Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 26-27

Notes: In which Artham tells a story.

Okay, so I did decide to do two-in-one since they kind of go hand-in-hand with each other. It's a bit of a random side tangent, with a headcanon story about Illia and Jru (because why not?). The first is from Artham's POV, the second from Janner's :D

The thing Artham is packing the "items" in is a lot like the bag Janner uses in the TV series (since he has wings and can't exactly use a backpack, lol).

I will try to post this evening, but it all depends on when this gets approved. It is VERY long, so my hopes are not high, lol

A Walk (no, HIKE) and a Story

“Uncle Artham, do we have to go?” Janner asked as Artham packed a few slices of butterbread, dried diggle meat — this seemed to particularly disturb Janner to the point at which he had asked Artham if they could pack something else. Seeing the urgency in his eyes, he had given in and replaced it with henmeat — cheese, plumyums, slightly burnt chocolate gooey bread, and two canteens  into a leather shoulder-bag. 

He glanced up and smiled at his nephew. “No, not necessarily. But I want to go on a picnic with someone and you have nothing to do right now. Sara, the twins, and Galya are spending time together, and Leeli, Nia, and Arundelle are taking care of some logistical business. As the married but apparently forgotten men in the Wingfeather company, we have nothing to do.” 

Artham noticed Janner flinch after he said “men in the Wingfeather company.” He sighed. A simple nod to Kalmar can’t hurt though, can it? It’s like a fear — well, it is a fear. If you expose yourself to it a little at a time, you begin to get used to it. And suddenly you find that you are afraid no longer. Nia had done that with him back in Glipwood Forest, calling him by his real name every so often to convince him he was safe. 

“I could always read,” Janner said flatly. 

Artham looked at him, struggling with his urge for the normal Janner — the one who would be thrilled about going on a forest hike and delighted to point out every single Annieran creature for him. That version of his nephew would have never been able to say anything related to books without emotion. He was caging himself, and it worried Artham. Even if he had opened up around Sara and the twins — Artham had been watching through the window and had found the situation quite humorous — any other time, Janner closed himself off. 

Of course, it was not in the same way that he had done it on the ship as they sailed home. Janner would respond and speak now, whereas before he almost refused to. But Artham had no idea what was happening on the inside. Janner had never been one to conceal his thoughts. If he wanted to say something, he had always said it in the past. Now, though, he was quiet. 

“Well, I suppose you could stay here,” Artham said, choosing his words carefully as the others boiled in his mind. He fastened the buckles so the things in the satchel would stay there. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t want to.” 

He fixated on Janner, hoping the words would convey what he thought without saying it: a mind alone torments itself more than a mind with others. Guilt festers and grows but is scared off by friends and company. For a little, anyway.

Janner finally nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but it was a nod. Artham slung the satchel's strap over his right shoulder, silently shouting a cry of victory. “Then let’s go.”

They walked out of the castle and into the courtyard, then out of the courtyard and into the forest beyond. It was a beautiful place, uninhibited by trail and town, carthorse and carriage. The trees stretched far higher than their seven years, but after coming back from the First Well, Kalmar had gone into the Fane of Fire to ask the Maker what He wished to do with the Water. His instructions had been: “Rebuild My land.” So they had. They had restored Anniera to its shining glory, carpeted in grass and flowers, shaded by tree and bush. They had watered the earth where they grew crops to produce thriving vegetation, and though they had not used the Water on it since, year after year the fruits and vegetables sprang up ten times healthier than any in Aerwiar. 

“You don’t think this is strange? At all?” Janner asked as he walked next to Artham. 

He looked at his nephew. “What do you think is strange?”

Janner gave him a sideways glance. “Uncle Artham, you’re taking me on a picnic. And a walk. Or a stroll.”

“Hike. Emphasis on hike. We are going to trek through the woods. This is not a walk. Walks are for people who just want to stretch their legs, strolls are for those who want to smell the flowers. Not that there's anything wrong with that. We are on a hike, out for a bit of 'adventure.' And it is a hike that will eventually come to a pause with lunch.”

A sweeft twittered in a nearby tree that silenced Janner for a few moments while he stopped to watch it. Artham watched as well, but he wasn’t looking at the sweeft. He was looking at Janner’s face. A face set in a look of with clear eyes untroubled by frustration or guilt. 

The sweeft flew away and Janner looked after it. When he looked at Artham again, much of the happiness lingered. “Did you ever do this with your aunt?” He asked as they began walking again. 

“Well,” Artham began, remembering his upbringing and all the things accompanying it. His wings twitched a little at the roiling mess of certain portions of it.* “Not exactly. Aunt Illia didn’t love the outdoors. We never really went hiking together, but we would talk.” He thought of all those conversations. 

