A/N - Thank you to all those who read, reviewed, followed and favorited my last story and were kind enough to request another. I moved from my last one directly to this one and was shocked to find it somewhat longer and more angst-filled than my previous offerings. Hope you enjoy.

February in France was far more than simply uncomfortable, it was bitterly cold; unfortunately, the King's business didn't stop during the winter months. Travelling through the snow-filled days of winter required heavy layers of clothing in an effort to ward off the chill that seemed to penetrate regardless and made movement awkward and slow. The horses were bereft of their surefootedness, unable to see what lay beneath the thick blanket of white that covered everything and often hid dangers such as dropped branches or deep holes that could make a horse lame with a single misstep. As if these hazards weren't enough to make travel treacherous, the fewer hours of daylight added another challenge, leaving travellers scurrying for shelter before the sun disappeared, taking its meager warmth with it.

d'Artagnan dipped his chin further into the thick scarf that covered his head and face, his breath crystallizing against the wool with every exhale. They had been riding for two days, searching for four men who had escaped the local Comte's custody and were now hiding somewhere in the French countryside. Each morning they would set out and search, riding as far as they were able, before returning to thaw and rest at the small inn where they had found lodgings. The men they sought were locals and their advantage was an intimate knowledge of the area, but even the Comte had to admit that if the men weren't found in the next day or two, they had likely moved to other parts and would have to be located at a later date.

All traces of the men's escape had been erased by the snow that had been falling steadily each night, and as the Gascon looked at the sky, he shivered with the knowledge that today's snow would likely not wait until nightfall. Looking ahead, the land and the sky seemed to merge into one, both a dim shade of gray which made it difficult to discern where one ended and the other began. The only sounds around them were the occasional snort of their horses as they plodded through the heavy, wet snow under their riders' expert hands. As was usually the case, Athos rode at the front, choosing their path through the field, then moving to follow the edge of the woods that led in the direction of the lands they'd be searching today. From their conversations with the townspeople, there was a river that ran through a nearby valley and the forests stretched around them for many miles, eventually opening onto farmland where a few had built their homes. This was their destination, since it was possible that one of the farmers had been sympathetic to the prisoners' situation and had given them shelter while the Musketeers searched.

Athos halted and waited for the others to draw abreast before issuing his orders. This was the point at which they'd agreed to separate, sending two riders in each direction in an effort to cover more ground. Making eye contact with Aramis, Athos said "You and d'Artagnan take the farms to the east. If I recall correctly, there are three and you should have enough time to check them all before returning to the inn. Porthos and I will move to the west." Without further words, Athos turned his mount and began moving away, confident that Porthos would follow.

The Gascon was glad of the scarf that covered his face as it also served to hide his hurt and surprise at having been sent off with Aramis. Not that he minded the man's company, but it was unusual for Aramis to be partnered up with anyone but Porthos when the four were together. d'Artagnan thought back to the past week, reflecting on the melancholy mood that seemed to have befallen their leader, which seemed to be accompanied by an increase in the man's already heavy indulgence in wine. The young man had pointed out Athos' even quieter moods, asking his friends if they should intervene and stop the man from drowning himself each night, but the two had merely shared a knowing glance and told him to leave things be. He'd tried to follow their advice, but three days later his concern for his mentor spiked when the man fell off his horse after a night of heavy drinking.

His words had been coloured by the deep worry he held at seeing the older man so easily thrown from his horse, and he'd rounded on Athos, berating him angrily. "You're still drunk!" he'd accused the man. Athos had merely shrugged as he brushed the snow from his cloak and breeches. The man's nonchalant attitude merely served to infuriate the Gascon further. "We're on a mission and you're drunk. I know you normally drink a fair bit of wine, but these last few days have been excessive, even for you. How can you care so little for your safety and ours?"

Those last words had clearly stung and Athos had looked at him sharply, declaring, "I assure you that your concern for both my safety and yours is misplaced. I am more than capable of performing my duties and will not remind you again that you answer to me, not the other way round."

The venom of Athos' words had shocked the Gascon and, when he'd looked for help from his other two friends, he found them both looking down, examining the ground. He'd huffed in frustration and looked away while Athos regained his seat, making sure to drop back to the end of their line, wanting to be as far away from the older man as possible. Sadly, things had not improved as Athos walked away alone every evening, leaving d'Artagnan no opportunity to talk with the man or to apologize. He'd once again sought the guidance of his brothers, but they refused to say anything about the situation, simply telling him to be patient and that things would resolve themselves with time.

Aramis broke him from his reverie as d'Artagnan realized he was being spoken to. "Come on then, we should get moving." He looked up at the skies noticing what the Gascon had already observed earlier. "It's likely to snow later and I want to be back in front of a warm fire before it does."

