After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 22

A Glinting Chain

Notes:

My sincerest apologies for not posting last night! We got back from vacation pretty late, and I was tired and therefore did not post 😅

When I first wrote this chapter, it wasn't supposed to be anywhere near as long as it wound up being. I was expecting a quick in-and-out thing—y'know, one of those chapter sections that I have to add another character's perspectives onto because it's waaaay too short to be its own chapter.

Anyway, that didn't happen, so now you have this! And personally, I'm pleased with the results^^

*****

They’d be searching Glipwood within the next two days. That would be strange—going back to the place she and Artham and Maraly and Gammon had seen everyone coming back from Fort Lamendron, the place she had begun placing her orphans with families again. The place she had first seen, first met Janner.

Tears threatened to come again, and Sara shook herself peering more intently around every tree trunk, searching through the snow of red and orange, brushing leaves from rocks, from crevasses, not willing to risk missing him. A cold breeze blew through the forest, her hood rippled about her face, and she shivered, drawing her cloak tighter around herself and leaning against Lightfoot’s warm flank. The wind was not unexpected; it had begun picking up, changing with the season. The gusts hadn’t been so terrible up until that point, but if they grew any stronger, her cloak would do little good. 

Walking on, holding (needlessly) tight to Lightfoot’s reins, scanning every spot, every angle in her line of sight—Sara was a little less concerned about the grounds to her right, since Artham and Garner were on that side of the chunk of forest, visible in the distance, looking there as well—she spotted a collection of large rocks backed into a cluster of trees. 

She quickened her pace, Lightfoot following without any more protest than a brief snort. The chances of Janner being there were next to nothing, but she couldn’t not look. On reaching the cluster, she leaned closer to the stand of boulders and called his name quietly, “Janner?” She didn’t want to give Artham a false alarm.

No response. Her heart only sunk a little; hope was growing thin. Knowing she couldn’t live with herself if she failed to check, Sara began brushing away the leaves, scooping them out of the crevasse between the rocks, climbing onto them, pushing leaves out of any hole for even a sign that he had been there. 

Nothing. As always, a part of her felt foolish for trying and hoping—of course he wouldn’t be there. Lightfoot nuzzled her as if to provide comfort, and Sara managed a bit of a smile and a scratch behind her horse’s ears.

Still, she mused as she picked her way off the rocks and onto the next search, Lightfoot in tow. At least it was more likely, a little more likely than finding him buried under the leaves just at my feet. Sara stopped dead in her tracks at the thought and had to swallow as salt flooded her mouth. She crouched to the ground, hating herself for thinking such a thing even as images of Janner’s beaten, gaunt body buried beneath leaves, overlooked, overstepped, flooded into her mind.

The tears she held back earlier returned with a vengeance, and she didn’t bother stopping them this time. The pitter-patter as the leaves caught them in their crisp, curled hands served as an odd sort of comfort, and she pretended the Maker was there, catching her tears as they fell.

Rustling drew her attention, and she wiped her hands across her cheeks quickly then stood and gave Artham and Garner a wobbly smile. “Any luck?” she asked brightly, knowing he could see through it but not really caring.

Artham didn’t respond immediately. “There’s dirt on your face,” he said instead, gently.

Sara’s fingers ghosted over her cheek—of course her hands had been dirty, and the tears mingling with dirt must have created a smeary mess. “There wasn’t before?” she asked jokingly. “We’ve been out here for over a week—I’m sure we’re filthy.”

Instead of responding, Artham smiled sadly, pulled out his canteen from Garner’s saddle pack, poured a little water onto a clean cloth he procured from somewhere, then offered it to her. Sara accepted it gratefully, and as she wiped it across her cheeks, she couldn’t help but think that Janner would have brushed the damp cloth against her cheeks for her—not that she wanted Artham to do such a thing, certainly not. She was glad he hadn’t.

“Good?” she asked when she had finished, and Artham nodded. She handed the cloth back to him and launched into her previous question as he tucked it away again. “So, did you find anything?”

Artham pursed his lips. “Possibly,” he said slowly, as if each syllable was an effort. He squeezed Garner’s reins. “I found a sparsely-furnished cabin, left unlocked. There’re leaves inside, blown in by the wind.”

