In Hours of Grievous Hope: Ch. 12

The Multitude Awaiting Them

Notes:

I believe that Chris' comment regarding what the Water actually heals goes along with my theory reasonably well (no pun intended...). I legit just listened to this about a minute ago (yes, I'm working on preparing the chapter while listening to the livestream!) so anyway....

Also I told @Anna J in the livestream that "no one might die." Poor grammar on my part. That means someone could die but it's also possible no one will die. It could go either way. So my bad Anna 😅 And anyone else I unintentionally misled...

*****

The trip down to the Deeps was harder than it had been the first time, probably because Kal had had a wolf’s body then and everything had been physically easier: climbing, jumping, sliding when necessary. Once again, the overhanging roots came in handy for balance, and the few times he nearly did fall, Artham was there, reaching out an arm to steady him.

With his wings to give him balance, Artham appeared to have no trouble navigating the trip down and may have even been able to fly if he truly felt like it. He didn’t, though. Instead, he stayed giving Kalmar help almost the moment before he was even aware that he needed it.

Kal couldn’t help but think it was how he had acted before Anniera had fallen, before he had been broken and twisted. There was a gentle fierceness in Artham’s Throne Wardenness, and though it had seeped through when he had still been Peet, the majestic clarity of it now was almost more than Kalmar could comprehend. 

Although their trip down the steep, rocky slope was similar to his and Janner’s what felt like a lifetime ago, it was different too. That trek had been unsettlingly silent, the sort of silent that made one’s skin crawl and one’s hair stand on end. For Kal, that had been quite a lot of hair standing on end.

Now the air was peppered with a sort of expectancy and excitement that made almost no sense; it came not from his own heart, he knew that, and there was no real reason for it to come from Artham’s.

No, he felt fear, determination, and an overwhelming sense of dread mixed with peace. He himself was quite confused as to how that conglomerate of feelings managed to knock around in his head all at once, but he shrugged it off. If he thought about something too detailed, like a strange feeling in the air that he couldn’t place or his unpleasantly-strong inner thoughts, his likelihood of tripping or slipping on a rock and falling flat on his face would mount.

Yet at the same time, even though he had a sense of dread, the Deeps did not feel as though they tried their best to swallow them whole. They beckoned them onward, yes, but not in a frightening or menacing manner, almost as if they were desperate and pleading for a worthy cause.

Continuing downward, few words other than Artham’s occasional, “careful” or “I’ve got you” when Kal nearly fell, were exchanged. Kalmar’s pack was beginning to feel a bit heavier, understandably so, since they had scaled rocks for what felt like far too long. Granted they were going down, not up, but that almost made it harder.

Kal wondered now how they would manage to get the people up the hours-long, perilous slope once they were healed of their Clovenness. Even if they were to wait to execute the melding until after everything trekked up, it would be even more difficult. The chances of many of the Cloven being in terrible physical condition and nearly incapable of moving themselves was far too high. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before and if Janner would have.

After another few minutes of climbing, Kalmar stopped, holding himself steady with a hanging tree root. “Uncle Artham, can you hear that?” A quiet murmuring of what sounded like many voices had reached his ears, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t going crazy. 

Artham nodded. “I’ve heard it for a while, but I thought it was just my imagination.”

Kal felt a smile slipping onto his face as he thought of how hilarious it was that he had wanted to be sure he wasn’t going crazy while his uncle was sure he was. He was pretty sure things like that were called something, and if Janner were there he certainly would have been able to tell them. But he wasn’t there, though it was possible he would be soon.

They continued onward cautiously, but not as cautiously as they could have. There was something about the vague murmur of voices that told Kalmar they were friends, not enemies.

In just a few minutes, he was astonished beyond belief. 

Kalmar’s mouth gaped open at the sight of so many Cloven, deformed, twisted, and broken, yet so completely sincere and lovely in their own way. A few people, a select few, were thrown into the odd mix of confusion and, but not many. Some were wilder and in more pain than any Cloven he had ever seen, yet others were calmer, almost human but not quite. 

“My name is…Kalmar Wingfeather, High King of the Shining Isle of Anniera,” he began awkwardly, but he said it anyway just so they would know he wasn’t evil or something. “What are all of you doing here?” Very aware of the confusion in his voice, he didn’t really mind the Cloven knowing he was confused, largely because he needed things explained.

One of the wilder Cloven, a bit of a mix between a glambloat, an ickaw, and something else he couldn’t recognize, limped forward, standing on three legs. “Are…are you really the King of Anniera? He fell; we thought he fell.” 

Kalmar felt a burning in his throat. “He did. I watched it happen. But I’m his son, and for now I’m still here.”

“How did all of you get here?” Artham asked, hitting on the real question looming in front of them. Kal wondered if the tremor of grief or fear in his voice was actually there, or if he was imagining it. 

“Someone freed us from the Deeps,” it began, its words sounding as though they twisted strangely, much like its head, turned off to the side as if it were stuck that way. “We all came together and found our way out.”

“Who was it?” Artham’s voice was gentle and maybe a little scared. “Where are they?”

“We don’t know,” another Cloven, a mostly-person with the neck of a snickbuzzard, spoke up. “Some cells were unlocked by trolls, and others by someone or something we do not know. A girl, maybe. Imagine that, a real girl!”

Kalmar felt Artham deflate beside him. “She's not here, then?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’ve no idea?” His voice trailed off into an odd squeak, and Kal glanced at him in alarm. Chill, it's still alright, he reassurd himself, because although his uncle’s eyes were now downcast, they did not shift oddly, nor did his wings flutter of their own accord.

