Due to his father's lack of faith in doctor's - and general need for his families pride – here they were. Thunder rolled outside, shaking the small house with its peels. Lightening cracked in the sky, lighting the room in the dead of night. Candles were set on desks and tables, and rain heavily poured down onto the roof.
Now, the precious (bloody) bundle was wrapped in a cloth, and Anatoly was positive he never, ever wanted to see – or do – anything like that, ever again. Beside him, Ivan and the midwife quietly spoke to Natalya.
It – he – gagged, a wretched sound, and Anatoly supported his neck and head at a tilted angle. "What's his name?" the nine-year-old questioned.
He got no reply.
"Mama? Father? What's his name?"
The midwife turned, hushing him softly, than commanding him to 'keep rubbing the 'baby's' back'. With a tight expression he did just that – although looked less than pleased that his question had been ignored.
The to-small child in his arms made a sound of complaint. Anatoly's attention re-focused, "Da, брат moy," he whispered as if in response.The (nameless, may he add) child continued to cry in discomfort, choking on mucus. "Brother," Anatoly quietly uttered, and decided that was going to catch on, as since he had been born it had been the only name given to him, "My brother - брат moy."
Thank you for reading!