After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 40

Imagined Terror

Notes:

Here's the next chapter! I'm home now since it's a long weekend, so hopefully I'll be able to get the story finished while I'm here (I only have two chapters left to write!!! And neither is the climax; I did that last night! I need to fix it so it's actually good, but, hey, it's written!) and it'll be chapters daily here on out^^

*****

Janner woke to the sound of commotion easily coming through the partially open door to his room. At first, he wasn’t sure why everyone was making such a racket, and then he remembered: they were leaving. They were leaving that day to escape the Oversee and return to Anniera against Jebsun’s better judgement and his own desire, even though it had been his suggestion. Artham had sent Greston notice a few days earlier and firmly instructed Gammon's men to keep watch for the Overseer and make sure Chathan's family stayed safe, and now they would be leaving for Lamendron.

Sitting up the rest of the way and scooting back a few inches, Janner forced the pillows that allowed him to sleep at an angle into a messy lump. Laying down or reclining didn’t seem appealing at the moment; maybe if he sat up, all the thoughts that had plagued him in his nightmares would drain away, sliding out of his mind. He shuddered at the “memory” of the Overseer—whose face flickered between his own, Tirge's, and Chathan's—hunting, from house to house, town to town, looking for him, for Sara, and then he found Jebsun’s house and burst open the door—

In the same moment, his door opened, and Janner couldn’t help but jump, his hand automatically flying to his heart in panic. His fingers brushed the gold chain now around his neck; he kept forgetting it was there, kept forgetting he always used to fiddle with it. He wondered if he’d ever convince himself to do it again.

In terms of the door opening, it was only Sara, only Sara peeping her head into the room with a smile, then a frown as she looked at him.

“Janner, are you alright?” she asked, a tray—on which sat two suspicious bowls and spoons—sitting in her hands.

He nodded, giving her a strained smile. “Fine. I just got startled by…the door.” Blaming her was the last thing he wanted to do.

A flicker of guilt slipped into her diamond eyes. “You mean me, Janner. I’m so sorry, I should’ve knocked or done something—

“No,” Janner said quickly, cutting her off. “Sara, it wasn’t you, it was the door, and if you had knocked or called out, it would’ve ended up the same as—” Now he found himself cut off by a coughing fit, and each massive, body shaking failure to actually choke up phlegm hurt, though Sara’s quick assistance in steadying him helped a little.

Once it was over, he was tired again, and though he closed his eyes briefly and laid his head against the backboard of the bed with a wince, he didn’t let himself fall asleep. 

“Just let me know when you’re ready for breakfast,” Sara told him gently, squeezing his hand. “Do you want to lay down? Your lips are white.”

Janner shook his head and focused on breathing carefully and silencing the majority of the ringing in his head. “I’m ready,” he said after a minute, looking at her again and smiling at her wearily.

Sara only sighed and reached for what turned out to be the tray. It seemed as though she had placed it there when he began coughing. “This is not porridge,” she explained hastily, indicating toward the bowls. “It’s dried oats with warm milk, not water, honey, and some of the cinna Jebsun wants you to have. It’s good, I promise, I tried Mama’s. It’s very good, actually, everyone had it for breakfast—well, I didn’t, I wanted to have it with you—Jebsun just put a little extra cinna in yours.”

Janner glanced at it for a second—it smelled wonderful—then looked at Sara and gave her a genuine smile. “You don’t have to worry about porridge bothering me. It’s okay. There’s no need to worry about me.” She shouldn’t have felt the need to worry about him, not anymore. She’d done it far longer than he had for her. He had worried for a little while, and then he had blamed and scorned her, then believed she was dead and stopped worrying and thinking about her altogether, if he could help it.

“But I love you, Janner,” she said gently as she placed the tray on his lap, taking her bowl off it first. “And because I love you, I’m choosing to consider you and worry about you. It’s perfectly alright. It doesn’t inconvenience me.”

Suddenly, Janner had even less of an appetite than he had when he woke. The thought that because Sara loved him, she worried about him, filled him with guilt and confirmation and  anger, directed at himself, not her. If she knew he hadn’t worried about her, that not only had he not worried about her, he had blamed her and hated her for not finding him sooner, surely she would believe that he hadn’t loved her then. But he thought he loved her now. Did he love her now? He wanted to love her now—had the Overseer stripped away his ability to love her? Was that why she was so worried and sad all the time? Was it why he was so anxious and scared and uncertain and secretly angry constantly? Had he—

“Janner,” Sara said, snatching him away from his thoughts. “Are you alright?” He nodded. “Please, let me know if you’re not.”

