The First Breath of Spring (Part 3)

Part 3

Some notes —

• IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! I know I promised this third and final part about two and a half months ago, but it's finally arrived. Thank you all so much for your patience and support.

• As per usual, PLEASE pick this to pieces! This doesn't just include canon, but tell me if you think someone is out of character. And I wrote the last third of this in less than twenty-four hours, so let me know if anything is choppy. Also, I elaborate a little more on the role of a Throne Warden in this part which isn't technically mentioned in the Wingfeather Saga — tell me if it's plausible.

• Again, I live in the UK, so forgive my strange spelling, wording, and even slang. If you have any questions on meaning, please don't hesitate to ask.

• Last thing, sorry this is so long. The last part turned out a lot longer than I planned for it to be.

Now, onward!

*

Vestiges of a dream still clung to Artham’s mind when he was woken. Arundelle’s gentle pleading brought him back to the present world, and he peeled his eyes open to see the sunlight filtering through a green leaf canopy above him. The wind had stilled, and the air buzzed with the pleasant heat of an afternoon sun.

“Artham, are you awake?”

“Yes,” he yawned. “What is it?”

“It’s well past midday. The horn blew not too long ago, so the festivities will begin soon.”

It took a few moments for Artham to process this information.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he sat up. “What? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he said frantically, scrambling down the trunk.

“I’m sorry,” she said, peering down from her perch. “I lost track of the time.”

Artham bit back a retort. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep anyway.

“My family and I will be at the party,” Arundelle added. “Will I see you there?”

“Yes,” he said tersely, hopping down onto the ground. “I’ll see you later.”

Artham ran to the castle as fast as his legs would allow, but he took no joy in it. He was too consumed in his thoughts and concerns, chastising himself for being so careless, so distracted, so taken away with —

Arundelle.

The very thought of her ignited in him that same exhilaration. Such joy as he had never known before hummed beneath his very skin, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if this energy carried him to the clouds. Never before had he felt such happiness, such bliss.

And it was because of her. Because of this girl.

Arundelle.

Why?

He and Arundelle had known each other since they were children, and had been loyal friends for as long as he could remember. They had always enjoyed spending time together: exploring Castle Rysen’s extensive library, strolling the surrounding grounds, and writing stories and songs. So why was this time so different? Why was he experiencing such powerful emotions and thinking such ludicrous thoughts?

Or… had he always felt this way and only just noticed?

Artham wrestled with these questions until he reached the castle, hardly noticing the decorations that were being arrayed in the street, or the musicians and dancers practising. When he finally stumbled onto the grounds, gasping for air, he was struck with a terrifying realisation — he had left Esben behind!

Artham gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. Forgetting the festival was one thing, but forgetting his brother was another entirely. How could he have been so foolish? So forgetful? What kind of apprentice Throne Warden was he?

With a frustrated sigh, he turned to run again to the Illing Inn to retrieve Esben. It took some time to pull him away from the twins, but the brothers returned to the castle to find their mother, Nala, searching for them. She had sent a few guards to search for them at the beach and in Lorryshire an hour ago, and was worried they had gotten lost.

“You two are filthy,” Nala scolded with a hint of a smile. She plucked a twig from Artham’s windblown hair. “Now go wash and get dressed. Your clothes have been laid out for you already.”

The brothers tore across the grounds toward the open gate and grand castle doors. Most of the spring festivities would be celebrated inside the castle’s dining hall and ballroom, as well as the grounds outside. Wonderful scents were drifting up from the kitchens — much to Artham’s longing, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning.

Artham quickly cleaned and dressed, and surveyed his reflection in the mirror one last time. His wet hair hung in loose, twisted locks, dripping water down the front of his navy velvet tunic and the back of his neck — causing him to shiver. His wide blue eyes stared back at him as he shifted his weight, wondering if he was presentable.

Artham blinked a few times, his brows furrowed in confusion. He had never been concerned with his outer appearance — ever. Yes, he was cleaner and more responsible than Esben, who would have never bothered to bathe in his life if it was his decision. But Artham felt insecure. Did he look all right? Was he overdressed? Or underdressed? Did he smell clean? Was he sure he got all of the twigs and leaves out of his hair?

Without warning, Esben began pounding Artham’s bedroom door. “Are you ready yet?” he shouted. “Hurry up!”

As soon as Artham unlocked and opened his door, Esben came tumbling through, wearing a green velvet tunic and the muddy boots that he had brought back from the inn. He hurled himself onto his brother’s bed, sprawled on the sheets.

