Athos was becoming aware of voices murmuring like distant whispers in a thick fog. His fevered mind raced wildly, trying to remember. . .
His memory was cloudy and he couldn't think straight. All he felt was pain. His entire body ached but he couldn't remember why he hurt.
He felt a heavy weight on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath, but the air wouldn't come. Instead, his body was wracked with wet coughs, seizing his body with stabbing pain emanating from both his sides.
He felt someone lifting him up and strong arms holding him close, protective hands applied pressure to his sides. He flinched and tried to pull away from the pressure in his sides, but the hands held him tight.
Why are my sides hurting like this? Why can't I remember?
Athos felt another pair of hands gently pounding his back to help him breathe. They rubbed in soothing circles, massaging comfort into his aching muscles.
"Breathe Athos, slow and easy. D'Artagnan, go get M. Molyneux, quick! We need his help before Athos pulls out his stitches."
"On my way. . ."
The fog was beginning to dissipate in Athos' brain. He was becoming more aware, though he still couldn't remember where he was or how he got here.
"Athos, can you hear me?"
He recognized the voice and the tone interwoven with fear and worry. . .
Aramis!
"Keep pounding his back, Porthos. We need to loosen the congestion in his lungs so he can breathe easier."
"Come on, Athos, catch your breath now. My hands are gettin' tired." Porthos' light bantering contradicted the worry etched on his face.
"Open your eyes for me, mon ami." Aramis tapped Athos' cheek while holding his chin up with his other hand.
It took all the strength he could muster, but Athos pulled his eyes open halfway. He blinked repeatedly trying to clear his blurry vision. "Two. . . 'Mis. . ."
"Pardon?" Aramis' brow knitted in confusion. "What do you see two of, Athos?"
"I see. . . two of you." Athos' hand reached out to touch the pair of medics but missed, going just left of Aramis.
"Perhaps I have found a successful means of duplicating myself, doubling my mother-hen abilities," Aramis joked. "Sometimes I get stretched rather thin around here. Having two of me would be of great use."
Athos chuckled, bringing about a fresh round of coughing. Instinctively, he tried to double over with his arms wrapping around his middle as if to protect himself from the onslaught of pain. Strong arms pulled him backward and held him close.
Pain in both of Athos' sides flared, eliciting a scream from the Musketeer lieutenant. The excruciating pain flashed through his middle, sending tremors surging through every limb and appendage. Black dots danced on the edge of his vision.
He wanted to give in to the darkness. At least in the darkness he didn't suffer in pain.
Athos was pulled tighter into the broad chest with strong, yet gentle arms. Porthos consoled and soothed away the wracking coughs with the ministrations of his voice. "Stay awake, Athos," his soft voice whispered in his ear. "You're okay; you just need to keep breathin' for me."
M. Molyneux quickly entered the room with d'Artagnan on his heels. The physician was wearing a leather and cloth mask to cover his face. They rushed to the bedside where Athos was sputtering to catch his breath, leaving him weak and spent.
"Let's lay him flat." Molyneux instructed Porthos and Aramis, his voice muffled under the mask. "I'm going to wrap his middle with these strips of cloths to constrict his movements and, therefore, keep his stitches from being pulled out. The hope is that these cloths will support the muscles that are straining when he vomits or coughs and it should reduce the possibility of tearing. It may be rather tight and restrictive; but such comforts are secondary to further damaging the sutures."
Aramis and Porthos worked together to remove Athos' shirt, exposing his skin now glistening with a layer of sweat. His heavy, labored breaths were made evident with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "C-cold." Athos suddenly shivered.
"Shh," the medic soothed. "It's okay, we're going to get you warmed back up in just a minute." Aramis rubbed his hands up and down Athos' arms to warm him.
"First, I better check his wounds and change the dressing before we wrap the cloths around him." The physician proceeded to unwrap the bandages as carefully as possible, without touching the wounds and hurting Athos.
Athos closed his eyes and lay still while the doctor examined him. Despite Molyneux's careful ministration, an occasional spurt of pain caused Athos to gasp, his breath hissing through his teeth.
"Forgive me, Athos," Molyneux apologized. "I see that both your wounds are healing quite well; the sutures look good with no redness or sign of infection. That is very good," the doctor smiled under the mask. "Ah, very good, indeed!"
Aramis glanced at the wounds, nodding his approval and appreciation of the healing injuries. "Looks like you're going to be good as new and on your feet in no time." Aramis whispered into Athos' ear.
After applying new bandages and salve to cover Athos' injured sides, the doctor readied the long strips of cloth. "Gentlemen, now I will apply the pressure dressing and I will need your help," the doctor looked to the Musketeers. "The cloth will be wrapped around his body tightly, possibly uncomfortably, but it is necessary to protect the sutures."