The young man nodded and spurred his horse into movement, leading the way as Aramis motioned to him with an "after you" gesture of his hand. Their ride continued in silence, the air around them too cold for conversation, lest their words carry to their prey on the frigid air. His horse needed little guidance to continue plodding at the edge of the woods and d'Artagnan allowed his mind to drift again. Winters in Gascony had been milder than this and he was still struggling to adjust to the many months of cold. In addition, he'd never before been forced to sleep outside during the winter months and the few times it had happened he'd watched the preparations of his brothers carefully, doing his best to learn from their experience. His friends had all cautioned him about the dangers of exposure, showing him how to build a passable shelter from tree branches and cloaks and warning him of the signs that signalled the body's reaction to the extreme temperatures. He was grateful now that this mission allowed them to return to the relative comfort of the inn each night, where they could thaw their icy hands and feet, and rest properly without the racking shivers that typically prevented a proper night's sleep outdoors.

One instant d'Artagnan was considering the roaring warmth of the inn's fireplace and the next he found himself shifting sideways off his horse as the beast slipped and struggled to regain its footing on the incline that hid beneath the snow. His lack of attention cost him as his horse gave another great heave of its body, successfully righting itself but throwing the Gascon off in the process. Behind him, he heard a cry of alarm from Aramis, whose horse had been startled by the fear and wild actions of d'Artagnan's steed, rearing up to throw its rider as well. The young man's next thoughts were of dizziness and confusion as he found himself hitting the ground and then rolling down a hill, hitting obstacles as his path took him into the woods they'd been following. He caught glimpses of bushes pushing up through the snow, the canopy of the trees having prevented a deep layer of white from accumulating. As he hurtled down the hill, he grabbed at branches and bushes, trying and failing to slow his tumble. His out flung arm hit something hard and unyielding and he heard a crack that echoed through the woods, even before he realized the pain that accompanied the sound. Another few revolutions of his body brought him to a rattling stop as his back hit the trunk of a large tree, and he had time for one last thought of his friend before his eyes closed and his awareness fled.

His head ached horribly and his eyes refused to focus. Those were his first thoughts as awareness returned and he lay in the cold, looking up at the small patches of sky that could be seen through the tree branches above him. His next sensations were of cold and, moving one hand, he fisted a handful of the wet substance around him, bringing the hand to his face to see what he held. Snow! The realization sent him into a panic and he struggled to sit up, his head hanging loosely against his chest, seemingly too heavy and painful for him to lift. He could feel his heart racing and hear the rush of blood in his ears, but his eyes still refused to focus, only intensifying the fear that gripped him.

Managing to push himself to a seated position, he found himself leaning against a tree where he laid his head back against the trunk in an effort to compose himself. His eyes kept trying to close and he forced them open each time, seeing the shadows of Savoy around him. His brothers! The knowledge that his brothers had perished and he was surrounded by their bodies paralyzed him, and he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to stifle the sobs that threatened to erupt. Images of the dead assaulted him and he was unaware of the low keening sounds that he emitted. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he leaned forward, holding his head in his hands, unable to make sense of the horrors that his mind was conjuring. He sat there, rocking his body slowly, eyes closed, praying for escape.

Porthos waited until they had ridden a reasonable distance before moving to ride beside his friend. He sat there patiently, waiting to see if Athos would speak, but finally realized that the burden of this conversation fell to him.

"You usually like to keep the boy close to you," he stated, not mincing words.

Athos had the grace to wince at his friend's words, Porthos noticing the reaction by the crinkle of the man's eyes since the lower half was covered by a scarf. Porthos waited to see if the other man would say anything, but he remained silent. "What's going on between you two?" he asked.

"What makes you think there's anything going on?" Athos countered, keeping his eyes forward.

Porthos snorted quietly, "Anyone can see that you've been avoiding the boy." The man paused to see if his words would garner a reaction and, when none was forthcoming, he decided on a slightly different approach. "You seem to drink more heavily this time of year." Still, the other man rode in silence, neither acknowledging nor refuting the claim. "What is it that you're trying to forget?"

Athos looked up sharply at the insightful question, ready to tell his friend to leave him alone, but the look of concern and compassion in the other man's eyes made him rethink his angry words. Porthos waited patiently, seeing the conflicting emotions on his friend's face. "Thomas," the word was breathed out so quietly that Porthos almost missed it, but as his mind registered what he'd heard, he nodded in understanding.

"When?" Porthos prompted.

"The 24th of February," Athos replied. The date was six days away and was no doubt the reason for Athos' excessive drinking as well as his even more subdued mood. "For some reason his birthday has always been harder to bear than the anniversary of his death," Athos continued. "Perhaps because his death was overshadowed by the treachery of my wife."

Porthos reached a hand across, squeezing the other man's arm. "I'm sorry," he said.

Athos nodded distractedly. "He would have been twenty-four this year." Twenty-four, not so unlike their young Gascon who they'd all adopted into their family. Porthos guessed that at this time of year, the young man's presence might be a difficult reminder of Athos' loss.

"You should tell them," Porthos murmured, knowing that his brothers would be nothing but understanding and sympathetic.

"Perhaps," his friend responded, "someday." With that the conversation was over and Athos returned his stare to the gray landscape ahead of them, pressing his heels to his horse's flanks to move ahead of Porthos.

The larger man shook his head as his friend moved away, "Bloody idiot," he said to himself, affectionately.