Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 51

Icy Blasts

Notes:

I'm pretty sure I'm about to tear everything apart again....sorry 🥺

*****

The steam of Janner’s anger lasted for days and drove onward him through the cold trek covered in snow and ice. He pushed forward, climbing up snow-covered rocks with more ease than he had had before when he was hiking through the lower slopes. Now he could ascend them with grace, or at least as much grace as one could have when one was climbing up snowy rocks in the freezing cold with little to no equipment to help them. 

All things aside, Janner never wavered from his path, not for one second. He believed the Maker would see him through to the end, that the Maker would give him the strength to rescue his brother, even if he died in the process. Kal would be saved. The High King of Anniera would live. There was no other option. 

Every evening Artham found him and brought him firewood, and every evening Janner thanked him and watched him fly away, a spark of fear igniting next to the flame of determination in his heart. One slip-up and Kalmar would be dead. One mistake and all hope would be hurtled over the edge of the cliff that Janner walked beside. 

But that will not happen, he told himself emphatically. Nothing can happen that will stop me from rescuing my brother. 

*****

About an hour into the eighth day’s climb, Janner was reaching up to grab hold of a rocky ledge when he heard something. A rumble of some sort from far above him “No matter,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he grabbed onto the ledge and hoisted himself another foot. “It’s over there. Hopefully it’ll stay over there.”

But it did not stay. As Janner climbed higher, the rumbling drew nearer and grew louder, becoming a deafening roar that sucked the air from his lungs and thoughts from his mind. 

Janner looked up this time, his mouth gaping in surprise and confusion. Monstrous clouds gathered overhead, clouds that seemed to surround the world. They were black, purple, blue, and angry. They flashed with lightning and rumbled with thunder. 

“Oh, great,” Janner muttered under his breath in an effort to conceal his fear from himself with sarcasm. “Haven’t I dealt with enough storms lately?” Even as he said it, though, he picked up his pace even faster than he was going before. If he guessed right, a blizzard was on its way. A monster of a blizzard with gusts of wind and snow that had more strength than an army. If he was on the cliff when it hit, there was no way of knowing if he would be able to keep his hold. The snow was already beginning to fall thickly, and it was only a matter of time before the winds began to blow it with incomparable strength in the most psychotic way possible. 

Janner pushed himself upward as fast as he could, moving his legs and arms and body at a speed that he had no idea he was even capable of moving at. There were just ten feet left of rocks, and then he would be safe. Safer, at least. Not safe from the storm, but safe from certain death by falling from a cliff. 

He was three feet away from the top when the wind picked up and thrust snow into his eyes and nose and mouth, into his ears and onto his neck and head, onto his gloved hands and burning arms and legs. Janner could see nothing. He was stuck there until the storm passed, because try as he might he could not squint enough to see the rocks above him. There was no way of knowing where he was placing his hand or his foot, no way of knowing — once he got to the top, assuming he did not die trying — if he was walking toward or away from the cliff that plunged away into an endless abyss. 

The blizzard winds buffeted him, smashing him into and then away from the rocks, sometimes in the same second. Janner could already feel the scratches and bruises on his face where it had been thrust into the rocks, and he felt the freezing cold of dried blood against his cheeks. 

He clung to the edge for what felt like hours, though it could have been only twenty minutes for all he knew. His entire body had become stronger in the past week, but at the same time it had been exhausted by desperate climbing and worry and anger. With every second, the fire in Janner’s heart was growing dimmer and being leached by the burning in his arms, shoulders, and legs.

His grip on the rocks loosened, and he knew that if he did not at least try to climb somewhere, he was going to fall. He steeled himself and breathed out slowly, sucking in almost-breathless air that was half-filled with snow. 

Janner looked up into the white, swirling mass. Maker, help me, he thought as he pushed up with his right leg and reached with his left arm, feeling blindly for any sort of ledge that might be sturdy enough. His muscles trembled and he could feel his grip that currently held him in place on the stone faltering. 

There was a split second of time for Janner’s relief that his hand finally found purchase to reign in his heart and set the fire aglow again before a gust of wind came from above out of nowhere and thrust him off the cliff. 

Janner opened his mouth to scream but found that he had no voice. He felt the stomach-dropping sensation of falling for just a second before he hit the ground. 

His mind rocked back and forth, making him feel as though he was shifting and spinning endlessly. At some point, Janner realized he wasn’t breathing and gasped in a choking breath. He gathered his resolve and pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing at the aching and disoriented wavering in his head. 

He stumbled to his feet and swayed, barely able to keep himself upright and breathing and thinking all at the same time. When he told himself to breathe he would lurch and nearly fall over because he wasn’t telling himself to keep his balance, and when he tried to stay upright it would be...some amount of time before he realized he wasn’t breathing. 

