Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 52-53

Poetry Around the Fire

Notes:

I'm honestly really hoping that this doesn't seem too haphazard. I tried to figure out how long it takes someone to recover from hypothermia and found NOTHING. Very irritating. However, I was able to pinpoint that Janner has moderate hypothermia, even though it might seem like severe based on a few symptoms that are a result of the possible/probable concussion that he got in the last chapter.

Also if there's anything else that seems funny or inaccurate...again, I'm sorry.

*****

Don’t panic, Artham. You have...some sort of idea about what to do right now, you just need to do it. Artham crouched in the snow beside Janner, and his taloned fingers fluttered above him tentatively, almost as if they were too scared to touch him for fear that he would be dead. Again. 

Artham breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm the pounding fear in his heart. Janner’s face was bruised and little bits of what looked like frozen blood clung to his cheeks. What had happened to his nephew, Artham did not know. 

He steeled himself and slipped his hand underneath the furs and Janner’s shirt to see if he could feel a heartbeat. The slight warmth that he felt on his hand was enough to make him cry in relief, but the heartbeat told him that Janner was indeed alive. He just needed help. Fast. 

“Come on,” Artham whispered as he lifted his nephew into one arm while still holding the wood in another. “Let’s get you warm.”

A little distance away, there was a shallow cave resting in the side of the mountain. It was surrounded by snow and ice, but he hoped it would make a decent shelter from the wind and cold. He strode there as quickly as he could, dreadfully conscious of the temperature and wind and non-existent daylight.

When he was inside the cave, Artham laid the wood against the wall and Janner on the floor — by some miracle it was dry and snowless. He practically tore his cloak from his back. Then he took off Janner’s cloak, gloves, and scarf — they were literally frozen — and wrapped him in his own, still warm from his body heat. “You’re going to be alright,” he whispered to ears that did not hear him. 

Artham set to work building the fire as his second priority. He knew there were matches in Janner’s pack, so he retrieved those first. He still needed a starter for the fire. For a second, Artham’s gaze settled on his nephew’s journal, but in the next he shook his head. Janner’s journal was precious to him and he was not about to tear paper from it without asking first.

Instead, once Artham had organized the wood so they would burn as warmly and strongly as possible he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own journal. It was smaller than Janner’s — one, because it needed to be more portable for him and two, because he wrote lines of poetry that generally took up less space than entries or stories — but it would work just as well. 

Artham tore out a few sheets from the back and stuffed them into the middle of the fire before striking a match and lighting them. He blew on it gently, coaxing the little fire that burned on the paper to spread the the other wood. Slowly, ever so slowly, it did. But it would be a while before it was really warm enough to save any lives, and that was what worried him. 

He looked back at Janner, laying on the ground just a few feet away from him. He still hadn’t moved and in the dim light, Artham could see how raw his face was from the snow and cold. “I’ll take matters into my own hands then,” he stated plainly and scooped Janner into his lap. 

He took the cloak that was wrapped around his body — now he did see his nephew shrink back and shiver from the lack of warmth, which Artham counted as an enormous victory — and drew Janner close to him so he was resting right against his chest. Then he wrapped them both in his thick cloak, making sure that the warmer side was in the front where it would benefit his nephew more. 

That was the way they sat for hours, Artham pressing Janner against his chest in hopes that his own warmth and that of the cloak and the fire would warm him and save him. The winds outside strengthened and brought snow with them. Everything became colder, and Artham began to fear that a gust of wind would put the fire out. He focused his attention on those things, on keeping Janner alive and keeping the fire burning.

At the back of his mind, though, was fear. He had broken Amrah’s rules by setting foot on the mountain and could only pray that the Maker would hide them from her sight in the cleft of the rock. 

***** 

When Janner awoke, he wasn’t really sure if he was awake or not. Before his eyes lay a warm, crackling fire and he felt so comfortable and cozy from the inside out that there was no way he was awake — the mountain hadn’t been warm or comfortable or cozy in the least. He was covered in thick furs that he vaguely remembered from…sometime, but he wasn’t certain where from. 

