After Times of Tender Agony: Ch. 9

Re-Acquainted

Notes:

Now you get to find out what you've been wondering! Or at least a piece of it...

*****

Janner hated waking up disoriented, even more so now than before (before meaning before he came back to life) since it had happened so many times in the past four years. It had never been quite like this, though, never this nauseating and jarring and stabbing. Oh, Maker help him, his head hurt. “Hurt” didn’t even begin to describe the pain shooting through his skull and throbbing with every stab. It felt like someone was jamming a knife all through his brain, then pulling it out, releasing the pressure, before shoving it back in again. Out of nowhere, a burning spot of weight ignited over his heart, and somehow he knew it was the crest.

All of a sudden his stomach heaved, and he rolled onto his side instinctively, crying out in pain as everything inside lurched and he retched onto the floor of wherever he was. His head made him do it, that he knew. A concussion, probably, which explained the horrific stampede of knives in his skull. And he hadn’t even tried opening his eyes. 

There was no food in his stomach, though, which was probably the only good thing. It meant no matter how much his stomach heaved, he wouldn’t have to worry about lying in a disgusting puddle that was more likely to make him sick again than anything else. 

Something made his head turn, he wasn’t sure what, but with the turn a new wave of pain and nausea crashed over him, and he struggled to keep from retching again. He hated dry heaving.

Focus on breathing, he told himself, squeezing his fist around the crest that had slipped out from under his shirt and pressing his hand into the hard, stone ground—because that happened to be where it was. In, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold, and so on and so forth it went, until his stomach calmed down and decided against needlessly retching. 

Janner wasn’t sure how long he laid there on what had to be stone, just existing and not even bothering to push past the pain in his head to think about something else, but it must have been long enough to where guilt swept over him when he remembered Sara. 

How had he forgotten her, even for a moment? Even if he did have a concussion, that was no excuse! Oh, she had to be worried sick. 

Forgetting (somehow) about his head, he forced himself into a sitting position, regretted it instantly as soon as the ensuing nausea set in, and proceeded to continue sitting up, blinking open his eyes despite the piercing pain of what had to be minimal light, and looked around at his surroundings.

It was hard to focus on anything with all the input he was already receiving—the hammer pounding into his mind, the tightening of his stomach, the ringing in his ears from all of it—but in the dim light it looked as though he was surrounded by dark walls that were likely made of stone, just like the floor. He couldn’t see any windows, which meant that even though the lack of light was keeping his head from hurting even more, it meant he couldn’t see or tell where he was.

With that thought, another clicked into his sluggish mind: where was he? Wait. I just asked that. And who had taken him wherever he had been taken?

All he could remember was…was feeling awful nearly all day and…fog covered the rest of it. Concentrating enough to where it made his head hurt worse, he groped through the fog, finally coming to a distorted image of a shadow, a distorted memory of rippling pain and floor and wetness. Flickers of being hoisted and thrown turned on and off, but after that it was all blank.

Janner raised his hand to his head, wanting to feel for wherever he had been hit, but when he did so he teetered, then crashed onto the stone gracelessly. He bit back a groan when the throbbing in his head intensified—it was warranted, considering how quickly and unexpectedly he had jarred his entire body, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. 

While on the ground, he decided to continue doing what he had begun, except this time when he told his arm to move, it wouldn’t. It took him a good two minutes to realize his left arm, the one he had tried to move, was pinned underneath him awkwardly, something that had somehow happened when he fell what couldn’t have been more than two feet. 

The last thing he wanted to do was roll and make himself sick again, so he just told his right arm to move and instructed that hand to feel around—carefully—for where the blow had been placed by his still unknown assailant. It really was a conscious effort and really was him actually telling his body to do something, otherwise nothing would happen. 

His fingers found partially-dried blood clinging to the side of his face—his right cheek, down his neck—before anything else, but it didn’t take long to pinpoint the wound: directly on his temple, wet and sticky with blood and hair all mixed together. 

An expert on concussions and head injuries he was not, but he knew it wasn’t as bad as it could be. And there was a good chance some of the nausea he felt was from getting sick earlier, not just from the concussion.

But Sara, he remembered again unexpectedly, the same wave of guilt drenching him. She’s worried sick, I know she is. I have to find her. I have to get back to her.

Once again, he began pushing himself into a sickening sitting position, resting on his forearms and breathing as he waited for his stomach and mind to settle, scooting into an almost-real sitting position in which he was now supporting himself with his arms outstretched, palms touching the cold floor, gasping for breath and trying not to retch, crawling over to the wall, ignoring the way bells rang in his ears and made his headache worse, and leaning against it, once again gasping for air. 

He sat there for a few minutes, panting, shuddering, clutching the crest desperate with one hand, the other grasping at the wall like a madman, essentially collapsing against it. How he was going to stand and walk out of wherever he was, then manage to find Sara and Torrboro—in case he wasn’t in Torrboro anymore—was beyond him, but he would have to wait until he got there to solve that problem. 

And, of course, he realized, opening his eyes (he hadn’t noticed he had closed them). I have no idea who my assailant is or how I’m going to get past him. Or her.