“What did you talk about?” Janner asked him. 

Artham glanced at him. “Are you sure you want to hear? I don’t want to say anything that will make you —”

Janner sighed. “Uncle Artham, I’ll be fine. Will you please tell me something? Anything? I’m tired of everyone walking on eggshells. I know you and everyone else is just trying to be careful — and I really appreciate it, I promise, I do. I don’t want to react the way that I know I keep reacting but I just don’t know how to…” Janner fumbled with his words. 

“Stop,” Artham finished his thought for him quietly. He looked Janner straight in the eyes. “I know. You want to stop feeling the way you do when you think about it, but you just can’t. And at the same time you feel guilty about wanting to not feel guilty because you think you deserve it.”

Janner nodded. 

Artham studied his nephew. Even though Janner had finally said something, even if it wasn’t a very specific something about what was happening inside of him, he was still fine. His eyes were brighter than they had been in days — the exception being when he was with Sara, Elquinn, and Evnia — and he carried himself lighter than he had before. It was almost as if there had been a dark cluster of clouds surrounding him, but now they had drifted away, taking Janner’s guilt with them. 

Artham decided to try it. He made a choice to share something with Janner that, while it was about the relationship between a Throne Warden and a High King, it would hopefully keep his mind away from Kalmar. 

“Alright,” Artham finally said. “But we’re doing this over lunch.”

Janner laughed — a real laugh, nothing forced or laden with fear — and shook his head. He walked over to a large, flat boulder underneath a towering feathergreen tree. “Over here. Off the dirt.”

Artham nodded and walked over, slinging his pack off and setting it on the rock. He and Janner both clambered onto it, and as Janner put their sandwiches together, Artham began to speak. 

“Illia’s stories about my father, — your grandfather — Jru were nearly always about how much of a trouble-maker he was. They did everything the royal children normally did: they learned T.H.A.G.S. and skills that would help them succeed in their roles. Illia was particularly fond of combat, not just with the sword but with her body. She trained herself in every manner of acrobatics and could balance on the very point of Castle Rysen’s tallest tower.”

“That’s crazy,” Janner said as he put a piece of cheese and henmeat on Artham’s sandwich. “No one could balance from that high up.”

Arthum chuckled. “Oh ho, are you saying my memory is failing me, young Janner? I can assure you, I saw it with my own eyes. When I was younger than you, I could do the same. Of course, one day I did manage to slip and crash through the roof and into the attic. Mum and Papa weren’t too pleased about that one and warned me that there would be serious consequences if I ever did it again. As it was, they grounded me for a week and I couldn't see Arundelle.” He frowned at the memory. It had been an unpleasant seven days.

Janner laughed. “Uncle Artham, you don’t strike me as the reckless type. But at least now I know where you learned to cartwheel on a tree branch.”

Artham smiled. “Anyway, while Illia studied fighting and word, much like you, Jru was instructed in matters of state and form. I can tell you that he hated every second of it.” There was a flicker in his eyes, and Artham knew Janner was thinking of Kalmar. The look was gone quickly though, and he counted it as another victory. “Now, I’m not just referring to the stuffy business element of it all. Oh, thank you,” he interupted himself as Janner handed him his completed sandwich. Artham took a bite and swallowed before continuing. “As I was saying, Jru not only despised learning how to run the Kingdom, he hated drawing as well.”

Janner’s head jerked up from his half-made sandwich and looked at his uncle in shock. Then light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, that makes sense. Jru wasn’t supposed to be King anyway. He was supposed to be Song Master. Davion was supposed to be King.”

“Shh,” Artham said in mock seriousness, placing his finger over Janner’s mouth. “You’ll ruin the story with your thinking. Stop thinking ahead and think in the moment. Just for a little while.”

Janner smiled and nodded.

Notes: *the "roiling mess" is a reference to my headcanon about Esben, Artham, and Nia's childhood. It's still a work in progress on AO3.

Passing from One Throne Warden to the Next

“Now where was I? Oh, yes. Jru hated drawing. Illia always assumed he was simply being defiant, either as a way to get back at her for constantly nagging him or to simply be frustrating. Illia would spend her T.H.A.G.S. time writing delightful stories and poems and journaling about how much Jru was frustrating her, all while Jru bounced off the walls, steadfastly refusing to draw anything worth looking at. He wouldn’t even try.

“Finally,” Artham said as Janner took a bite of the sandwich that he had also finally finished making. “Illia grew so sick of it that she vented about it to her parents, Madia and Ortham. They were unphased. All they told her was: ‘if he will not learn, then it is your job to help him.’

“Illia went to bed that night in a huff, no closer to finding a way to stop Jru from driving her crazy.

