He held his arm beneath her head, supporting it. He watched her lips, a tiny gap between them enclosing her slow breath. His other arm drifted to her wrist, slightly relieved that he could still feel a beat. The air was cold; his skin was bumpy, his hands shaking. Wind caused his arms to hurt even more, flaming pain that tore beneath his skin. That didn’t matter, only she mattered now. His stomach was burning, he hadn’t eaten anything in two days, his throat was dry, he could barely talk. Yet he still didn’t care, he just wanted to hold his wife.

Two weeks ago, she had begun coughing. No matter how much he argued that they should get help, walk to the town a few days away and see a doctor, she had just shook it off. I’ll get better, she had assured him, I shake things like this off easily, it’ll just be a light cold, that’s all. He couldn’t help worrying for her though, he cared for her, there is nothing he wouldn’t do to help her. He could only wish now that he had helped her earlier.

Decaying leaves crunched under his knees as he shifted over to support her better. There’s still hope, he kept telling himself, she can still recover. We’re not that far from the hospital. Then someone can look you over, give you a few pills, and we can go back to the village. Please. I don’t want to be alone. The sun was starting to set, for a while the forest would be a brilliant orange. Then darkness would fall, and he would have to face the woods on his own. All alone.

She didn’t get better. She was found in the middle of the village, collapsed against the side of the well, crumpled and broken. Since then she had been delirious, coughing horrific rasping coughs, those that made the stomach churn. He had rushed her out of the village in the direction of help, arm around her shoulders, into the dark and foreboding woods. He had played in these as a child; they had seemed so mysterious and joyful. Now they were a barrier in the way of saving his wife.

He rested the back of his hand on her forehead. Her delicate skin was warm, far too warm. He could feel her slipping away, life draining from her body as the infection spread. He wondered what she must be feeling. Fear? Pain? Relief? She was heading for the afterlife. Aloud he spoke a prayer, begging God to make her not have to suffer, to let her into his arms, and that he could join her one day. He didn’t want to give up on her. Then again, he had to accept it at some point. Didn’t stop it being so hard to say goodbye.

She had managed to stagger out a fair portion of the way, then had fallen into his arms exhausted, struggling to breathe. He had carried her as far as his muscles could take, then had dropped to the floor, spreading her out along the ground and just holding her. This was where they were now, in a meaningless spot in a forest where every place was the same. It felt unfair for her to die in a place like this.

He knew she was going to anyway. He scrunched up his eyes to hold back the pain, gathered every bit of strength he could, and lifted her, stumbling along towards hope. It was then he realised he didn’t know what direction he needed to go any more. His eyelids could no longer restrain the flow, his dry skin shrieking out for the dribbling streaks. He fell again, and collapsed upon her, his tears falling onto her cheeks. Her soft, beautiful face. Her eyes, still open, staring resolutely ahead, resembling jewels.

He remembered the first time he saw them, lit by the fire that burned in the centre of their village, as they celebrated their harvest. Their eyes met, and he knew, something told him that they would be together. Now, this illness was going to end it. She had been such a wonderful person, full of life, joy, always optimistic. He wished he could have shared her optimism, maybe his life have seemed better if he just looked at it differently. Or if he’d been able to convince her of his views, she would be at the hospital now, instead of dying in the middle of an endless forest.

He stroked her hair for a moment, thinking about the future. He would have to try and make his way back alone, but it was unlikely he would make it. He would join her, an unfound corpse in the unknown woods. It seemed vaguely fitting for him, he had never been that well known, even within their village. But for her, she deserved so much more, she didn’t deserve to die, people should come, they should help. Someone should be able to help her. He should be able to help her.

He had stories of wonderful places far away, where you could go and seek help with even the mildest illness, and didn’t have to walk long distances to get there. He had even heard that they didn’t have to walk there at all; they could take these things called cars. He had often wished for a car, or to live in a place where those fantasies were just part of daily life. Not so much for him, but because his wife should be treated with those kinds of luxuries, but the son of a corn harvester just could not get anything to give her. He wished he had been able to treat her better.

His hand dropped to hers, and clasped around it, the other still against her wet cheek. Her face was burning, stinging his flesh, bet he kept it there. Her hand had already started to go cold, stiffening. He could feel her heart feebly trying to beat a few last times, her face rolled over to look at him one last time, then she froze. Her eyes stared blankly at him. He reached up and pushed the lids closed, hugged her one last time then sat beside her.

His strength had waned; his enthusiasm had flown away as he watched his wife suffer. Now there was nothing. She was his life, even if he managed to get back to the village, his life had lost meaning. He just wanted to be with her, just wanted anyone to have come and saved her like he couldn’t.

Night was falling, the last light leaving. Soon there would just be the stars. The creatures of the woods were coming to him, drawn by the decaying body beside him. He didn’t want to think of her as just a piece of food. They were coming, and he would soon collapse from exhausted, and the pair would be taken, together, and destroyed. Fate.