Athos tried to lean over but firm arms held him upright as he vomited violently into the bowl held under his chin. Again and again he heaved, struggling to empty the contents of his stomach.
"Please, l-let me g-go." Athos weakly attempted to pull away from the restraining arms holding him but he didn't have the strength.
"We got to keep you sittin' up, Athos." Porthos held his friend tightly to his chest without budging.
"We can't let your stitches tear out again," Aramis replied with a serious tone.
The sick man was left gasping to catch his breath after being seized with yet another round of vomiting. He panted from fatigue, his chest rising and falling with exaggerated breaths. Sweat dripped from his face like drops of water.
Still, Porthos held Athos upright until he relaxed, and his breaths once again become slow and even.
D'Artagnan gently wiped the sweat from Athos' flushed face with a cool, damp cloth. The Gascon dipped the cloth in the bowl of cold water and repeated the cooling process on Athos' neck and chest. He rubbed in soothing circles with the cloth, cooling the fevered skin, as Athos leaned against the broad chest of Porthos.
"I need you to drink more water, Athos. You have to stay hydrated—you're losing too much water between the vomiting and sweating." Aramis held a cup of cold water to Athos's lip, but he turned away his head.
"It won't stay. . . d-down." Athos croaked, his voice hoarse from vomiting. "Throat hurts. . ."
"I know it hurts, Athos." Aramis placed a hand on Athos' forehead, checking his temperature. "The water will help soothe your throat; but you need to drink it or you will dehydrate. If you dehydrate, your condition will worsen."
Once again, Aramis held the cup of water to Athos' lips. "Take a sip," he ordered.
Athos obliged, bringing a smile underneath the medic's mask. "Try another." Aramis knew he was pushing his luck but Athos managed a small sip before turning away. The rest of the proffered water dribbled down his chin into his beard.
"Messy, aren't we?" Aramis chuckled as he dried his friend's chin and beard.
"Glad. . . I c-can make you laugh. . . in this dr-dreadful room," Athos grumbled.
"That's usually Porthos' job but he's been failing at his duties lately." Aramis winked over Athos' head at the large man tucked behind the sick Musketeer.
Porthos shook his head, offering only a throaty growl in response. He wasn't in a merry-making mood, for obvious reasons.
"I'm going to make you some hot elderberry and peppermint tea." Aramis informed, grimacing at the hot touch of Athos' skin. "The elderberry will help reduce the fever; and the peppermint will soothe and calm your upset stomach. I'll bring along some honey to soothe your sore throat too, alright?"
Athos gave a negligible nod.
"Do you need any help?" d'Artagnan offered.
"If you'd like to come, let's go." Aramis turned to Porthos and squeezed him softly on the shoulder. "Take care of him while I'm gone. Keep him sitting upright and don't let him droop, no matter what. I'll be right back."
"I'll make sure he doesn't move," Porthos nodded. "We're goin' nowhere."
"Where. . . w-would I go?" Athos whispered. "Cap'n has. . . gates closed. Can't go. . . to tav'rn for. . . drink." The ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth as he let his head fall back into Porthos' shoulder, completely spent.
"When we get through this, we'll go to any tavern you want," Aramis promised. "I'll even buy the drinks."
"'M-m. . ." Athos tiredly mumbled his approval.
"I'll hold ya to 'at, 'Mis." Porthos nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Make ya wish you didn't make 'at promise." Porthos smiled under the mask, though the smile did not reach his worried eyes.
"That's a promise I intend to keep." Aramis whispered as he lightly squeezed Athos' shoulder.
Athos gave a faint nod as his head settled softly into Porthos' shoulder, falling asleep right away.
"I think a nap might be in order till you get back, eh." Porthos pulled his arm tighter around Athos' middle and leaned his own head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The exhausted Musketeer fell asleep almost immediately.
Aramis and d'Artagnan traded amiable glances, each smiling at their two sleeping brothers. One brother held closely to the chest of the other with firm and devoted arms.
"Let's let them sleep." Aramis whispered as he and d'Artagnan turned to leave. At the door, he paused to glance at his sleeping friends once more.
Hold him tight, Porthos. He's going to need your strong arms when he no longer has the strength to carry on.
~§~
Aramis and d'Artagnan stopped by the infirmary to see how many Musketeers had fallen ill. Before they even walked through the door, they heard the loud noises of coughing and vomiting emanating from within.
"Oh, dear God," d'Artagnan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the full infirmary. Every bunk was filled with sick Musketeers; some were lying motionless, while others were bent over buckets retching.
Cécile was sitting beside a man and holding his hand as she wiped his brow. She looked absolutely exhausted and the poor sight of her made Aramis' heart break. He wanted desperately to wrap his arms around her waist and softly kiss her cheek, telling her that everything was going to be alright. If he could pull her away from this wretched place—even for a moment—it would do her a world of good.
