Dark Waters Rising

Attack

Wesley sat on the edge of a lumpy cot as he looked down at the frail form of his little sister. He reached out with a cloth already damp with her sweat and dabbed at the perpetual sheen across her skin. She was sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, but whichever it was, he hoped it provided her with some reprieve from her illness. Shivers wracked her body with the same ferocity as the sweat, making it impossible for Wesley to choose between keeping her warm and cooling her down. He was no physician, and his family was in no financial position to afford one, which meant the only thing he could do was pray for a miracle.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, Wesley knew he was dreaming. The edges of his vision were blurred and the images before him were distorted from reality, but recognizable enough to be accepted in his sleeping state. Waverly had not drawn a breath in years, but she seemed so real in that moment. 

An untamed strand of her dark brown hair was plastered to her moist skin, and Wesley was quick to tuck it behind her ear and pat the area with the cloth. He hated to see his sister hurting when he was so helpless to make it better. 

"Where's mama?" her voice was a faint mumble, but to Wesley's trained ears, the words were unmistakable. 

"She'll be back soon," he assured her in the most soothing voice he could muster. In truth, he wasn't sure when she would return. With their father gone, their mother was forced to work almost every hour of the day just to provide for her children. Wesley had started working down at the shipyards at a young age to help, especially given his sister's condition, but he was a young man now. He was well seasoned in the ways of trade and of ships, and though he had finally secured himself a spot upon a merchant vessel, he was reluctant to leave. He would be gone for months, and he feared that if he left now, his sister would not be there upon his return home. 

"Your ship leaves soon," her voice floated to him in the stagnant air between them. It was brittle and dry. Weak. It broke his heart a little more every time the words themselves cracked in her throat.

"I can stay a while longer," he assured her, taking her hand. 

Even though the location wasn't quite right and even though he couldn't actually feel her hand in his, he knew this was much more than a dream. It was a memory. The last he had of her. It was bittersweet to relive it, but he was thankful that he couldn't smell the bile he knew had turned the air in the room sour. He felt the familiar ache in the back of his throat that preceded tears. Waverly noticed.

"I'll be all right, Wes," she smiled weakly at him, giving his hand an almost imperceptible squeeze in reassurance. "I'm stronger than you, remember?"

Wesley smiled sadly, recalling all of the competitions she'd forced him into when they were younger. He had let her win most of them just to see the gleeful confidence it ignited in her. He missed seeing her that way. She used to be as radiant as the sun, but now she was cold and pale like the moon. "I remember."

"It'll be your turn to be strong soon."

He was not ashamed of the silent tears that slipped down his cheeks. 

"I don't want to be strong."

She squeezed his hand again.

"You should go."

Wesley knew she was right. The ship would be leaving soon, and if he wasn't on it, he'd be out of a job. Reluctantly, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. 

"I love you," he whispered. "When I come back I'll have all sorts of tales to share with you."

"You better hurry back then," she teased, though Wesley did not find it funny. Her smile slowly faded as she took in her brother's morose expression. "I love you, too, Wes. I will count the days until I can hear your stories."