43. THE SIMPLE ACT OF BREATHING (3)
Athos:
The first time Athos had been injured after receiving his commission into the Musketeers, it had stolen his breath away.
He had had minor injuries in the past, though, as he progressed, achieving his level of swordsmanship had led to more bruises than actual slashes.
What cuts he had received had been shallow, obtained in practise bouts with members of his household. He was always going to survive.
No-one had actually wanted to kill him.
Until he joined the King's elite guard.
Then, it seemed, everyone had such a wish.
oOo
The moment the blade sliced into his neck, he knew he was in trouble.
The air left his lungs; his heart started to hammer and then stutter – and all too soon, his vision began to fade.
It was his inability to breathe that really chilled him.
He had held his breath when swimming, of course; but that was voluntary. He still had control.
He had held it when he first saw her; wondering if he would ever breathe again ...
Now, as he raised his hand to the base of his neck, just above his collarbone, he felt the blood welling through his fingers and he felt himself on the verge of panic; a feeling he was unaccustomed to. Not panic at the injury itself, but at the feeling of his lungs being seemingly devoid of air and the chain reaction that it was setting off.
He would have found it interesting, if the situation had not been so dire.
His initial reaction was to gasp – but that only made it worse. He could not draw in enough air to settle himself and so he sank to his knees, his hand clasped tightly to his neck.
He closed his eyes.
If this was to be his last day, he would not leave this earth panicking; eyes wild with fear.
All sound around him ceased, whether a product of his mind closing down or the actual truth of it, he did not know. But then, another hand covered his and he was looking up into a familiar face.
Aramis.
Aramis would take care of the wound, but it would be up to Athos himself to calm his heart and slow the blood that continued to pump through his fingers. How, he did no know.
So he took a deep breath and held it.
For a moment, he felt his heart slow; only for it to race again and flutter uncomfortably in his chest.
Aramis was muttering quietly to himself as he pushed down on the wound. Between them, perhaps they could stop his life blood flowing into the dirt. All too soon, the darkness threatened to cut off his own attempts.
"Stay awake."
He focussed on Aramis's words.
It was all he could do.
oOo
It seemed a long ride back to the Garrison.
Later he would realise it was not at all but he was light-headed and his eyes were shut tight in concentration. He could hear Porthos yelling to the guard on the gate and soon he was being manhandled from his horse. He gasped at the sudden spike of pain and his heart started to quicken once more. The two were obviously related, but this was his first serious injury and he was unsure what his body was doing.
Aramis and Porthos kept saying, "Stay with us," and he was trying, he really was, but now he was being half carried into the infirmary and was no longer in charge of his own body. By necessity, he had to relinquish that.
Think of something else. Concentrate - on their voices; on the sounds around him.
Outwardly, he showed little sign of panic; calmly acquiescing to those who knew what to do. But inside, his mind raced at how to master his own body. He had always had that ability. He had simply gritted his teeth and got on with it.
However, he had never lost blood. Not like this.
He had never felt something ebbing away; his thoughts, his reason, his very life?
Before he knew it, he was on his back and surrounded by people, though by now he was beginning to lose focus.
Further pressure on his neck made him gasp once more, taking his breath.
With all his will, he focussed on his racing heart.
Taking small breathes, it began to respond; no longer hammering but the pace was fast and he could not totally control it.
Memories assailed him.
He remembered how Remy used to pump the water from the well outside his smithy in Pinon.
Even strokes of the handle, in a the steady rhythm.
As he thought on it, seeing the image of Remy in his mind's eye, he began to take a breath with each imagined pull.
Steady, even, fluid.
Gradually, he could breathe a little deeper as he kept the pace steady.
His body was becoming heavy but he did not know if this was due to his slower breathing or blood loss.
Someone gripped his hand. The blood pounding in his ears was all he heard, but he felt the sharpness of the needle entering the wound. Pain flared once more. Gathering himself, he maintained his newly-found skill; continuing to breathe in sync with each imagined pull of the well handle.
He felt the tug of each stitch. Heard now the murmured words as Aramis continued. Felt the warmth of Porthos's hand covering his own.
He could let go now.
He had control once more. His heart rate and breathing were now subtly linked to each other. He would remember this lesson.
He felt his body grow limp as the voices faded.
Just before he lost awareness, he heard Aramis's voice, clear and true:
"He'll be alright now."
oOo
Thanks for reading! Aramis next.
