"There is a nagging fear growing in the back of my mind, doctor." Aramis expressed his anxieties and unease. "I'm worried that if Athos gets sick like these men he is going to end up vomiting, which is how he tore his stitches out in the first place."
"You will have to keep a close eye on him, Aramis. However," Molyneux paused, "you will not know if Athos was exposed to the illness until he awakens. If he becomes ill, there are extra precautions we can take to help prevent him from tearing his stitches.
Porthos brought over the stretcher to carry Athos out of the infirmary. "Cap'n got Athos' room ready for 'im so we can take 'im there."
"Alright gentlemen, carefully, we must lift him together," Molyneux instructed. Once lifted onto the stretcher, the men carried Athos to the room and carefully transferred him from the stretcher to the bed.
"Thank you, gentlemen," Molyneux said. "Now all of you must begin round-the-clock vigilance of Athos, while I take care of the men in the infirmary. If there is an emergency with him, please do not hesitate to come fetch me. Aramis, if you will follow me, I will get the herbs for d'Artagnan's rub and show you the exercises he must do to help his arm heal."
"Oh, I'm sure d'Artagnan will be thrilled to begin therapy." Aramis winked at the Gascon with a wry grin.
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the sarcasm.
"Remember, do the exercises and your arm will heal." Molyneux squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder and shook his hand. "Come, Aramis. I won't keep you but for a few minutes."
"I'll sit with Athos first." Porthos informed the group.
Minutes Later:
"Cap'n knows where we are and has given us permission to be wit' im. So we might as well pull up a chair 'n get comfortable." Porthos pulled the nearest chair—the only chair—and plopped his large frame down. He stretched out his longs legs and crossed his arms, settling in for the long haul ahead.
"What?" Porthos raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence, while giving a devilish grin at his two friends staring back at him.
"You just took the only chair in the room." D'Artagnan shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Who said you get to have the chair?"
"There's plenty o' chairs in the other rooms—go steal one," Porthos smirked.
"Steal one?" D'Artagnan's questioned the instruction.
"Steal one, Porthos?" Aramis repeated drily. "Um, very unsound advice, mon ami. Seniority does have its privileges, however." Aramis turned to d'Artagnan and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I think it's the pup's turn for this mission."
"My turn?" D'Artagnan's eyes widened at Aramis' delegation of the chair hunting. "Why do I have go steal the chairs?"
Porthos slapped his knee and gave a hearty laugh. "You don't really have to steal 'em, pup. Just go next door and borrow the chairs—we'll give 'em back when we're done wit' 'em."
"That's Giroux's room next door," Aramis motioned his head to the right. "He won't mind if we borrow his chairs—just be sure to take both."
"Oh no, I hardly know Giroux that well—nor does he know me well," d'Artagnan protested. "If I am going to his room to borrow his furniture, you are coming with me." He grabbed Aramis by the arm. "If he catches me in the act or later inquires where his chairs disappeared to. . . I'll tell him it was all your idea!"
"Smart pup," Porthos quipped. "Always thinkin' ahead, eh. Athos is teachin' him well."
"Besides," d'Artagnan added. "I still have an injured arm and I can't carry two chairs."
"Oh, you're going to use that excuse, are you?" Aramis grinned. "I'll come with you to borrow the chairs and then we'll get started on your therapy when we get back."
"Great." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. . . again.
~§~
"Lift your arm as high as you are able, d'Artagnan." Aramis instructed, studying the Gascon's movements while noting the grimaces and winces of pain on his face.
"This is as high as I can lift it, Aramis." D'Artagnan hissed through his clenched teeth.
"Damn, you obviously experienced damage to the deltoid muscle in your upper arm, which is why you're having trouble moving it up and down. Your body has gone into self-preservation mode by slowing the muscle's ability to move; in other words, your muscle has become rigid."
"Great," d'Artagnan muttered. "Is this something that can cause permanent damage to my arm?"
"If left untreated, the muscle will contract and then basically shrivel up, rendering it useless."
"Oh damn, Aramis!" D'Artagnan's eyes grew wide with worry.
"I just said, if left untreated, d'Artagnan!" Aramis corrected, patting the young man's arm reassuringly. "You will need to do some exercises to get those muscles stretched out and limber again—it's going to be a little painful but it's necessary for healing."
