Breathing

Medics Make Bad Patients, Part II

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged worried glances. Anxiously they watched as the medic appeared to slip deeper into a fevered slumber as his head tossed from side to side, caught in the grips of an unknown dream.

"His fever burns real hot, d'Art." Porthos shook his head grimly. "I think it migh' be time to go ask for help."

"I think you're right. I'll go see if Doctor Molyneux is available." d'Artagnan left the room to fetch the doctor, stopping just outside the door where he leaned against the wall. He took off his mask and gulped in the fresh air as though he had been under water.

He wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes and leaned over at the waist as he was overcome with dizziness. "God please, I can't get sick too—Porthos needs my help in there! I can't leave him alone to take care of all three of us."

Waiting until the dizziness passed, d'Artagnan put his mask back on before making his way to the infirmary.

*****

d'Artagnan entered the infirmary and instantly regretted coming back to this place. Though he had stopped by the sickroom before and was surprised then at the severity of the illness, it's nothing compared to the appalling scene he is now looking at. The infirmary is overrun, with every bed full and extra cots filling the aisles and rows with the sick and dying Musketeers.

"Merciful God," d'Artagnan gasped. The Gascon had to fight the urge to run from the room as his stomach rolled and threatened to rebel. He breathed deeply, reminding himself that he came here to get help, but as he looked around he feared they probably couldn't spare anyone. How could he ask the doctor to leave all these sick men to care for one—no matter who that one was?

"d'Artagnan, I assume you came here to ask for help, yes?" M. Molyneux inquired.

"I, um, y-yes. . ." d'Artagnan stumbled over his words. He really didn't want to burden the poor doctor any further.

"As you can plainly see, we are overrun with cases and I have my hands quite full. What is the problem, is it Athos? Has he awakened?" Molyneux inquired.

"No, there is no change with Athos. It's actually Aramis I'm seeking help for." d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably as a Musketeer vomited a great deal of liquid into a bowl near where the Gascon stood.

"What is wrong with our dear medic, my boy?" The doctor continued with his ministrations of the sick Musketeer while speaking with the Gascon.

"Doctor, Aramis's fever is spiking." d'Artagnan said, his voice laced with worry. "I think he's becoming delirious—he's mumbling and talking in his sleep."

"Yes, you need to reduce the fever." The doctor absently stated the obvious. "Have you and Porthos been using the cold compresses as you did with Athos?"

"Yes, doctor, and so far, nothing is working, not even the tea. He just keeps getting worse."

"Doctor, excuse me," Cécile interrupted. "I would like to assist them with Aramis, if I may? I know you are busy in here with so many sick men, but perhaps I can be of help to Aramis."

"Yes, of course, Cécile." Molyneux nodded. "It seems to have settled down in here somewhat. Doctor Senne and I can manage for a while. Please, do what you can for our young medic—these Musketeers need the talent and skill that only he can offer."

"Thank you, doctor, you're very kind." d'Artagnan sighed gratefully, smiling at the compliment paid to his friend.

"Are you alright, young man?" Molyneux noted the weary sound to d'Artagnan's voice. "Are you starting to feel ill?"