Erhart woke feeling better than he should. His eyes blurring the lines between him being awake and falling back asleep. Blinking a few times helped, and he stared up at the familiar cabin sealing. This was not the first time the witches brew had failed, but it was a first time it had him spitting blood. His dad must be furious. Wiggling his fingers, he tested the waters of his movements. 

“Fingers are good,” Erhart moved his arms, toes, raised his legs up and down. He shook like a baby lamb, as his dad liked to say, but he felt no weaker than normal. Being deathly ill, the new normal. Erhart chuckled at his own bad joke. 

“Ready to have some lunch?” Leaning against his bedroom door jamb, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A slight soap scent in the sir. Let Erhart know that he had been in the garden this morning, and had washed up. Never knew what would trigger his next attack, and his father was always careful. Grateful, his dad kept things light. Pretending nothing major had happened to him, again. 

“What no breakfast?” Erhart joked. Knowing he slept through it by the strong beam of sunlight striking his bedroom floor. It hit the spot around noon.  Grunting with the effort it took him to sit upright. Erhart knew it was the start of a rough day. His dad ignored his struggles, for that, he was thankful. Erhart needed to struggle on his own sometimes, let him feel less of a burden, a little more normal.  

“That's what happens when the prince sleeps in,” pushing off the door frame. He ruffled Erhart hair and went to the corner of his room to grab his walker. His room looked more like a hospital room, than anything like the bedrooms. Without the natural colour of logs of the cabin wall and ceiling. Kept it tolerable. More medical supplies, and health charms than anyplace else too, his dad made sure of that. All the white got to him on his bad days, but it kept him alive. He couldn't complain. “Erhart?” His dad broke into his thoughts with quite a prod. 

“This prince needs his beauty sleep,” Erhart smiled at his dad, fighting off his thoughts. He didn't have his physical health, he could at least keep his mental health strong. Grabbing the handles of his wheeled ride. He used all his strength to turn his legs around, and slid them off the bed. “Give me a moment,” Erhart wheezed out. His lungs were once again burning. His arms felt so weak; only stubbornness kept his fingers on the handlebars. Of course, weak limbs didn't keep the aching joints at bay. God, five hundred today, and his father was half of that and going strong. “I got this,” Erhart told himself more than his dad.    

“Want lunch in bed, my liege?” Looking up at his dad, his vision blurred. He knew it would be best if he did. His condition was only getting worse, and it was a burden on his dad, moving from room to room. His dad was being good about it too, and that helped. At times, it didn't, instead it feed his guilt at being so damn weak. 

“I wanted to eat outside with you today,” Erhart let his thoughts slip from his mouth. He spoke more into his lap, than at his dad. He had looked forward to eating outside today. Erhart loved the rustic table and chairs his dad had made for them. It blended into the thick woods that surrounded the cabin. The fresh air almost made him feel, not sick. Why couldn't he be normal? Erhart bit his lip, fighting his own thoughts.

His eyes were burning with shame, and tears. It was one of those days when he hated how weak he was, not that he ever liked being weak... this was the start of a bad day. “I'm sorry, don't mind me. I'll eat in bed today.” Erhart raised his head, trying his best to smile for his dad. His dad had no social life, not that he had one either, but his dad was in great health. Handsome, fit and great guy. He should have a social life, a friend, a woman; something that wasn't destroyed by his sickly son. He was only two hundred thirty-five! 

“Ow!” Erhart received a light forehead flick, more of a tap. It rattled his head, and gave him a dull ache.  

“Let's go, little prince,” picked up more like a princess than a prince. His dad had been doing this for him, for as long as he could remember. Calling him a prince, carrying him about. It thrilled him as a kid, but now it was embarrassing. The routine did wonders for his mood, gave him something to latch onto.  

“Dad!” Erhart whined, like he was eleven years old again.  

“Erhart!” His dad whined back at him, it made Erhart lips tip upward in a smile. “Saw that,” his dad had to point it out.

“Sure you did Dad,” Erhart laughed, “Watch your head.” He pointed out the low door that led to outside. Answering with a grunt, his dad bent down, holding him with great care. Right until he had Erhart tuck into his outdoor chair with a dozen blanket of all shades wrapped around him. 

“The air feels good,” Erhart took in the light breeze that was drifting across his face with great pleasure. “Think we can go for a walk in the woods? A morning walk one day with you, before fall.” Fall months, meant cold months, which kept Erhart inside. His body couldn't take catching a cold. 

“With the witches next brew,” the blond head of his dad dipped in reply.

“Yeah,” Erhart said with less enthusiasm, it was always the next brew. He flattened out a wrinkle in the blanket on his lap. “The next brew,” Erhart wasn't stupid, he knew he was getting worse and not better. 

“You'll need this then,” a small parcel dropped on his lap. “Now stay still. I'll grab our lunches.” 

“Thanks dad!” Erhart yelled after his dad, who grunted before ducking into the cabin. Erhart ravished the plain brown box in seconds. All he had to do was lift the lid, mentally he was tearing it to bits. “Dog tags?” Erhart lifted them from the box. They shook along with his fingers, but the glimmered in the sun. His dad's didn't, but they were old, a gift from his father. One that his dad kept tucked in his shirt. Erhart didn't hesitate to toss them around his neck. 

“A card?” Erhart read it, his dog tags weren't only dog tags; but a first aid kit as well. Erhart snorted, of course his dad would find one like this. It had small suture kit, tick removal, small saw, file, tweezers. A poison laced needle tip. A poison laced needle tip? Erhart doubled check, and yes, he read that right. Lifting the dog tags to his eyes, he saw the flat part with his name, Erhart Winter. The other side had all the things listed, squinting he couldn't tell which one was poisoned... 

“Found you,” lost in his gift. Erhart frowned at the weird comment.

“Well, I haven't moved...” Erhart let the dog tags fall on his chest. Turning his breath hitch in his throat causing a coughing fit. There stood a man, draped in filth from head to toe. A beard, tangled with dirt and debris. Erhart nose wrinkled with dismay. How could anyone, let their skin colour turn into patches of grime. Ragged clothes, his hair hung it matted knots. All this didn't scare Erhart. It was his eyes, they were darker than black, it felt wrong. Erhart's skin crawled for the first time, not out of sickness, but in fear. 

“Hey, this is private property.” Erhart choked out while the man came a step closer. “Dad!” He called out, this was not something he could deal with alone. Erhart tried to push himself up and away from the chair. This guy was giving off some nasty energy. He needed to get into the house on his own, but all he could do; fall down further in his blankets. 

“Get away from my son!” His dad's voice bellowed, a howl from the depths of his heart. Erhart clutched his dog tags with relief. He hadn't heard the bearskin in his dad for a few years, he had excellent control. When he let it out, there was no man who could stop him. Erhart let out a sigh, everything was going to be alright.