"Hmm, thanks for the uplifting prognosis, Aramis," d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm really looking forward to the exercises now, thank you." The young Gascon uttered sarcastically.
"Come on, it won't be that bad," Aramis grinned. "Besides, the herbal rub we'll apply afterward will help ease the pain; it will also pull out excess lactic acid that is causing the muscle stiffness."
"How do you know all this stuff, 'Mis?" Porthos asked with astonishment.
"Well, in my spare time, while you are out gambling and Athos is out drowning away old memories, I am studying medical journals and essays."
"Rubbish, 'at sounds boring." Porthos scratched his head. "It'd put me to sleep."
"How will I know how to take care of you boys when you get hurt out there if I don't teach myself, huh?" Aramis raised his eyebrows expectantly. "I could send you to Doctor Senne," the medic gave an evil grin.
"No thanks!" Porthos and d'Artagnan protested in unison.
~§~
The worried Musketeers sat around Athos' sickroom keeping anxious watch over their unconscious friend. They busied themselves with small talk, an occasional game of cards or, in d'Artagnan's case, exercising an injured arm.
"How long will he sleep, Aramis?" D'Artagnan stretched his arm sideways and then upward, wincing at the pain it caused. "Shouldn't he have stirred by now? It's been six hours!" The fear of catarrh adding complications to Athos' recovery was beginning to gnaw at the Gascon's patience.
"After a surgery such as his, Athos could easily be out for at least a day or two. If he has not awakened after two days, then I will start worrying." Aramis answered wearily.
"Two days?" D'Artagnan scrubbed a hand over his face. "We have to wait that long?"
"His body needs time to recover and heal," Aramis advised the Gascon. "What he needs most right now is rest. He cannot begin healing if he is awake and causing undue stress on his wounds."
"You should go get some rest, Aramis," d'Artagnan said softly, noting the weary features on his friend's face. "You rose early this morning to do the surgery and you've been at his side ever since. You look exhausted and we may be facing another rough road ahead. Rest will do you some good."
"I'm not going anywhere," Aramis protested.
"Well, I'll go downstairs to ask Serge to have dinner brought up." Porthos stood and stretched, yawning. "I'll ask the cap'n if someone can bring in an extra cot for you. If you won't go anywhere else to lie down and sleep, you can at least rest in here."
"I'll come with you, Porthos," d'Artagnan offered. "I need to get up and move around or I'm going to fall asleep. When I get back, will you put that herbal rub on my arm? It's starting to hurt again."
"Of course," Aramis answered. "I'll get it mixed for you while you're downstairs."
As the door closed, Aramis reached to check Athos' temperature—for the hundredth time in the last hour. "I wish you would wake up, my friend. At least, let me know how you're doing and how you're feeling. Come on Athos. Give me a sign, please." Aramis pleaded, but to no avail.
Aramis took Athos' limp hand and grasped it firmly. He gently stroked his friend's hair, his eyes filled with tears as a depressing thought came to mind.
"It seems we can't get past the scenario of you lying unconscious while I watch helplessly, holding your hand. Meanwhile, I'm begging for you to fight; begging for you to live. When am I going to wake from this nightmare to find the moody—but healthy—Athos we all love so much?"
Aramis' mind floated back to the nightmare he had at the château and shuddered as cold shivers caused goosebumps to spring up over his body.
I have a bad feeling about this mission. . .
Don't do this, Athos, Please, don't leave us, brother. What will we do without you?
We can't lose you, Athos. Please, don't do this—don't leave us.
"God. . . I can't go through this again." Aramis leaned forward, covering his face with both hands. "Athos was alive and well when we left the château. We didn't bring him home just to watch him die—he is not going to die!" the medic mumbled into his hands.
Athos returning home alive has proven your nightmare wrong, 'Mis. Stop worrying so much!
"Porthos did say that," Aramis mused aloud.
"I won't stop worrying until you wake up, Athos. We have another long road ahead. We have to stay one step ahead of sepsis. . . catarrh. . ."
"God, how much more can Athos possibly endure?" Aramis' voice cracked.