M. Molyneux saw the two Musketeers looking around with the shock of the scene before them clearly evident in their eyes. "Is there something wrong with Athos, gentlemen, do you require me?"
"No, Molyneux." Aramis shook his head absently, as he watched his brother Musketeers. "We just. . . I just. . . Athos is sleeping. . ." his voice trailed.
"How bad is it, doctor?" d'Artagnan asked. He didn't really want to know the answer yet he needed to know the truth.
"It's not good, I'm afraid," Molyneux answered. "We have over twenty sick men in here with a few more sick men in the barracks that Doctor Senne is caring for. I do not know the total number of sick but. . ."
"But what, doctor?" Aramis sensed the doctor's deliberate hesitation.
"You needn't concern yourself right now." Molyneux avoided answering. "Just take care of Athos. He needs to be your only concern."
"No, what are you holding back from us, doctor?" d'Artagnan pressed.
"I shouldn't tell you this but perhaps it is best that you know the truth," Molyneux sighed. "We've had two deaths so far, Brisbois and Giroux."
"Giroux? Oh God. . ." d'Artagnan uttered with shock. He didn't know the man, but he had just borrowed chairs from his room. . . and now he was gone?
"Giroux? Oh damn," Aramis shook his head, suddenly overwhelmed. "Let's get out of here." Aramis faltered slightly and stumbled into d'Artagnan. "We need to go; Athos is waiting on that tea."
"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan asked the medic, just outside the infirmary.
"Our brothers are dying. . ." Aramis snapped. "No, I'm not alright."
D'Artagnan took one last look into the infirmary, then turned to follow Aramis to the kitchen.
The two Musketeers entered the kitchen to find Serge busy stirring a large pot of soup. The wonderful smell rising from the cooking soup made their stomachs growl.
Serge laughed, "Your stomachs tell me that you are both hungry. Sit down here at the table and I will get you each a bowl. I see that neither of you have been stricken by this dreadful illness; that is very good news. How is our dear Athos doing?"
"He's not doing so well, Serge," d'Artagnan answered truthfully. "But he is hanging on—we're determined to help get him through this—so help us God."
~§~
"Do you think we gave them enough time to sleep?" d'Artagnan asked as they headed back to the room.
"Yes, but if they're still sleeping we won't wake. . ." Aramis stopped short when he heard the sound of Athos vomiting in the room.
"Oh no. . ." D'Artagnan groaned as he followed Aramis rushing into the room.
Porthos was tightly hanging on to Athos' chest, with another arm wrapped around his shoulders. The large Musketeer slanted sideways to allow Athos to vomit over the edge of the bed, as the bowl was not within reach.
"Thank God you're back!" Porthos called out. "He just started vomiting."
"Damn. . ." Athos gasped, out of breath. "It hurss. . ."
"Keep him up straight, Porthos." Aramis rushed to the bedside with the bowl. "I hope he didn't strain his sides, dammit!" He lifted Athos' shirt to check the tight cloths and bandages for signs of bleeding, but found nothing.
" 'Mis. . . God. . ." Athos was overcome with more heaving, though nothing was coming up. The dry heaves left him breathless as he felt his chest constricting from the lack of oxygen. Gasping for air, he fell back against Porthos, trembling with panic as he fought to catch his breath.
"Shh, I've go' you, don't panic," Porthos soothed. "Just try to lie still and breathe. . . slow your breathing."
Aramis cupped his hands around Athos' face, supporting his head in his hands at eye level. "Athos, calm down and look at me. Catch your breath; you have to slow your breathing down!"
Athos began dry heaving again but Porthos didn't move. He sat still, holding Athos up ramrod straight with a vice-like hold. "I've got you. . ."
Athos' face began turning red from the struggle to breathe. He desperately tried to suck in gasps of breath but his lungs felt heavy and unwilling to cooperate. The small ragged breaths he drew were not sufficient to feed his oxygen-starved lungs.
"C-ca. . ." Athos cried. He could hear the voices telling him to slow his breathing, but he couldn't slow what he was unable to do in the first place. His friends were not understanding that he was not getting any air in his lungs.
Athos panicked and tried to pull away from the arms holding him down but the iron grip was too strong. His lungs burned for oxygen and Athos finally realized that he was losing the fight to simply breathe. His vision began fading to black and he welcomed the approaching darkness.
Athos suddenly went limp in Porthos' arms. His panicked features went lax, his beet-red face set against lips outlined in blue.
"Oh, God." Aramis cried out as he lifted Athos' head to see the sickly color of his face.