“So why were you so late?” Esben asked, swinging his hanging legs.

“I fell asleep,” Artham said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You fell asleep?” His younger brother sat up, his freckled face scrunched with confusion. “Where did you sleep?”

“In a tree,” Artham answered, realising he was sounding more and more ridiculous. He began lacing his boots that he retrieved from the inn, which were also mud-spattered and grass-stained.

“Why did you sleep in a tree?”

“It was really peaceful,” Artham said tersely, and decided to change the subject. “Did you have fun with Cador and Sheridan?”

Esben nodded happily. “We stayed at the inn the entire time. Natan brought us sausage bread and we got to play some zibzy before going back upstairs. It was really fun.”

“Good,” Artham replied, tying off the lace.

The boys joined their parents and aunt downstairs to greet the first of the guests that were filing into the castle. Nala buttoned Esben’s open collar and laughed as she tousled Artham’s hair.

“You’re as wet as a dish rag,” she said, standing on her toes to part his tangled hair down the middle so that his bangs framed his face instead of covering it. “But you both look wonderful.”

“Thanks, Mama!” Esben grinned.

“Thank you, Mama,” Artham nodded shyly. He normally squirmed while his mother fixed his hair as he insisted that he was old enough to do it himself, but for this occasion, he was grateful for it.

When Artham turned, he felt his heart leap into his throat. His father was embracing Natan, who carried a whistleharp under his arm and was dressed in a silk tunic and sash that seemed out of place on him. His mother and Merna greeted each other with a flurry of exclamations and compliments on their festive dress.

And at Merna’s side was Arundelle, waving at him with a nervous smile. Artham had completely forgotten his anger from earlier and waved in return. Her sage green dress complimented her father’s attire — sleeveless and trimmed with gold and silver. With a wreath of flowers in her hair, she had the appearance of a tree come to life, like a forest queen greeting her subjects.

She was breath-taking.

Arundelle embraced Jru and Nala and Illia, laughing as they commented on how much she had grown. The adults were so busy conversing that none of them noticed Esben sneaking away with the twins to the kitchens.

“You look handsome,” Arundelle said when she turned to Artham.

“You, too,” he started before his eyes widened. “I mean — beautiful. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking away. Her smile faded. “I’m sorry about earlier. I should have woken you. You just looked so peaceful, sleeping there. And you were snoring, too,” she added with a giggle.

Artham felt his cheeks reddening. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. It was kind of cute.”

Artham was unsure how to respond. Was she complimenting or demeaning him? Should he thank her? But the way she was looking up to him, smiling and shifting her feet… was she waiting for something?

But something in her eyes dimmed. “I’ll have to go now,” she said. “I’m singing with my father tonight. But we can meet afterwards, if you like.”

Artham swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “All right.”

Arundelle nodded with a sad smile, and she turned to follow Natan into the dining hall. As Artham watched her leave, he felt he missed something. Why was she so sad? Did he do something wrong?

That was very strange. Artham had never seen her so disappointed.

“She’s quite taken away with you,” said a voice from behind him.

Artham nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around to face his Aunt Illia. Her hair was pulled into a long braid falling down to her waist, and her dark eyes were alight with something like mischief. It was rare to see her in the gown she was adorning tonight, the only one she owned that was held together by stitches and patches of odd fabrics. For years, Nala had offered Illia her own gowns, but her sister-in-law refused. Illia was never one to worry about her external appearance, but there was a special beauty in her plain, tanned face and gangly form.

Illia was like a second mother to Artham, and yet she wasn’t. Nala coddled her sons at times, and lavished them with a motherly love only she could give and was supposed to give. As the Throne Warden training her apprentice, Illia treated Artham not just as her beloved nephew, but as an apprentice in need of training. Nevertheless, the two shared a special bond only Throne Wardens could have, one that Artham hoped to share with an apprentice he may train someday.

If Esben ever grew up, that was.

“We’re just friends,” Artham said bashfully.

Illia laughed, crossing her arms. “I think she wants to be more than that.”

“What do you mean?” his voice shook.

His aunt shook her head with a sigh. “She’s in love with you.”

Artham felt his joints lock in place as his face reddened considerably. Every inch of him was trembling, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move or speak. The idea of Arundelle being in love with him drew a blank in his mind, and he was assaulted by conflicting emotions and countless questions.