“The next day they went through their normal routines where they made their beds, cleaned their rooms, ate breakfast, did their chores, engaged in their role-matching studies, — this was fighting for Illia and state training for Jru — and ate lunch, until it was finally time to go to their study to learn their T.H.A.G.S. 

“Illia dreaded the time. She prepared herself for the next two hours of annoyance and vexation at her little brother. She steeled her nerves as she had so many times before, and set her mind to it: she would put up with Jru’s shenanigans once again.”

Janner remembered how frustrating Kal had been when they were younger. He would be trying to journal about their zibzy game or Books & Crannies, or the different animals he had seen outside when Tink (he had still gone by the nickname at the time, in fact, they hadn’t even known they were Wingfeathers) would come tumbling across the floor or shrieking with laughter or simply pestering him to play or do something with him. It had driven Janner crazy then. He would give anything to have Kal come and bother him now. 

A rumble of thunder sounded in his mind, and Janner heard the voices begin whispering in a dark corner of his at the thought. He felt familiar fear and guilt flit across his mind, accompanied by a flash of lightning. 

No, stop. I can stop this. Think about what Uncle Artham is saying. Ignore them. It was hard to tear his mind away from the whispers and the storm, but Janner did. In place of the guilt, a surge of triumph washed over him. In place of the thunder, birdsong sounded in his ears. In place of the lightning, the dappled forest light danced before his eyes. Janner smiled as he turned his mind back to the story. 

“But that day,” Artham said, with a twinkle in his eye. “There were no shenanigans. Jru did not bounce off the walls or pester Illia while she did her THAGS work. In fact, everything was silent. Illia did not notice it at first, so engrossed was she in the first productive writing session she had had in goodness-knew how long.

“At the end of the two hours, she closed her journal and walked over to where Jru sat, drawing a picture of the beach. He looked at her and asked, ‘Do you like it?’

“Illia studied it. It was far from the best work she had seen. The rocks were too bold and the waves too light and curvy. If Jru had been trying to imitate an actual beach, it hadn’t worked at all. 

“Yet it pleased Illia to the core. She swept Jru up in a huge and spun him around the room as he giggled all the while. ‘Why did you finally sit down and draw like you’re supposed to?’ Illia asked him that night as they went to bed. 

“Jru flashed her a devilish grin and replied, ‘I finally found a way of doing it that works for me.’”

“Well, what way was that?” Janner asked, curiosity overcoming any other thoughts that were trying to sneak in on the glorious day in the woods. 

Artham smiled at him and his wings twitched happily. “You’ll find out soon. But eat your sandwich. You’re skinnier than you should be.”

 Janner felt a brief urge to look at him sideways, he was nineteen, after all, but chose not to. Artham was only looking after him as he felt inclined to do. He was a Throne Warden, after all. Not only that, but if he did not eat the sandwich, his uncle wouldn’t continue the story. Janner doubted Artham would actually make good on his threat, but he obeyed anyway and took a bite. 

“Jru had finally found a way that worked for him. Illia was thrilled. She was able to work in peace without worrying about Jru breaking everything in sight. His drawing improved slightly, but never by much. 

“One day, Illia was finishing a short story that she had been working on for quite some time. It was about a Tricorn,” Artham added. 

“Go on!” Janner urged him. It wasn’t as though he did not want to hear about his Great-Aunt Illia’s fantasy story about a Tricorn. In actuality, he wanted to read it very much. He only wanted to hear the end of Artham’s story more.

“She had just finished it when music came to her ears. Illia cocked her head, puzzled. She had no idea where the music was coming from. ‘Jru, do you hear that?’ She asked, turning to look at her brother. But he wasn’t there. A surge of panic shot through Illia. ‘Jru,’ she called. “Jru! Where are you?’

“Illia looked around the room frantically, until she spotted something. Her little brother’s head, peaking down from the ceiling. Rather, a place where the ceiling had been. Illia walked over to him and stood directly beneath him. ‘Jru Wingfeather,’ she growled — she had a particularly well-developed angry voice — come down here this instant!’

“Jru obeyed. ‘What were you doing up there?’ Illia demanded when Jru stood in front of her. He hesitated. ‘Tell me,’ Illia insisted, growing frustrated. It felt odd being frustrated again. She had been at peace with her brother for so many weeks. Now, it seemed like a foreign concept.”

Janner burst out laughing. He had enough experience with his younger siblings to know there was more than a tiny falsehood slipped into that detail.  “Uncle Artham, you and I both know that’s not true.”

Artham’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, we both know that, don’t we? I think Illia added that bit in for dramatic flair. Do you think it worked?”

“I do, but continue!” Janner pleaded. 

