Rather than Resenting: Ch. 11

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Notes:

So this chapter ended up being accidentally really long and hopefully won't seem choppy or weird, because some things ended up switching around and becoming different in the revision process😅

*****

The sound of frantically pounding feet drifted into his ears far sooner than the maker of said noises actually came into view. Artham looked up from his desk where he was reviewing yet another tedious document about something related to trade with the— he glanced back at the name of the country — Kingdoms of Erlow*. Apparently Anniera imported healing minerals of some sort from them that they extracted from their hot springs, the only warm thing about Erlow. It was even colder there than it was in Kimera, and Artham had no idea why anyone would want to live there.

A few seconds later, Kalmar’s somewhat frantic voice calling out, “Uncle Artham! There’s a problem!” as he ran was more than enough to convince him to pay very close attention when his nephew did arrive. Kalmar was prone to over-reacting and ridiculousness, but he was never frantic unless there was a reason for it.

“Kalmar, what’s going on?” he asked calmly as soon as his red-cheeked, wind-blown nephew came into view. 

Breathless from apparently running (sprinting, more likely) from the local port, it took Kalmar a few seconds to catch his breath enough to answer him. “Amrah’s…here,” he gasped out quickly.

Artham stared at him for several seconds, unsure if he had misheard his nephew or that Kalmar had simply run his words together because he had no air to say them with. He shook his head as if to reset his hearing. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

Kalmar had managed to get most of his breath back by that point and clearly stated, “Amrah is here, at the port, in a cave. Greston’s with her. Janner ran off. What do we do?”

All these microscopic sentences were delivered in a rapid-fire manner, and combined with the fact that Artham was still utterly baffled as to how exactly Amrah had arrived in Anniera, he was working his thoughts out more slowly than he should have been.

“Amrah’s here? Now?” He asked again, cocking his head to the side.

Kalmar exploded this time. “Yes! And she asked for someone to get Janner so she could talk to him and he did and then he ran off. Greston told me he didn’t even look back.”

Artham felt himself going cold with horror. Janner hadn’t…he hadn’t killed her, had he? “How—” his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he swallowed before speaking. “How do you know it’s Amrah?”

“She told us,” Kalmar replied. “After I saw Janner run off, I ran towards Greston. He was standing at the cave—”

“The cave that Amrah was in?” Artham interrupted. He hated to do so, but Kalmar wasn’t exactly the most concise storyteller.

Nodding quickly, Kalmar continued. “Anyway, I asked who she was and she started crying when she saw me and then in between it all she told me that she was Amrah and how sorry she was and everything.”

“And what did you do after that?” Artham asked slowly, thoroughly confused as to why Amrah had acted the way she had. It honestly sounded like a bit of a trick. She had been known to do that in the past, after all.

Kalmar shrugged. “I mean, I panicked a little. Greston told me to come get you so we could decide on what to do about it. Oh, and someone should probably also go find Janner. That…seems kind of important.”

“Indeed,” Artham replied seriously, standing up and walking out of his study, Kalmar following him. “That is a very important piece of everything.”

When they arrived at the port and walked to the cave a little ways down the sodden beach, things were just as Kalmar had said: Greston was waiting outside the caves mouth and inside on a rock sat an elderly woman, clad in a threadbare black cloak with a tattered hood that she did not bother to pull over her head.

She glanced up at them as they appeared, and even though Artham knew exactly who she was and what she had done to so many people, even though he remembered all those days in the Phoob Islands, watching her Fang man after man, woman after woman, child after child, he could not help but feel his heart breaking with compassion. There was, of course, an immediate surge of wariness and distrust that followed the compassion, but the two intertwined inside his heart, created this convoluted sense of a need to do something.

“Kalmar,” Artham said softly. It didn’t matter what he thought. The High King of Anniera stood right next to him, and because of Amrah’s doings, he had almost been killed. If Kalmar wanted to, he could command her execution in a second and no one would say anything against him (legally, at least). “What do you want to do?”

Kalmar stared at Amrah, and Artham watched as his eyes flickered back and forth, up and down, presumably taking in every detail about her, every crease on her face, every tear in her clothing, every knot in her hair. At least, that was what Artham saw. He wondered what his nephew observed.

He spoke after what seemed like a while. “I’m not sure how everyone else in the family will feel about this,” Kalmar said awkwardly. “But would you mind staying in the dungeon, just for a little while?”