“Um…” Artham swallowed the lump in his throat with great effort.

Wasn’t it obvious? The way Arundelle invited Artham and Esben to Illing Inn without her parents’ consent, how she held his hand and brought him to her private writing tree, and didn’t wake him up to spend more time with him. And how she looked at him, with such fondness and excitement and expectancy in her gaze… could she really be in love with him?

“And judging from your facial expression,” Illia added, “you’re smitten.”

“I-I’m… what?” Artham managed to stutter, his jaw falling open.

Something warm and wonderful blossomed in his chest while a wave of nausea rolled inside his stomach. It was joy and anxiety and apprehension all in a torrent inside him, manifesting in his flushed face and his body shaking like a windblown leaf. An onlooker may have thought he was ill.

Illia appeared amused and cocked a brow. “Don’t try to deny it. Everyone can tell.”

Everyone could tell there was something between him and Arundelle Artham shuddered at the thought, and only averted his eyes in response.

“You know I’m not one to dance around the point,” Illia placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have fallen in love with a girl who shares the same feelings. Do you realise how often this happens?”

“Not often, I suppose,” Artham mumbled.

“No, it doesn’t.” Illia’s brows furrowed as she became serious. “But you have a decision to make. You can pursue Arundelle, who is a wonderful young woman and has already proven to be a good friend. In a year or so when her parents approve, you can begin courting her. Maybe one day even marry her.”

Something stirred in Artham’s chest at the word marry. The thought of a wife had crossed his mind a few times, but it never seemed to fit with his Throne Warden responsibilities. Protecting his younger brother was the reason for his existence, his very life and breath. Having a wife and family of his own could divide his desires and interfere with his duty to his brother.

“Or,” his aunt paused with a sigh, “you can do what I did. You can draw the line at friendship and abandon any kind of romantic feelings you have for her.”

Artham glanced up to meet Illia’s eyes, where sorrow and regret swirled in her irises. A moment of silence passed between them.

“Is that why you never married? Because of Papa?” he asked softly.

Illia nodded. “I had fallen in love with a young man named Cailean, and he shared feelings for me as well. He was going to court me, and my intentions were to marry him. But once I realised that my thoughts were consumed with him and I no longer thought of my brother, I ended our friendship.”

Ending his friendship with Arundelle… it sounded harsh, cruel even. But wasn’t Esben worth it?

“What should I do?” Artham finally asked.

“That is entirely up to you,” she smiled, lifting her hand. “I won’t force you to do anything, nor can I tell you which is the right decision. There is a reason why many Throne Wardens never married, but there are plenty also who did, and found much joy in it. But the Maker will guide you. That is all the advice I can give you.”

Artham could only nod, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking. Illia smiled and turned to take her place at her brother’s side once more.

Artham felt the urge to speak, and yet he had no words. He could sense the dividing path in front of his feet, and whichever one he took had repercussions that would affect the rest of his life. This wasn’t something he could ignore, and it couldn’t wait, either.

No matter the decision he made, his friendship with Arundelle would never be the same after tonight.

The noise of his growling stomach cut through the noise. Artham suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning.

He considered sneaking into the kitchens to avoid any encounters with the guests now flooding the castle corridors. It at least guaranteed he wouldn’t meet Arundelle and a chance for him to sort out his thoughts and come to a decision.

The cooks were too busy to notice Artham’s quiet entrance, and only a few gave a quick greeting before resuming their busy work. None of them minded that he took a few scraps of food for himself — it was something he and Esben did often. When he was satisfied, Artham found a small nook in the musicians’ loft overlooking the hall where most of the guests were gathered, nibbling on a pastry. It was now he wished he had brought a book to occupy him or a journal where he could expel all of his thoughts and worries.

But he knew it would only distract him more. He had to focus. And yet Artham found himself drawn toward the sage green dress weaving among the people, belonging to the lovely Arundelle. Her graceful stride, cascading dark hair, twinkling eyes —

Oh, how she plagued his thoughts! Artham stubbornly turned away, clenching his jaw in anger and frustration. He had to think. What was he going to do?

Artham was the apprentice Throne Warden of Anniera, charged with protecting the future High King, Esben Wingfeather. His entire life would be devoted to remembering and to reminding and to keeping his younger brother safe. It was a sacred mantle the Maker bestowed upon him, a responsibility Artham was honoured and humbled to uphold…

And he was terrified.

But Artham wouldn’t be the Throne Warden until Esben became king, and that wouldn’t be for many years. That could wait.