"I am a well-trained medic. I know the best thing for you right now is rest, but all I want to do is shake you awake to calm my fears." Aramis stood up in frustration, his hands tugging at his hair.
"It's too soon to worry, I know that." Aramis turned to face Athos lying motionless on the bed.
"So why do I feel like there's still a chance of my dream becoming a reality? Everything is the same, only the location has changed. Before we left the château, you were doing so well. . ."
"Why in the hell did we have to move you?" Aramis growled.
"I feel like I am losing my mind." Aramis sat back down beside Athos, a storm of worry brewing in his brown eyes.
"'Mis and d'Artagnan are both going to be fine because of you. They're alive because of what you did for all of us back there in the forest," Porthos paused.
"But none of that means a damn thing, Athos, if you don't fight for yourself; if you don't fight for your own life. Your life matters brother. You matter to all of us." Porthos wiped at a tear threatening to fall.
"Don't you dare go to sleep on us, Athos. You stay with us; you stay awake. I'm not letting go. . . don't you let go either."
"Do you remember me saying those words to you, Athos?" Aramis took Athos' hand in his own again.
"Wait, or did I say that in my dream—just before you died? Dammit, I don't know what is real anymore."
Aramis leaned forward to rest his head on Athos' chest, draping his arm across his friend's stomach. The medic closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall asleep, listening to the steady rhythm of the Musketeer lieutenant's heartbeat.
~§~
Porthos and d'Artagnan later returned to the room to find Aramis draped over Athos. Both Musketeers stopped dead in their tracks, each thinking the worst. They exchanged frightened glances before rushing to the bed.
"Aramis, is everything alright?" d'Artagnan asked in a panic voice. "Did something happen to Athos?"
"What?" Aramis was pulled from sleep by Porthos' strong grasp on his shoulder, waking him.
"'Mis, what happened, what's wrong with Athos?" The large Musketeer put his fingers to the lieutenant's neck to check his pulse. "He still has a pulse," Porthos sighed with relief. "Aramis, did he wake up?"
"Nothing is wrong, he didn't wake up," Aramis sighed. "I just fell asleep, that's all. I guess that I was more tired than I thought."
"We have a cot comin' up now," Porthos motioned toward the still-open door. "But first, you are goin' to eat dinner, and then you're goin' to lie down for a while. d'Art and I can keep watch over Athos; you're no good to him if you're dead on your feet."
"Don't say you're not hungry or that you're not tired, because, obviously, that is untrue," d'Artagnan pointed out.
"We're not takin' no for an answer, 'Mis, so don't go there." Porthos stood defiantly, his thumbs hooked on his belt. "M. Molyneux is helping the men in the infirmary, at the capn's request, so it's up to us to take care of Athos."
"I forgot to make the herbal rub so I'll get that for you real quick first." Aramis said as he began pulling out the ingredients from his satchel. Soon, a refreshing aroma filled the room causing everyone to instinctively breathe in the lovely smell.
"Mmm. . . what is that, Aramis?" d'Artagnan breathed deeply with closed eyes.
"This is eucalyptus and wintergreen, which will pull the lactic acid from your muscles," Aramis pointed to the bowl. "And this is chamomile and mint, which is an antiseptic that will prevent infection from settling in your arm."
"Smells—and sounds—almost good enough to eat," Porthos chuckled.
"Come here, d'Artagnan." Aramis motioned with his head. "Let's get this rub on your arm."
Second Evening After Surgery, No Change in Athos:
"I l-love y-youuu. . ." Athos said, taking one last breath.
Athos was gone.
His glassy green eyes were open, but now were empty.
Time had stopped.
Grief slammed into the Musketeers like a tornado ripping away their very soul. Anguished screams of sudden sorrow filled the air. Like angry waves they rolled, echoing down the hall.
"No!" Aramis screamed as he sat upright in the chair. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over the Musketeer and he leaned forward in his chair. "God, I think I'm going to be sick." The medic rested his head in his hands until the dizziness passed.
The soft snoring coming from the cot stopped abruptly at the scream. "'Mis, are you alright?" Porthos fumbled in the dark, trying to light a candle. "Dammit, I can't see!" the large Musketeer growled in the dark.
"What happened, Aramis?" d'Artagnan mumbled, still half-asleep.
