"How are you feeling now little brother?" Siegfried asked Tristan as he placed the trey he'd been carrying down on the bedside table. His voice was uncharacteristically hushed, as he noted upon entering that his little brother appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be breathing evenly – but then Tristan opened them when he heard him enter, and Siegfried realised that he'd merely been resting. The slightly strained furrow of his brow was evidence that the painkiller he'd taken that morning had started to wear off, and Siegfried suspected that he'd probably be grateful for the morphine he was about to give him. He swallowed hard – his mouth still slightly dry from the dehydration – and tried to sit up, but Siegfried placed a firm hand on his shoulder to steady him, and it didn't take much persuading for him to sink back down into bed again. To Siegfried's trained eye he still looked deathly pale, his appearance not at all aided by his mop of messy blonde hair. It was a testament to just how very unwell he'd been over the past few days, that even with taking into account the little colour he'd regained since the day before he still looked sicker than Siegfried had seen his little brother look in recent years. His eyes were dark and slightly sunken, rimmed by shadows of deep grey, and whisps of his blonde hair still clung to his forehead with old sweat.
The only time he'd ever seen him look worse than he did now had been a few years ago after he'd been struck in the chest with a cricket ball. The ball had badly bruised his sternum, and cracked a couple of ribs, and he'd been rendered completely out of action for a couple of weeks after. The incident had happened the summer before he'd left for Scotland to attend his first year of veterinary college and he still hadn't completely recovered by the time the day of his departure had arrived. Siegfried had helped him onto the train with his cases, observing his brother's stiff gait and aware of the fact that beneath his clothes his torso had still been tightly bandaged.
Siegfried sat himself down on the edge of the bed, being careful not to put any pressure on Tristan's injured leg, which he was acutely conscious of – still swollen and swathed in bandages – beneath the blankets. Tristan regarded him with a forced grin on his face, but he couldn't conceal a grimace when he tried to change position. Doctor Alanson had wanted him up and out of bed in order to exercise the leg as soon as he was physically able to bear weight on it, but judging by his appearance it would be a few more days before he'd be well enough to get out of bed.
"Still not great Siegfried." He admitted weakly. "But better than a few days ago."
Siegfried's smile was slight. "Well, there's a little more healthy colour in your cheeks," He observed optimistically as he leaned over to place an open palm to his younger brother's forehead, "and you're not as warm as you were. How's the leg?" He asked him.
"Hurts bad." Tristan confessed, and Siegfried watched his brother's eyes wander to the contents of the trey on the bedside table.
"It's time for your next dose of morphine." He told him. "Then we need to change your dressings."
Morphine carried with it side effects, but despite Doctor Alanson's initial instruction that the drug should only be administered to Tristan for the first couple of days following the injury he'd continued to prescribe it when it had become apparent that Tristan had still been in a considerable amount of pain. Dog bites were unpredictable in how serious they could be, and the infection meant that Tristan's leg would take a considerable amount of time to heal. Despite this the doctor had now reduced the dosage and limited its use to dressing changes only, and the tablets he'd prescribed him as a replacement barely took the edge off the pain.
Siegfried checked Tristan's drip and saw that he didn't have long before it would need changing again – the bottle of fluids was almost empty. He then checked the small canula on the back of his hand – noticing that the flesh around it looked a little pink.
"I'll change your canula site too in a bit." Siegfried offered. "It's looked a little sore."
"It is a bit." Tristan nodded.
"We'll try the other hand then shall we?" He suggested, and Tristan smiled weakly. In truth the hand had been bothering him for some time – it stunk worse than a bee sting, and he'd had a couple of those in his life too – but the burning pain was dwarfed in comparison to his leg, which still throbbed badly. There was a hot tingling sensation which ran down the back of the injured limb from just below the knee to his ankle whenever he tried to move it. He'd seen the wound the last time Siegfried had changed the dressings – a jagged row of stitches running along the length of his swollen carf – suturing together the torn and mangled flaps of badly inflamed and infected skin. He couldn't use the muscle, which stretched the torn flesh unforgivingly whenever he tried to flex it, and whilst the wound was still too fresh for any healing to have taken place and any scar tissue to have developed he felt sure that there would inevitably be some.
The leg ached badly as a result of being immobile for so long, and he desperately wanted to get up and start moving it again, suspecting that that might help to alleviate some of the pain and provide some welcome relief from the stiffness which afflicted the limb, but he was still too physically exhausted. All he still seemed to want to do was rest and sleep, and he knew that it would be another few days before he would be ready to even begin thinking about getting out of bed. Siegfried seemed to concur.
