The 5th of Ymiden 718
It was a beautiful trial. The suns stood high in the sky, shining and blazing, bringing warmth and joy to the world below. The heavens were cleared of clouds, no trace of coming rain. Insects sang their songs with the lovely tunes of “squeaky door hinge” and “creaking bed”. Though heard, the little bastards were no-where to be seen. Not in the open fields, were cattle roamed. Not in the parks, where flowers bloomed. Not in the city itself, trapped in a house. People used the opportunity to have picknicks and go on long walks, or go for a swim in the cool water of a stream.
Everywhere one looked, there was only idyllic bliss and happiness. Everyone having a good time, smiling and laughing and generally enjoying themselves.
Everyone but two.
Oberan roared and whimpered as he rolled around on the bed. There were bags under his eyes, and under those bags was another set of dark circles. He looked gaunt, as if he’d refused to eat in several dozen trials, but it had only been three. His skin was hot to the touch, but he shivered like he was hypothermic. Sweat rolled from his face in thick beads, and his fingers clawed at the mattress in pain.
Oberan sat grimly in a comfortable chair aside the bed, sporting a sleep deprived and exhausted look. Three trials. The amount of time since Oberan had fallen ill with this inexplicable disease. He didn’t know what it was or what it did, he only knew the obvious: Oberan the Third was in great pain.
It was hard on him to see the Third this way. Usually the man was upbeat and optimistic, full of energy and cheer. Now he resembled a corpse. The jokes he used to make were replaced with agonized groans and cries. His trademark grin had closed up shop and moved away. A twisted and strained expression had taken its place, and if that wasn’t there, then it was a blank, defeated look.
The Second stood, his body complaining. He felt weary. His bones ground together as he moved. How long had he been sitting in that chair, in that position? He stepped away, feeling as if each motion was a battle. Eventually he would lose. But not yet. Not now. He peeled away the damp towel from the Third’s forehead. It smelled of his sweat, and of disease. It was hot. The Second dipped it in a bucket of cold water, wringing out the excess. He folded the towel into a neat rectangle, then placed it back on the sick man’s head. It wasn’t much, but maybe it could provide some relief.
He stood for a couple moments, watching. He felt as though the sleeping man had calmed down a little. Not much, but at least some. He didn’t twist and roll as violently anymore, and the creases on his face seemed less deep. But the changes were still there. It had started around the temples, where an older man might start to show gray hairs. There was no pepper and salt color their though, but a fiery red. An angry color that ill-suited the mischievous nature of the Third. It had been spreading for a while now, taking over more as the dominant color. And the more the change manifested, the worse the Third’s symptoms became. It drained him, like some life-stealing, soul-sucking parasite.
The Second didn’t know how to fight it. He’d tried to dye the affected hair, but the red had just burned through it, pulsating. He’d attempted shaving the hair off, but it had just grown back immediately. Even worse, the roots had been red as well. He’d tried many things, but none had worked. He’d asked doctors for advice, but none knew what was going on, let alone have a clue about a cure.
It was maddening! He felt so helpless, so useless! There was nothing he could do, and each bit spent wallowing in self-pity was a bit the disease spread more and more.
His clenched fist was enveloped by a warm hand. Skeletal fingers wrapped around it, thumb rubbing over its back. Third grimaced at him. A weak attempt, and Second felt his frustrations rise only higher. He was the one supposed to support Third! Not the other way around! He kneeled beside the bed, placing a hand on the man’s head to check his fever.
“Still too high,” he muttered, then adding in louder voice, ”How are you feeling?”
Third coughed, a raspy and choking affair. He wheezed afterwards. “Terrible.”
Second’s shoulders drooped, but then he remembered his position and managed a tiny smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to fix you up.” Such hopeful words. Did he even believe it himself?
The sick man shook his head slowly. “No…” he rasped. “You can’t. I’m too far gone.”
“Don’t say that! We still have time! YOU still have time!”
