Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 21

Notes: Here's today's second chapter, because it was being clamored for XDD It's a bit angsty...

Locked Cages

Artham sat on the bed in Greston’s cabin, looking at Janner’s sleeping form as he lay underneath the blankets. The new scars on his forehead and hands told him an incomplete story, one that he hoped Janner might be able to explain to him someday. 

For now, though, he was sleeping. At least, Artham thought Janner was sleeping. There was an equally good chance that he was actually awake and letting his mind destroy him as Artham knew minds to do. He clasped and unclasped his hands as he thought about it. The idea of a Throne Warden was brilliant, it was safe and secure and woven into the mind, heart, and blood of the eldest Wingfeather son from childhood.

The trouble came when the Throne Warden failed to do what they were destined to do. Unfortunately, it often came in the most destructive packaging: through the Throne Warden’s own choice. It was often an unintentional choice, a choice that would only be made under unnatural, traumatic circumstances, but it was still a choice.

Artham had made the wrong choice years ago and he had suffered for it. He had prayed for so many years that no Throne Warden after him would  accidentally make a similar choice. Yet it seemed as though it had happened again. Had Janner done it on purpose? No. Did he regret it? More than words could ever express. Was there anything that could be done? Silence. 

He glanced at Janner’s face again, twisted in a look of shame, fear, and pain. Artham didn’t know. Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. He didn’t think Kalmar was dead, but when Janner had managed to come to reality — oftentimes he had woken and been utterly inconsolable and bordered on something that Artham knew so well that it scared him: madness — he had only said: “He’s gone.” Sometimes it sounded a little like “she’s gone” instead of “he’s gone.” 

That was when Artham realized Janner thought Sara was dead. He had nearly smacked himself when he figured it out — it made perfect sense. If he and Kalmar had been swept off the Shining Beauty in the middle of a deadly gale, the likelihood of the rest of the ship being dashed to bits was astronomically high. And Artham knew Janner normally assumed the worst. 

He had tried to tell him that Sara was alive and that she was alright, but Janner hadn’t listened. He had shaken his head and whimpered, the scared, wild look in his eyes. Artham saw himself as he had been before in those eyes, and it wrenched his soul. 

Artham caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw the covers stirring. “Janner,” he whispered, kneeling on the floor beside the bed and placing his hand on his nephew’s head comfortingly. Grounding was needed most now. Touch was the grip of reality. 

Janner turned his head toward Artham and opened his eyes. He stared at him and Artham stared back. “It’s my fault,” he whispered, a tear rolling down the bridge of his nose. “I did it. I’m the reason he’s gone.”

The grief that Artham saw and heard and felt stabbed him like a knife. Was it because he knew Janner wasn’t holding back the truth? Of course, there was more to the story, but he didn’t bother to hide the facts. 

Artham reached for a glass of water on the end table and held it to Janner’s lips. “Please drink this,” he asked softly. 

Janner blinked at him and Artham could see a refusal on his trembling lips. 

“You can’t say no,” he whispered before his nephew could speak. “If you die of dehydration, how will you rescue Kalmar?”

Artham watched the question seep into Janner’s mind and saw his eyes flicker as he processed it. It was followed by a small nod. Artham said a prayer of thanksgiving as he held the clay cup to his nephew’s lips. He knew it could have gone two ways: contemplation or rejection. 

Janner didn’t drink much, certainly not as much as Artham would have liked him to, but it was something. After he had done so, he turned his head to face the ceiling again and went back to staring at nothing. 

Artham knew better than to offer Janner food now. Pushing him would be an unwise choice. It would come in time. He also knew better than to press him to answer any questions regarding Kalmar’s disappearance.

Artham chose to wait until Janner was ready. Asking now would open the passageway and free the insanity that banged on the locked door. It wouldn’t take much to push it through.

*****

The metal door to the cell clanged open again, as it had three times a day for the past three days. A Grey Fang strode in as if he owned the place, tossed Kalmar a canteen filled with stale water and a few pieces of dried bread. Then he walked out again, slamming the cell door shut behind him and turning a key into the lock. 