The gambloat/ickaw/something Cloven shook its head oddly, as if it was a struggle to do so when one’s head was twisted in the wrong way. “No, I’m sorry. Do you know who it was? Can you thank her for us? We would all appreciate it.” It turned to look at the other mass of Cloven, different in that their demeanors lacked experience with insanity and that their hope burned brighter. 

There was a scuffling in the grass beside him, and Kalmar glanced to his right to see Artham’s mouth moving even though no words came out. The brief glimmer of alarm he had needlessly felt earlier only mounted when he saw the way Artham’s eyes darted about and his hands twisted frantically. 

Now Kal felt fear bubbling in his own heart. They couldn’t have this happen, not then! What if Artham’s frenzy startled the Cloven, and they went crazy too?

He reached out to take his uncle’s taloned-hand in his, hoping to bring him back to reality. They had prayed!  They had prayed and it had worked for a good long while. So why had it stopped working now?

Because I can do anything, but My children must trust Me, the Maker spoke gently in his head, a note of sadness in His Voice. If Artham were only to call out to Me again, I would listen. But he has forgotten.

Painfully aware that Cloven stretching as far as the eye could see stared at him intently, not a speck of madness in their faces, waiting for who-knew-what, Kalmar took a deep breath and pulled Artham to the ground, grasping his shoulders. Something like that should have been harder, but he was surprisingly willing and non-resistive. 

“Uncle Artham,” he whispered, praying the Maker would give him the words, because this grief and panic ran deeper than stray words spoken out of grief. “Remember not feeling guilty? Remember that? The Maker gave you that because you trusted him to. Let him give it to you again.”

Shaking his head, Artham raised his taloned-hands jerkily to his ears as if in an effort to block out the world. “Not Esben tis thime, hot nim. Omesone else. Her. Don’t even know…left mo sany people, forgot. Theft lem. Coward.” That word was the only one that was perfectly, crisply clear.

Tears were streaming down his face by that point, and Kalmar felt his heart breaking. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t tell him everything would be alright: Artham would never believe it. He couldn’t tell him no one blamed him: Artham blamed himself, and that was the problem. And for that matter, Kal wasn’t even sure what the root of the problem was, since for once it didn't sound as though it was Esben.

He did the only thing he could do: he closed his eyes and prayed. “Maker, please help Uncle Artham,” he whispered, his voice trembling. When he heard the Cloven coming closer, though, he raised his voice, figuring that if they were ready to attack, it might deter them. “Let him believe You forgive him even though he doesn’t forgive himself, please. I need him. We need him. Please, help him believe You and trust You for just a little longer. He’ll…he’ll be whole soon, just like all the Cloven here,” he finished, his words gone and his throat choked with grief. He hoped the words spoken aloud would be enough, because with the way his heart ached, he could say nothing else. 

A few minutes of silence passed, and it felt as though not a living thing breathed or moved, out of reverence or awe no one would ever know. Perhaps it was because words to the Maker had been spoken aloud in defiance of the Deeps and the Cloven had heard them for the first time in who knew how long.

There was a contented sigh, a sound that conveyed a knowledge of safety, of trust, even if it was only temporary. “Thank you,” Artham breathed, and when Kal looked at him, he saw that his blue eyes were clear. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, don’t say it,” Kalmar hushed him gently, hugging him without thinking about it twice, likely more to calm his own nerves than his uncle's. “It’ll be alright soon, it really will be.”

He turned to the Cloven, a burning strength and determination flowing through his heart. “Do you…do all of you want to be human again?”

Still astonished from hearing such a bold yet gentle and loving prayer aloud, not a word was spoken as if they meant to keep the spot sacred, but the desire in the air was palpable and radiant on its own. 

Kal laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. “Who am I kidding, of course you do. I’m only...” he looked around almost involuntarily. “We, well, I can’t forget anyone. One of our friends is looking through the forest now for the Cloven hiding there.”

“Wait, we can help — we want to! Let us,” A few Cloven cried out in haphazard order, all sorts of noises coming from their mouths or muzzles or beaks. A murmur of agreement that sounded more like a roar because of the multitude of odd-sounding voices came forth from the crowd, and even though Kalmar knew what the finding and healing of so many would lead to, his heart glowed with joy.

“We have someone looking already,” he told them, smiling. “She could use a bit of help, I'm sure. Not to mention that we need to get all of you out of this pit.”

He had glanced at Artham when he said she could use a bit of help, and he took his cue. “Will you be safe here?” he asked, eyes worried.

Kal nodded. “Yes, thank you Uncle Artham. And I promise, I won’t do anything without you.”

Artham bowed and took his hand, kissing it out of reverence, before leaping into the air, his wings beating as he left to find Sara. Kalmar looked after him for a moment, taking physical strength from his uncle's existence, before turning back to the crowd.

“Alright,” he began, planting his hands on his hips (his left hand brushed the hilt of Janner's sword, startling him more than he had expected it to). “Anyone have an idea as to how we can get up this steep slope without falling?”

*****

Notes:

It is vital that everyone understand that Artham is not just panicking because of Esben and because he left him in the Deeps. That would be redundant. There is more going on that he has not told people, and it is completely my headcanon! And hopefully not a canon-breaker. I mean, there's nothing in canon that I can think of that invalidates it. Anyway, this will come into play in the next story (in fact it leads to the climax...hint, hint).

Again, anything in here that contradicts with canon, please let me know^^ I am aware that the inside of Throg in terms of the mountain and the Deeps and the castle is kind of underdeveloped, so if there's an issue on that...yeah anyway...