Thwap Talk

haha! Looks like we have a new chapter! I’m honestly shocked lol. Let me know if this feels weird or rushed, and if anything is noncanonical…except what I cleared up in previous posts 😅 Chapter Eleven Nia was irritable the following day. Emerald and Dralden were traveling with them, and there was an awkwardness about the whole situation. How could Emerald…well, how could she what? She hadn’t done anything too terrible, except for leave without saying a word, leaving her brothers in grief, being in league with Murgah and—okay, a “how could she?”, was in order. Nia glared at Emerald from across the path, and Emerald felt the cold stare. She suddenly raised her eyes to Nia. “I suppose you have more questions.” Everyone stopped walking, and looked at her. Nia crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, I should think I did.” “You know…..I’m not the only one with secrets.” Nia stiffened. “Artham and Arundelle married and Arthra was their child. Did you know that Nia?” Nia said nothing. Leeli’s eyes widened. “I have a cousin?” Emerald nodded, and said with a honeyed smile, “I took her into my care.” “You-no you didn’t,” Nia whispered, “You lied. I knew Arthra was alive this whole time. I met her in Glipwood. She said, that     you were her mother.” Emerald blushed and looked down. Nia stormed past her. But then she stopped. “You were such a sweet, compassionate, loving, model little sister. Artham loved and only ever wanted to protect you. Your ‘death’ tore him to shreds. Complete shreds. But you don’t care. You got what you wanted, didnt you?” Her voice shook as she spoke, but it simply had to be said. They continued walking in silence, but then Leeli and Sara saw something. “Look at that castle!” Sara said. Dralden shivered. “Must we go that way?” “Why?” Podo questioned. “That’s Throg,” Emerald informed. “Is that where Artham is?” Nia asked. Emerald nodded stiffly. “Then that’s where we go,” Nia whispered. Okay, just some dialogue in this chapter, kinda elucidating on Arthra ^^ I hope the whole thing with Arthra is clear to everyone, and after I finish the First Well, I intended on writing a story about Artham and Esben as young teenagers! And that will lead into Arthra and of course Emerald will be there 😁

The Torment of Memory Notes: Not a happy chapter. In this chapter, Janner is referencing some of the thoughts he had toward the end of his time with the Overseer, the thoughts about Sara and the Maker betraying him because they hadn't come. He's making himself a lot more at fault; he didn't think anything near this level of magnitude, but he thinks he did. Basically, he's not okay 😅 (actually I just realized this chapter is super in line with his MBTI; his daemon function, Si (memory!!!), has totally taken the reigns right now and it's controlling him and making things out to be so much worse than reality) I edited this chapter quite a bit and took out some of the darker parts of Janner's thought process, but we'll see how this goes.... ***** The acrid tang of memory surrounded him, filled his lungs and mouth and heart and mind. Janner’s soul tormented him, and he hated it. He hated it so much. He had blamed Sara, he remembered blaming her. He had blamed the Maker, screamed at him, came near cursing him. He had slandered their names, trampled them in the grieving, angry muck of twisted fury in his mind.  Sara hadn’t been in the wrong when it came to finding him; he had. He had destroyed her in his mind, ruined the beauty of her heart. And she was dead now—how cruel could someone be? And he claimed to love her? What he’d done to her in his thoughts, that wasn't love. He had no idea what it was. And the Maker, oh, he had crucified the Maker on a cross of blame and fury, he had ripped the glory and wonder from His countenance, he had thrown profanities and propaganda on His goodness and mercy. Their images his heart and mind had slaughtered, the dressings and trimmings, draperies and tapestries of perfection and beauty and wonder surrounding them he had torn down and set ablaze. His mind had hated them and left their memories discarded, strewn, and shredded.  Suddenly a hand squeezed his and he drew a breath, a breath of air after drowning in a sea of monstrous memories.  It was a breath he didn’t deserve.  “Son, are you alright?” Jebsun asked, his eyes troubled and filled with compassion. Instead of Jebsun, though, Janner imaged Sara. She was so close to him, he could feel her warmth, and if she only knew the thoughts raging rampant in his head seconds before she would have leapt in disgust and ran, and she would have ripped the ring off her perfect finger and thrown it at his face. “Fine.” He looked away from both the imagined Sara and Jebsun. “Sara” kept hold of his hand, and he was, tempted to pull it out of her grasp. That would have hurt her, though, more than it hurt him, and he wouldn’t torture her any more than he already had. Somehow, he gathered the resolve to do it anyway. Jebsun hummed worriedly. “You don’t look fine.”   Janner shook his head and pulled the covers over his head, willing Jebsun to go away. If Jebsun didn't leave within the next minute, he’d shout. No, he wouldn’t shout. Then Jebsun would definitely know something was wrong. His leg cramped unexpectedly, angry from the most recent horrible, bloody* thing Jebsun had done to it, and, barely able to hold back tears of pain, he pulled it closer to his chest and dug his fingers into the muscle swathed in bandages. “Do you need help?” Jebsun asked, and Sara’s voice echoed his. The sound of her voice broke his heart.  Clenching his teeth, he forced out, “No, please, I need to be alone.” He didn’t remove the covers from his head, but something fiery suddenly lit on his shoulder. The flinch came involuntarily, and Jebsun’s hand—for that was all it could be—flew away quickly.**  “Alright,” Jebsun said apologetically. “I’ll leave you alone. But, please, call me if you need me.” Janner still didn’t uncover his head and nodded, managing to keep the tears from streaming down his cheeks until Jebsun had left the room and shut the door behind him. Then the covers flew off him and he forced himself up, trembling, hunched and barely able to support himself. It made him sick, but he persisted, and when that wasn’t enough, he gathered the strength to swing his right leg to the floor, the pain and the effort tearing at his body and heart from that intending to kill him. But he had hatefully slaughtered in his mind those he loved the most, so didn’t he deserve yet another semblance of it? And the next, and the one following, and as many as life presented him with in the future. He didn’t want a future. He couldn’t think about the future, that uncertain maze of crumbling stone, oozing with rot and decay, dark and lifeless as a coffin.*** The future held decisions, a will to live, to love, to laugh. He had none of those. Jebsun willed he lived, though, and surely Artham and Nia and Leeli and Anniera would want it too—perhaps that was enough?  The only reason they would want him alive, though, was because they had not seen his heart and mind, they hadn’t seen how he could destroy people and torture them as well as any monster, because surely what was done with thoughts and heart and soul and mind scarred more glaringly and deeply than any physical torment. The body healed; the mind didn't. Somehow, the Overseer had shaped him into this fiend...this fiend like himself—a fiend worse than himself?  He was no different than the Overseer, no different than that heartless torturer. Oh, he wanted the Overseer to find him now. If the Overseer found him, maybe that would be the end of his prison of torment and horror and grief.  Harsh laughter broke from his throat—now he wanted to leave in search of the Overseer, but for such a different reason than last time. Now he had no desire to make him pay for murdering Sara. Now he wanted the Overseer to throw all his anger and fury at him. Janner wanted another monster to attack him, deafen him fully, blind him, strangle him, stab him, paralyze him, keep him from feeling the horrific guilt and agony already tearing him to shreds.  All of a sudden, he snapped back to the awareness of the physical, and his body trembled uncontrollably. Barely holding back a curse, he sank back into the cot and dragged his leg up onto it. It cramped even worse, now, squeezing, tearing at him, yanking breath from his throat. Gasping, Janner dug his fingers into the now-damp bandage in some desperate effort to stop the pain.  Then his hand went limp, and he clutched it to his chest, breathing heavily, falling back onto his side. Gritting his teeth, he endured the nauseating pain, drowning in it. His mind wanted it to stop, cease in an instant with some method, any method.  His heart begged for it to continue eternally. His heart called for penance of the most tortuous form, and when another wave of pain swept over him and he arched his back in some failure in an effort to give himself relief, he knew he was paying it.  