Amidst his surprise at Kalmar’s voiced courtesy and respect, he nearly missed Amrah’s smile and little laugh. “It seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

A strange look passed over Kalmar’s face, but he chuckled as well. “I guess so. I hadn’t meant it that way, but I guess it is.”

Artham spent the slow walk in which Amrah leaned on him for support in a state of compassion, confusion, and concern.

He felt the strangest sort of compassion towards a woman so despicable that she deserved nothing of the sort, yet it sprouted in his heart anyway. It was certainly mingled with guarded wariness, but there was no point in denying that the sympathy was there, and it was there to stay.

He was a bit confused as to why Kalmar was acting so kind toward Amrah, considering that he had lost his arm because of her, but he supposed it was simply the Maker’s intervention. Artham wondered why the Maker had chosen to work on Kalmar’s heart and not Janner’s.

And finally, after depositing Amrah in one of the cells below Castle Rysen and leaving in an attempt to find his missing nephew, he allowed himself to focus on his main concerns. Dreadfully worried about Janner and why he had yet to return to the Castle (they had asked the guards on the way in if he had come back yet, and they had reported not sighting him), he made it a point to go and look. Surely his nephew couldn’t be all that far away, especially not if he was running quickly. Running on sand, in the winter, while going very quickly all added up to a short burst of speed and energy that would quickly die out.

What he was really worried about, though, was what was going through Janner’s head in that moment. Whatever it was, he knew it was nothing good, and it needed to be stopped as soon as possible.

And as he had learned as of late, forcing Janner to talk to him did not seem to be the best method of doing so.

*****

Janner stood completely still on the cold, wet shore of the beach being hit from every side by the wind and occasionally doused in frigid salt-spray and freezing flecks of foam. His hair was being whipped every which way and long since drenched, it continued to slap against his forehead, cold and wet. The cloak he had bothered to put on before leaving the castle was wet on the outside and reasonably warm on the inside.

He was more comfortable than what should have been allowed.

He didn’t really see the Sea before him, he was only aware of its presence, moving back and forth sporadically as it did in the winter.  It made for an excellent background noise, a fantastic accompaniment to the cacophony that was his inner thoughts and heart and mind that was racing and racing and just wouldn’t stop.

He did his best to slow them down, he really did. The thoughts zipped past faster than he could really register them, but he understood what they said or at least wanted as a whole. They wanted her to pay and they wanted her to feel as much pain as was possible without killing her.

After a while, he felt a strong hand belonging to Artham grasping his shoulder. He flinched, expecting to hear his uncle forcing him to come off the beach so he wouldn’t catch his death of a cold or trying to get him to talk about every little shattered fragment inside of him. 

Artham said nothing, though, and simply stood there, a strength amidst the crumbling walls around him. Janner found himself edging closer to his uncle, then leaning into him, then allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace where no words were spoken. It was such a comfort, and it stopped the hecticness in his mind, at least for a while. He was able to mull over every insane detail and thought in the silence that was only disturbed by the waves and his and Artham’s breathing.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about those thoughts he had had when he first saw Amrah as Amrah. He knew some of them were dark and more sinister than others, some more grieved and heart-wrenched. There was a part of him that relished finally feeling the full extent of what he had pushed down for so many years and another part that was absolutely terrified. There was a part that was ashamed that thoughts such as the ones that flitted by now could even cross his mind, another rejoiced at their presence. He was torn in two, but not completely so. Yes, hatred, bitterness, and anger seemed to be facing off grief, sorrow, and confusion, but they wanted the same thing: they wanted Amrah gone forever.

Janner wasn’t sure how long they stood on the beach, but eventually they were leaving. As they walked up the sand-and-rock littered path that led straight up to Castle Rysen — how convenient that he’d run right back home. No wonder Artham had found him so quickly (not that he wasn’t grateful) — he made a guess that it was fairly late, based on the color of the sky. It was evening and they’d be lucky if the Enramere had yet to dock. He expected Artham to say something, anything, but his uncle remained silent, his face completely unreadable but for the deep and abiding love that shone through his eyes.

It turned out that they weren't lucky. Before entering through the front door with a stiff nod to the castle guards who only looked both of them a little strangely, Janner could already hear familiar echoing voices and footsteps in addition to those of his family: Gammon, Maraly, Lorren, the young man who was the diplomatic representative of the Kingdoms of Erlow, one of the few kingdoms more northern than Kimera, and a few others he knew were in charge of something or delegates of some sort, but he didn’t feel like taking the mental effort to pinpoint it at that moment.