"Right, roll your sleeve up then little brother." He told him gently, reaching for the syringe on the trey. Tristan obliged, struggling to wrap his uncoordinated fingers around the button of his cuff, as he watched his brother fill it from a small glass vile – expertly drawing up the clear liquid with precision and a trained medical eye. Watching Siegfried take such care with making sure that he drew up the correct dose, before gently flicking the glass syringe to rid it of any air bubbles made him feel safe. Despite their frequent and often fiery disagreements – petty brotherly squabbles though they may be – and for all of his bad tempered bluster, Siegfried had always been a reassuring presence in his brother's life.
Siegfried then placed the syringe back down in the trey with a slight clatter before dabbing the upper part of Tristan's arm with a small amount of iodine and carefully injecting him with the painkiller. Tristan visibly flinched as the medicine flooded the muscle – Siegfried gently sliding the needle beneath a small ball of cotton wool to catch any tiny droplets of blood as it pierced his skin. When he was finished he placed the syringe back on the trey as he helped Tristan to roll his sleeve back down, fastening it at the cuff for him before pulling a chair up to his bedside.
"There, now, we'll just give that a few minutes to take effect and then make a start on re-dressing that leg." He said, as Tristan settled himself back down in the bed – relief overtaking him as the morphine worked quickly, and after just a few minutes the sharp throbbing faded into a dull pulsating ache. It was only once the edge of it had been somewhat dulled that he realised just how much it had been hurting him and as he felt himself begin to relax – Siegfried must have noticed the change in his little brother's demeanour, because he frowned.
"Tell me Tristan, is the pain worse today?" He asked him, observing the soft furrows of his forehead where only a few minutes before there had been deep crevices, and Tristan breathed a sigh as he slowly eased himself back up in bed again – the morphine also alleviating some of the heaviness in his leg as well as having taken the edge off the pain. His arms shook as they struggled to support his weight, and once he'd managed to drag himself upright he collapsed back against his pillows, exhausted. He nodded as Siegfried proceeded to peal back the bedspread covering him and gently rolled up his trouser leg up to his knee to expose the dressing. The wound had been leaking blood which had stained the bandage a faint crimson colour.
"It's been hurting really bad today." Tristan confessed with a grimace as Siegfried bent over the wound to give it a sniff. "But I don't know whether that's because the pain really is worse, or whether I'm just feeling it more because I feel a bit better today." He explained.
Tristan had been nursing a dangerously high temperature for the past couple of days – he'd been in such a state of delirium that Siegfried didn't find it surprising that he couldn't remember anything, however his brother's whimpers had been a testament to how much pain he had been in, even if he couldn't remember, and so he suspected that it probably had more to do with the fact that he was feeling better today and therefore clearer of mind. Even so he was concerned that Tristan was still in a significant amount of pain, and that the milder painkillers Doctor Alanson had prescribed him were not sufficient. After so many years of looking out for his little brother Siegfried could read Tristan like a book, but he'd been unusually quiet and withdrawn all day and he didn't like the thought of him baring the pain silently. For one thing it would inevitably disrupt him from sleeping properly – and Tristan did still look exhausted. He took note again of the dark circles beneath his eyes and he noticed that his eyelids also looked heavy and were puffy with evident fatigue.
The wound had a faint odour to it, indicative that there was still infection, but it didn't smell as unpleasant as it had done the day before, showing that the antibiotics were starting to work, and that they were al last gaining advantage over the poison in his system.
"I think we need to have a word with Doctor Alanson about increasing the frequency of your morphine again." He told him. "Those tablets don't appear to be working do they?"
Tristan shook his head, and the older man leaned over to put his hand reassuringly on his shoulder.
"Right then little brother, has that morphine had enough time to take effect yet?" He asked him, and Tristan nodded. "Then lets make a start on re-dressing that leg."
He smiled reassuringly, patting his brother gently where his hand still rested and giving it a light squeeze as he got to his feet with a slight groan – his knees creaking from being set in position. He'd spent too much time sitting over the past few days and his legs were stiff. He wasn't as young as he used to be – then again neither was Tristan, and Siegfried wondered how many more times they were going to find themselves in this position? When would the worry finally stop?