And then there was Arundelle.

The daughter of the Royal Bard, a poet, musician, and lifelong friend. Her beauty was beyond comparison, as lovely as the Shining Isle itself. And her intellect was unmatched among any other girls he had met — from the way she could recite songs and melodies to her brilliant and bouncy poetry. Even if he didn’t have feelings for her, he couldn’t deny the wonderful young woman she was.

But he did love her.

Artham released a shaky breath. Maker, what should he do?

His thoughts drifted to a world where he would deny any kind of romantic love, and live his life completely devoted to Esben. It was simple and noble, he thought, and he admired that kind of loyalty.

But then he imagined the days when Esben was old enough to court and marry. It certainly seemed a long way off, and virtually impossible to pair a rascally thirteen-year-old boy with any poor, unsuspecting girl. But it would happen one day — Anniera needed the next High King or Queen after all. Esben would have his own wife and children, his own family to care for alongside his kingdom.

It certainly seemed very lonely, watching all of this unfold while Artham denied that for himself. Did he really want that? Was that what the Maker wanted?

Artham leaned against the cool stone of the castle wall, closing his eyes “Just tell me what to do,” he murmured. “Whatever You want, I’ll do it.”

The sentence had hardly left his mouth before he heard footsteps and suppressed laughter. He would have laughed at the irony of interruption, but only found himself annoyed. He sat up, internally groaning at the sight of Esben and the twins.

They had scampered up the narrow staircase, no doubt to escape an angry victim of their mischief, now toppling over each other into the loft. All three of them had already stained their evening attire, their hair askew and windblown after much running, and smelled faintly of freshly overturned soil. The sight concerned him.

“Were you sleeping again, Artham?” his younger brother asked with a raised brow, plopping down in front of him. It wasn’t a condescending question nor did Esben mean for it to be, but Artham responded with irritation.

“What were you three doing?”

Cador and Sheridan were hovering over the stairwell, most likely waiting until the coast was clear to begin their shenanigans again.

Esben started giggling. “While Natan was gone, we buried his whistleharp.”

Artham’s eyes widened. He wasn’t a musician, but he was sure burying any kind of instrument wasn’t good. “What? How? Where did you even get the tools?”

“We didn’t bury it really —”

“What were you three thinking? You could damage Natan’s whistleharp.”

His younger brother shrugged as if it hadn’t occurred to him. “We just covered it with dirt in the garden. It was very funny watching him look for it, though. He finally decided to use Arundelle’s. She brought it with her.”

“You should give it back, Es,” Artham warned. “That whistleharp means a lot to him.”

“He’s got a replacement, though. We’ll give it back after the party. It’s fine, I promise!”

Artham was about to object when Cador or Sheridan — he could never tell the difference — called from the stairwell.

“Artham!” one of them said. “We forgot — Aru is looking for you!”

For a moment, Artham didn’t move. His body went rigid as he tried to control the tremor in his hands. “Okay,” he once again tried to sound nonchalant, standing to his feet.

“Bye!” Esben waved from his seat on the ground.

Artham could only nod when his brother said goodbye, unable to loosen his dry tongue.

Maker, help me, he prayed as he descended the narrow staircase.

Nothing registered in Artham’s mind as he left the haven of the musicians’ loft and stepped into the throng amassed in the great hall. He shuffled between faces and tables, giving some kind of muttered answer or nod to anyone who greeted him. When he finally stumbled out the open doors leading into the gardens, he was awakened from his daze.

The breeze was a mere whisper in his ears, gently shaking the trees and carrying a soft scent of rain. A round, full moon hung in the sky above him, casting its silvery net of light, and the stars gladly joined in twinkling dances. It was surprisingly chilly, and Artham was tempted to retreat inside.

But someone called him.

It was such a beautiful sound. To have his name on her lips, spoken with her very voice, evoked such delight. Artham felt his heart surge in his chest like it was taking flight, and saw Arundelle sitting cross-legged on a stone bench. A willow tree was draped around her seat, concealing her in a curtain of leafy tendrils. Only the glow of the castle’s light illuminated her, and he could only just see her eyes — a pair of jewels glinting in the shadow.

“Yes?” he found the word slipping from his mouth before he allowed it. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering, but it felt irreverent to not be quiet in such a still place.

