Rather than Resenting: Ch. 6

The Thief

Notes:

Conversations, discussion, a headcanon of mine that no one knows about is being slipped in here. It probably won't get noticed because of how subtle and not obvious it is, but I'll elaborate on it later in chapter chapter 10/11 (I think).

*****

Two weeks later, not much had changed. Sara was getting stronger, for which Janner was relieved, but Cerlon had not gained any strength or weight and had even deteriorated, to the point at which his joy at Sara’s improvement was almost entirely overshadowed by his son’s weakness. 

Watching it all, every sigh, every grimace, noticing every held-back tear and every trembling word were Artham, Nia, and Arundelle, trying their best to find some way to keep the pieces from falling apart. Quiet meetings in the second-story parlor were proving useful for that purpose, and the three had assembled once again, Artham and Arundelle sitting on one loveseat and Nia on the other. The goal was mainly to discuss everyone in the little subset of the Wingfeather family — Cerlon, Evnia, Elquinn, Sara, and Janner — and figure out if there was anything they could do to help, but the conversations had a tendency to go one way.

“I'm so worried about both of them," Nia said softly, looking at her hands. Artha studied her, wondering at her choice of words. She wasn't worried about Cerlon, not so much. She seemed as though she already knew what was going to happen to him. He desperately wanted to tell her not to lose hope and that there was a chance — Cerlon was still alive, after all, and he had made it that far — but perhaps that was for a different time.

Arundelle chose to step into the situation and smiled at her sadly. "Nia, I know. But you're going your best. And, you know, Cerlon might make it." Her voice broke on the last few words, and Artham grasped her hand and squeezed it gently.

"I can't bear the thought of giving myself false hope. What if I were to accidently give Sara false hope as a result of it?" Artham supposed there was truth her statement. "And my best isn't good enough! And besides, 'my best' is being thwarted because Janner refuses to speak with anyone,” Nia said, sounding a bit frustrated.

Here it goes again, in the direction it always does. Artham smiled wryly at hearing such a tone in her voice. It had been easier to provoke Nia when she had been younger, but at that point managing to irk her enough to where it was audibly noticeable was quite a feat indeed. Still, she had not been pushed to make her real feelings obvious around the cause of said feelings, so Janner had yet to push his mother to her breaking point. 

“Any suggestions, Artham?” Nia asked drily.

He shook his head, resisting the urge to sigh. “I’ve been trying since all of this started months ago and it hasn’t worked. I’ll keep trying but I have my doubts I’ll be met with any success.” He failed to say what was really on his mind regarding Janner, that there were other problems entirely unrelated to Sara and Cerlon at play, but he felt as though speaking of that would be even more of an invasion of his nephew’s privacy than this meeting was.

As if partially reading his mind, Arundelle softly spoke up. “Nia, are you sure we’re not meddling too much? I know this isn’t something that can continue — that wouldn’t be healthy. But at what point are we discussing forcing ourselves into a situation that isn’t ours to get involved in? If Janner doesn’t want to talk, maybe no one should force him.”

Artham felt a twinge of guilt at the last phrase, considering that he and Arundelle had had discussions on whether or not it was right to continue pressing Janner to pour everything out. He had consistently said that it was important for Janner to talk to someone about what was happening, and Arundelle had made the point that it had not been forced on him six years earlier, when Kalmar had gone missing. What was the point of doing so now? It would come out in its own time. 

Artham had had to bite his tongue to keep from answering her the way he desperately wanted to, not because he would say something unkind to her, but because he was reluctant to expose what might be considered one of his nephew's darkest secrets. It had not been until seven months earlier, when Janner had started getting more worried about Sara, even more closed off, that he had become aware that his nephew was dealing with something more than the current crisis.

He had begun paying more and more attention to him, trying to figure out what exactly it was, even if he already had a hunch. The hunch was slowly confirmed as he noticed that Janner acted differently when Kalmar would say or do something, in the sense that would faze him every so often. It didn’t faze him in the sense of guilt — Artham certainly knew what guilt looked like. Rather, it was a glint of anger and fury and clenched-white-knuckles. 

The moment he was certain that Janner's apparent bitterness toward Amrah was an underlying problem and had been for six years, he felt terrible. He should have noticed it sooner, he should have tried to help Janner handle it sooner. He hadn't, though, and he had only been able to pray that he would have the chance.

Since then, he had done his best. Bitterness was something that needed to be dealt with but he had never been met with any success. Janner had always made some sort of excuse and politely escorted himself out of the room or building or garden before the discussion could get anywhere.

That was the reason why he wanted to confront him on the subject but was still having a hard time figuring out just how. It was something that needed to be approached delicately, but it most certainly needed to be approached. 

“Artham?” Nia asked, drawing him out of his musings and back into reality. “What do you think about Arundelle’s point?”

He hesitated, clasped his hands, unclasped his hands because it was unsettling, stared at the floor awkwardly, then answered in the most unbiased manner possible. “I think it needs to be addressed, but in time. And I don’t think either of you should do it.”

Based on their silence, this took both his wife and sister-in-law aback, and when he glanced up to look at them, he saw that they seemed slightly aghast at the bluntness of his comment. Arundelle seemed puzzled, and Nia looked just a little bit angry.

“Artham,” she said slowly, her voice low and just the tiniest bit menacing. "I sincerely hope you have a decent follow-up to that point."

