Breathing

Just Kill Me Now

"Raise your arm up so that it's even with your shoulder." Aramis instructed d'Artagnan.

"I can't raise it up that high," the Gascon complained.

"Just do it, raise it as high as you can." Aramis ordered, not accepting any excuses. "Good," the medic stated as he watched the younger Musketeer strain to bring his arm nearly to his shoulder.

"I can't go any higher," d'Artagnan said through clenched teeth. Tiny beads of sweat began popping up all over the young man's forehead.

"Okay, hang onto my arm." Aramis nodded. "This is probably going to hurt, but we need to stretch out the muscles to prevent them from becoming rigid again. Hang on."

"Arghh. . ." d'Artagnan screamed in pain as Aramis raised his arm to the shoulder and kept going until it was raised above his head.

"I'm sorry, d'Art," Aramis apologized, his eyes conveying regret at causing the young man so much pain. "I am going repeat this exercise until we get to five; and then we will do arm rotations."

"Do we have to do so many? It already hurts, that's just going to make it worse," d'Artagnan growled.

"We have to do this just as Molyneux instructed, d'Artagnan." Aramis answered resolutely. "If you don't exercise that arm it's going to get worse, not better. After the exercises, we will follow with a heated compress for about twenty minutes. This will loosen those tight muscles in your upper arm and will get the blood circulating again."

d'Artagnan breathed heavily but nodded, "fine."

"The applied heat will also pull the lactic acid out of your muscle and, therefore, will take away the stiffness. Your arm will feel much better after we are done, I promise. We'll finish up with a nice herbal rub." Aramis smiled.

"Sounds great," d'Artagnan mumbled sarcastically. "Let's just get it over with. . ." The young Musketeer gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the upcoming torture.

*****

Porthos is startled awake with the sound of hoarse coughing; but it is the vibrations against him that shake him from his sleep, though only partially.

Still half asleep and bone-weary, he shakes the fog from his brain and is momentarily confused as to why he feels so hot.

Is something wrong with me? Porthos wonders, tiredly.

Athos struggles against the arm loosely draped across his chest still holding him in place. He feels the bile rising in his throat, "I'm going to. . ."

Athos strains as he vomits up the latest cups of herbal tea and water, breathlessly emptying the contents of his stomach into a proffered bowl.

"Hold him up straighter, Porthos." Aramis said abruptly. "Don't let him droop over."

"Hold on, I've go' you." Porthos whispered in his friend's ear.

"God. . . I c-can't do this any-anymore." Athos chokes out between gasps of breath. He grimaces as he tries to clear his throat, wincing at the pain it causes. "My throat is on f-fire. . . I can't sw-swallow."

"We'll get you some more tea with honey." Aramis offered.

"No!" Athos blurted out, immediately regretting such an impetuous response as it caused more harsh coughs. "No. . . more tea. Not drink-drinking. . . no more. . . comes back up. No more."

"I can't let you dehydrate, Athos. Some of the elderberry and peppermint is making its way into your stubborn system, even with you vomiting most of the tea back up."