“Are you alright?” came Artham’s voice from just a few feet away. Janner glanced upward and saw him to his left, standing next to the fire and looking as though he was ready to poke at it. He nodded and pushed himself into a sitting position, making the furs fall off in the process. Janner lurched when he put weight on his right hand, and that was when he knew that this was not a dream.

“Uncle Artham?” his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “What happened?”

Artham crouched down to stoke the fire, and Janner watched the scarlet sparks fly upward and dissolve into thin air. “The best I can figure,” he said slowly. “Is that you fell of a cliff or something and hit your head — there's a sizeable knot on the back of it — and then managed to keep walking in an attempt to not freeze to death. I must say, I'm impressed that you managed to remember that with the concussion the fall likely caused. That combined with the freezing temperatures, snow, and wind all made for an enormous mess of you losing conciousness and practically dying. Please, try not to do that. We really don't want it to happen again." Artham looked at him, seeming as though he really was trying to get him to promise not to die. Janner smiled a little, unwilling to make that promise.

There was silence for a minute or so and then Artham asked, "How's your hand?”

Janner stared at him for a moment, half registering the out-of-the-blue question and half not. It was another moment before he realized (just in the nick of time) that he needed to respond. “Uh,” he said, looking at his right hand. He flexed his fingers and tried to make a fist, but he didn’t get very far. Janner pushed down the panic that bubbled in his throat at the numbness and tingling that was far worse than it had been before. “Not great.”

Artham leaned forward and took Janner’s hand in his own, applying pressure with the heel of his palm. He winced a little, not necessarily because it hurt but because it felt so foreign, like it was there but it wasn’t really there. 

“I’m not sure how long you were out in the snow,” Artham said, continuing what must have been his original point while still trying to bring the feeling back into Janner’s hand. “But it doesn’t seem like it did too much damage, somehow. I checked for frostbite, but there didn't seem to be any. What I was more worried about was you freezing to death in your sleep. Of course, you didn’t do that either, so I suppose I can’t complain about anything, can I?” he grinned, and Janner smiled back.

At that moment, he realized that Artham was not wearing the cloak Arundelle had given him and questioned him on it.

In response, Artham paused what he was doing and reached behind him. “Because you are.” He picked up the furs that had fallen to the ground and wrapped them around Janner’s shoulders. “And covering you in it and holding you as close to me as I possibly could may very well be the only reason why we’re talking to each other right now.”

It took him a few seconds to fully comprehend what Artham was saying, but when he had, he shivered in fear and drew the cloak around himself tighter. 

“It is any better?” his uncle asked as he went back to stoking the fire.

Janner closed his eyes and flexed his hand again. It wasn’t as terrible as it had been before. “A little.”

Artham nodded and silence fell over them again.

Janner stared at the fire and relished the feeling of warmth on his face before something terrible dawned on him. “Uncle Artham,” he said, a look of terror coming onto his face. “Amrah said I was the only one who could even set foot on the mountain, and not only are you standing on it, you’re sitting and helping me. You can’t stay here!” Janner stood up and the furs dropped to the ground and puddled at his feet. He intended to usher Artham out of the cave, but no sooner had he risen to his feet than his head spun and he found himself on the verge of falling.

Artham stood up and placed his arm around Janner’s waist, then lowered him to the ground gently. “Careful,” he said softly as he picked up the cloak and wrapped it around him again. 

Janner ignored the furs this time and looked at his uncle, tears pricking in his eyes. “Amrah’s going to kill him,” he whispered, his already raspy voice now thick and stuck in his throat. “She’s going to kill Kal. She already put him in the dungeon. There’s nothing we can do.”

Artham visibly froze for a second and a look of fleeting fear crossed over his face. Then it was gone, and he was placing his hand firmly on Janner’s shoulder in reassurance. “The blizzard that was hammering the mountain before only stopped for a few hours. It’s raging outside of the cave again now. I thank the Maker I was able to find you in the break between the two. We’re stuck here, but that also means Amrah cannot find us. She does not and will not know that I helped you unless you or I tell her. And we’re not going to do that, are we?”