Artham swallowed nervously. He had meant what he said with all his heart, but unfortunately he had awakened the lioness inside his sister-in-law when he had made it. That was a side of her he never wanted to come into contact with, because it was mildly terrifying.

He saw Arundelle subtly move her hand to place it on Nia’s shoulder in an attempt to calm the inward seething. She mouthed, maybe apologize? to him, but he shook his head. He would likely apologize, but only for the way he had spoken, not for the message it contained.

“Please, let me explain,” he said softly, the hint of a plea in his voice. Nia tightened her jaw but did not object, so he continued. “Arundelle, I don’t think you should because—”

“It’s not my place,” she interjected quietly, saving him from trying to find a way to voice those words and others that accompanied it (and were ones even Nia did not need to hear) without sounding harsh or cruel or rude. 

He nodded gratefully in response and took a slow breath. Now he was going to have to explain to Nia, who was waiting impatiently. “And Nia, I know you want to comfort him and you want him to talk to you, but he’s not going to.” She

opened her mouth to protest this but he looked at her kindly, silently begging her to wait. “He doesn’t want to unburden himself to you because—” 

Artham paused desperately searching for a way to explain that the reason was likely because he was worried not only his worries about Sara and Cerlon would spill out, but that everything else regarding Amrah would too. He didn't want to address the problem regarding Amrah to anyone else because it just felt wrong. There was another reason why he needed to be the one to speak with Janner, but it was one he wasn’t quite sure how to voice to anyone, not to his nephew quite yet, and certainly not to Nia. After a minute, though, the answer came to him softly, like a gentle breath from the Maker, and he whispered a silent, Thank You.

Leaning forward, Artham explained, “He doesn’t want to burden you anymore.”

Nia’s frustration faded and was replaced first by puzzlement, then understanding, then grief. “But it’s not a burden,” she whispered, her voice trembling a bit. Artham’s heart broke for the woman he regarded as a sister. It was so unfair, so drastically unfair that she had to bear the pain of thinking she would lose her grandchild in addition to everything else she had faced so bravely through every trial in her life. 

Arundelle got up and took the seat next to Nia, placing an arm around her dear friend. “You’re already taking on both yours and Sara’s pain,” she murmured. “Let Artham take care of Janner’s in a timely, non-confrontational manner.” She still kept her voice calm and quiet while she said it, but she eyed Artham sternly all the while. 

How she managed to do both at the same time baffled him, and he nodded in response. He had a feeling it might be necessary to employ Kalmar as well, but for the time being, he would wait. For now, though, he knew it was time to exit the room quietly. Arundelle was holding Nia close, and while the latter was not crying, she looked as though she was on the verge of tears.

His wife could take care of Nia, but he needed to prepare for two things: some sort of plan to convince Janner to speak to him and the ships from Skree that would begin arriving the next day for the Ball. The former would be far harder to accomplish than the latter, and he prayed the Maker would give him wisdom on just how to go about doing it.

*****

The gray of dawn was beginning to creep onto the horizon. Janner had watched the sky change from navy with a few stars poking through the holes in its occasionally penetrable cloth to black with scattered stars, then to navy with a similar amount, and after that to the tinge of morning gray that snatched away and pocketed the dimmest pinpricks of light.

He had never thought of the sun or morning as a thief, a thief that was allowed to get away with his dastardly deeds day in and day out, all because he returned the stolen goods the next evening. He didn’t return everything, though. The stars he gave back; those were only the distraction. The true treasure he was after was time, time that people spent living, breathing, loving, dying, laughing, crying, singing, dancing, struggling, grieving. The sun, the greatest and most successful thief of all time, snatched it, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Janner closed his eyes tightly and clasped his hands together, his elbows planted on the windowsill and his forehead pressed against the cold glass. 

“Maker,” he whispered. “Please give us more time. Give us more time with him. Let me watch him grow into a toddler, a child, a teenager, a young man, a father.”

Silence was his response. He hadn’t expected an answer. “Please, Maker, please,” he begged. “I know I don’t deserve it, but for Sara and the rest of our family, please. I’ll do anything.” The last few words had been barely audible, and after saying them he lapsed into silence again.

He listened to the sounds around him: the quiet crash of the waves on the shore, gentle for this time of year, the few Annieran songbirds that stubbornly refused to migrate, already singing their joyous tunes, heralding the morning, and Sara’s quiet, even breathing, telling him that she was sleeping as she needed to recover — and she was growing far stronger. He listened for one more faint sound that would likely be drowned out by all the other “loud” noises, that of Cerlon’s breathing, and was unsurprised when he did not hear it. Risking the chances of stepping on a creaky floorboard at the expense of seeing his son, even if he would be mostly concealed by shadows, Janner edged his way toward the bed where Sara and Cerlon were sleeping, the latter nestled in the crook of his wife’s arm.

Janner smiled at the sight, looked closer, blinked once, shook his head, blinked twice, and felt  his throat closing in panic. He quickly placed his forefinger underneath Cerlon’s nose just to check, but he felt nothing. 

Nothing.

He wasn’t breathing. “No, no, please, no.”

Cerlon wasn’t breathing. A shout. A name. He heard Cerlon’s name coming from his mouth, but it didn’t sound like he was saying it.

Cerlon wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving, Sara was waking up, he wasn’t breathing, Sara was talking to him, Cerlon wasn’t breathing, the blanket was on the floor.

Oh, Maker, please don’t take him now.

*****

Notes:

This is your panic attack. Azog gave me permission so.....