WORKING TITLE: Silence Like Knives

I.

The Curse had fully taken him, then. I’d always felt it my personal responsibility to watch over him- to care for him. And, yet, he now lay bare. Withered. Sprawled across the straw-filled makeshift mattress with little-other than a tattered cloth shielding his ever-paling figure from the World’s eye. The Widow Ayre had come to call, and was now seated at the edge of his bed. Upon entry, she brushed past my guilt-stricken figure, kneeling to analyze the man. After tending to the kettle, and livening the fire, the Widow set to attempting comforting him, delicately patting a dampened cloth across his sweat-stained complexion.

The young man, once lean, and muscularly-built, now bore veins that resembled risen ink, which streaked like spindling spiders’ legs across his ivory-tinted skin. His shrill, glass-shattering cries echoed against the thin walls of the abode surrounding us, and forever-lingered within my fragile Innermost-Self. He clawed, and tore at his restraints as though feral avian talons jutted-forth, from his fingertips. At times, I almost felt I’d caught a glimpse of talons.

He was slipping from us.

Much-like a Barn Owl- caged- The Wild would now call to him.

“..It is not likely he will survive the night…”

The Widow had stated this so matter-of-factly, I felt myself shiver, which was unusual. She would, then, somehow sense my unconscious fidgeting, and paid me glance, o’er her cloakèd shoulder.

“...He cannot hear us, now.”

This notion gives you such right? I angrily retorted, from deep within my Mind’s recesses. I said nothing, aloud, however.

Some time had passed, and once his trembling, whimpering, and profuse perspiring had ebbed, the Widow would find me by the well, nearest the field, fetching more water for him. She did not halt me; only leaned against the sturdy well, dabbing a grime-caked kerchief at her own now sweat-beaded forehead. Neither of us spoke, for a time.

“Castor ails due to the Condition.”

Why had she felt the need to verbalize this? I’d known it- We had all known it. Our mother had bartered her Soul to a highwayman, in-exchange for our survival. Granted the choice between a snow-white feather, and a cinder-hued feather, she had selected the latter.

“The Legend hath conveyèd, that-”

It was unlike the Widow to fumble, and yearn for word, or thought. She was eloquent in her speech, but always abrupt; straightforward, analytical, and never unwavering. I allowed her the time necessary for consideration. I, too, racked my Mind, and all but limited life experience for answers.

The silence would be like knives.

“...That only one would rise, from the adversity.”

“This is correct.” She paused, clearly searching for something with which to busy, or to perhaps distract herself. “Both would soar, but only one would live to experience their Twilight Epoch.”

My heart strained; my Soul cried-out. I had known what this would mean.

“It was set, the very-moment your moth-”

“You’d vowed to save him.”

My interjection was startling- uncalled-for, perhaps. I silenced myself, suddenly, unnerved- as though this reaction were not of my own volition; it had not been the Widow’s fault, after all, that this had occurred- any of this- that my brother would be destined to succumb to this Supernatural illness, which had inevitably plagued our psyches for such an indefinite period. Far too well, we all had known that this time would come- it was only a matter of when, realistically. “Realistically.”

The Widow silenced, as well. What more could she utter? I was certainly being unreasonable, in these moments- driven by emotion- moved by guilt. I was likely trembling, then, as well, but seem to have blackened such an area of my subconscious memory. Properly, I cannot recall it.

“You mustn't be this grating, on yourself, child.” She would turn me, and tilt my chin toward herself, forcing our eyes to connect. “You are, yet, but a p-”

She’d stopped herself, then- gasping, reeling, and swiftly unhanding me. She drew backward, and nearly tripped over the well. I lunged to prevent her from falling, but she snatched herself away from me, direly. At an acute loss for verbiage, the Widow pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the well. Cautiously, I turned again toward the well, and leaned over to peer into its blackness. The uncertainty boiled within me, like the kettle which had so-fiercely burned inside our hovel, many hours ago. For fear she may attempt shoving me down into the well, in her stupor, I leaned only my head over the water.

My… Eyes! I, too, am changing.

My pupils had dilated, drastically, and my irises were no longer the pale green they had always been; for now they were a harsh, flaming amber, appearing to glow, spark, and flicker against the well water’s suddenly-churning ebony reflection. I doubled-back, and clumsily landed upon my rear. Turning, I found the shock of my fall had been absorbed by exuberant feathers, the color of cinders.

Nearly swooning, the Widow Ayre found her stance, once more, and leaned against the well for stability. Backing away, as though greatly intimidated, and fearing gravely for her own wellbeing, she swiftly made to depart, able to utter but one, singular phrase, at long last:

“T-The PHOENIX.”