Perhaps, he wondered, it never would. Family meant a lifelong commitment, and from the day Tristan was born Siegfried had signed up for a never ending cycle of responsibility. He didn't mind, he'd never resented the unspoken contract which came with being an older brother, but he'd always imagined that it would get easier as they got older. Instead he'd come to realise over the years that it never did – all one could ever do was the best within their power and hope that it would be enough.
Tristan looked uncertain, and tensed slightly at the thought, but didn't protest as Siegfried gently started to unwrap the bandages from around his leg. He grimaced and flinched slightly when he reached the final layer of dressings and began to gently prise them away from his skin. The lower part of Tristan's leg was still severely swollen and black with bruising, and there was a small amount of encrusted blood and infection along the jagged row of stitches. Siegfried though that it could probably do with a clean before he re-dressed it, to further help with the healing and minimise the infection. Caroline had left a fresh bowl of water, along with some cotton wool and clean cloths, on the dressing table before returning home briefly to take care of their menagerie – all of whom needed feeding and walking – but she had said that she would return later. Siegfried felt immense gratitude to his wife for her kindness, although he realised that she was only doing what came naturally to her, and her nursing training during the war meant that she'd known exactly what he would need.
He took some of the cotton wool and soaked it in the water before squeezing a few drops onto Tristan's leg where the bandages had become adhered to the wound, before prising the final sections of gauze away from his skin. Tristan looked down at his leg with dismay, and hope of it not being as bad as he remembered were dashed when he saw the extent of the damage the dog had inflicted. He averted his eyes as Siegfried continued to clean the wound, but it was already too late – it looked a lot worse now than it had on the day he'd received it – and he gritted his teeth against the pain as Siegfried proceeded to wipe away some of the encrusted infection and blood. His whole body tensed as he fought the instinct to rip his leg away from his brother's scrutiny.
"Sorry little brother." He apologised. "But we need to get this infection under control." Then he added with a frown, as he took a closer look at the wound. "I think it would be wise to give it a flush with some saline later." The row of stitches were neat and clean, but beneath the dry blood he could see that the skin was angry red, and raised with inflammation, and there was some fresh swelling and edema, which looked to be infective. Tristan didn't relish the thought of that – he had a vague memory of Siegfried performing the same procedure the evening he'd taken ill and he remembered the extraordinary pain it had caused him – but he nodded.
Siegfried patted him gently on the shoulder. He didn't relish the idea of having to do something which would cause his brother pain either, but despite the fact that Tristan's condition was now very much improved and the infection was slowly responding to the antibiotics there was still something about the wound which made him feel uneasy. He'd seen enough farm animals in his time, and had heard of some farmers for that matter, who'd succumb to dirty injuries, despite the fairly recent discovery of antibiotics. There were some people who had heralded it a miracle drug and in many ways it had been – the discovery of penicillin had already saved thousands of lives. Siegfried had followed with great interest, the drug's first usage in veterinary medicine. By then he'd already realised it's significance and the revolutionary impact it had had on the treatment of bacterial infections. Men, women and children who might have previously died from the smallest cut now had a real chance of survival, and looking at his younger brother Siegfried reflected on the fact that he had never felt more grateful as he did now to live in the age they were living in. He knew that just a few short years ago – so recently he felt as though he could reach back through time and touch them – Tristan would have probably died, and his little brother wouldn't have been lying in bed before him now. Instead he might have been standing at his graveside. He felt a lump in his throat and had to quickly turn his back whilst he took a moment to compose himself. He desperately needed a distraction from such melancholy thoughts as this and took a little longer than was necessary to check that he had everything he would need to dress Tristan's leg – especially as he'd triple checked everything already.
A few minutes later, after he'd wrapped the wound as gently as he could in layers of white linen gauze, and had disposed of the soiled dressings and washed his hands in the other bowl Caroline had left him for such a purpose, he sat back down at his brother's bedside. Tristan's eyes were now closed, and he appeared much more relaxed. Siegfried suspected that it was probably the combination of the morphine and the fact that the wound was now clean which had helped to make him feel more comfortable. He noticed his breathing begin to change – slowing as it evened out and became more shallow – as he gave in to his body's inevitable need for sleep, and whilst he slept Siegfried took advantage of his brother's relaxed state to take a look at his canula. He carefully removed the hollow needle and dressed his swollen hand, before inspecting the other for a vein. Tristan didn't even seem to notice as he gently inserted the new canula and secured it in place with surgical tape. At that moment there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door and Callum's head appeared around the corner as it slowly opened, without waiting for an invitation for him to enter.
