Breathing

I Give You My Breath

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's 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's 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 lips, but Athos 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's 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's 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's job but he's been failing at his duties lately." Aramis winked over Athos's 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's 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, okay?"

Athos gave a negligible nod.

"Do you need any help?" d'Artagnan offered Aramis.

"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' 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's shoulder, completely spent.