After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 43

Observations

Notes:

Okay, this should be the last chapter in which you're not pleased with me. There's at least some resolution in the next chapter. None in this one, though, I'm afraid.

*****

Janner felt sick the next morning. It was likely a result of not truly sleeping, the pain coursing through his leg, the light throbbing of his wrist, the pounding headache inside his skull, and the incessant ringing in his mind. Why was it always so high-pitched? Why couldn’t it stop?

A knock on the door sent him flying to a sitting position, and the unexpected gasp of fear produced a coughing fit that brought Sara into the room. She sat down next to him, her arm wrapped around his back—the lash scars remembered their desire to ignite, and he had to stifle a whimper when she pressed them—and she stayed like that until he finished choking. 

“Are you alright?” she asked once he had finally stopped. 

Janner nodded. “I’m fine,” he whispered, his eyes flickering to meet hers. He hoped it was convincing.

She cupped his cheek in her hand and brushed her thumb across the scar. “You don’t look fine, Janner. Were you crying last night?”

It was not the first time that Janner found himself very angry that prolonged crying left its mark and made itself rather obvious the next day. Was there nothing that could be done in private? “I’m okay,” he said again, but this time, he didn’t bother making eye contact. “Did you come in to tell me it’s nearly breakfast time?” 

Sara hesitated for a moment. “Yes, Janner, but um…there’s something else. You said you wanted to tell me something yesterday. What was it?”

Janner hated seeing the hope in her eyes so much that he squeezed his shut. He couldn’t bear the thought he was supposed to tell her, that he had wanted to, that he was going to, that the Overseer had snatched it from him, destroyed the hope, destroyed his and Sara’s one chance at peace and understanding. He hated that a monster was controlling him, that he was helpless. He hated being helpless, he hated that everything slipped between his fingers, he hated that he couldn’t hold onto what he wanted to, that he was chained to what tormented him, that he could go to no one for help.

He could, he supposed, go to the Maker. But what would the Maker do? Reassure him that everything would be alright? That he had naught to fear? That He had everything under control? Nothing was under control, and what he needed was physical, human intervention, he needed the Overseer dead, he needed Tirge dead, he needed to be safe, he needed Sara to be safe, he needed Nia and Jebsun and Artham and Greston and the rest of the crew to be safe.

A light touch descended upon his shoulder, and he yelped. When his mind decided to begin hearing again, the sound of Sara apologizing over and over again greeted him.

“It’s fine,” he said tersely. “And I don’t know what I wanted to tell you. I don’t remember.”

“But—”

Janner whipped his head toward her, and she shrank back, her eyes flickering with fear. Guilt flooded over him and a bitter tang settled in his mouth and throat and stomach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I…I need to get ready, alright, Sara? I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Without a word, she rose and went out the door. The little room shook behind her.

It was the fastest she had ever left him alone.

*****

Breakfast was miserable.

Janner wanted to skip it, leave the others to their meal and just hide in his cabin all day, but he knew no one would allow him to do something so heinous as all that. They would say he needed to eat, more so than anyone else there. What if he wasn’t hungry? He wasn’t. The horrid bitterness had not left his stomach, and, shockingly, the porridge that was more like gruel, more like a hot version of what had been served in the Fork! Factory! than anything else, did not chase it away. If anything, it encouraged it. He tried one bite of Nia’s bread and found swallowing impossible, to which he hid the piece in his pocket rather than making another excuse. 

Blinking slowly, raising his head from looking down at the tack-covered spoon he held painfully in his left hand, he looked at Sara. 

She wasn’t sitting next to him. She was next to Nia, sort of diagonal from him. Based on the look firmly stamped on her face, she wasn’t thrilled with the meal either. At least she was eating the bread.

“Was the first night really so bad?” Artham asked, appearing concerned. 

Sara responded first, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t.” He continued looking at her strangely, and she elaborated. “It was lovely, actually. Ships are one of my favorite places to sleep. I find the rocking soothing. And thoughts of home are always comforting.”

Artham seemed to accept that answer and went back to eating, and when he didn’t follow up his question for Sara with one directed at him, Janner breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He hadn’t had time to think up believable ways to work around any questions related to the previous night. 

But if Nia ever asked him if he had told Sara…what would he do? How could he lie to his mother? Even if he didn’t lie, what would his excuse be? His excuse was a good one, but he couldn’t share it! People would start dying. Because of him. Then he’d have a tangible reason for guilt, something other than hating himself for doubting and scorning Sara and the Maker.

“May I be excused?” he asked finally. 

Nia looked at him a little worriedly, but she nodded. “Are you feeling alright, Janner?”

He almost smiled when he saw the way Jebsun immediately tensed, as if he was ready to stop whatever disease was trying to take his life now before it even had the chance to plot. 

“I’m alright. Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” It was only a partial lie. A constant, pulsating pain had long since taken over everything below his knee on his right leg that he hadn’t told them about, but there was no need to alert anyone about something constant. Constant meant steady, a steady thing that neither grew worse nor better. It was almost the same as no pain at all.

