In Hours of Grievous Hope Ch. 1

On the Hillside

Notes:

So. This is the start of a NEW AtE series. It is not connected to the previous series in any way. It has a completely different AtE revival story that is the spawn of a number of things, including WillDreamer's Ate, "The Glory of Servanthood," my sister's imagination, and my combing of the books to see if anything canonical actual points to this crazy idea of mine. I've come to the conclusion that there actually is a good deal of information supporting most of this story, sadly. And I want to give everyone my sincerest apologies right up front.

*****

“I was supposed to die,” were the words Kalmar whispered into the night, gazing up at the star-studded sky. Though spring was on its way, the nip of winter nights still persisted and he shivered, both from the cold and from the thoughts thudding through his mind unceasingly. He had left his Durgan cloak in the ruins of Castle Rysen, rather, he had draped it over the already-wrapped—

A choked sob worked its way out of his throat, and he did his best to keep tears at bay. He was sick of crying. He had already cried enough to the point at which everyone in the family would notice in the morning, but that didn’t keep him from stopping himself. 

Knowing he couldn’t think about Janner without letting loose all the tears that were just dying to surface, Kalmar did his best to focus on…nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing was the only alternative, because if he thought about his family, he would think about how Janner was…was gone from them and would never return. If he thought about Anniera and her people, he would remember they were all there because Janner had died for them. If he thought about the Maker, he would weep, wondering how he could have been so wrong and misunderstood His explicitly clear instructions that had somehow led to Janner’s death. 

Unfortunately thinking about that which he could not think about, lest he burst into tears, required thought, and once again trickles of warmth rolled down his cheeks mournfully. “How did I get it so wrong?” he whispered, his voice strangled with grief. “I know what You told me! I listened! Why did Janner die when I knew it was supposed to be me?”

He heard no answer.

Gather the Lost , the Maker had told him in the Fane of Fire while simultaneously brandishing his heart with a searing loveliness that told him he could do it no matter how difficult it was. Those you already know are not the only ones. More are still lost. They must be rescued. Bring them together. Save them. Use My Ancient Stones in the way I intended.

They were called “healing stones” for a reason. Kalmar had understood immediately what the Maker asked of him, which had been an odd sensation since he normally took a bit longer to make sense of anything. But he knew instantly. He understood that the Maker tasked him with bringing healing to the lost and broken who had made mistakes, even though he was a little unsure as to how he would do so when he himself was like them: lost and broken. Trusting the Maker would find a way of accomplishing it, he had tried melding with them anyway after gathering them from the hills of the Green Hollows and the City of Clovenfast. Janner had taken his place though, and it had all happened  in a whirlwind spinning faster than was comprehensible that any protest he could have managed, as stunned as he was, would have been impossible.

And then it was over. Standing still and confused did not last long, though, because the second he looked down at his feet…there had been Janner. His precious brother reduced to skin and bones, hunched over the stone still flickering with its hauntingly beautiful yet dreadful light. There had been a smile on Janner’s face. It was still there, a look of joy and love that trumped the lines of pain so magnificently that unless you knew melding hurt dreadfully, you would never even think to look for them.

Kalmar knew, though. He had melded with them for just a few seconds and he had felt tendrils of the pain licking his heart and mind. Pondering on what Janner had felt physically when he had died was more than Kal could bear, and if he did not know how joyful he had been, even thinking about it would have been impossible. 

“Kalmar,” came the gentle words from someone he had not expected to trail him or follow him or bother finding him. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

Tears burned in his throat, and he swallowed before answering his uncle, making a point to not look at him. He thought if he looked at anyone and saw the sympathy on their face all his efforts would be futile. “Not really,” he whispered, digging his hands into his pockets for warmth. Or maybe protection. When he heard the question, he couldn’t help but imagine Janner saying it.

“I-I don’t want to intrude,” Artham murmured, still standing behind him, his wings rustling in what Kalmar could only guess was nervousness or uncertainty. “And I probably shouldn’t because I wasn’t even there—”

Turning to look at him, Kalmar felt the strangest sensation of understanding and consideration blossoming in his heart amidst his grief. “Mama didn’t mean what she said, you know that, right?”

Something akin to surprise flickered over Artham’s face and his taloned fingers twisted together. “I— Yes, of course I know that.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Kal replied, the words coming out a little more sharply than he had intended, mingled with the ache in his heart. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

Artham shook his head. “I should have though,” he whispered. “‘Keep them safe,’ he said. ‘Seep them Kafe,’ I promised. I didn’t do that. I—” tears came into his eyes and he dropped down on one knee, his head bowed low. “I failed you, my King.”

