Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 70-71

A Desperate Plea and a Justified Defiance

Notes:

Continuing right from where we left off, with Janner racing through the tunnel. His trademark inability to run will be joining us for this chapter, but it is being helped along by another fun little thing named pneumonia. However, I'm not ever going to call it that (we're nearly at the end anyway) because that's an us word, and I don't know what they would say in Aerwiar.

*****

Panting and wheezing from lack of air, bodily fatigue, and pain in his chest, Janner couldn't help but stop and lean against the wall when he reached the last flight of stairs. The last one. The last one before freedom and Kal and home and Sara. He laughed with joy in between his gasps for air. 

If Kalmar had listened, he would be at least five running minutes ahead of him. He was nowhere near reaching Uncle Artham, but he would be closer. 

Janner glanced up at the flight of stairs that would make his legs burn and his throat ache and his chest compress and his mind fuzzy, but it would only be for a minute. Just a minute, then it would be over. 

And I can't really stop now, he thought as he prepared to run. Because Amrah is around here somewhere. And she is going to get something out of us, even if it kills her.

Janner began speed-climbing the steps, taking them in continuity rather than one-at-a-time. That was the best way to climb stairs, and it was the only way he would convince his brain and legs to go all the way without stopping.

When he reached the top, breathless, light-headed, and with his legs on fire, Janner felt blindly for a wall that he could lean against as he gulped in air while trying to steady his breathing. When he found it, he sank to the ground gratefully, not thinking about the awkward way his sword pressed against his hip. 

He had gotten halfway to having his breath back — now his legs were only trembling and not inside a furnace, the same with his lungs and throat  — when he heard, "Janner! Hey, did it work?"

Janner opened his eyes a slit to see Kalmar running toward him, through the open doors of Castle Throg. "Um, yeah, it worked," he mumbled, convincing his brain to start thinking. 

"And you're alright?" Kal asked expectantly. 

Janner furrowed his brow a little. "I think so? But those stairs..." he fumbled for words. "They're...stairs."

Kal stared at him before bursting out in laughter. "I think the only good thing that comes out of you almost killing yourself when you try to run is that you can't form a coherent sentence and it's so funny."

Janner smiled a little. "Wait a second! Why are you here? You're supposed to be gone. I didn't...I mean, Amrah's kind of still a problem."

"Amrah isn't dead?!" Kal shouted. "Janner, she's the one who's trying to kill us and she's still alive?! We need to get out of here." In the next second, he had torn Artham's cloak from Janner's back and tucked its bulky form under the crook of his arm.

"Kal, what was that for?" Janner asked, his words still a breathy gasp. 

Kal stared at him earnestly and held out his arm to pull him up from the ground. "We need to run and get out of here and you can barely run as it is. I'm taking the weight so you get out of here alive. Don't have a heart attack this young."

Janner laughed lightly, ending in a painful cough, and grabbed his brother's wrist. Kal did the same and pulled him up with what felt to Janner like a great effort that he knew was perfectly easy on Kal's part. 

"I am officially broader than you because apparently you're having fun starving yourself," Kal said as they started to walk toward the open wooden doors and the white snow and the fresh air and the—

"Oh, no," Janner whispered, stopping in his tracks. 

"What is it?" Kal, who kept walking for several steps, turned back to look at him. "That’s what not eating is called. And, yeah, it’s worthy of an ‘oh, no.’ Janner, I really hate to be the one to say this, but if Amrah's out there, we need to go."

Janner shook his head. "No, that's just it. Don't you see? She gave us two days to think about this and potentially plan, she ran away from where I was fighting, and she left the door unlocked. For us."

Kalmar's puzzlement turned into horror in seconds. "Janner, there are hatches in the ceiling of every cell down there, and they all lead to a room in Throg."

There was a great rumbling and then a screech, quickly followed by the sound of splintering wood. 

