Regret. That was all on young Emil's mind. He spent a scarce amount of time with his brother as it was, and the recent volcanic eruption put a significant increase in the already deep distance between the two. His remorseful thoughts corroded his commonly sound consciousness gradually as his condition deteriorated. Emil, lain in bed, was restless in mind yet not in body. The ash lingering in the drab sky above the dull Icelandic harbor made it impossible for boats to port or planes to land; the city was isolated from foreign contact and trade.

When the eruption befell the western region of the island country, he was in the open, on an innocent walk on a marked path in the mountains near his home. At the foot of the mountain range Emil traveled upon, there was a valley of off-color but charming green grass with a sparkling river running through it. The dirt trail he tread upon had nothing bigger than an average pebble the size of an eye. Reaching the peaks of the mountain range was an easy task from the trail's current elevation.

As he traversed a bridge above a chasm, the wooden bridge began to rock ever so slightly. The Icelander ignored it, thinking it the wind, and continued on to the other side of the bridge. Stepping on the ground, faint tremors prompted Emil to pause and stare. He'd felt these types of shivers before, and they foretold ill events every time. Believing he still had time, he began to turn back on a heel and hurry away. His azure eyes widened in dread when the earth began to shake violently. Straining to look just past the top of the nearest peak, he could see it: Another mountain, molten lava exploding from the pinnacle. The blistering molten rock painted the sky and volcano slope orange, mixed with crimson, and dark ash billowed into the once peaceful skies separately. But the terrifying beauty mattered not to Emil; the booming racket had startled him to his very core.

He tore off now, in a fruitless attempt to outrun the fast-spreading ash which poisoned the clean sky. He already possessed issues in breathing, and would certainly suffer the consequences of a long sprint later, but it was far better than what may happen if he stuck around and simply walked. Another quake in the earth sent the Icelander crumpling to the ground. The ash spewing from the volcano had by now dispersed, tainting the atmosphere with its dark grayness. It began to sprinkle his current location like a vile, black snow. Emil coughed as he struggled to stand, aware of the faint ache in his throat and right arm, which kept him from completely hitting the dirt just before. It was only then he noticed the bits of soot beginning to touch his chestnut-colored jacket. A breath was held, but he had to inhale sometime.

Now, here Emil was, but a couple of days later, bedridden. His skin was clammy and almost as pale as his simple, white covers. The difference in temperatures drove him mad; his head felt like it was baking as he sweat, yet he often shivered, chilled even under the fleecy comforter. His chest burned when he tried to take a full breath instead of the newer terse breaths. The former was just about impossible anyways, as his throat constantly felt bound. He cursed the ash and volcano quietly after he had another coughing fit. Not even the bird he'd called friend for a thousand years that had nestled up beside his head made him any happier. Otherwise left alone in his home and bed, his thoughts did nothing to console him either. All he could think about was his brother, who lived in an entirely different country across the Atlantic.

He had shunned his older brother and his teasing, especially after outgrowing his childhood. After those happier days, never had Emil truly spoken to him without marching away, embarrassed, nor had he shown much emotion towards his sibling. He couldn't possibly do that. He didn't want to look weak in front of him. The way Emil argued with himself mentally suggested that his thoughts had split into two, and both sides were locked in eternal conflict. One wanted his brother to be present, the other wanted nothing to do with him in fear of being taunted again. Splendid, Emil thought, I'm bickering with myself over someone I avoid anyways. He tried to sleep off the irritating memories, the internal argument. But sleep was intermittent in his case, and he had nothing more to turn his attention to than the row that played out in his head, the belligerents only being his split opinions.

Aren't you a fool? Who looked after you when you were young? Now look at the mess you're in, and you stay in your pathetic bed, curled up like a coward. A thought berated the other.

Who needs his help? A nuisance, distraction... What could he possibly do? Besides, if he showed up, I'm willing to bet he'd do nothing but taunt. I'm strong enough to withstand this. The other retorted sharply.

Well for one, he could help you with your little problem. You can hardly get up to take your medicine.

You're impossible. He'd be no help.

You're being counterproductive. Swallow your pride.

Quiet yourself and sit back.

Imbecile.

The following days were no better. No matter what he tried, he couldn't take his thoughts away from the same subject: His older brother. Outside, the skies had begun to clear to the point where boats began to leave and dock in minute numbers; radio contact was available now to external territories, although the weather was still overcast. Despite the ability to be able to now contact help, Emil remained silent.

His muscles were incredibly sore, and he couldn't move without twinging in agony. He didn't want to be weak. He didn't want to look silly. He wanted to be strong. He didn't need help to get through this illness. The latter was a foolish and prideful notion Emil thought to be sensible. Unable to move, unable to speak without coughing, unable to reach his medicine which sat on a small table opposite of his bed, he was now doubtful if he really had any hope. He was unsure if he would ever get the chance now to apologize to his brother. For all the times he spat at him in irritation or even for the insignificant actions of ignoring his phone calls. He spent the night softly crying with the occasional croup into his pillow.

The following day, the Icelander awoke to something touching his cheek. No, patting it. He had to squint to make out the details, grogginess and an ill state hindering coherent sight. No, someone was patting his cheek. Someone with short, blonde hair and blue eyes... Someone speaking with a worried tone, whispering, "Wake up, wake up brother dear, please..." The familiarity tugged at Emil's cloudy memory until the realization struck him in the head like that of a rock launched from a slingshot. Lukas came. Came as soon as the skies cleared. He wanted to shoot up and embrace him, shouting vehemently, repenting for his past acts of supposed maturity and pride, but such was impossible with the strain it would put on his already sore body. Instead, he grinned at him and let a drop or two leak from already glazed eyes. The grin fell to a twitchy scowl.

Lukas remained quiet afterwards as his younger brother began to weep with choked coughs on the side. He only eyed him in bewilderment. He'd become a broken, shattered mess of his former sophisticated and uptight self. Emil, who now croaked out pitiful words of sorrow and begged for forgiveness instead of pleadings for his older brother to stop embarrassing him.

Trying to calm his distraught kin, Lukas gently pressed a finger to Emil's chapped lips to quiet him and rested the other hand on Emil's scarlet cheek, wet from his own bitter tears.

"I'm here, little brother, and I'm not going to leave anytime soon. I will stay until you are well." The words of authoritative reassurance caused the weak grin to return to Emil's tired complexion.

He was weary from the truth that he had kept bottled up inside of himself for all the years he's been alive.

It seemed to have erupted from him like a volcano.