"Ah Callum, my dear boy." Siegfried greeted him warmly, as he turned in his chair to see who it was and beckoned for him to enter. He spoke quietly so as not to disturb Tristan, and as the other young man entered he closed the door behind him – Rosie and Jimmy were playing downstairs and despite the fact that they had both been reminded on numerous occasions by most members of the household, to keep the noise down, they were children and had no concept of how their small voices carried throughout the house.
"I came to see how he was doing." Callum told him – he hadn't seen Tristan for a few days, not since the evening he'd been taken ill, and so therefore he also hadn't yet had a chance to apologise for his behaviour. Tristan had been too poorly and too delirious with the fever initially and Callum had thought it best to stay out of the way. Siegfried had also made it cleat that he still hadn't completely forgiven him for the way he had treated his little brother, and if he was being honest with himself Callum couldn't really blame him – but there was only so long he could continue to convince himself that his continued decision to stay away was for Tristan's benefit – and not because he feared having to eat a double helping of humble pie. He hadn't been sure what he was going to say as he'd made his way up the stairs and had lingered outside Tristan's bedroom door for a while. He'd hoped that he would at least be awake, but seeing that he was asleep he loitered sheepishly by the door.
"I've just changed his dressings." Siegfried explained, observing the uncomfortable look on Callum's face. He had no doubt that the young man was sorry as he observed him looking nervously in Tristan's direction. Callum seemed unsure of what to do now that he'd found himself in the one room of the house Siegfried suspected he'd been trying to avoid – scared of saying the wrong thing. He wasn't normally the type to stand on ceremony though and Siegfried decided that he needed a bit of gentle prompting.
"Here, sit down." He invited him as he got stiffly to his feet and directed Callum towards the vacated chair at Tristan's bedside. "He's doing a little better today." He reassured him as he seated himself tentatively, and Siegfried stood back and observed him watching his young brother as he stirred restlessly in bed – the worried look never leaving his face. Tristan moaned softly and Siegfried realised that he was beginning to wake up. "The morphine makes him tired, but he never sleeps for more than a few minutes." He explained.
Tristan's eyes opened, blinking as they settled on Callum in the spot Siegfried had only recently vacated, and the older man took that as his cue to leave the two of them to talk.
"Callum…" Tristan sighed blearily, a small smile lifting the corners of his pale lips as he at least appeared pleased to see his friend, and the face of someone other than his brother or sister in law.
"I'll leave you to it my boy." Siegfried smiled shrewdly as he patted Callum on the shoulder before withdrawing from the room. Callum faltered as though for a moment he might have been about to ask Siegfried to stay, but seeing the look on the older man's face – no longer angry but willing him on – he swallowed hard and nodded, turning back to look at Tristan, as Siegfried closed the door behind him.
It would be another few days before Tristan would be well enough to finally get out of bed, and even then it would only be for a few minutes at a time to exercise his leg. He was still struggling to bear weight on it, but that didn't stop him from trying. It did however mean that until he was able to get around independently, with the aid of the crutches Doctor Alanson had brought round for him to try and get him mobile again, he would remain confined to the upstairs part of the house.
A week later however Siegfried returned home from his rounds to find Tristan downstairs for the first time in over a week. It seemed he had grown bored with the same four walls of his bedroom every day, and so despite their better judgment he had managed to persuade James and Callum to assist him downstairs, whilst Deidre had made him up a bed on the sofa. One crutch rested against the armrest at his feet.
Tristan looked longingly at the drinks cabinet as Siegfried filled a glass from an amber decanter of whisky – toasting his brother's good health – but alcohol remained strictly off limits whilst he was still taking the morphine, and Siegfried couldn't be persuaded to let him savour so much as a drop. He longed for the exuberance of The Rovers, as he supped from a cold beer whilst breathing in the smoke of a dozen different types of tobacco – the merriment growing in vigor as the evening drew on. For now however he was simply content to be downstairs with everyone instead of confined to his room. He hadn't given a thought to how he was going to get back upstairs again, and this didn't even cross his mind until bed time rolled around – but between them James and Siegfried managed it – Callum having taken Diedre out for the evening.
In time Tristan's leg would heal – although it would take several weeks before he would be fit enough to return to work, and even longer before he would be well enough to attend to his first farm visit again. Until then however he resigned himself to rest, and frequent short walks to build the strength back up in his leg again, grateful for Siegfried's continued support and deriving strength and encouragement from the reassuring presence of his older brother.