Aramis held the cloth in place as Molyneux wrapped the bandage around and around. Porthos and d'Artagnan lifted Athos as needed and just enough to allow the doctor to thread the cloth under and around his torso.
"Doctor, why do you wear the mask?" D'Artagnan asked the physician as he wound the cloths around his patient.
"After working with many different illnesses, M. Berteau and I have learned the value of wearing these masks over our mouths and noses to protect ourselves from the spread of germs," Molyneux replied.
"Do they really work?" D'Artagnan closely observed the mask with interest.
"Yes, d'Artagnan, they do work, quite well in fact. We are of no help to the patient if we get sick ourselves." The doctor looked directly at Aramis as he spoke. "It is something you should keep in mind, Aramis. It is a good practice to get into, especially when dealing with contagious diseases such as catarrh. As a matter of fact, I am recommending that each of you get a mask over your faces. You cannot help Athos if you fall victim to the illness too."
"What about Cécile?" Aramis inquired. "Is she wearing a mask?"
"Absolutely," Molyneux nodded. "I rely on her as my right hand, Aramis. I cannot afford her falling ill, so I insist that she take the same precautions. I wish I had thought sooner to have each of you wear a mask to protect yourselves. I will ask Cécile to prepare yours immediately."
"I don't know that I want to wear a mask around Athos." Aramis sighed and shook his head. "What will he think?"
"Perhaps it would be wise to have each of you quarantined then." Molyneux looked to the three men who were defiantly shaking their heads.
"Rubbish," Porthos shook his head stubbornly. "I am not leaving Athos so I can hide in a room to protect myself. Sorry, but forget it!"
"I'm not either," d'Artagnan added.
"You may have no choice, gentlemen." Molyneux retorted. "Captain Tréville has ordered any healthy Musketeer to be confined to personal quarters. In addition, no one is allowed on or off garrison grounds. There have been cases of catarrh reported all over Paris, unfortunately. We have to stop the spread of this epidemic before it gets out of control."
"Damn!" d'Artagnan cursed suddenly. "Oh damn, what about Constance? How can I find out if she is okay?"
"I do not know, young man." Molyneux answered. "But no one is allowed in or out of the garrison until this illness has been contained. Until then, you will just have to pray for her safety. I am sorry."
"Great," d'Artagnan huffed with frustration, shaking his head.
"At least, you should all wear a mask as Cécile and I do. It will keep you protected and allow you to remain in here to care for Athos. It is the only compromise I am willing to suggest to your captain." Molyneux stated flatly, leaving no room for negotiation.
"Fine, maybe we'll do the masks then," Porthos agreed. "I'm not leavin' Athos alone; he needs us with 'im."
"Very well, I will speak to your captain about having masks brought up for each of you so that you may continue to stay with Athos. I do believe his chances of surviving this epidemic are greater with him being in this private room. . . and all of you are with him."
"Thank you, doctor," d'Artagnan said with a sigh.
"No need to thank me," Molyneux said. "I got into medicine because I love helping people heal. My only reward needs to be my patients recovering."
"We will do everything we can to make sure Athos gets through this," Aramis resolved. "If he can beat sepsis, he can beat catarrh."
"I must caution you gentlemen, Athos is still in the early stages of his symptoms. The nausea and vomiting is just beginning," Molyneux warned.
"God help us. . ." Aramis muttered.
"Damn," Porthos groaned heavily.
"You must try to keep Athos as calm as possible—make sure he does not pull out his stitching. The wrapping will help, but when Athos begins vomiting if you would support him in an upright position, it will help alleviate the straining on his sides. Do not let him double over and do not let him lay on his side to vomit, do you understand?"
"Yes doctor," the Musketeers echoed in unison.
Molyneux helped the men lift Athos carefully back onto the bed with Porthos positioned behind the sick Musketeer as support. "I'll send Cécile up with the masks as soon as she has them finished." Molyneux returned to the infirmary to have Cécile get started preparing the masks for the Musketeers.
~§~
"M. Molyneux instructed me to give you each a mask and to make sure that you wear them." Cécile proceeded to show the men how to properly wear the masks for optimum protection.
"Keep your masks firmly on your faces, with no gaps or loose parts. If the mask gets too loose, just tighten the strings. Do not take off the masks for any reason or at any time. When it is time to eat, the captain said he would send food to the room next door where you can safely take off the masks. Otherwise, your masks must remain on at all times. Do you gentlemen understand?"
"Yes," they each answered.
"Is this what it's come down to?" Aramis roughly snatched his mask from Cécile in disgusted obedience. "Protecting ourselves from our best friend and brother? Having to shield ourselves against his infected breaths?" Aramis glowered with anger.
"I'm so sorry, Aramis." Cécile apologized softly.