“I will, on the road. We need to start back now.” Janner nodded quickly and began packing up the supplies into the backpack. He made sure everything was organized so it wouldn’t fall out or set strangely against his back before swinging it onto his shoulders. He and Artham began walked back the way they had come, and Janner waited patiently for his uncle to begin again. 

After a few seconds, Artham resumed the story.  “Jru looked very guilty, but he also looked like he was afraid. He was afraid to tell Illia what he had been doing. ‘You promise you won’t get angry if I show you?’ he asked.

“Illia felt her heart melting. ‘I promise,’ she said as he stacked a few boxes so he could get back up. He went up the ad hoc staircase and Illia followed.”

As Illia gave in, Janner felt the guilt bubble up again and rain on his head. Dark clouds gathered and shut out the sun's light. Kal had begged him to listen, and if Janner had actually thought about what his little brother had told him, he would have agreed that actually telling him the truth could have been disastrous. Kalmar had only kept the secret that he thought was the truth, when in reality, it was not the truth, because he wanted to protect Janner. The High King had protected and what was the result? An explosion. An explosion that Janner should have controlled that he didn’t. 

That’s right. You didn’t control it. So just —

“Janner, are you listening?” Green light flooded into Janner’s vision as he opened his eyes, blinking and trying to figure out when he had closed them. He was standing in the middle of the trail with his hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms. And Artham was standing in front of him, his hands securely grasping Janner’s arms. 

“Are you here now?” His uncle asked this time, but not in a demanding or condescending tone. It was a tone of concern and love that touched Janner’s heart. He nodded.

“Will you continue? Please?” he asked. 

Artham glanced at him warily. For a split second, Janner thought he was going to refuse to finish the tale. “Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. Janner nodded in fervent relief, thankful that his uncle was willing to continue. 

With just a hint of a wary glance and a concerned flutter of his wings, Artham continued. “They were in the attic above the study. The ceiling was fairly low, but both children were short enough in those days to be able to stand upright. 

“Jru dropped to his hands and knees and stuck his arm behind more boxes that he had somehow gotten up into the attic without anyone noticing. He drew a case out and opened it. He lifted something silver from the case tenderly, and Illia’s eyes grew wide when she saw what he cradled in his arms.

“‘Jru!’ she gasped. ‘That’s mum’s whistleharp. Do you have any idea what she’ll do if she finds you with it?’

“Mum hasn’t played it in years. I know, because I haven’t heard any music coming from it. It was all out of tune when I went to play it, as if someone had let it sit dusty and unused for years. I’m rescuing it.’

“Illia felt her anger returning. ‘Jru, that is an Annieran relic! You can’t just play with it as if it’s some replaceable toy. I’m going to tell mum right now, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’”

Janner felt his heart waver in grief, but he focused on his uncle’s words again, repeating them in his mind as they were spoken.

“Jru simply looked at her, lifted the whistleharp to his lips, and began to play. 

“Illia felt the music wash over her like a wave from the salty sea, like the cool breeze rolling off of the grassy hills at night. It was like the stars twinkling in the heavens and sending their whispered words down to earth, to tell the Annierans the Maker’s bidding. She heard things she had never heard before, a deeper beauty of the Annieran soil and at the same time, a wavering spot of anger at the edge of her mind. 

“Despite the fury that cowered there, Illia focused on the gloriousness of the world around her. She had never felt so free in all her life. When she opened her eyes — she had not realized she had closed them — she saw her brother, shining with pride. Illia felt wet tears on her cheeks from the beauty of his song. They stood there, unmoving except for Jru’s quiet movements to place the whistleharp in a place where it would once again be safe. 

“‘I won’t tell them,’ Illia whispered. ‘The whistleharp is yours, Jru. You are the one who should  create the Maker’s music with it.’

“Illia never told a soul about her brother’s hidden talent. It was their secret. Their secret of the whistleharp. Illia told me years ago and so I became privy to this knowledge as well. 

“And you,” Artham said, looking steadily into Janner’s eyes. “You will tell the next Throne Warden, and he will tell the Throne Warden after you. Because there is beauty in that story. We now know that Jru’s skill truly was the skill of a Song Master. And so his legacy will not be forgotten. You will carry the story on.

“Promise me?”

Janner found his heart wavering in fear — what if there was no ‘next’ Throne Warden because of his mistake? What if he had destroyed the Annieran lineage because of his selfishness and anger?

All is not lost. There is still hope , a strong, steady Voice said, louder yet softer and larger yet smaller than the other voices. Janner found his mouth curving into a gentle smile and he nodded. “I promise.”

He hoped and prayed he would be given the opportunity to reassure his High King as Illia had reassured hers.

Notes: So that was a lot...anyway, I may post later today if this goes out soon enough (but I'm pretty sure if I do, you'll be sad again since it's a little painful 😫)