Chapter Text
A heavy silence, thick with impending loss and the cloying scent of lilies, presses down upon Clive. The grand solar in Rosalith Castle, usually a sanctuary for his ailing brother, tonight feels more like a tomb. Each rasping breath from the figure lost amongst the furs and velvet hangings is a hammer blow against Clive’s resolve. A strangled gasp tears Clive from his restless slumber.
At twenty, Joshua should be on the cusp of manhood, spirited and full of life. Instead, he is a frail wisp, his body ravaged by the merciless consumption that has plagued him since childhood. His golden hair, usually vibrant as a phoenix's own plumage, lies plastered to his forehead, damp with a cold sweat. His skin, once flushed with youthful color, is now as pale as freshly fallen snow, marred by a spattering of feverish crimson on his chin.
Clive kneels beside the bed, ignoring the protesting creak of his knees, the ache in his own chest a pale reflection of the agony his brother endures with every shallow breath. He gently brushes a stray curl away from Joshua's forehead, his callused fingers, roughened from years of wielding a sword, seeming almost obscene against the porcelain fragility of his brother’s skin.
Years of relentless searching for a remedy for Joshua’s mysterious ailment have etched lines of worry into Clive's face, hardening his features, stealing the youthful vibrancy he once shared with his brother. His heart, however, remains as tender as ever, throbbing with a profound grief. His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, are fixed upon his brother’s feeble form. Each pained breath from Joshua is like a punch to Clive’s gut, stealing the air from his own lungs.
How many nights has he spent like this? How many times has he watched the light fade from those brilliant blue eyes, only to return with the dawn, a cruel reminder of the life slowly slipping away?
He dips a linen cloth into the basin of cool water beside the bed, the metallic tang of blood staining the water sending a wave of nausea rolling through him. He fights it back, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, a task he's performed so many times it feels etched into his very being. Wringing the cloth, he gently places it upon Joshua’s forehead, the heat radiating from his brother's skin like a furnace. It's always worse at night, the fever spiking, stealing what little strength remains.
A harsh cough wracks Joshua’s thin frame, the sound unbearable to listen to. He whimpers when it subsides, a thin rivulet of blood staining the corner of his mouth. Panic flares in Clive’s chest, sharp and hot. He reaches for a fresh cloth, dabbing at the blood with a tenderness that belies the storm of despair raging within him.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Joshua, the young Archduke of Rosaria, was destined for greatness, his name inscribed in the annals of history alongside their ancestors. And Clive, his older brother, his stalwart First Shield, is sworn to protect him, to pave the way for a glorious reign. But what good is a shield against an enemy that lurks within, an invisible thief stealing the life force from his very soul?
“Easy, little bird,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with exhaustion and unshed tears. His stomach clenches at the way Joshua’s eyelids flutter, a flicker of pained consciousness in those lackluster depths, before fluttering closed once more. The endearment, one he has used since they were boys, feels hollow, useless against the relentless grip of death. Yet, he clings to those words, to the memories they evoke.
He thinks back to their childhood, to sun-drenched days spent playing in the courtyard, to evenings lost in whispered secrets and shared dreams beneath the boughs of the ancient oak trees in the castle gardens. Joshua, even then, had been delicate, prone to coughs and chills that lingered longer than they should. But his spirit, his laughter, had always been bright, a beacon of light that chased away the shadows of Clive’s own troubled soul.
Back then, the coughs had been just a part of Joshua’s life, a frequent inconvenience. It was only in the past year that the illness had taken a turn for the worse, sinking its claws deep, draining the life from his brother day by day.
There’s a faint tremor in the hand resting atop the bedclothes, and Clive instantly reaches for it, his own thick fingers dwarfing Joshua’s slender ones. The warmth of Joshua’s touch, even diminished by the icy grip of the encroaching grave, sends a familiar pang through Clive’s chest. It’s an ache that has nothing to do with his weary muscles or sleepless nights. It’s a deeper ache, a longing that has taken root in the marrow of his bones, a love he can never voice, never act upon.
The weight of this forbidden affection, a crushing burden he’s borne in stoic silence for years, feels unbearable tonight. Because tonight, the air stirs with a finality that chills him to his core. Tonight, his brother, his heart, is slipping away, and there’s nothing Clive can do to stop it.
A choked sob bubbles up, sharp and sudden, and he quickly clamps a hand over his mouth, mortified. He can’t afford to crumble, not now. Not when Joshua needs him.
"Clive?"
The voice, weak and raspy, a mere thread of sound against the oppressive silence of the bedchamber, is enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through Clive. He leans closer, his gaze searching the pale, drawn face before him.
“I’m here, Joshua. Right here.”
He squeezes his brother's limp hand gently, a silent plea for a response, a sign that the spark of life hasn’t yet flickered out entirely. For a moment, their eyes meet, and in the depths of Joshua’s gaze, Clive sees a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of the vibrant spirit that refuses to be extinguished. But even that small comfort can’t disguise the weariness in them, the resignation that incites renewed anguish in Clive’s chest.
A severe, rattling cough, one that seems to shake Joshua's entire frame, tears through the silence, followed by a muffled groan. Panic flares in Clive's chest, cold and sharp, as he watches a stain of crimson bloom on the pristine white linen beneath Joshua’s chin.
“Thomas!” he roars with a startling fear, shattering the oppressive silence. He reaches for the silver bell on the bedside table, his hand shaking so violently he almost knocks it to the floor. He shakes the bell repeatedly, the insistent chimes echoing through the room.