They let him go. Sara didn’t even follow as he limped away painfully, and he couldn’t help but think that she really needed to start pretending better, otherwise Artham and Nia would actually start prying the truth out of her. His mind buzzed briefly and a lump became stuck in his throat. That was selfish of him. The only reason he wanted her to pretend was so no one would figure out something was wrong with him and almost certainly come and talk to him about something he couldn’t tell them, for fear of getting them killed. Sara had the right to think or act anyway she wanted to. And he had hurt her. He had hurt her that morning, and his apology had been stupid and meaningless. She deserved better.

The crew members he passed on the way up the stairs and down the middle deck to the cabins thankfully chose not to stop him and ask questions. It didn’t even seem like they looked at him. He was invisible, graciously invisible.

Laying down again and burying himself in his blankets brought brief relief, but it was short lived. Soon, all sorts of thoughts intruded, thoughts about the Overseer and how it was all really his fault—his own fault, not the Overseer’s fault—how he would do anything to keep Sara and his family from being hurt, how he would lie for the rest of his life if he could just protect them, if they would just stay safe.

The fire in his leg only fueled such thoughts.

Then he wondered what would happen if he just gave himself up to the Overseer, if he went looking for the monster and let him do his worst. The Overseer would have his vengeance and Sara and Nia and Artham and Jebsun and Greston and the crew would all be safe. But what if the Overseer wasn’t satisfied with him? What if he wanted Sara, too? If that was the case, Janner supposed dying wouldn’t do much. It would only cause everyone grief and sorrow, potentially needless or extra sorrow. If he just went along with not speaking about the Overseer, they would at least reach Anniera alive.

But what if the Overseer decided he wanted to take Sara? He might have promised not to harm anyone, but he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t take anyone. What if Tirge did something to her? What if Tirge hurt her? What if Tirge beat her or starved her or broke her?

Janner clenched his fists and teeth in fury. He would never let the Overseer take Sara away from him again. 

After a while, the sound of the waves gently crashing against the hull and the gentle rocking nearly lulled him to sleep. His eyelids were heavy, and despite the panic in his mind he wanted to give in. It'd be an odd sort of relief, one filled with nightmares and horror, but a semblance was better than nothing.

Then a smarting touch brushed his shoulder. 

“Easy, it’s just me, Jebsun,” came the gentle, hushed reassurance. 

When Janner blinked himself into realization, embarrassment flooded over him. His entire body was tense, his brows knotted to where they hurt, and he sat upright on the bunk, his right hand tightly grasping Jebsun’s wrist.

He fell back and relaxed (mostly). “‘m sorry,” he said, the sound muffled by his hands covering his entire face as he lay down again.

“Don’t apologize,” Jebsun told him with a smile. “I’m here because everyone is worried you’re sick again.”

Janner rolled his eyes, though it wasn’t particularly visible since his face was covered. “I’m not sick.”

“I know,” Jebsun said simply. “But your leg is bothering you more than it has in a while, and something happened to your left wrist.”

His stomach sinking in horror, Janner removed his hands from his face. “How’d you find out?” he whispered, terrified Jebsun would soon be asking what happened to him.

Jebsun laughed a little. “Janner, I take care of people and diagnose them and observe their physical state for a living. It was easy enough to tell you were favoring your right leg more than you have been in the past few days, and despite the very little amount of porridge you ate, I saw how stiffly you held your spoon and how you winced when you turned your wrist oddly.”

The deduction was impressive, but it didn’t stun Janner’s heart into forgetting to race in panic. It also didn’t shock his leg into forgetting to throb and sear. “It’s fine, really. I’m alright.”

Reaching his hand into his pocket, Jebsun pulled out a short length of bandage. “I just want to give it a little support, alright? You can take it off when you're outside your cabin, but try wearing it when no one's around. I’m guessing you hurt your wrist and your leg falling sometime in the middle of the night, probably getting up to write and get your thoughts out.”

Janner neither confirmed nor denied the theory, but he did give in to Jebsun’s insistence, figuring cooperating was more likely to keep Jebsun less suspicious than not cooperating. 

Once he was done wrapped, Jebsun gestured toward his leg. “Do you want me to help you with that?”

Hesitating for a moment, Janner nodded, then clenched his teeth as Jebsun kneaded the stubborn, searing muscle. He groaned a few seconds in. “Sorry,” Jebsun said apologetically.

“Don’t apologize,” Janner murmured, echoing their exchange minutes earlier. Humor flickered into Jebsun’s eyes; he noticed the bit of a joke, but Janner didn’t allow himself to smile.

Jebsun left once he had finished, a backward glance of worry crossing his face before he shut the door. He seemed both satisfied and not, both confused and not. Likely, he wouldn't be the last one. Janner sighed. It was going to be a long, miserable three weeks.

But he'd already put up with far more than that, hadn't he? Surely, he could last, surely, it'd be alright.

*****

Notes:

Soooo....angst between Sara and Janner. Eep. I promise, it'll come to a head, a good, resolving head, soon^^

Let me know if there's anything wonky or noncanonical^^