Instead of responding, he took a bite of the not-porridge which was…surprisingly good. He wasn’t sure what the look on his face was, but Sara laughed, her eyes twinkling, and said, “See? I told you so!”

*****

Home. They were going to be setting out for Lamendron, then on to Anniera, to home, so very, very soon. Janner didn’t know if he wanted to go home. Home meant having to deal with people even more so than he already had. He hadn’t minded one or two people at a time from the shuffling group made up of Sara, Artham, Nia, and Jebsun, but all of them at on his birthday had frankly been exhausting and a little overwhelming. There’d be so many more people, deck hands and crew and Greston—Nia said Greston had sailed her to Lamendron—who would expect him to have some interaction with him. He couldn’t stand the thought of facing Greston; he couldn’t stand the thought of facing anyone. Even if he could hide in his cabin for the entirety of the sail home—who was he kidding, he would likely be forcibly confined to it. Thank the Maker. Funny how when traveling from Kimera to Dang, he had hated it. It seemed like salvation now—when they arrived in Anniera it would be a different story. A different, terrifying story. 

A sudden knock on the door made him start and automatically press his hand against his heart in a fist. Artham peaked his head in a second later, and though Janner did not lower his hand, he tried convincing his heart and mind to slow in their panicked racing.

“Sorry,” Artham said apologetically, stepping in quietly. A light brown cloak was draped over his right arm. “But we’re nearly ready, if you are.” 

Artham surveyed him, and Janner could feel his uncle taking in every detail—the dark brown pants that Nia had pinned so they wouldn’t fall, sage-green, soft, loose sweater overtop an even softer white collared undershirt, and a pair of shoes that were a sturdy excuse for slippers. He didn’t want to think about what Artham saw when he looked at his face, looked into his eyes. He hoped he had hidden everything well.

“I’m ready,” he said briskly, giving Artham an attempt of a smile. Reaching for the cane—he refused to call it his cane. It wasn’t his cane, he wouldn’t be using it indefinitely, and it would be gone by the time they reached Anniera—he stood as straight as he could manage, still holding onto the bedpost. He knew Artham would likely either help steady him once they actually got moving (or he might just be at the mercy of being picked up, who knew, it all depended on Artham’s mood), but for now he wanted to manage on his own. 

A smile ghosted over Artham’s face, and Janner grinned in response to it. Perhaps positivity and confidence, even the false versions, were contagious.

“Would you like your cloak now, my King?” Artham asked gently, holding out the cloak regally. 

Nodding once, Janner couldn’t shake the feeling of awkward normalcy at Artham’s address. The cloak was soon fastened, draped around his shoulders, and though it weighed enough to where if he was walking any real distance, Janner guessed it would tire him, for only a carriage ride, such pressure would be a comfort.

This accomplished, Janner began limping toward the door with the aid of the cane, and Artham, as expected, came to his left side and supported him. 

As they left the small white-and-wood room and entered the main part of the practice Janner had only seen once or twice, a sudden bang sounded from above them. Janner yelped at the sound and very nearly lost his balance, but Artham steadied him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

Swallowing the acrid terror filling his throat, Janner nodded. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “It was just the noise.”

Artham smiled worriedly. “Probably just Jebsun dropping something in his attempt to decide what he wants to bring with him and what he’s leaving.”

“I know,” Janner whispered, shaking his head shamefully.  

“You’re alright otherwise, yes?” Artham double-checked, surveying him again.

Janner shot him a withering look. “Yes, Uncle Artham, I’m fine. Can we please keep going?” 

Looking him over again, Artham pursed his lips, and then, before Janner had time to say anything, he found himself being carried, even though the cane was still in his hand.