Porthos and d'Artagnan traded resigned glances. They sighed as they donned their masks, covering up all but their eyes.
D'Artagnan's expressive eyes conveyed deep sorrow as they filled with tears at being forced to wear a protective shield—while Athos remained maskless. "This isn't fair—we each get a mask while Athos suffers alone in misery. This doesn't feel right."
"Athos' life hangs by a thread and we can do little more than stand by and watch. He fights for survival, while we hide behind the protection of a mask." Aramis's voice was muffled under the mask, his throat tightening around a sob threatening to escape.
A tear fell from Aramis' eye and quickly disappeared, soaking into the fabric of the mask.
"God please, help Athos to survive this."
Aramis and d'Artagnan glanced sadly at Porthos sitting behind the Musketeer lieutenant, his large face covered by the mask. No words were needed as a silent message of heartfelt sorrow was easily conveyed in just a glance.
D'Artagnan hissed softly under his mask as his shoulder began to ache, instantly drawing the attention of the medic. "Is your arm hurting again?"
"Yeah, a little but. . ." D'Artagnan softly mumbled so low Aramis couldn't hear the rest.
"Come on, let's get some more of that herbal rub on your arm." Aramis motioned to the chair for the Gascon to sit. "There's no sense in you suffering from unnecessary pain."
"Aramis, what are we going to do when Athos starts vomiting?" D'Artagnan winced as the medic applied the first glob of the remedy to his shoulder. "I mean, how do we protect ourselves if his vomit gets on us? We may have to clean up some messes, which mean the germs might get on our skin. What do we do then?"
"Hmm, I'm glad you brought that point up, d'Artagnan." Aramis nodded. "I'll go to my room and see what herbs I may have in there and I'll check with Serge in the kitchen. If we can scrape up enough elderberry, ginger, oregano, and astragalus root, I can mix those with some hot water as a bath to wash our hands or any skin that has been exposed to the vomit."
"Do you hear yourself, 'Mis?" Porthos muttered from the bed. "First, we have to wear these damn masks to protect ourselves against Athos; and now we have to wash ourselves with antibacterial herbs like he's got the plague or something."
"Athos is our friend—our brother—and yet we're treating him like a leper. I feel like this is barely one step above abandoning him to the infirmary." D'Artagnan agreed with Porthos and echoed his sentiments.
"I'm not happy about having to take these precautions either, d'Artagnan," Aramis said in a low voice. "But if it's the only way we can stay in here and take care of Athos, then we must do whatever is necessary to keep ourselves healthy," Aramis said with resolve.
"If Athos ends up in that infirmary 'round all those sick men, it's a sure death sentence," Porthos said angrily. "Bloody hell, he's got it bad no mat'er which way ya look at it."
"We are the only hope Athos has in beating this virus. . ." Aramis was interrupted when Athos began coughing.
Athos groaned as he began a harsh bout of coughing. "D-damn. . ."
"It's alright, Athos, breathe through it." Aramis soothed as he rubbed Athos' shoulders.
"I've got you, brother." Porthos wrapped his arms tightly around Athos to keep him upright. He held him close, as though trying to absorb the suffering from his friend's body into his own. With his free hand, the large Musketeer patted firmly between the shoulder blades hoping it would help his brother breathe easier.
Athos was barely aware of the aid his brothers were giving him as he struggled to catch his breath. Nor was he aware of the strong arms that held him tightly against the chest of his friend as he happily fell into the waiting arms of darkness.
"Athos?" D'Artagnan stepped forward with concern at seeing his friend go limp in Porthos' arms.
"It's alright, d'Artagnan, he just passed out." Aramis said after checking Athos' pulse.
"I don't like having to hide behind these protections but it's better than that cursed infirmary." Aramis shook his head. "Athos going to the infirmary is like summoning death… and I for one will not let him go without a fight. We better prepare ourselves, brothers. We have a hell of a fight ahead of us."
A/N:
The early "beak mask" was worn by doctors treating patients with the plague. The masks were shaped like bird heads with openings for the eyes and a long, curved beak. Straps held the beak in front of the doctor's nose. The mask had two small nose holes and was a type of respirator holding aromatic items, such as dried flowers, herbs, spices, or a vinegar sponge. The purpose of the mask was to keep away bad smells, which they thought were the causes of disease.
Medical historians have attributed the invention of the "beak doctor" costume to Charles de Lorme, who adopted in 1619, the idea of a full head-to-toe protective garment modeled after a soldier's armor. It consisted of a bird-like mask and a long leather gown from the neck to the ankle. The garment included leggings, gloves, boots, and a hat, made of waxed leather. The costume may have older roots as some authors have described fourteenth-century plague doctors as wearing bird-like masks as well.