Sara’s heart leapt in hope. Possibly? Maybe? Could Janner be there somewhere? “Let’s go!” she cried eagerly, unable to stop her mind from racing, from feeling certainty that they would find him there.

“Wait,” Artham said gently, grabbing her wrist with his left hand, the one not holding Garner’s reins. “Please, don’t set your expectations too high. There’s no guarantee he’ll be there or that he’s been there in the past—it doesn’t look like the sort of abandoned cabin where someone would shelter.”

Nodding, Sara told herself this over and over again, her hopes still rising instead of sinking, as they made their way through the leaves to the cabin that grew closer and closer, the crunching of leaves underneath two sets of feet and two and hooves a fairly loud distraction. She was glad Artham’s stride was so wide; it meant each of her steps became two, a sort of skip that let her hope escape from her mind into her body—it felt good and made remembering Artham’s caution so much harder. 

The cabin finally in sight, Sara could barely tear her eyes away to look at the ground and be sure she wasn’t going to step and slip on a rock that would roll her ankle. The wood, mottled between dark, light, and something in the middle, blended in perfect with the forest, the low-sloping roof covered in multicolored leaves gave it the appearance of an odd tree amidst a sea of more leaves.

The door was cracked, and a gentle push of it produced a creak and revealed a carpet of leaves inside the naturally-lit cabin. Windows illuminated it fairly well, casting light on a bed, desk, sofa, rug, several chairs, small table, stove, and well-stocked bookshelf. 

Normally such a thing would draw Sara’s attention—the need to see which titles graced the shelves would overwhelm other priorities like actually listening to whoever was speaking—but not today. No, today she tied Lightfoot to a part of a post just outside the cabin, walked inside said cabin, and immediately began going over every inch of the room. 

After securing Garner, Artham joined her inside and strode over to the carpet. A thud scattered leaves as he flipped it onto itself in one motion, and Sara’s eyes strayed from eying the wall to him. He stood, looking down, nodding.

“There’s a trapdoor here,” he said, looking up at her. “I know the chances aren’t high but—”

“They’re higher here than they ever have been,” she whispered, coming closer quickly, praying. 

She continued her prayers as Artham pulled the ring and lifted the door, as he reached into his pack and pulled out a small lantern and fiddled with it and some matches before sending light into the darkness of the cellar.

Sara’s breath caught in her throat—it was not dirt as she expected, but cobblestone that looked as though it stretched on “behind” the cabin. When she looked up, Artham’s gaze caught her own, and she smiled at the sight of his eyes so wide, so hopeful. 

“It’s not normal,” he murmured. “We’re going down, of course, but we’ll need a way to get up as well.”

“There,” Sara said, pointing into the cellar. A ladder lay along one wall, almost hidden in shadows. “Do you think it’ll be long enough to reach back up here once we're down there?”

Artham squinted, then passed her the lantern. “Looks like it,” he replied in brief, and after Sara had taken the lantern, he jumped down. “Pass it to me now,” he called, and Sara got down onto her stomach, reaching down and passing it to him. Receiving the light source and illuminating the tunnel even more, Artham set it on the ground a few feet away from him. 

“What about the horses?” Sara asked anxiously, remembering Lightfoot and Garner and glancing in their direction. 

Artham waved off her concern. “We likely won’t be down long. I’m sure they’ll be alright. Now, do you want the ladder, or would you rather jump?” he asked with a smile, and Sara couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Jump, of course!” she said, knowing she sounded far more lighthearted than she really felt. 

Grinning, Artham held out his arms. “Alright. I’ll catch you.”

Sara smiled, knowing she could probably land it on her own without Artham having to worry about catching her. She obliged anyway and slipped down, enjoying the flying of her cloak briefly before landing safely in his strong arms. 

Artham smiled as he sat her down and took up the lantern again. They stood there for a few minutes, looking into the corridor that was far longer than Sara had assumed from the sight above. It stretched on into the dark, seemed as though it divided into different passages, and sent chills throughout her body. 

“Sara,” Artham whispered, apparently feeling, like her, as though a sort of silence was needed. “Would you mind taking the lantern? I’d like to have my sword ready.”