He didn’t bother protesting, though, not as they passed through the jingling front door or went down the front steps or toward the first carriage where Sara already waited (Nia was in the second, along with some of the luggage and eventually Jebsun). There was no need to protest, and he even murmured a quiet, “thank you,” because when he almost fallen, he had involuntarily tried balancing himself by pressing his right foot into the ground as a normal person would. A surge of pain had followed, and it hadn’t let up yet. He wasn’t about to tell anyone—it was unnecessary information. The wound had healed; it hadn’t bled in ages. It was more a matter of convincing the horribly scarred area to work right again—but he was glad he didn’t have to try walking with it.

*****

They were underway within the next half hour, largely because Jebsun was struggling to collect everything he might possibly need—it was mostly roots and herbs—in the next three or more weeks.

Neither Artham nor Sara had said anything since they began moving, though Janner had noticed Sara eyeing him worriedly as Artham set him down next to her. He tried telling her everything was fine, he was fine, it was alright, Artham just didn’t want anything to happen, but he had a feeling she didn’t believe him. His heart sank at the thought. Maybe she shouldn’t believe him ever again. He wasn’t sure if he really ever believed himself, anyway. 

He stared out the window, not really seeing the green-and-gold grasses covering the rolling hills they passed. Janner wasn’t sure where exactly his mind wandered, what tunnels he dug and threads he chased, but all of it was irrational, none of it made sense, and the majority of it ended miserably.

Suddenly, fire brushed against his palm, and he jerked his hand away from the source with a hiss. His fist clenched against his chest, his mind racing and seeing the blinding of a hungry blaze, the gleaming of a merciless blade, the rotting of a biting whip, Janner’s heart broke when he heard Sara’s soft murmur of grieved apology. He closed his eyes in desperate resignation. It had not been flames, nor a whip, nor a blade, only Sara’s hand. Sara’s soft, tender, ring-adorned hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, forcing himself to look at her. He hated the grief swimming in her diamond eyes and wondered if he imagined terror and disgust there as well. He hated that he caused it. 

Sara gave him a patient smile. “Don’t be sorry, Janner. You haven’t hurt anything.”

Silence hung in the air, almost as if she expected him to reach for her hand or ask her to slip hers into his. Janner held her gaze for several more seconds, panicking, Sara’s worry undisguised. But she didn’t try grasping his hand again, she didn’t move an inch, and, fear and guilt bubbling in his throat, Janner turned back toward the carriage window, back to looking out at and not seeing the world. What he had seen moments before in Sara’s eyes was palpable, though, and it became a bitter sting that filled his mouth and throat and settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. 

His gaze eventually drifted back into the carriage body, and resting on the seat cushion in the space between them he saw Sara’s hand, waiting. Waiting for him to take hold of it. Janner glanced up at her and saw her line of sight directed outwardly, and she gave no indication of awareness regarding his own movements.

He stared at Sara’s hand, Sara’s flawless, slender hand and wanted desperately to reach for it. Though he could not see them, he felt Artham’s eyes boring into him. 

Then he caught a glimpse of his own hand, not the physical hand attached to his arm, but the image his mind created, the blackened, bleeding, burned, bruised hand that was charred with anger and smoldered in guilt. Holding back a whimper, Janner jerked his hand away, pressing it against his chest, covering his heart. He whipped his head around and forced himself to stare out the window, away from Sara and her beautiful perfection. 

Seconds later, Sara shifted closer, laying her head on his shoulder, and covered his hand in hers, squeezing so it wouldn’t hurt. Janner’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he glanced at her, not breathing, not sure if he imagined it or not. He didn’t imagine it, though. He didn’t imagine Sara purposely moving close to him, he didn’t imagine the tender pressure now resting on his shoulder, he didn’t imagine her soft, silky hair brushing against his cheek when he titled his head to feel it.

Maybe…maybe some of what roiled in his mind was his imagination. Maybe he hadn’t stopped loving her when he had been imprisoned. Maybe, even if he was worried he had, she wouldn’t see it that way. 

*****

Notes:

Janner's thoughts are a bit more...unstable because Chathan showed up and sparked unpleasant memories. And, honestly, I really don't think he blames Chathan...at least, he's not angry toward him. He's kind of just...tired.

Also, Artham, Janner, and Sara (and probably a little luggage) are in the first carriage, and Nia, Jebsun, and the rest of the luggage are in the other. I don't think everything would fit in one carriage....

Please let me know if there's anything noncanonical or wonky^^