True penance, though, true Suffering would have him alone in the company of others. It would have him launch the anger and hatred and blame he had placed on Sara and the Maker at their feet, he would have drenched them in it, forced them to see the monster he was. And Sara would have stayed near him without ever holding his hand, cupping his cheek again. Every time she looked at him it would be with a glance of fear or a stare of terror, and her blue eyes would weep when she saw him, weep with how angry she was with him and how much she hated him for blaming her when she obviously hadn’t done anything, even more so for him having the audacity to blame her even after her death.   That couldn’t happen because she wasn’t alive, but if she was…that was how it would be. And the Maker…the Maker would never turn His face on him again. The Maker would stay silent, distant, cold, chillingly angry for all of eternity. Janner’s mind had trampled His Name and Countenance in the dust—why should He not do the same to him? Why should He give mercy, grace, love?  If he was to never experience the wonder of the Maker in his life, why, then, did he want the Overseer to mercifully do his worst? Wasn't that selfish of him? If the Maker rejected him, nothing remained after the grave but darkness and absence of all that was beautiful and glorious, all that was good and just, all that was kind and loving.  Didn’t he feel that now, though? Hadn’t that already fled from him? Wasn't he already in a place worse than anywhere the Overseer could send him? “What happened?!” Jebsun exclaimed in horror, his voice echoing for some dreadful reason. He wanted to cover his ears, but everything hurt too much. “Are you alright? Of course you're not alright; please, let me help.” Even if he had wanted to answer him, he couldn’t, and even though he wanted Jebsun to leave and let him suffer on his own, he had not the strength nor the will nor the resolve to do so. Jebsun pressed his fingers into his leg and began kneading the muscle, and he cried out in pain like an infant.  “I’m sorry,” Jebsun whispered. “I’m pressing further away from the wounds, but I know it still hurts.” He wished Jebsun wasn’t sorry. He wished he could tell him to stop taking away his pain, because even though the initial process made him want to retch whatever meager thing he had eaten for breakfast, the taught muscles slowly released their hold and quieted, crawling back into their dark corners.  He wanted to follow them more than anything, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew he had to thank Jebsun, even though he wished he had just let him suffer.  “Thank you,” he breathed, exhaustion suddenly filling the corners of his mind. Jebsun hummed. “I need...re-dress and bandage that, alright? If you can sleep while I'm doing it, I don't mind. I need you to stretch out...little though. Can you do it...your own? If you're too tired, I can help.” Janner didn’t want to change his position, but he couldn’t have protested. He didn’t have the energy for it. Apparently, his unresponsiveness conveyed that as well as words would have. As Jebsun gently untwisted his awkwardly contorted limbs and draped a blanket over him, then uncovered his right leg, he couldn’t help but feel genuine kindness—genuine kindness he could do nothing with but pretend to receive and quietly reject, because he didn’t deserve it.  Sara’s image danced across his mind again, and surprise filled him at the safety pulsating from his heart and mind at the sight. It glowed with a wondrous warmth, so different from the terror and anger and grief encroaching him.  Though she wasn’t there, she still whispered: “I love you, Janner. We’re going to get through this, I promise.” In the same moment, Jebsun began prodding at the wounds, and pain sparked in his leg. Tears filled Janner’s eyes at the thought, because even if he deserved to get through “it” together with Sara, he couldn’t because she was gone, truly gone. She wouldn’t really want him if she was there, anyway. “I’m sorry, it'll be over soon,” Jebsun promised. It must have been in response to the tears. The tears weren't from physical pain, though. Janner could never tell Jebsun that. The new bandage being wrapped around the throbbing wounds, the muffled sounds of Jebsun’s voice lulled him as sleep pulled him under, and despite all Janner had told himself, he clung to the imagined Sara’s words as if they were the only thing holding him together, keeping him from being swept even deeper into the storm of self-loathing and anger.  ***** Notes: *NOT SWEARING - I am using the ADJECTIVE form of this word; why'd the Brits make things so hard 😭 **I'm trying to contrast light touch and firm touch/pressure. It's a fairly common reaction to trauma/anxiety/etc., where the former is terrifying and painful, but the latter is reassuring. ***I was purposely referencing the coffin. This chapter is not meant to be rational, not meant to be logical. If it seems a lot darker than Janner's mindset in the past two chapters...well, that's how it's supposed to seem. He's shoving everything into a bottle too small to hold it, then corking it shut so it can't escape. He's coping by not processing anything, but for whatever reason, his mind decided to try processing it right now, without anyone he actually trusts around, and it's not going super well. Let me know if there's anything noncanonical^^

