"So the chief priests made plans to kill Lazarus as well."

John 12:10, New International Version

I will not let my brother die a second time.

Oh, I know the day will come, when he leaves this body for good. When the Teacher is no longer here to save him. But I've always prayed that when the day comes, I am already gone. My heart will not be able to bear a second rending.

"Lazarus, you have to go."

My brother looks at me, an eyebrow raised.

"What are you talking about?"

"The priests," I try to explain. "They want to kill you."

Light streams into our house, casting a warm glow on everything. It's as though all the events of the past night didn't happen, as though a fresh start has already begun. As though we were not all fooled.

"Everyone is talking about it," Martha says from behind me. She has a bag in her hands. "Here, I've packed enough food for two days journey. If you leave now, they might not be able to find you. Hurry, before the day gets too hot."

Dependable, practical Martha. I could kiss her in joy, for her foresight. But my brother just wrinkles his forehead.

"Why would I run? Haven't you seen the crowds? They're baying for the teacher's blood."

"That's precisely why you should run. Everyone else has. You have heard about what Peter did, right?"

Lazarus shakes his head. "That's why I shouldn't run. I'm going to Gogoltha and I've wasted more than enough time."

"Don't be ridiculous," Martha says sharply. "We've lost. It's over. It's time for you to save yourself. Don't let the Teacher's miracle be in vain."

My brother pushes past us.

"And if I run, what was the point of the miracle?"

*******

Of course I followed him. What kind of sister would I be if I didn't?

But not too close. The crowds were wild and angry, angrier than I ever saw them. It was hard to believe that just a week ago, these same people — my neighbours, my friends, the people I grew up with — were shouting the praises of the Teacher. They were all hypocrites and ingrates.

"Don't do anything stupid," I whisper under my breath. My brother has been sticking close to the teacher. Admirable, but stupid in the current situation. At least he seems to be safe.

I follow the crowd to the hill. The day is bright and clear, like the day Lazarus returned to us, and the same feeling of grief is present. Only this time, there is no way I can feel the same joy at the end of this path. How can someone resurrect himself?

It's impossible.

From a distance, I see a hand being raised and my eyes close. I know what will happen. They will drive the nails into his wrists, to make sure that his body doesn't fall off the cross. They will drive another nail through both his feet, to make him suffer. And they will laugh as death approaches.

Barbarians, all of them.

Slowly, I creep towards the front. The bloodlust in the crowd is terrifying and I want nothing more than to turn back. But first, I need to get to Lazarus. I need to make sure that he won't do anything stupid, that he will not leave me and Martha alone again. The Lord knows that we almost tore each others' throats out the first time.

When I seem my brother, he's looking up. The Teacher is speaking to him and Mary, the teacher's mother, is weeping. Of course she weeps. I wept as well, and the tears of one Mary are not so different from the other. Perhaps our grief comes from the same well. My brother, ever the kind-hearted soul, catches her in his arms and he comforts her as he used to comfort Martha and I.

Something stills my footsteps. I look up and the Teacher sees me.

I should leave.

*******

Martha screams at me when I reach home. Her temper had gotten better after the Teacher spoke to her, but I suppose she's forgotten all that he said. I don't blame her, I can barely remember what he said either and I spent most of the time at his feet. I never had a good memory.

"How could you leave him there?" she rages at me. "Why didn't you bring me home? Must I be the only one who cares about safety?"

"You weren't there, you don't know what it's like."

"Of course I know what it's like. Everyone knows what it's like." Martha turns away, her arms crossed. She's more sensitive than she likes to admit.

"I'm sure he'll be back," I say, trying to reassure us both. "He wouldn't leave us again."

"How do you know?" Martha asks. "He already left us once."

*******

He returns. He returns and I almost wept for joy. The burial shroud that Martha and I have been glancing at, the one that haunts us both, can be put away for now.

"Don't do it again," Martha says. "Have you eaten?"

Lazarus shakes his head. "How could I? The Teacher was given nothing but sour wine and he couldn't even touched it."

"At least they gave him something to drink," I say. "Come, you must eat." I lay my hand on his arm but he shakes me off.

"They were gambling for his clothes," he says and picks his things up. "Mary of Magdalene and a few other women are preparing for his burial. I've promised to help, and then I'll see if I can find the rest. At the very least, we must give him a proper burial."

Martha looks at me and shrugs. There is work to be done, the day not even being over. And with the Sabbath approaching.

"Well, there's no time to waste," she says and looks at me.

Me?

What am I supposed to do? Go with my brother or help my sister?

"I... I need time to mourn," I say and run out of the house. They have to stop making me choose. Why can't they realise that it's tearing me into two?

I wait until night falls before creeping back into the house. Martha doesn't even look at me and Lazarus isn't even here. The house is as silent as a grave.

The second day passes in mourning.

On the third day, my brother returns, his face shining like the day he returned from the grave. And when I see his face, my heart leaps for joy. 

A/N: I know that mainstream theory says that John was the disciple that Jesus loved, but the story wouldn't have worked if I used that. And the Lazarus theory does have some support, so it's not completely crackpot (if that helps)