"You had that dream again, didn't ya, 'Mis? Bloody hell," Porthos cursed quietly.
"Do you want to talk about it?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Shh!" Aramis suddenly cried out. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear wha'?" Porthos asked into the darkness.
"I thought I heard Athos," Aramis whispered. "Why haven't you gotten that candle lit yet, Porthos? Dammit, I need to see!"
"M-m-m. . ." Athos moaned.
Porthos finally got the candle to burn; using it, he lit another candle and another, until the room was aglow in soft yellow light.
Looking to the bed, the three brothers watched as Athos tossed his head from side-to-side, moaning.
"He's coming around, Aramis!" d'Artagnan exclaimed.
"Athos, it's Aramis. I'm here." Aramis immediately leaned forward in his chair, one hand held Athos' hand while the other stroked his face, tapping his cheek softly. "Come on, my friend, wake up for me."
"M-m," Athos moaned again, his eyes still closed. His movements stopped and his breathing evened out again as he appeared to return to sleep's grasp.
"No, Athos, dammit!" With an obvious sense of urgency, Aramis shook his sleeping friend's shoulders to waken him. "You are not going back to sleep just yet, Athos. We need you to wake up, now!"
Sensing the tone of urgency in Aramis' voice, Athos struggled through the fog of unconsciousness. The fog felt safe and beckoned him to return; slowly, it began pulling him back down into the darkness.
"Athos, we need you to wake up." Aramis slapped his cheek lightly. "You have slept long enough."
Athos weakly pulled his eyes open to mere slits.
Aramis looked into Athos' barely-open green eyes. In the warm firelight, the medic saw his patient's eyes were distant, unfocused and unseeing. "Athos, I'm right here; look at me." The medic pulled Athos' chin toward him so the patient's eyes would focus directly in front him
There's a voice calling for me through the fog. . . Athos tried to fight the confusion.
"Ar'mis. . ." Athos blinked slowly, seeing shadows of three figures hovering over him. His ears were no longer ringing, so he could clearly hear his friends begging him to wake up.
But Athos was so tired; he was finding it difficult to waken. He let his eyes slide closed again.
"Athos, I need to know how you're feeling. Are you hurting anywhere? Do you feel sick?" Aramis questioned urgently.
"Come back to us, Athos. Please," d'Artagnan begged.
Athos opened his eyes and blinked away the fuzziness, until he could focus on the smiling, yet worried, faces of his friends.
"There you are," Aramis smiled. "How do you feel?"
"Tir'd," he answered, his eyes closed again.
"No you don't." Aramis grabbed his chin, causing Athos' eyes to fly back open in surprise. "Besides tired, how do you feel? Are you in any pain?"
"My sides hurt. . ."
"Alright, that's to be expected and is perfectly normal. We'll help take care of that, Athos. Is there anything else?" Aramis prodded anxiously.
"I feel c-cold." Athos shivered slightly. "I don't feel so good. . . I feel queasy." Athos let out a small cough and let his eyes droop closed once more.
"Fine, Athos, you can sleep now. Rest, we'll be right here when you wake up." Aramis pulled the blanket to just under Athos' chin, tucking it gently around his shoulders.
He wearily leaned back in his chair then looked up at his two friends; his eyes began to mist. Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face and paused with his hand over his mouth. He stayed frozen, deep in his own private thoughts, until Porthos' voice pulled him from the dark reverie.
"What is it, 'Mis? Dammit, what's wrong?"
Aramis shook his head. He let his head droop until his chin nearly rested on his chest. "Earlier, I asked how much more suffering Athos could possibly endure. Apparently, we're about to find out," he paused.
"What do you mean, Aramis?" Porthos and d'Artagnan echoed, anxiously.
"Athos is showing early symptoms of the same illness bringing half the garrison to its knees. I'm afraid he has contracted catarrh."
A/N:
The term Catarrh (the early terminology for influenza; or the flu, as we call it today) was first used in the early 15th century. There was a REAL French physician named Molyneux who wrote a report on epidemic catarrh (epidemic flu outbreaks) inPhilosophical Transactions, Dr. Molyneux 1694. His writing was a study on coughs, colds and epidemic observations, such as with the flu.