back of Aramis' neck and offered a light squeeze in understanding even as his heart sickeningly dropped. He knew from that for Aramis to admit such a thing, his condition must be worse than Porthos suspected.

In the relative safety of the rocky ledge, Aramis instructed Porthos on how to position Athos' arm and how force should be applied to realign the joint. It took three attempts and a strangled scream from Athos before his shoulder was finally shifted back into place. Aramis gave Athos a wan smile and wrapped the swordsman's arm in a makeshift sling as Porthos shuffled away, dizzy and nauseated by the grinding sensation of the relocation and the pain he had caused his friend. "Feel better?" Aramis asked Athos.

"Perhaps I will later," Athos answered through clenched teeth. "I would prefer to never do that again."

Porthos caught Aramis' eyes with a small tremor of disgust as the marksman glanced at him. "I believe Porthos feels the same way," he said.

Athos' drooping head suddenly shot up. "What happened to the Spanish soldiers that were following us?" he asked urgently.

Porthos shrugged. "I do not know. I assumed they were caught by the snow."

Athos hefted himself to his feet, face still pale with echoes of pain. "That is the sort of thing I would like to know for certain," he said. "Wait here. I will check."

"Athos, you should rest," Aramis protested. "I need to see to your head."

"It is fine," Athos assured him. "No more than a mild headache. I hope this will not take long." He trudged away before Aramis could argue further.

"Only a fool would believe he is fine," Aramis muttered as he turned towards Porthos. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the marksman.

"What?" Aramis asked.

Porthos sighed. "Never mind."

Aramis gestured towards him. "Let me see, Porthos. I can tell that it is causing you discomfort, so do not try to pretend that you are fine as well."

Porthos allowed Aramis to check the wound, knowing what the marksman would find. Up close, the big man could clearly hear the unhealthy crackle that accompanied each of Aramis' labored breaths. Purple smudges of exhaustion bruised the skin beneath Aramis' eyes. The dazed glassiness of those dark eyes made worry settle like an anvil in Porthos' chest, and his heart hammered against it with sharp, toxic anxiety. He tried not to think about what would happen to his brother, to all of them, if they did not reach civilization soon.

Aramis' normally clever fingers were slow and clumsy as they untied the bandages around the wound. "The stitches are torn," Aramis murmured concernedly as he examined the injury. "You've bled again, Porthos. Too much."

Porthos had already realized it. He could feel weakness tugging at him once more, and thirst made his throat sticky and dry. He took a handful of snow and stuffed it into his mouth. "Nothing to be done about it," Porthos said.

Silence was the only reply he received as Aramis pressed a folded cloth against the ragged wound. Porthos bit back a groan as it sent shockwaves of agony which undercut the battle rush that had been sustaining him. When the marksman was satisfied, Aramis dressed the wound once more and carefully helped Porthos to shrug on his doublet.

"I am sorry, mon ami. I cannot do anything more for it here." The naked dejection in Aramis' quiet statement tore at Porthos, and he cursed both Savoy and Tréville once more.

Athos returned then. "I did not see any live soldiers, but I did spot a couple of bodies down below," he said. "They did not appear capable of mounting another pursuit." Porthos felt a moment of savage satisfaction at the good news. Athos tossed a couple of saddlebags on the ground. "I also managed to rescue these. Unfortunately, our other horse was beyond rescue."

Porthos frowned. They were now down to one horse to carry three wounded men through dangerous territory. If their journey had been slow before, Porthos could not imagine how long it would take for them to cross the mountains safely into France. It was clear that the same thought had crossed Athos' mind, as he continued, "We need to move down into the valley. The speed with which we will be able to travel will be well worth the risk of meeting another Spanish patrol." His eyes flickered to Aramis and then settled on Porthos.

"I agree," Porthos said, holding Athos' worried gaze. "We need to leave Savoy as quickly as possible."

The three men quickly gathered up their dwindling supplies and added the extra saddle bags to their remaining horse. Predictably, an argument broke out as to who would be riding and who would be walking.

"No," Aramis refused when Porthos tried to insist. "I do not have a bleeding shoulder. Or a dislocated one."

"Formerly dislocated," Athos noted dryly. "I would hate to think I went through that...process for nothing."

"You are ill," Porthos said stubbornly. "And there is nothing wrong with my legs."

"It is a simple cold," Aramis argued, not appearing the least bit ashamed of his blatant lie. "I am not getting on that horse, Porthos. Not while you carry that bleeding wound."

"Porthos, ride for a little while," Athos intervened. "We are rapidly losing daylight."

With a frustrated sigh, Porthos went to the horse and gave the gelding a soothing, grateful pat. "We are working you hard, eh?" he spoke lowly to the horse. Despite his distaste for riding while the others walked, Porthos privately admitted that it was pride more than sense that made him refuse. As the flood of adrenaline had receded, he was left feeling shaky and drained. Closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness, Porthos heaved himself up into the saddle. When he opened his eyes, he found both Athos and Aramis watching him with open concern.

"I'm ready," he said firmly, forcing his spine straight. "Let's go."

I'll admit that the way Aramis and Athos were found is probably not very realistic, but chances of surviving an avalanche plummet after about 15 minutes, so it had to be done. We'll just call it artistic license! Anyway, thank you to everyone that reviewed, thanks for reading, and happy 2019!