Janner shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice trembled a little but the tears were gone. “No.”

Artham grinned. “Alright, then. Let’s make the most of things, shall we? If you feel up to doing anything, we can have poetry and short story contests. And if you want to sleep, that’s always an option, too.”

Janner smiled a little.  “Let’s do poetry.”

Artham nodded and pulled his tiny notebook and quill out of his pocket. “Alright, what’s the topic?”

Janner shrugged. “You choose. I chose poetry.”

Artham nodded and looked into the fire thoughtfully. Janner wondered what was going on inside his head and soon received the answer.

“Why don’t we write about...” Artham paused dramatically. “Our wives.”

Janner blinked and looked at him for a moment, wondering if he had heard his uncle correctly. He thought there was a good chance he had actually said, “our lives,” because that seemed to fit the tumultuous situation better. But the twinkle in Artham’s eyes told him differently. 

Janner stared at him, his tone incredulous. “Did you really just suggest that we— ” 

His uncle nodded, barely managing to hold his gaze of solemnity. "Write poetry about our wives at the most unprecedented time possible? Yes, I just did suggest that."

 Janner stopped mid-sentence and shook his head in utter befuddlement and surprise. Was this really the best time to be focusing on something or someone other than Kal? Even if he was focusing on Sara? 

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea right now,” he began, even though he secretly really wanted to.

Artham raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Janner Wingfeather, are you really backing out of this? The only reason I can see for your forfeit is because you know I’ll write a better poem about Arundelle than you will about Sara.”

Janner heard the comedic tone in his uncle’s voice and couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, if you put it that way,” he said in mock seriousness as he pulled his journal out of his pack and flipped it open to the next blank page. “Let’s do this.”

*****

Notes:

Very quick tonal shifts in this chapter, which I hope are fairly believable. And I really hope the poetry "contest" part gets approved, because personally, I am very entertained by it.

Nightmares and Comfort

Notes:

Because Janner strikes me as the type who would have nightmares.

*****

That evning, they spent hour or so writing poems about Sara and Arundelle. During that time, Janner and Artham expressed friendly banter over whose poetry techniques were better — Janner said Artham used too many similes, and Artham retorted that Janner's was an extended metaphor that he never actually explained all the way — and eventually came to the conclusion that a neutral party would have to decide whose was the best. That meant they would have to wait until they were back in Anniera, when they were all safe, when Kal was with them. The latter listing was a little bit Janner added inside his head. He was reluctant to voice his hopes out loud.

Even with the enjoyment of thinking about Sara again and the stress of worrying over Kalmar and the secret thought that Janner was sure he would not be able to sleep, after feeling the glow of the fire on his face and hearing the wind howling outside but not penetrating the coziness of the cave, he found his eyelids beginning to close of their own accord. He was warm inside and out and despite his worries, he felt safe, which was a way he hadn’t felt in what felt like forever.

Artham noticed and smiled at him. “Go ahead and sleep, you’re exhausted. I’ll keep watch.”

Janner nodded and scooted himself to the ground. His uncle’s cloak was big enough that he could tuck a corner of it under his head to use as a pillow. He snuggled into it, relishing the feeling of the fur gently tickling his nose and the oddly calming sound of the blizzard outside. After a few seconds, the flickering orange glow of the fire against the walls and Artham's sturdy frame looking into the blaze faded out of sight and he fell asleep peacefully. 

His mind thought otherwise, though. Almost as soon as his eyes were closed, Janner was berated from every side with words and pictures and commands. The words scolded him for resting and enjoying himself, the pictures showed him Kal, locked in a dark dungeon filled with fear, and the commands told him to wake up, march to Castle Throg, and rescue his King from Amrah as fast as he could.