It was only a few seconds before he saw them, and he knew they would see him in just a few more. That gave him no time to look presentable solely for diplomatic purposes, so instead he chose to joke about it. Perhaps it would convince both them and him that it was a joyous occasion. Artham would likely find it strange, unexpected, and be even more concerned about him, but his options were more than a little bit limited.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said grandly as soon as they spotted him and Artham. The latter immediately stiffened beside him with surprise at his tone. “I was caught up at the beachfront. It's lovely this time of year.”

All the delegates except Lorren looked at him very strangely, likely taking in the state of his soaked hair and damp everything else in one fell sweep of their eyes. Kalmar looked both baffled and concerned and was very specifically making eye contact with him at a time he did not want it, while Galya was purposely avoiding his gaze for his sake. He made a mental note to thank her later. Artham, who had remained silent at his declaration, appeared to be deeply troubled, his brow furrowed. Apparently he didn’t believe that their time on the beach had been enough to relieve him of his burdens. Janner wasn’t too surprised and shrugged at him just a little. It wasn’t as though he could just leave and go off on his own to continue panicking about what would soon race to the forefront of his mind.

He wanted to though. 

Sara and Nia thankfully weren’t there to scold him, otherwise he had a feeling that was exactly what would be happening. He really didn’t want to be scolded by anyone in that moment. Only Maraly seemed to approve of his choice of clothing and occupation. 

“Not even gonna bother denyin’ it,” she remarked, a smile on her face. “But wearin’ some old clothes and standin’ by the beach fer a while, there ain't much better than that.”

Keeping up the façade, Janner grinned broadly. “I completely agree. However, I am sorry that I missed your arrival. It was by no means my intention to do such a thing.”

Gammon waved it off. “No problem, lad. The number of times I've been late to a meeting because I was busy Florid-Swording is far too high.”

A few of the delegates laughed at this, considering that they were delegates and essentially on vacation at the moment. It was a long “vacation” that could take anywhere from two to four months, hence why the Skreeans did not come to every single winter ball (he did not have the heart to wrestle with the thought of mentally calling it the “Redeemer’s Ball,” so he refrained from doing so). They had to pick and choose which, while infuriating to such avid tackleball players like Kalmar and Maraly, was really the only sensible option.

Noticing that Kalmar was making eye contact with him and jerking his head subtly to indicate that he needed to speak with him elsewhere, Janner ignored it and began greeting each of the representatives. By some miracle most of their names came to him as soon as he stood in front of them, and those that did not simply received an extra smile and appreciative word for attending.

“Good evening, Lorren,” he said warmly as he greeted the last of at least fifteen (likely more) representatives. Lorren was only a few years younger than him and was by far his favorite delegate. 

“Good evening to you as well, Janner,” Lorren responded, a real smile on his face. “It’s wonderful to be here these few weeks. Where are Sara and Nia? I was hoping to talk to them about how they’ve been doing.”

Janner smiled broadly at his consideration, but the broadness had the sole goal of covering up the grimace hiding behind the diplomatic mask. “Our third child is almost due, and Nia is with her.” He hated lying to Lorren and would have much rather told him the truth, but if he was going to lie, he had to do so in the same way each time.

A murmur of excitement and approval rippled through the group of delegates, and Maraly actually smiled as a result of something other than a good game of tackleball. Only his family looked either confused or concerned, Artham particularly so.

“Um, Janner,” Kalmar spoke up, hesitating. “Do you think we can talk about…that thing…elsewhere?”

Shaking his head both to say “no” to his brother and dispel the thoughts that had crept into his mind on the mention of such a notion, Janner hoped it wouldn't appear too rude to anyone else. “Later, perhaps. We should probably have that meeting now.” 

Kalmr nodded with uncertainty. “Yeah, sure. Just let me go…let Haldrid and Brastin and the other advisors know we’re ready.” 

Janner affirmed this decision with a nod, but Artham stepped in. Seething inwardly because he was sure his uncle’s silence about “certain matters” was about to come to and end and he was going to insist that he go and speak with Kalmar at that very moment or tell him to go get changed into dry clothes (which he would not have minded doing, but the truth was that if he left, he was certain he would stay gone), he opened his mouth to protest. 

Artham had other ideas though. “Kalmar, why don’t you go with Janner? I’ll tell everyone it’s time.”

Janner breathed a sigh of relief while his brother sighed in frustration, and both began leading everyone else toward the conference room.

He had escaped interrogation, at least for a little while.

*****

Notes:

Okay, I REALLY hope this doesn't seem too wonky. And if Janner seems too happy in the portion with the delegates...that's intentional.....