Breathing

Survival Masks

Athos was becoming aware of voices murmuring like distant whispers in a thick fog. His fevered mind raced wildly, trying to remember. . .

His memory is cloudy and he can't think straight. All he feels is pain. His entire body aches but he can't remember why he hurts.

He feels a heavy weight on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He gasps for breath but the air won't come. Instead, his body is wracked with wet coughs, seizing his body with stabbing pain emanating from both his sides.

He feels someone lifting him up and strong arms holding him close, protective hands applying pressure to his sides. He flinches and tries to pull away from the pressure in his sides, but the hands hold him tight.

Why are my sides hurting like this? Why can't I remember?

Athos feels another pair of hands gently pounding his back to help him breathe. They rub 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 is beginning to dissipate in Athos's brain. He is becoming more aware, though he still can't remember where he is or how he got here.

"Athos, can you hear me?"

He recognizes 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 getting' tired." Porthos's light bantering contradicts the worry etched on his face.

"Open your eyes for me, mon ami." Aramis taps Athos's cheek while holding his chin up with his other hand.

It takes all the strength he can muster, but Athos pulls his eyes open halfway. He blinks repeatedly trying to clear his blurry vision. "Two. . . 'Mis. . ."

"Pardon?" Aramis's brow knitted in confusion. "What do you see two of, Athos?"

"I see. . . two of you." Athos's 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's sides flared, eliciting a scream from the oldest Musketeer. The excruciating pain flashes through his middle, sending tremors surging through every limb and appendage. Black dots begin dancing on the edges of his vision.

He wants to give in to the darkness. At least in the darkness he doesn't suffer in pain.

Athos was pulled tighter into the broad chest with strong yet gentle arms, consoling and soothing away the wracking coughs. "Stay awake, Athos," a 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.