Not everything in his dreams was true, Janner knew that now. Like the words. The words were lie, he was absoluetly sure of that. He had heard Sara and he had heard Artham and he had heard Kal. Most importantly, he had heard the Maker. They all told him the words were not true.

But some of it was and that was what made it hurt so much. He had nothing to combat what he had never been exposed to. They were pictures that broke his heart and commands that filled him with a need to listen and obey. Janner really wasn't sure if they were truth or lies. And he had no way of knowing, because everything in a dream became reality, even if only for a moment.

Worst, though, was the last part of the dream that he was dropped into. He was standing in a stone cell with tight walls and a low ceiling, with floors covered in grim, filth, reeking of the smell and residue of waste. Barely any light came in, and the only thing that allowed Janner to see was a tiny glow that filtered in through the tiny, barred window in the heavy wooden door.

“She keeps telling me all these things,” a voice Janner recognized so well flooded into his ears, and he nearly fell over in relief. It was Kal! He looked around, trying to see him, and was amazed when on his third sweep of the area, he saw his little brother sitting on a bench directly in front of him. 

“Kal! Kal, are you there?” Janner shouted. He received no direct response but his own words echoing back to him. Still, Kalmar continued talking.

“Amrah says things like, ‘your brother doesn’t care enough to rescue you,’ or ‘he’s preoccupied doing his own thing,’ and I keep telling her that’s not true.” Janner felt a twinge of relief in his heart at his little brother's reassurance, but it was soon ripped to shreds. “Then I wonder why he’s sleeping in front of a warm fire with a thick cloak over him, while I’m trapped in a cold cell with no hope of fire or blanket.”

Kalmar’s voice grew louder with every word, and soon it thundered like a storm in Janner’s mind. Guilt punched him in the stomach as if it were an iron fist, and he gasped for air. Then it went to his head, and he felt pain there, too. Janner pressed the heels of his palms into his forehead in an effort to quiet the sound and alleviate the guilt and the pain, but it didn’t work.

“Kal, please,” he begged, not daring to look into his brother's eyes, for fear of what he might find there. “Stop, don’t think that. I promise, I’m coming to get you. I’m coming to rescue you now. I'm not going to leave you to die.”

No rest for you until you save him, hissed another voice that crawled out of the corner of the cell. No rest until you have no blame associated with your name. When there is guilt on your record, nothing good you do or enjoy matters. It is all for naught. So stop thinking about your wife and START rescuing your brother, NOW!

Janner whimpered and stumbled backward, falling onto the cell floor. Kal rose and walked over to him, standing above him. “The rescue doesn’t matter if you fail again,” he whispered menacingly, his voice mingling with others until Kalmar’s voice had been swallowed by everything else around them. “Your attempt is worthless unless you succeed. And failing again? Well, that seems pretty likely.”

“Janner, hey, Janner, you’re alright. It’s okay, it’s just a bad dream.” 

Janner awoke, gasping for breath in a panic and felt Artham’s hand gripping his shoulder steadily and heard the reassuring sound of his voice. He felt wet tears on his face and knew the peace that had filled his heart and mind before he slept was long gone. He shook his head. “N-no,” Janner sputtered, his chin quivering. “It was all true e-every part of it w-was true. And I-I can’t stay here,” he stood up, looking for his pack. He found it sitting against the cave wall, and his sword was right beside it. Janner walked over to it and grabbed both of them, ignoring the stiffness in his legs. 

Within a few seconds, he had his pack slung over both shoulders and had almost buckled his sheath around his waist.

“Janner, wait, where are you going?” Artham asked him, standing up quickly in alarm. 

Janner faced him, determined to go. Nothing was going to stop him from rescuing Kal. His chin trembled and knew there would be tears in his voice when he spoke. “I’m going to get Kal,” he said firmly as he headed for the cave’s exit. 

Artham quickly stepped in front of him and blocked his way. "You're basing this off of a dream?" He demanded. "Janner, you can't do that. There is a blizzard raging outside. You cannot go and rescue Kalmar.”