Kalmar stood there, looking at his uncle, unsure as to who exactly he had apologized to, but completely certain of the fact that he really did not like it when anyone bowed to him. It was another few seconds before he realized the receiver of the apology was either himself or his father, quite possibly both. 

“Uncle Artham,” he finally replied in a voice that he knew would soon be choked full of tears that might just listen to his instruction to run down the back of his throat if he thought about it hard enough. “I don’t blame you for Janner’s…for, for what happened.” At the thought of his brother, Kal’s tears defied his command to roll somewhere untraceable and instead began making what were likely very clear trails down his cheeks and onto his neck. His voice began trembling with the next words. “It was always going to happen. It was always—”

“Not if I had hied trarder — tried harder! — to keep both of you safe!” Artham exploded unexpectedly, but through his tears, Kalmar could see that his uncle’s shoulders and wings were shaking from grief and quite possibly anger at himself.

As much as Kal wanted to use a gentler method of trying to get him to see sense, he didn’t have the heart to try and fail and have to repeat himself. “The Maker told him it would happen!” he shouted, taking a step closer. He watched Artham pause briefly as if he was confused. “He—” Kalmar’s breath hitched in remembrance. “He told Arundelle that Janner would be a-a seed, and then the other night He told me in the Fane—” His voice broke and he closed his eyes tightly, digging his clenched fists into his pockets. “I-I thought it was me, b-but it wasn’t. It was…it w-was him.”

Kalmar knew he was sobbing again at that point and didn’t even bother trying to stop. What good would stopping do? The tears would have to come out eventually. Better in front of Artham than the whole family. 

But Uncle Artham doesn’t deserve to deal with it, he thought briefly before being quite unexpectedly being wrapped in a hug that was meant entirely for his comfort. A firm palm was pressed against the back of his head, drawing him close without causing any pain that would have been a simple feat with talons. It was strange how good it felt to bury his face — his face, with a normal, human nose instead of a furry muzzle — into someone’s chest.

He could have apologized for crying if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to, because he wasn’t sorry for crying, and he had a feeling Artham would never accept his apology anyway.

“Uncle Artham,” Kal said finally after his tears had stopped once more, at least for a little while. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Why did you come? I mean, right here? Right now?”

“Because, young Kalmar,” he whispered, taking Kal’s small hand in his own large, taloned one. “I have to keep you safe. I would give anything for that not to be the case but…but now it is.”

Kal felt his heart breaking and looked off into the distance at the starry sky, blinking rapidly in an effort to hold his tears back. He knew exactly what Artham had implied and referenced in his words: he would be the Throne Warden to the King once more. He supposed it was an inkling of good that came out of the grief; perhaps his uncle would finally be able to see he was not a failure when standing next to a King who clearly was. Perhaps their similar histories of failure would allow them both to understand that someday. 

“If you will have me, that is,” Artham added quietly. “And— And you don’t have to accept right away, you don’t have to. I understand. I promise, I really do. I just—”

Kalmar threw his arms around his uncle’s neck. “Uncle Artham,” he whispered. “Of course I want you to…to,” as much as he did, he was struggling to say the actual words. “Just, please don’t act like him. I love him so much that I couldn’t stand the memory. Not right now. It hurts still.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Artham replied softly.

Kalmar backed away after a minute or so, and as he did not expect his uncle to leave after the conversation, he plopped down in the grass and patted the spot beside him.

They lapsed into silence after that, formerly Fanged, and before that, exiled, King of the Shining Isle (which was still struggling to be anything more than blackened) and former Throne Warden to the deceased High King, forever the protector of the remaining Jewels of Anniera.

*****

Notes:

So something I did not focus on in the previous AtE fic was Artham's guilt. I almost entirely ignored it, embarrassingly enough. I also didn't include his unrest in the Blackwood as much as I should have, so both of those things will be here. Not overpoweringly so, of course, but still here. And Nia's comment to Artham about how if he had been there, Janner wouldn't have died...here's the thing: I know he handled it well on the surface, but something tells me it really tore him up on the inside, especially since it came from Nia! They're like siblings 😭 I think Arundelle being there and having that reunion helped take his mind off it, but I think it still bothered him.

Also, this story will be almost entirely from Kal's perspective! So, yay, I get to stress about him staying in character in a very not-in-character time...