On using the word assailant, he felt his mouth curving upward in a bit of a smirk. Why in Aerwiar was he using such a word? Assailant made the whole matter seem so official, when it might have just been a standard kidnapping. 

As soon as he thought it, Janner gritted his teeth, frustrated with his absentmindedness. Someone had made a point of taking him from Palace Torr. That meant they knew who he was and—

“Oh, no,” he whispered, his words sounding a little more strangled than he had expected. “Sara.”

Now, worry for Sara throbbed in his heart. The pendent dug into his palm. If he had been taken, it was likely for some twisted political reason. It meant the chances of Sara also being taken as some sort of cruel incentive were painfully high, and even if she hadn’t been taken yet, it could happen at any moment. 

That was what gave him the drive to stand and walk (stumble) against the wall, brushing it, hoping his fingers would touch something that wasn’t rough stone but wood—anything that would signify a door. The process made him sick and dizzy at first, but after pushing past it the only remaining ailments were a pulsating headache and an inability to walk straight. He counted it a victory, when compared to other not-so-similar but slightly-comparable situations.

When he had gone so far that he was almost certain he had walked along every wall, Janner’s heart sank. What if the entrance was somewhere positively irritating, like the ceiling? What if he had been dropped in there and he was stuck inside a pit, and that was why he could see nothing. How would he warn Sara, then?

“Maker, please,” he murmured, tilting his face upward, even though it hurt more than he would ever admit to anyone. “Please, help me.”

A stumble later, his fingers brushed against wood.

Janner’s heart leapt with hope and excitement even as it squeezed with trepidation, and he moved forward a bit more, planting both hands on the wood and running them over its surface. 

He realized two things one doing so; one: there were quite a lot of splinters in the wood and he might have a hard time getting some of them out when he couldn’t see; and two: there was no handle or lock or anything of the sort on his side. 

Leaning back against the wall or slumping to the floor in defeat were what he really wanted to do in that moment, but he wouldn’t let himself. He couldn’t. 

No, he chastised his frustration. Do something. Come up with some sort of an idea of what to do when that door does open. It opened when I was tossed in, and unless whoever kidnapped me has some gross fascination with letting prisoners starve to death, it’ll be opened again at some point. Wait—does it open? 

He paused in his musing and reached out to run his fingers along the far sides of the door. Yes, there they were: hinges. They made him smile. 

Okay, perfect, hinges, he continued. That’ll work but….but what about actually escaping?

Here he paused again and lowered himself carefully to the cold floor. There were very few people he was physically capable of taking on, and even if he managed to temporarily subdue someone, his energy would be shot afterward. He wouldn’t be able to continue escaping. Not to mention that he had no idea how long his head would insist on throbbing. 

An odd tapping-shuffling sound began, and Janner furrowed his brow in confusion before remembering the pain that could bring. When he was still focused on wincing, the door flung open suddenly, throwing him back, knocking his head against the stone wall. A cry of pain escaped his lips. Oh, lovely, he thought distantly as the light coming from whatever lay on the other side of the door blurred and shifted and blinded him. He couldn’t focus, he wanted to, but he couldn’t, and grey crept over his vision.

As he drifted, he heard a creak, a horrible creak piercing his head and making him groan in pain, but it also painfully forced him out of unconsciousness for just a bit longer.

The creak continued, dreadful and awful, like a drowning cat or something worse. If it went on for much longer, his mind might very well shut down anyway. Janner turned his head, trying to focus on the open door so he could see who made it if they came into the room. His stomach tightened; he wanted to flee more than anything and this very well might be the best opportunity but…but he didn’t think he could stand.

The light became brighter, coming into the room with a shadowy, oddly-gaited figure. It must have been a lantern, he gathered, and Janner couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t excellent staring since his vision blurred more with each second, but he could see enough to where he looked at the person and they…he was familiar. A bit, at least, even through blurred vision. 

“Who are you…why did you do this?” he whispered, hating he couldn’t sound more intimidating, hating he knew the answer to his question and decided to ask it anyway, in desperate hopes he was wrong. He squeezed the gold pendant into his fingers in another desperate effort to keep himself awake.

An all-too-familiar cackle that sent chills down Janner’s spine followed, as did the tell-tale voice. “Why, Tool, I’m the Overseer, of course. An’ I'm doin' it because I believe you an’ I have a score to settle, Esben Flavogle,” —he pronounced it incorrectly, Janner thought frantically. He stressed the wrong syllable— “or should I say, Janner Wingfeather, High King of the Shining Isle of Anniera?”

It was the Overseer’s distorted smirk and echoing laughter that Janner lost consciousness to, and they filled his dreams and tormented him.

*****

Notes:

*GASP

OH NO, the oVeRSeeR is back!!!

I will say, the bit about Janner being upset the Overseer pronounced "Flavogle" comes from the fact that Andrew became irked when Chris mispronounced it 😂

Please let me know if I've accidentally put anything noncanonical in this chapter or if something seems a bit weird or wonky! :)