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

Artham strode toward her with some hesitation, his footsteps muffled in the wet grass. As he drew closer, he could see a strange sorrow contorting her face, almost like she was about to cry. Had she been crying? Did this have to do with the disappointed look he saw earlier? Would this be a good time for him to say anything about his conversation with Illia?

Artham took a seat across from her, folding his legs so that he was balanced on the bench and facing her. Arundelle remained shrouded in the dark, her arms wrapped around herself as she shivered. He could see vapour from her breath in the air like clouds of mist.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Arundelle didn’t answer.

Artham opened his mouth to speak again, but no words came. Questions as to why she called him or what she wanted to talk about never found their way to his lips. Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the cool air burning his nose and throat before exhaling.

Please… tell me what to do.

“Arundelle,” Artham began, unsure. “I have something to tell you.”

“Me, too,” she said quietly. “May I go first?”

“Sure.”

Arundelle released a shaky breath and lifted her head, but never turned to meet his eyes. “I wanted to apologise to you.”

Artham blinked a few times — that caught him off-guard. “For what?”

“I have been very unfair to you. I have been arranging things so that we could spend more time together.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It was my motives that were unfair,” Arundelle paused, her expression unreadable in the dark. “I… I was trying to manipulate you. To fall in love with me.”

A silence swallowed every single sound. Artham couldn’t hear the wind or the music and voices in the hall. Only his pounding heart and the cold from the stone leaching through his clothes kept him grounded to reality.

“I just wanted to say I was sorry,” her voice was hoarse as she restrained her tears. “I’m so sorry I tried to force this on you. Everything I did today was to try and win your affection. It was selfish and I wasn’t thinking about how I was affecting you. And… I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore.”

Artham struggled to find the right words. He wasn’t expecting that, and he certainly didn’t notice it. How should he respond? There was a long stretch of quiet before he spoke in a hushed whisper.

“I didn’t realise you liked me so much.”

Arundelle laughed tearily. “But that was all I had to say. What were you going to tell me?”

What was he going to tell her?

“Arundelle, you are one of my best friends,” Artham said hesitantly. “And I would like us to continue to be friends. But… I do love you.”

Arundelle sat up, turning to meet his gaze. Tears glistened in her eyes as her flushed face drained of colour. Her mouth was open in surprise, hands grasped over her heart.

“But the Maker put me here to protect Esben. If I were to marry, I would be divided between my wife and my brother. It’s the same reason why my Aunt Illia and many other Throne Wardens never married.” Artham clenched his fists out of frustration, his fingernails digging into his skin. “But I’m not sure what I should do. I want to be a good Throne Warden, to do what the Maker created me to do. But I don’t know if that means I should be entirely devoted to Esben.”

She gently placed her hand on his knee. “If you believe you should be entirely devoted to Esben, do it,” Arundelle’s voice wasn’t just sincere, it was firm. Her brows were furrowed, her jaw clenched in a serious expression. “Being a Throne Warden is your purpose in this life. Don’t let me or anyone or anything else stop you from what the Maker is calling you to do: protect.”

Something in Artham’s heart shifted. It was like the breaking dawn, like a curtain being drawn back.

Arundelle was willing — no, she loved him enough — to let him spread his wings. Even though she was being manipulative before, she was now surrendering her desires to let Artham fulfil his calling. She would be sorrowful to release him, yes, but she would rather that he be free.

This was the answer he was waiting for.

Joy bubbled up from Artham’s chest and manifested as a laugh. He was smiling so deeply that his face was sore, and he relished the Maker’s pleasure surging through his soul.

This was what He wanted.

Arundelle lifted her hand, giving him a confused and amused look. “Why are you laughing?”

“That’s what I was waiting for you to say!” Artham exclaimed. Still laughing, he leaned forward and embraced her, his arms gently cradling her petite frame. She smelled wonderful, like the white primroses braided into her hair.

Artham froze, suddenly realising how intimate they were. He immediately jerked back, blushing. “I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry —”

“No,” Arundelle stopped him with an unsure smile. “Don’t apologise. But I’m still confused.”

“What you said — that was the answer from the Maker I was waiting for,” Artham explained. “I’ve decided I’m going to pursue you — if that’s what you want.”

Arundelle’s smile alighted her face like a lamp in the dark. She still sounded teary as she bobbed her head, “Yes, of course!”

Arundelle took Artham’s strong, calloused hands in hers and kissed his cheek. Her lips caressing his skin only lasted a moment, but Artham relished that simple touch, that simple gesture that meant she loved him.

THE END