"Help me lay him on the floor, d'Artagnan—quick!" The men laid Athos flat and immediately Aramis leaned over his friend's chest to check for a heartbeat. He found a heartbeat but no rise or fall to his chest. "My God, he's not breathing!"
Aramis tore off his mask as he tilted Athos' head back and breathed air into his friend's mouth. He could see the chest rise with his own breaths but nothing more. "Come on, Athos! Dammit, breathe!"
Aramis came up for air, taking big gulps before leaning back over the mouth of Athos and blowing his life-giving air into the oxygen deprived lungs.
"Please God!" Aramis gasped as he found himself short of breath from giving away the very air in his own lungs to aid his dying brother. "Athos, please. . . breathe, dammit!" He gulped a breath again just to blow into the open mouth.
Aramis breathed air again and again into Athos' mouth, continuing with several breaths and subsequent blows, until he could finally see the gentle rise and fall of the chest as Athos began to breathe once again on his own.
"Oh, thank God!" Aramis cried out, collapsing over Athos' chest. He let flow the relieved sobs until he toppled weak and out of breath onto his back, lying next to Athos on the floor.
D'Artagnan dropped to his knees beside Athos, opposite of Aramis, and took a limp hand in his own; he leaned over to rest his head on Athos' forehead.
Porthos collapsed back onto the bunk and rested his head in his hands as he cried with relief.
D'Artagnan sat up after a moment to look at Aramis, his teary eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. "Oh no, Aramis. . . your mask. You took off your mask and touched Athos on the mouth. . ." his voice uttered, barely above a whisper.
"Doesn't matter," Aramis retorted. "Athos wasn't breathing; I couldn't just watch and do nothing."
"Yes it does matter, Aramis!" d'Artagnan chided. "What about you? What's going to happen to you now?"
Aramis just shrugged and let the subject drop. In his heart, he knew—and accepted—the certain consequence his desperate action of resuscitating Athos would bring. He fully accepted the fact that he just exposed himself to catarrh.
I would do anything to save Athos—even if it means that I exchange my life for his.
An overwhelming dread washed over the young Gascon as he contemplated the consequence of Aramis' actions. But what else could he have done, watch Athos die simply because he didn't want to get sick?
That would never happen, d'Artagnan thought.
D'Artagnan knew this was not the time to argue or question Aramis' actions, so he turned his focus back onto Athos. "How long should we leave him lying on the floor like this?"
Aramis barely stirred. He moved his head to look at Athos with tear-filled eyes. "How long, d'Artagnan?"
"Yes, how long?" d'Artagnan replied, though now he was thoroughly confused. "How long, what?"
"How long can we keep cheating death? How long can we keep putting off the inevitable?"
"What the hell are you talking about, 'Mis?" Porthos growled, raising his head up from his hands.
"Who am I fooling?" Aramis closed his eyes against the tears continuing to spill. "Athos needs more than what I can offer; I'm not a doctor. Hope is not enough to heal Athos."
"What kind of insane talk is that, Aramis?" D'Artagnan couldn't believe his ears. He looked up to watch Porthos as he stood and walked to where Aramis remained lying on the floor.
Porthos grabbed Aramis by the shirt collar and pulled him till he was sitting up. "Do you see 'at?" He pointed to Athos' chest, rising and falling with breath. "He's breathing because of you!" He shook Aramis, his hands fisting his shirt. "You took off your damn mask and pu' your mouth on his so he could breathe again! What more could you possibly offer him?"
Aramis said nothing.
"No, you're not an actual doctor, Aramis," d'Artagnan chimed in. "But you're the best, without having the job title. You're right, hope is not enough to heal Athos—but you're the only hope he has!"
"Without you, he would be down in that infirmary, Aramis. . . and he would be as good as dead," Porthos said gruffly.
Aramis closed his eyes at hearing Porthos' words. He saw the awful scene of suffering and death in the infirmary; he knew Athos would not survive as a patient in there.
"Pull yourself together, 'Mis. I don't want to hear you doubt yourself like that again," Porthos growled. "Do you hear me? You're better than 'at!" Porthos let go of the shirt with a push, leaving the shirt crumpled.
Athos awakened, having partially heard the exchange of words. He turned his head to watch Aramis sitting beside him with his eyes downcast, staring at the floor. "You're. . . the b-best. . . I know."
At Athos' voice, Aramis immediately was back in action checking Athos' breathing, heartbeat, and pulse. "How are you feeling, Athos? You scared us, I thought. . ." his voiced trailed as he choked on a sob.
"I'm here. . . b-but. . ." Athos paused, his eyes scanning Aramis' face. "Where's your. . . m-mask? Please. . . don't tell me. . ." Athos' eyes filled with tears. "No. . ."
Suddenly, Athos was wracked with a severe bout of coughing that had him curling into himself.
