Jan 30, 2020
The Cold Of Winter, The Warmth Of Brothers
Cold wetness seeps through the leather at Aramis’ knee, and he shifts position where he’s kneeling in the snow. He wriggles his fingers. They’re cradled around an arquebus he keeps trained on the entrance of the small tavern below, never taking his eyes away. From his vantage point on the opposite side of the forest trail, he can see Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan hunched on either side of the door, muskets ready, looking grim and snow-swept. They’re all waiting. Waiting and growing colder by the minute.
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