Janner felt his face twisting in a desperate attempt to keep his tears at bay. “He...he said that I can’t enjoy anything at all until I’ve rescued him and that I can’t fail and if I do nothing will ever be okay again, a-and—”

He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks and the grief in his heart aching anew. Was there no escape from the guilt and shame? He had thought it was the end of it after Sara helped him come out of the storm, but it had come back. Janner trembled with sorrow and stood there, head down, not looking at his uncle. 

Then Janner felt Artham’s strong arms wrapping around him fiercely. No words. No lectures. No commands. Just protection from himself.

At first he couldn’t accept it and purposely held himself back, putting distance between himself in his uncle. His efforts only made the hitch in his breath louder and stronger, until he was barely breathing from trying to resist the comfort. Finally, though, after a few minutes Janner found himself leaning into the embrace more and more. Artham slipped one arm around the straps of Janner’s pack and took it off, allowing it to fall to the cave floor. 

“Everything is going to be alright,” Artham whispered, placing his hand on the back of Janner’s head and pulling him closer. “That wasn’t Kalmar talking. You know that. It was the voices. They’re dreadful and cruel, but, Janner, what they made Kal say isn’t true.”

“How not?” Janner asked, a hitch in his breath choking the words.

“Because they're liars, Janner. Trust me. I know. And listen to my logic: you don’t have a choice right now. You cannot Kalmar at this moment. All you can do is wait in this cave with me. And if one of the things we do ends up being pleasurable, then sobeit. It is not as though you are doing this instead of rescuing Kalmar. You are doing this because you cannot save him now unless you want to die out in a blizzard. And then you can't save him anyway.”

Janner squeezed his eyes shut tightly, forcing himself to believe every word Artham said. It was so hard to believe it was true, so hard to believe that he wasn’t being selfish or uncaring or ignorant of Kal. Especially when his little brother’s mouth had said the words. 

“It wasn’t him,” he whispered into Artham’s shirt, trying to convince himself by saying the words out loud. “It wasn’t Kal.”

“No,” Artham told him softly, “Kalmar wouldn’t say that. You know how I know? Because he never said anything against you when Leeli connected with the dragons. Why would he berate you now?”

Janner smiled a little as he believed his uncle's words. “I don’t know.”

“He would never do such a thing,” Artham reassured him. “He knows you’re coming for him and you know you are as well. So wait. Take comfort in knowing that you are safe and for now, he is as well. At least, as safe as he can be. And soon, you are going to rescue him from Amrah."

*****

The blizzard finally died down to steady snow the next morning and then slowed to drifting flurries. The fire died with it, and was little more than a pile of crackling coals that glowed with the scarlet and golden light of embers. 

In Janner’s heart, though, the fire burned bright, fierce, and hot. His eyes were firm and his jaw set, his cloak around his shoulders and his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword that was sheathed to his side. He was ready to rescue Kalmar from his prison, and he swore that he would not leave Throg until his brother was with him. 

As he set out, he glanced back at his uncle to see what he was going to do.

Artham waved him onward. “I’ll stay here. Unless I’m given away, Amrah won’t find me. You two may need me yet, and I would rather be close by than far away.”

Janner nodded firmly. If Amrah found him, Artham was accepting his fate. But in his heart, Janner felt as though the Maker had placed a protection around his uncle, and he would not be found unless he chose to be.

He stepped out of the cave into the frigid air, barely feeling the biting cold. He looked around and to his right and far in the distance, he saw Castle Throg, closer than he would have imagined it. Dark. Foreboding. Deadly. 

Well, it doesn’t matter if it is terrifying. That’s where I’m going, and Kal will be coming back with me.

*****

Notes:

Aaaaand, he's off again! (hopefully semi-realistically. But who are we kidding? If WFS was realistic, Janner would have some serious migranes, because he got a concussion at least twice, possibly three times, at least in the books. Also, if it was realistic, he would've died after the spectacularly written thing at the end of N!obE, because he probably would've been fighting tons of infection, pneumonia, etc., and that could very easily lead to not being alive).