Nodding, Sara took it once more, swallowing in nervousness as he drew his now-golden sword from its sheath. It glinted in the lantern light, dangerous and waiting. Sara prayed it wouldn’t be necessary, but her stomach still clenched with every step along that cobbled path.

They came to the first place on the right where it looked as though a sort of hall opened up—it wasn’t that deep, just a few feet deep, ending without going anywhere impressive. The next on the left yielded similar results, though that one was around twenty feet deep instead of five. 

It was the third on the right that really sparked interest. A wooden door was in this one, and yet it wasn’t locked. Artham pushed it opened easily, went in first, holding the lantern again, doing a quick sweep of the room before allowing her to follow. 

Sara glanced around it, feeling sick. Chains hung from one place in the middle of the ceiling—she knew what those were for. The torn, bloodied shirt in her pack threw itself into her mind, and she swallowed in an effort to keep it from overwhelming her. A coiled rope in the corner twisted her heart in terror. It wasn't a coiled rope at all. She knew it all too well: a whip. And along one wall, the one closest to the door—

“Artham,” she choked, suddenly lightheaded. “Do you—?”

“I see it,” he whispered, going closer to the lavender, brown-stained dress in a heap on the cobblestone floor. He reached out to pick it up, hesitated, then did so anyway, confusion, anger, uncertainty, and horror flickering across his face. 

“I—I mean, that's—” Sara’s breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t bring herself to say it for the images filling her mind. "Artham," she finally whispered. "That's mine."

Artham turned to look at her, his brows knit in fury. "Then why is there dried blood on it?" He demanded, coming closer, his hand crushing folds of the ruined dress.

"I don't know!" She shrieked, clutching at her hair, trembling. Artham's hand brushed her arm; she jerked away and began pacing blindly. That was her dress, her dress covered in blood, blood that certainly wasn't hers. If Janner had been here, if the chains and the whip had been used on him, if the dress had been used on him to convince him—for some cruel reason—she was dead, it meant whoever had done this to him at truly hated him, more than anything else in Aerwiar. It was someone who wanted vengeance, someone who wanted him to suffer...but what if it was someone who wanted her to suffer too? Hadn't the shirt tormented her? Hadn't her heart broken countless times over the past weeks?

Shaking, Sara lowered herself to the floor of the cell and removed her pack from her back, opening it and pulling Janner's shirt from it.

“He sent this to torment me, and that to torment Janner,” she whispered, still thinking. “It was recently too, Artham. I know I had this dress before I left; I remember seeing it in my closet and thinking how I was wearing it when he proposed.” She glanced at the ring on her finger and smiled, a tear falling on it.

“But who's 'he' Sara?” Artham asked, the sound of his sword slipping into its sheath sliding into her ears before he joined her. “And how did he get into Torr?”

Sara furrowed her brow. “What if he was always there?” she asked, horror filling her mind. “Janner got sick so randomly the day he was kidnapped; it was like nothing that'd happened before! What if...Artham, what if someone drugged him, then kidnapped him? And he's been there is entire time, watching—”

“Watching you,” Artham muttered darkly.

Chills ran down Sara's spine at the thought. “But we're all away from there, and we can't deal with that now,” she reasoned, forcing her mind onto the matter she was developing when she pulled Janner's shirt from her pack. “It must've been someone who hated both of us. And the only person I can think of...is the Overseer. The whips,” her mind shook and spun, and she couldn't speak for a few moments. “That's him.”

“We didn't end him?” Artham hissed, fury evident in his voice.

Sara bit her lip. “I thought someone might have. I thought you or Gammon took care of him.”

“Apparently not,” Artham spat, then jumped up, his fists clenched. “Sara, we need to leave now. If Janner was here, and it's looking like he was at some point, then the Overseer might be nearby, and he might try and get you. That can't happen—I won't let it happen. Maybe I can find somewhere safe you can stay, and then I'll keep looking on my own. It isn't safe for you anymore.”