Notes: • Yay, we finally made it to the hollows! • Previous Chapter Chapter 14- An Unusual Welcome A little over an hour and a half had passed, and Esben had gone below deck to his cabin because it was getting very cold. Artham however, stayed out, a piece of paper against the rough rail of the deck and tapping a pencil against his chin. The cold didn’t bother him, in fact, the very feeling of the wind thrilled him. On a normal voyage he would have climbed the rigging and the rat lines to the highest point of the mast, not holding on tightly, but with absolute confidence that he wouldn’t fall. Up there above the world, the mast would swoop and dive wildly, driving the wind into his face. Most people hated it, including Esben. But it was amazing to Artham. He knew it was the closest he would ever get to flying. He almost decided to go start climbing, but then remembered that practically everyone on the ship was determined not to let him do anything. Also…his shoulder still hurt pretty badly and he wasn’t crazy. He didn’t want to risk going up there if he wasn’t sure he could hold on. So, he remained on deck, staring at the line where the sky met the sea, and where the grey smudge of Anniera was fading out of sight. His thoughts wandered, and soon he was thinking of many, many other things. A few minutes later, he heard a door slam hard, and stomping footsteps across the deck. He turned around to see Esben plunk down, lean against the wall, and bend his head over a book. Artham frowned, shoved the paper and pencil in his pocket and walked silently across the deck. The only sound was the splash of waves on the hull. He stood right behind Esben and looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Hey,” Esben muttered without looking up. “What’s the matter, Es?” Artham asked. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” Esben grumbled. “I can tell by the way you’re reading,” Artham said, reaching over his brother’s shoulder when Esben looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. He turned the book over in Esben’s hands. “It’s upside down,” Artham said with a smile. Esben laughed ruefully, then scrambled up to lean on the rail next to Artham. They stood in silence for a long time, and Artham was pretty sure he knew what Esben was thinking, but for a few minutes he didn’t want to say just in case he was wrong. Just in case he was wrong and started Esben on the awful train of thought he had been trying to avoid for the last half hour of the voyage. Finally, Artham decided to break the silence. “It was right around here, wasn’t it,” Artham asked softly. “Yeah,” Esben answered. “No one has mentioned it. I don’t know if I hate them for it or if I’m relieved.” Artham nodded. “I remembered, I just didn’t know if you did,” he said, feeling slightly ashamed. “Artham, we're just out of sight of Anniera!” Esben erupted. “The Sea Queen sank somewhere in these waters we’re passing through right now. It was over a year ago!” Esben cleared his throat, looked away from his brother, and was silent. Artham looked out at the sea, and the familiar ache filled him, but he didn’t try to stop it. He turned and looked at Esben, who had his back to him so that Artham couldn’t see his face and resting his forehead on his hand. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, Es. It still hurts.” He turned and pulled Esben into a hug. “I’m pretty sure it always will. But we’ll see them again.” Esben leaned on his brother, for once accepting all the love and protection Artham was trying to give him, silent, but grateful for the strength his brother wrapped around him. No matter how huge and empty the space that his parents had left behind, the Maker hadn’t let him be alone. As if Artham had read his mind, his older brother whispered, “You’ll never be alone.” Esben hugged his brother tighter, then straightened up and tried to smile. “I know. Thanks.” He took a deep breath and his expression returned quickly to normal. Artham’s shoulder hurt, but he didn’t care at all. Seeing the rapid transformation of Esben’s face from that of a vulnerable sixteen year old directly