"Kal, run!" Janner shouted, just about to sprint when something dark and leathery and horrifying burst up through the (apparent) wooden floor beneath the dining table and knocked his brother to the ground. In an instant, the Bat Fang had pinned Kalmar to the floor underneath its brown, wrinkled body and angry, hissing teeth. It held its crooked blade directly above his head, and it was about to kill him.

Not hesitating for a second, Janner, with his sword drawn, shot forward and slid, catching the edge of the Bat Fang's weapon with his blade. 

Its eyes full of hatred, the Bat Fang turned its beady eyes away from Kal and towards Janner. Thank the Maker, he thought as it crawled away from Kalmar to face him instead. 

The Fang circled him, apparently trying to assess what he would do in combat. 

Fang’s eyes were normally fierce and dead, even as they were alive with hatred, but there was something else in this one’s eyes: intelligence, precision, and accuracy. Janner’s worries were confirmed in the next second, as the Bat Fang swung its sword, the blow deftly handled. He matched it, but it had skill, real skill, and Janner knew he would not be able to defeat it alone, not with the way his arm was trembling from exhaustion and his hand was stinging from the Green Fang's venom. He could have handled the latter alone, but the former combined with it would make things far more impossible than he would have liked. "Kal, run, get Uncle Artham, and tell him I need help!"

"But I can't leave you!" Kal protested.

Janner returned the Bat Fang's second blow and with one of his own more advanced maneuvers that was quickly blocked. "Kalmar Wingfeather, I am your Throne Warden, and I am ordering you to leave because I can't fight this Fang on my own, and I can’t afford to let anything happen to you! Please, go."

There was no sound from his brother for several seconds that were cluttered by the clash of swords, but then he heard the sound of shoes scrambling against stone and rapid footsteps on the floor.

Janner looked the Bat Fang in the eyes and smiled in spite of the pig-like, up-turned nose, beady, soulless eyes, wrinkled, ugly skin, and needle-sharp rows of little white teeth. 

This was the same Bat Fang that had kidnapped Kalmar, brought Amrah to Anniera, and carried her up and down the mountain. Amrah had a single Bat Fang, and while she may have described him as senseless, he was a genius. A deadly genius. His intelligence aside, perhaps Amrah only had the Fangs they had seen today. Perhaps there were no more.

Janner barely managed to return the next blow and felt his sword slip precariously. He felt a brief longing for Kal's presence but pushed it aside.

His brother was gone. He would be safe. He would never reach Artham in time for him to be of assistance to Janner, but that didn't matter. He knew didn't have the strength to win against his opponent, but he had the strength to hold it back long enough to save Kal. 

That was all the strength he needed.

***** 

Kalmar sprinted frantically through the snow, praying he would not stumble. If he stumbled, he would fall flat on his face or skid horribly, and if he did that, he would slide off the edge of the cliff. Janner had practically begged for help, and if Kal fell off the mountain, he would never be able to relay his brother's urgency. 

Uncle Artham's cloak had since been discarded in the courtyard. They could get it on their way out, but right now it would hinder him. Kal couldn't afford hindering. Not today. Of course, he disproved his point by continuing to hear the thump, thump, thump, of Janner's pack on his back and the somewhat cumbersome clapping of his brother's cloak. But those belonged to Janner. He loved those things. Kal could not see them as anything other than precious. 

He had been running for two minutes when he stopped. How far away was Uncle Artham? Janner had never actually said, he only mentioned that he was in a cave along the path. The question was where along the path? How long and how far would he have to run before finding help? When would be even better able to bring help back to his brother?

He knew the answer: not soon enough. Janner was exhausted, that much had been apparent in the dining hall. He was always tired after running, but it was worse this time. Neither of them was very well off, but Kal thought it was worse for Janner. Kal at least got a month and a half of three solid meals a day — it had only been these last few that he had been hungry. For the better part of a month, Janner had starved himself. Then he had spent who knew how much time on rationed trekking food before winding up in the cell with almost no food at all. 

