He'd gotten better. After the doctor had given him the water, forced it to go down his throat and heal him, he got better.
Then, he became lucid. And then, he got worse.
He'd lay in his bed and his son would take care of him, feed him, groom him, medicate him.
He wished that he had to indicate which son he was talking about.
He knew that his sons had traveled far and hard to heal him, and his son was glad to have his father, but at what cost was his life saved? He, a grown man only a decade or two from death, spared in favor of a young adolescent with his whole future ahead of him!
And, even though he could say his son was dead, and he thought his son was dead, deep down, he refused to believe it.
His living son had designed the headstone. He refused to be a part of it, actively avoided looking out of the window of his sleeping area, and avoiding deep discussion with his son.
His son delivered him news from the village. That was all.
They didn't chat.
They didn't play.
They didn't do anything as father in son.
Not until he left the house.
He'd slowly made his way through the small hut, mostly due to procrastination, but also because of the muscle lost in his legs. He'd opened the door and looked up at the hill. His eyes immediately drifted to the large headstone of his wife. It was beautiful, intricate. His eyes watered simply at that, even though he'd accepted her death months ago.
Only a year and a half since her death.
Three months since his death...
He didn't know how long he stood there, but it took even longer to get to the base of the hill. He took a deep breath and started up.
He stood.
He stood.
He stood.
He had nothing to say, nothing to feel. He was utterly numb, looking at the two headstones. His son's was smaller, and the designs were symmetrical, beautiful, even.
His younger son was gifted, that was for sure.
"I am..." his throat caught. He wanted to say something.
"I..." He needed to say something.
"You both..." He had to say something! Anything!
He closed his eyes. He tried to swallow the wedge in his throat.
He heard someone approach him, and opened his eyes. He could see his son from the corner of his eyes.
His face was blank. His son looked utterly calm, at peace. Emotionless.
He broke. He fell down to his knees, his hands hitting the floor angrily.
He'd failed.
He'd failed as a father, as a husband, as a man!
His own son didn't have the will to weep at the loss of his family anymore!
He felt a small hand pat his back once before pulling away.
This just made the tears come faster and the breaths more ragged.
His son was patting him!
His son was comforting him!
His son-
His son-
His son was dead!
His wife was dead!
His son was dead!
Both of his sons might as well be dead with how his younger one was behaving, with the way they weren't interacting.
His eyes widened and he looked towards the sky. "No! No! I didn't mean it! I swear! I did not mean it!"
He was less than a man!
He'd just wished his son dead!
He was less than a man!
He'd failed.
He was a failure.
He was broken.
Less than.