Kalmar leaned back against the hard rock wall of the cell and chewed on the bread. It was stale just like the water, and just barely edible. It was still food though. What I wouldn’t give for some of that plonkfish I was complaining about on the island, he thought with a huff. Then Janner popped into his mind. Kal felt the familiar sadness well up inside of him. No matter how much he had tormented himself with the knowledge that he had killed Galya and Sara and her baby, Janner had always been there. He had comforted him when he was in tears. 

Kalmar his eyes burning when he remembered what Janner had told him in the forest: “I will never leave you.” When he had said it, Kal knew he hadn’t deserved it. He had hoped that Janner would stay true to his word because he always had in the past. At the same time, Kal had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t the end of the world if Janner did snap when he learned, just to prepare himself for the worst. 

Then why had it hurt so much when he had? Kal had felt the world shift when Janner said the words: “Go away and never come back.” He hated to think about those words. They cut to the core of his being and confirmed every horrible thing he had thought about himself every day since they had washed up on the island. 

Yet in an odd way, he didn’t blame Janner. He had killed his brother’s wife and child. And he had killed Galya. He had clung to Janner, and then even he slipped away. It grieved him that he had lost his brother. It was almost worse than losing Galya, because Galya could never come back. Janner was still alive, and he had chosen to throw Kal away. 

He constantly had to remind himself not to dwell on what had happened and to think about something else. Thinking about his failure would drive him mad, like Artham. Perhaps not exactly the same, but similar, Kal thought. 

It was hard not to think in the Deeps of Throg. It was now a dungeon where the remaining Fangs roamed.

The Deeps, they were nothing like they had been when he and Janner had come years ago, in a fruitless attempt to find and kill Gnag the Nameless. The long lines of people waiting to be Fanged and the cellars full of grieving souls and caged animals were no longer there. 

The Bat Fang that had knocked him unconscious in the cave apparently hadn’t been told to make it a very hard blow, because he remembered the majority of the trip there. It had taken him to an island initially and tied his hands behind his back and his ankles together so he couldn’t run. 

It had been a wise move on the Bat Fang’s part — Kalmar hadn’t recognized the island, but if given the chance, he would have made a break for it. They had waited there until night fell and began their journey. The Bat Fang answered all of Kalmar’s questions: “Where are you taking me?” “The Deeps of Throg.” “Why?” “The one in charge wishes to use you.” “For what?” “Bargaining and revenge.” “How long do you intend to keep me captured?” “Not long; the leader will soon have what is necessary for revenge. Then you will be killed, depending on whether or not you cooperate.”

Kalmar had stopped asking questions after that. It wasn’t as though he was out — certainly not, that was like his stomach actually managed to get filled — but he simply didn’t want to know anymore. He had heard enough to guess that the Bat Fang and whoever his “leader” was possessed a determination that would not yield to the plea of an eighteen-year-old. Even if that eighteen-year-old is the High King of Anniera, Kalmar had thought drily. 

Still, the answers had given him something to think about in the cell other than guilt and sorrow. It was certainly better than nothing. Kal thought most about who the leader was and why they wanted revenge. I suppose not so much why they want revenge — that much is obvious. It either has something to do with thinning the Fang ranks or Gnag’s death, I guarantee it.

So he thought most about the leader. He chose not to think in his head, but to think out loud. Kal didn’t usually think out loud, but Janner liked to, and it made his brother feel much closer than he really was. “Well, it’s not General Khrak because Janner killed him. It’s not some ridgerunner who went rogue because there’s no fruit involved. Are there even any others it could be? Claxton Weaver? No, he couldn’t get all the way over here without Gammon and Maraly doing something about it. Oh, and he’s dead.” Kal sighed and looked at his four fingers, each holding unreasonable options. If someone was going to kill him because they wanted vengeance, he wanted to know who they were. 

As if on cue, the cell door clanged unexpectedly and Kal’s head jerked up. He heard light footsteps and watched as a tall figure came into view. Their clothes were dark, their face was as pale as death, the wisps of hair that escaped from underneath their black cowl were equally black, and their mouth curved upward in a sickeningly delightful smile. 

Kalmar stared, utterly at a loss for words. Finally, one came to him: “Amrah?”

Notes: the title "locked cages" refers to the locked cage of Janner's mind and the locked cage Kalmar is literally trapped inside.

And AMRAH IS HERE??? wHaAaAAT?!