The illness was no secret. Frith too had been plagued by it for some time much to Aslan's displeasure. For a while it'd had almost seemed like a horrible game 'guess who'll get ill next' and it seemed none of them were quite able to shake the dreaded thing. He'd been hopeful that it was all over when his father had returned, though apparently mistaken. His brow would furrow into a soft frown, not quite able to fathom it still. Death was new to the young boy, and he could quite piece together what this lost battle truly meant. All he knew was it was bad, around him now those that did understand were falling to pieces, evidently something very bad had happened.