“Perhaps,” the man agreed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his expression one of deep regret. “There were so many things I still wanted to do…”
“You still can! We can fix you! Oberan is out looking for clues, he’ll find something, I’m sure! So don’t give up just yet, Oberan!” Second pleaded.
Another shake of the head. “I appreciate--” he grit his teeth, “—the effort. I really do. But Oberan has been doing that since trial one and he still hasn’t returned. You don’t have to hide the truth for me because I’m sick, Oberan. I know it’s hopeless. I know—“ His expression hardened, his brow furrowed. For several trills Third just lied there, concentrating deeply. Second didn’t dare to interrupt. Then, the man in the bed sagged, and his dark orbs swiveled to the other man. “I know I’m done for.”
The utter defeat lacing those words was simply heartbreaking. The acceptance even more so. Second felt his eyes water. A lump formed in his throat, and tears streamed down his face. “We—we c-can st-still patch yo--”
“You don’t understand!” Third snapped suddenly, momentarily regaining some of his previous strength before he deflated once again. “You don’t understand,” he repeated, quietly. He covered his eyes with one hand. “I cannot allow such tyrann--” the sentence was cut off halfway through. Third shivered, his breathing sounding more labored than before. He turned his head away.
Second rose from his position at the bed, doing his best to stifle the sobs coming from his throat. Pathetic, he thought, I’m absolutely pathetic. The one who needed support, who needed others to stand by him in his darkest break, who needed a rock to hold on to… that wasn’t him, no, it was Oberan. Not Oberan or Oberan, but Oberan. The one who should be crying, who should be given the space to weep and whimper and show weakness was Oberan. The one who should be strong and reassuring and calm and confident was Oberan. He should be there for him, be his support so Oberan could feel like it was okay to show his fears, to show his anger and sadness and everything else. The roles shouldn’t be reversed! And even if Oberan wouldn’t do any of those things, he shouldn’t be forced to endure the pity of those around him. He was making Oberan feel worse by just being here. Perhaps he should just leave.
“Stay,” Third’s voice came as Second was about to leave the room. “Don’t leave me alone. I—I can’t do this on my own.” He sounded desperate. “I need you to be here.”
Second turned around, wiping his tears away. He returned to his chair, eyes fixed on Third’s bedridden form.
Time passed as it always did, slow in some moments, fast in others. Neither man said anything for a long, long while. Second wasn't sure how long he sat there, how long he watched his friend's affliction grow worse and worse.
“I need you to do something for me,” Third said suddenly. Second’s ears perked up. He straightened in his chair.
“I need you to end it for me,” the man continued, no hesitation in his voice. He’d been giving this some thought. “Plunge a dagger in my heart and end it.” Second’s gaze flitted to Third’s face in alarm. The sick man was crying, though his eyes showed absolute determination. And yet, the man was exhausted, weak, feeble. He looked as if Vri’s cold and remorseless hand was already in place around his heart, ready to crush it on a moment’s notice. “I can’t hold out much longer. End it for me. Let me die.”
“You—you want me--? I—I can’t! I—I--”
“You don’t understand!” Third cried again, his voice broke midway through the sentence. “I don’t want to go! But I cannot live like this! It’s in my head! It’s in my head, Bran! I can’t get it out! It’s destroying me! I can’t fight it any longer!” He paused for a moment, wiping the snot from his lips. “I don’t want me to die either,” he whispered. “But it’s the only way. I want to die as myself.” He locked eyes with Second, and Second saw the desperation in them, saw the absolute whirlpool of despair that swirled inside. He heard the pleas, understood them. For Oberan, for his friend, he would fulfill his dying wish.
He grabbed the dagger from the table next to the chair and approached the bed, feeling as if each step made his body heavier and heavier. He clenched his fingers around the hilt, letting the tip of the blade hover above Third’s chest.
“I’ll go on three,” Second sobbed.
“Thank… you…” Third forced out, body fully tensed.
“One. Two. Three!”