"No, Athos!" Aramis yelled.
D'Artagnan quickly rushed to pull Athos into his arms, trying to hold the struggling man upright. He screamed out in pain as Athos' thrashing sent pain shooting down his arm.
Porthos pulled Athos from d'Artagnan and backed himself and his armload up onto the bed. He sat back against the wall with Athos firmly in his grip, preventing him from doubling over.
Athos vomited up the water, just as Aramis rushed the bowl underneath the sick man's chin.
"Hold him forward just a little bit, Porthos." Aramis yelled. "He's going to aspirate. . ."
Athos began choking on the vomitus. Once again, he found himself gasping for breath, wheezing with every panicked attempt to inhale. His eyes grew wide at the renewed inability to breathe.
"Please God, some help here. . ." Aramis pleaded as he rushed into action to help Athos. He pulled the choking man forward and began slapping his back to loosen the vomitus in the lungs. He continued slapping and pounding until Athos finally threw up the liquid, clearing his lungs.
Athos drew in a long and ragged breath, greedily gulping air into his lungs; his chest heaved heavily once again from exertion. He scrunched up his eyes at the overwhelming pain that seemed to envelope his body.
"Dammit, his sutures. . ." Aramis quickly pulled back the binding cloths and bandages but found the sutures still intact with no tears. "Thank you, God." Aramis whispered quietly, looking upward as he crossed himself.
"I've go' ya, brother," Porthos said as Athos relaxed. Pulling the sick man close to his chest, the large Musketeer felt the tremors shiver through his brother's body; the heat radiating from his skin raised quiet alarm. "You're goin' to be okay."
"My. . . throat feels like. . . I swallowed sh-shards of. . . g-glass." Athos whispered painfully.
"Here," d'Artagnan proffered a cup with the warm elderberry tea they brought from the kitchen. He held it to Athos' lips and tipped the cup, allowing the soothing liquid to drip down his throat. "Careful, I don't want you to choke again."
D'Artagnan continued pouring the tea, a little at a time, into Athos' mouth. He slowly swallowed the liquid coating his throat until he couldn't handle anymore and turned his head.
"Good, Athos."Aramis soothed, while checking Athos' pulse and breathing. "The elderberry tea will help reduce the fever and the peppermint will calm your stomach, we'll see how long it stays down. We have to keep a steady supply of tea going down because some will come right back up again. Eventually, however, the elderberry will work on bringing your fever down."
Athos collapsed bone-tired into the safe and comforting arms of Porthos holding him tight. "Try to sleep, big brother. Rest while you can, while you're not coughing or getting sick."
Aramis shook his head as he pulled his hand away from Athos' fevered brow. His fever was climbing and the medic knew if they didn't bring it under control quickly it could bring serious consequence—even death.
Athos shivered from a sudden chill trembling through his body, despite the heat burning inside of him. "C-c-cold. . ."
D'Artagnan handed Aramis a blanket which he draped over Athos, carefully tucking it around his shoulders.
"I'm goin' to get real hot back here." Porthos shot Aramis a worried glance.
"We'll try to keep you as cool as possible, my friend." Aramis smiled.
Aramis stood and turned to d'Artagnan. "We better go get some cold water for Porthos and hot elderberry tea for Athos. Plus, I need to take another look at that shoulder of yours. This may be a long, hard night for all of us."
"God help us all. . ." D'Artagnan muttered under his breath as he turned with Aramis to fetch the water. The young Gascon wondered how much longer Athos could hold on when catarrh had already nearly robbed him of his breath.
D'Artagnan shuddered to think of what tomorrow might bring with Athos already so weak and deathly sick. Now Aramis has also been exposed to the illness, adding to their misery. "God, if you're up there, we need your help; we're in serious trouble down here."
A/N:
Several ancient written accounts of resuscitation have been noted. Such as with Galen (129-199 AD) in which he inflated the lungs of dead animals via the trachea with a fireplace bellows and concluded that the air movement caused the chest to rise.
In 1472, Paulus Bagellardus published the first book on childhood diseases and described mouth to mouth resuscitation of the newborn.
Again, the use of a fireplace bellows (the bellows pumped air, much the same as a bike tire pump) was mentioned in a medical journal by Swiss/German physician, Paracelsus (1493-1541). Paracelsus was a revolutionary physician ahead of his own time in medicine and, especially, in chemistry. He is credited for giving zinc its name; and he is credited for the creation of laudanum. He believed that everything in the universe is connected, and so beneficial medicines were to be found in herbs and minerals/chemicals.
William Tossach in 1745, presented to the Royal Society of London, his results when he resuscitated a coal mining victim overcome by smoke.
In 1740 the Paris Academy of Sciences officially recommended mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as a means of treating drowning victims.