back to that of a mature king saddened Artham. Esben hadn’t been able to live like a sixteen year old for a long time. Esben shook some of the hair out of his eyes and shivered. “It’s cold out here, Artham. How have you been out so long?” Esben asked, shakily trying to change the subject. Artham smiled. “Throne Wardens must be immune to the cold,” he said with a smirk. “Hah. I bet you wouldn’t be so immune if I splashed water on you!” Esben threatened with a grin. “Yeah right,” Artham answered, crossing his arms. “and how are you going to do that without falling overboard?” Esben thought for a minute. “Well, I guess if I fell overboard, you’d jump in ‘to save me’ so you’d be absolutely soaked.” Artham laughed. “Es, we’d both be soaked!” * * * An hour later, the ship was near to entering the Hollows. Esben had put on a very regal coat and cape, and so did Artham. Artham also caught himself slipping a knife up his sleeve, just in case. The very tangible act of doing so frightened him. He told himself he would never need it, but he left it in his sleeve anyway. Esben was waiting for him outside, standing straight and strong at the head of the boat as the faint shout of a watchman floated over the water, tiny figures scrambled, and the chain of the Watercraw began to sink. Artham smiled and strode over to Esben’s side, putting his hand on his sword hilt and holding his head high, excited to enter the Hollows, proud of his brother, and overall enjoying the moment. He wasn’t sure if the moment was better or ruined when Connolin howled loudly and jumped in front of Esben, wagging his tail. With a grin he decided it was better. They sailed slowly through the Watercraw. Artham stepped to the side of the boat, looking through the deep, murky water to where the huge chain links sat in the water. When he looked up, Esben still stood at the prow of the boat. Artham stood beside him, and they looked everything a King and his Throne Warden should. The other lords that had come with them, including Bonifer, also took their places on deck, along with the servants. Aro took his place standing proudly a little to the side of Artham. It appeared that he had tried to comb his hair because now the scruffy black thatch on his head swept in (mostly) one direction. The crowd that had been waiting for them on the street around the dock cheered and shouted, and as the anchor splashed into the deep water, they stepped back to make way for a strong man with a long golden beard who walked through the crowd to meet them. The plank was lowered and the King, followed by the Throne Warden, followed by a multitude of other officials, stepped foot on Hollish soil. The man who Artham assumed immediately was the new Keeper bowed to the King, they shook hands and exchanged a few required words. “I am Kandir, chief of Ban Yorna, and it is my pleasure to welcome ye to the Green Hollows, High King Esben and Throne Warden Artham.” Artham blinked in confusion as he shook hands with Kandir. “I’m sorry for asking,” he said quietly, “but, where is the Keeper?” Kandir looked uncomfortable. “I’m terribly sorry, Yer Highness. The Keeper, ah, he… was unable to come. He had more pressing matters at hand.” “Oh. That’s alright, of course,” Artham said, but it was not alright. He knew it was a serious breach of protocol for the Keeper not to meet the King, especially when an alliance was being renewed. “I’ll be escortin’ ye to the Keep,” Kandir said warmly, trying to erase the awkwardness of the moment. As soon as Artham and Esben got into the carriage that was waiting for them, Esben leaned over to Artham frantically. “Artham! Who’s the new Keeper?” He hissed. Artham opened his mouth to answer, then went pale, absolutely horrified at himself because he didn’t remember. The Banik Durga had been held only weeks before his parents had died, in fact that was why they had been in the Hollows. At the moment, it had been no concern of Artham’s or Esben’s who the new Keeper was. Then, in the rush of ceremonies and paperwork and other duties following their parent’s death, they had completely forgotten. Some part of Artham’s mind had assumed that he knew. Artham shuffled frantically through a stack of papers he had pulled from his satchel. When he found what he was looking for, he suddenly fell back against the seat, wincing when his shoulder made contact. He let out a long sigh, looking down at his brother with concern in his eyes. “You won’t believe it,” he said. Esben furrowed his brows. “Tell me or I’ll make you walk to the Keep” “You wouldn’t do tha-” “Just tell me!” “Fine.” Artham sighed. “Myndik Bunge. Remember him? Nibbik’s father.”