Just...just try ‘n’ do something, his mind slurred as he planted one foot in front of the other. After who knew how long, he wrapped his arms around his mid-section in an effort to keep warm, because that was when he realized he felt much colder than he had before. 

Janner had no idea which way he was going to where he was walking to, but he convinced himself that if he was at least walking, he was doing something or at least trying to do something to help Kal get out of Throg. 

He struggled to stand up against the storm, though, and there were a number of times when it almost knocked him over. 

The final time, it did. A huge gust of wind slammed into him from behind and sent him sprawling face-first into the snow. Janner whimpered at the feeling of new cold on his cheeks and nose, and the frigidness of it everywhere. It had already been caked in every fold of his clothes and his gloves, but now there was more. There was no way of getting himself warmer when everything to keep him warm was coated in snow and ice. 

So Janner pushed himself up and kept walking. Slowly, though, — or perhaps not so slowly — he felt the cold taking over his mind and body. It replaced the throbbing in his head and was a little familiar...but he couldn’t remember where from at the moment. 

M’ybe ‘f I sleep ‘ll ‘member, he thought groggily as the winds howled on and on. He felt his eyelids drooping shut even as he walked onward. A quiet part of him told him not to sleep no matter what, but by the second it grew quieter and quieter until it was gone. 

"Sl’p," Janner mumbled as he stopped in his tracks and fell to his hands and knees. "S’nds great." 

He shifted himself a little to where he could curl up on the snow like a cat. He tried not to think about how cold the snow was against his cheek and how it seeped in through his clothes even more and how he was pretty sure he was supposed to be rescuing Kal, but could not. 

Janner fell asleep there just as the sun was going down, arms wrapped around his legs and slowly ceasing to shiver as the temperature plummeted rapidly, the snow fell steadily, and the winds whipped ferociously.

*****

The first break in the blizzard, Artham was rocketing up the mountain, plenty of wood in his arms, his cloak over his shoulders, his scarf around his neck, and his gloves on his hands, though he did not need them. He had been able to see the storm from below, and it had filled him with dread. He knew Janner was trekking through that storm if he hadn’t been able to find shelter, and he would need help. 

When he reached the place where Janner might be, Artham began swinging his gaze back and forth across the mountain face, trying to distinguish what was potentially Janner from rock. Amidst all the snow, it was nearly impossible to tell. With the sun disappearing quickly, the temperature dropping, and his knowledge of the storm that threatened to erupt again, Artham felt tremendous fear in his heart for his nephew.

He had flown all across the middle section of the mountain where he had expected Janner to be; now only the top portion was left. It was the part closest to the mountain’s peak, and that also meant it was closest to Amrah. Artham was not afraid of Amrah herself, not in the least. She had always looked like a spindly woman without much physical strength. The only weapons she ever had were her words and her minions. Artham did not fear anyone’s words now and he did not fear the Fangs, either. They were dangerous and quite capable of killing, but that did not mean that Artham was afraid of them. He was only wary. 

The only thing that did scare Artham was Amrah’s threat. Would she follow through with it? That all depended on her motive, which they did not know. What did she want from their family? So far, all she had done was send them on a freakishly long scavenger hunt where the instructions were: play-by-the-rules-or-somebody-is-going-to-die. Was she taunting them? Trying to make them think that she wasn’t serious, even though she was?

Are Janner and Kalmar even going to get out of this alive? Artham thought grimly as he beat his wings again. He had been flying for a  while, and his arms were growing tired from carrying the wood. 

The light was fading fast, and Artham knew he had to find Janner. He knew he was somewhere on the mountain and he had to be somewhere nearby. He was not as close to the snow as he could, mostly for keeping Amrah’s “rules” and not because he didn’t want to get wet, but Artham realized that skimming the forbidden ground was the only way he was going to find Janner. 

He glanced around, just to see if Amrah or any of her Fangs were nearby. Hearing nothing, Artham dove to where he was practically hovering above the surface of the snow. 

“Janner!” he called, still turning his head every way in an effort to hear his nephew. There was no sound to be heard but the wind and snow that rained like pellets of hail. Artham winced as they stung his face but flew on, desperate to find Janner. It was possible that the wind was so strong that it had carried his voice away, but it was more likely that his nephew was in dire need of rescue. 

He consciously scanned the snowy-rock-dotted landscape: rock, boulder, snow, horned hound shaped boulder, rock, snow pile, more snow, more and more snow, odd-looking rock—

Wait, that’s not a rock, Artham thought, alarm filling his chest as he looked at the dark, curled up figure lying crumpled in the snow. That’s Janner.

“Oh, Maker, help me,” Artham whispered as he flew towards his nephew.

*****

Notes:

Welp. Let's see how that turns out tonight!

Also I did, like, zero medical research for this section (and most of the sections for that matter 😶) so it's likely that this and the next will be inaccurate.