Moments later, Thomas, the royal physicker, rushes in, his usually immaculate white robes askew. He is a good man, skilled and compassionate, but even his extensive knowledge, his vast arsenal of poultices and tinctures, has proved useless against the relentless tide of Joshua’s illness.
"By the Founder, My Lord," Thomas exclaims, rushing to Joshua's side. He places a calming hand upon Clive's shoulder, his gaze, heavy with sympathy, meeting his own. “Go. Let me examine him.”
Reluctantly, Clive yields his position, backing away from the bed as if burned. He paces the length of the bedchamber, each step heavy with dread, the scent of lilies and rosemary, a cruel mockery of life in this room that reeks of death, clinging to his clothes, his skin. His gaze darts from his brother’s ashen face to the frantic movements of the physicker, to the flickering candlelight, as if searching for an answer, a reprieve from the inevitable.
The examination seems to stretch on for an eternity. Clive watches, his heart pounding, as Thomas checks Joshua’s pulse, his breath, the ever-present fever that seems to burn hotter with each passing hour. He sees the way Thomas’s brow furrows, the way his lips move in a silent prayer as he fights to maintain a facade of professional calm, and he knows, with a certainty that makes his heart nearly stop, that it is worse. Far worse than before.
"Thomas?" The name comes out in a strangled rasp. Clive's voice, hoarse from lack of sleep and too many whispered prayers, is barely audible above the crackling of the hearth fire.
Thomas straightens, turning from the bed with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world upon it. His gaze, when their eyes meet, is filled with a profound sadness, a weary acceptance that reflects Clive's own burgeoning despair.
“Tell me, old friend,” Clive presses, his voice breaking. “How long?”
Thomas hesitates, his gaze darting to Joshua’s still form, then back to Clive's face, his features shadowed with remorse. “Hours, I’m afraid, My Lord. Perhaps less.”
Hours.
The word echoes through the chamber, a death knell tolling the end of hope. Hours until the light in those brilliant blue eyes, a light that has illuminated Clive’s world for as long as he can remember, is extinguished. Hours until the warmth of Joshua's touch, something he clings to with the ferocity of a drowning man, will fade into nothing more than a cherished memory.
He feels the blood drain from his face, leaving him lightheaded, his stomach churning with nausea. The thought of a world without Joshua, without his brother’s kind heart and gentle smile, is a bleak and terrifying prospect.
He won't accept it. He can't. There has to be another way. Something. Anything.
A memory, buried deep within the recesses of his childhood, flickers to life, a faint ember of hope amidst the assailing darkness.
The Phoenix, the legendary firebird, the symbol of their duchy, whispered to possess the power of life and rebirth. A creature of myth and fable, dismissed by most as mere superstition, yet…
Desperation, raw and primal, surges through Clive. It is a fool's hope, a desperate gamble against the inevitable. But he will cling to it, nurture it, even if it means sacrificing everything for a chance, however slim, to save his brother, to confess his heart, to beg forgiveness for his silence.
He turns, his gaze fixed on the door, his jaw set with a determination that belies the turmoil raging within. He won’t allow this. He won’t let Joshua go, not without a fight. He will move heaven and earth, defy the very laws of nature, if it means keeping his brother by his side.
With a surge of desperate resolve, Clive summons Wade, a close confidant and his most trusted Shield. Now a seasoned soldier, Wade has been by Clive’s side through countless trials. He enters the bedchamber with his usual quiet strength, his gaze falling upon Joshua with a despondent sympathy.
“Wade,” Clive begins, his voice a strained whisper. They watch the way Joshua’s chest struggles with each strained breath, the way his once vibrant skin now appears gray and translucent, like a fading sunset.
Clive doesn't look away from his brother, even as he continues, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bed. "There's a… a legend. About the Phoenix. They say it can bring life back to what’s lost. Maybe… maybe it could help Joshua."
Wade listens, his brow furrowed with concern. He's seen a lot of death in his years of service, but the sight of his lord, his friend, clinging to a dying man with such fierce desperation, brings a fresh pang of sadness to his heart. He understands, however, that denying this glimmer of hope, even in the face of the impossible, would be a betrayal of the bond forged in blood and loyalty.
He lays a comforting hand on Clive’s shoulder, his gaze lingering on Joshua's frail form for a moment before shifting to Clive. "My Lord... I understand your desire to hold onto anything, even a whisper of a myth, in the face of… of such a terrible situation. But the Phoenix…"
He hesitates, searching for the right words to convey his concern without extinguishing the fragile flame of hope flickering within Clive’s heart. "The Phoenix is a legend. We cannot rely on mythical beasts to save us from the reality of death."
Clive’s face remains impassive, his features set in a mask of grief, but the way his jaw clenches betrays the inner turmoil churning within. He’s seen the way Joshua has withered over the past months, the way his illness has stolen his strength, his laughter, his very spirit. He can't bear to lose his brother. He won’t.
"There has to be more than just reality," Clive counters with a desperation that sends a fresh wave of worry through Wade. He knows his lord’s stubborn nature, his unwavering belief in justice and truth. But this time, this blind faith, this desperate gamble, feels dangerous.
He tries to reason with Clive, offering words of comfort and caution, reminding him that they are soldiers, not sorcerers. Yet, with each word, he can see the flicker of defiance in Clive’s eyes, the profound resolve of a man clutching onto a lifeline, even as it threatens to break.
Later that night, as Joshua slips further into the clutches of death, his breaths becoming shallower, his fevered gasps more pronounced, Clive makes a decision. He will not stand by and watch his brother die. He will not allow all hope to be lost. He will find this Phoenix, even if it means defying every law of nature, even if it costs him his very soul.