Sara shook her head. “No,” she whispered, surveying the windowless room where a single lantern hung from the ceiling along with the chains. “You can't leave me. Surely the safest place for me is with Anniera's Throne Warden? We'll find him together, Artham. You'll drive yourself mad if you look on your own. You won't sleep or eat, I know you won't.”

A glimpse of guilt fluttered into Artham's eyes. “But what if we stumble across the Overseer, or what if he steals you while we're camped for the night?”

“Then I'll scream, or you'll hear him sneaking around. Your hearing is normally excellent.”

“Artham shook his head, seeming a little resigned. “Then where is he?” he said slowly, walking over and grabbing the whip, putting it in his pack as well.

Sara stilled her hammering heart and breathed in slowly, collectedly. “Maybe he got out?” she offered. “I don’t think…I don’t think he’s gone.” She meant the terrifying form of gone.

Artham nodded a bit, agreeing with her. "I suppose there’s no sign he…succumbed to any injuries.”

Despite the euphemism, Sara’s stomach clenched into an even tighter knot. 

After leaving the cell—she left the dress; she didn't want the monstrous thing anymore—they debated on searching further down the corridor, but Sara’s concern about the horses was the deciding factor. “I’m sorry,” she apologized as they walked back toward the entrance. “Maybe we can come back down after we make sure they’re alright?”

Artham shook his head. “No, we shouldn’t leave them alone in the forest. And you’ve no need to be sorry, Sara.”

He clutched his sword hilt tightly, and she suspected his concern that the Overseer would jump out from behind shadow was a deciding factor as well.

They had reached the trapdoor by that point. Artham broke away to grab the ladder and position it. Shifting the lantern to her other hand for comfort purposes, Sara watched him as he struggled a bit with it because of the awkwardness of the size, almost decided to help him and then—

She saw a door opposite the hall they had trekked down, one they hadn’t seen at first because when they jumped down, they were so focused on what was ahead, not what might lay behind. 

Wordlessly she walked over to it and pushed the door open, breath held, hoping, praying Janner would be on the other side. Unfortunately, it was just as likely the Overseer would be as well, ready to take her. 

Much to her sinking heart’s disappointment, he wasn’t. The lantern light did not show the shape of a person, nor evidence in the form of clothes or bandages. Something winked back at her from the darkness, though, reflecting the light of the lantern. She walked toward it, the light source following her, and for the first time since she saw the door, Artham made a yelp of concerned acknowledgement of her discovery. 

Sara trembled when she bent down to pick up the glinting thing; it was jewelry. A gold necklace with an incredibly thin chain holding fast to the Annieran crest. 

She couldn’t make a sound, at first, but Artham’s hand suddenly grasping her shoulder gave her a bit of courage. “It’s his,” she whispered. “Artham, I never told him this, but this necklace always made me think of him—something else thin, gaunt, tired, with the strength to hold up a kingdom and far more.”

“We’ll find him, Sara,” Artham promised gently, the darkness and anger in his voice hidden well, but not so well she couldn't hear it. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will find him. Let’s take the ladder, now, and work on just that.”

Once they reached the main room of the cabin, Artham was sure to place everything back as it had been when they had come. Sara fastened the necklace around her throat in the meantime. “We should ride in the same direction the tunnel goes,” he suggested as they mounted. The tunnel led toward Glipwood. “We know Janner was there at some point, and I’m doubtful he climbed that ladder.”

“Wait!” Sara interjected, pulling back on Lightfoot’s reins. “What if he’s in the tunnel?” The horror of the thought chilled her.

Artham shook his head. “Janner never does anything halfway, Sara. If he wanted to get out, he got out. He may have pushed himself far beyond his limits, but you know he got out of there.”

“I do,” Sara admitted, urging Lightfoot into a trot following Garner. “That doesn’t stop me from worrying we’ll be too late.”

*****

Notes:

THEY'RE GETTING SO CLOSE!!!

Oh, and the way the "map" of the cabin and the tunnel below and the cell and the "clearing"/forest Janner emerged into kind of looks just like that:

Cabin --> Trapdoor/Initial Cell --> Tunnel --> Second Cell w/Chains --> Continued Tunnel Janner stumbles through --> Door in a Grassy Mound in a Clearing-ish

Let me know if there's anything noncanonical^^