𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 | [𝐌𝐱𝐌]

I

Caressing his thumb along his damp, heated patches of skin, Feyrík's lips dropped into a frown. The ragged, hoarse, shallow breathing that emanated from his brother, Anweyn, filled his ears; filled his heart with an early case of survivor's guilt.

Having no choice but to quarantine themselves inside their home so that the disease that infected his sibling did not pounce from person to person, Feyrík felt useless; hopeless; on the verge of giving up. Their mother and father were gone, passed on from being bedridden for long. Feyrík was of the lucky few who was not ailing-but he had a wave of doubt that he was healthy. A plaguing cough would harshly wrack his lungs time and again.

Gently did he lift his hand from Anweyn's face-only for him to halt, freeze in place when his siblings' near-lifeless, bloodshot eyes met his own. Lacking a strong voice, Anweyn gave a weak shake of his head.

Although he did not yearn for his elder brother to suffer the same fate, he wanted his hand placed where it had been, on his cheek. It was cool; comforting; a way for him to know that Feyrík himself was alive.

"I will be back in a moment." Feyrík's hand eased itself onto the bed, gliding across the stained sheets that reeked of dried blood, sweat, and an abundance of bitter tears. His fingers brushed against Anweyn's own-calloused; cracking; unsettlingly warm-a reminder that fever was ravaging his body. "The broth is ready, brother," spoke the man in a gentle voice. He could hear the bubbling of the liquid in the pot which rested casually just above the burning fire in the sitting room; it was connected to Anweyn's bedroom. "You must eat. I will not allow you to starve."

Anweyn's gaze fixed with Feyrík's in that instant. He could see fear written in his baby blues-if he hadn't such eyes, Feyrík had a deep feeling that he wouldn't have recognized his own sibling. The Anweyn he knew was full of life; he was exuberant, carefree, but a hard worker. The young man of nineteen, motionlessly draped along the bed, appeared a corpse. Greying skin; eyes almost lifeless yet holding a bright shade of familiar indigo; visible beads of sweat raking down his forehead, neck, and bare chest.

Sending Anweyn a reassuring smile, which even his sibling knew was forced, Feyrík pulled his hand back. Rising, Feyrík inched just a bit closer-he pressed the most delicate kiss he could muster to his forehead that was sleek with sweat. But he did not mind; they were brothers, flesh and blood. They lived together. And Feyrík vowed that they would die together-not to be separated, even during the afterlife.

Gliding a step away, Feyrík turned his back and strode out of the room, the smile falling off of his lips. Anweyn watched as Feyrík's form retreated. He had much to say, but he could not release a word-his throat was dry. It always felt as if he was being strangled, ridden of breath; an ache resided. A foul taste lingered on his tongue, flavored of blood that would rise from the depths of his dying lungs.

Smoothing his hands down the rumpled fabric of his loose cotton shirt, Feyrík strolled over to the blazing hearth whose logs crackled and popped. They were delivered to the brother's by their neighbor, a middle-aged woman dubbed Agatha Harvey. She was kind; a grandmother, or perhaps an aunt to the two, when she was able to speak to them face-to-face. She was one of the very little that would not whisper; that would not say that the Cromwell family was cursed with misfortune.

Peeking into the cast iron pot that hung lazily over the crackling flames, Feyrík's eyes settled on the bursting bubbles that rose to the very top. The bone broth smelt delectable, but it was not for Feyrík. It was for Anweyn; barely would he eat. Feyrík was surprised that his brother was still clinging to life, with the condition that he was in. But he was proud. Relieved.