Janner couldn't fight the Bat Fang on his own. Artham would never get there in time. But Kal knew he could. He could go to the armory, grab a weapon, and help. He had to. It was the only option. 

"I sure hope Janner's not mad later when he realizes I defied his order," Kalmar muttered as he broke into a sprint once more, this time dashing up the mountain.

*****

Notes:

Welp, an intelligent Fang is the last thin anyone wants 😬

Is Death Truly Love?

Notes:

The title is a question grappled with in this chapter. You'll also find out what exactly Amrah means by still being able to "pit brother against brother." It took me waaaaay too long to figure it out, but when I did....it worked, I think^^

Some more combat in this chapter that was really hard to write 😅

*****

Janner spun to avoid getting hit by the Bat Fang’s sword and retaliated with a slyly placed blow during his in-spin. For once finally, it couldn’t catch this one, and a trickle of what was presumably blood — but it was black, not red — tricked down its side. 

The Fang shrieked in anger, just “low” enough that Janner could hear it. He barely resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears and noticed his opponent’s sword swinging toward him again in the midst of the distraction. Janner forced his brain back in the same instant that he blocked the blow. 

I tried feinting earlier, he thought as the Fang began swinging his blade more dangerously, to the point at which Janner found himself leaning, twisting, ducking, and jumping to avoid being hit. Feinting might work again.

He tried a few of the more deceptive feints, feinting with his sword, his eyes, his body posture — but the Bat Fang read every one of them and returned blows accordingly. 

Janner felt his breathing growing heavier by the minute and his legs and arms — left arm, at least. His right was fine but he knew that wouldn’t work — trembling with fatigue. He shouldn't have already been tired. He hadn’t been fighting that long. In the past he had stood up to Artham far longer than he was holding his ground now, and Artham was a much better fighter than the Bat Fang. But, Janner thought as he caught another swing on the edge of his blade. I’m tired this time. I’ve been tired for a while. 

It wasn’t just his body. It was his mind, too. Janner was tired of the stress and anxiety and worry and pain and grief and guilt and shame and every other feeling and emotion that roiled inside him like an angry storm. He was just tired of everything. He wanted rest. He wanted to be at peace with everyone and be back in Anniera.

And unfortunately it was those longings that left him open enough for the Bat Fang to catch him off-guard. One second Janner was standing there, involuntarily returning blow after blow without really paying attention. In the next, he was on the floor, his side stinging with the feeling of being hit by the flat of a crinkled blade and the Bat Fang hissing above him, his sword hilt inches out of reach. 

Janner fumed inwardly, utterly furious with himself. He began twisting and turning to try and get out, but the Bat Fang only cackled, planting one needle-clawed hand on his chest and holding the edge of his sword to Janner’s throat with the other.

He gasped — both from the pain in his chest and the pain of a sword pressing against his throat. Janner struggled to draw in a breath of air without brushing his neck against the paper-thin blade. 

“I’m ready to end this,” the Bat Fang shrieked, its voice high and withered. “But I have orders not to. I can threaten you though.” It snorted gleefully and pressed its sword just a bit harder, hard enough to draw blood. 

Janner choked this time, drawing a breath of scratchy air into his lungs with more than a little difficulty. The attempt ended in a ragged cough. “Why? Why do this?” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

“Because it has orders,” a shrill voice spoke beyond the Bat Fang. Normally, Janner would have strained his neck to see who was talking. Something told him that might not be the best idea, though. “Don’t get too fiery, though.” Amrah’s tone was extremely patronizing and directed at the Fang. “If you do, it will be a touch of the—”

In place of words, a shimmer of white light reached Janner’s eyes, despite his view being hidden by the Fang. He could not help but love the beauty of the stone, but the Fang hated it and shook its head, squeezing its eyes shut as if in pain. 

Janner saw his opportunity and rolled, managing to get away from the Bat Fang’s grasp and grab his sword while

getting up onto his feet again. His hand automatically flew to his throat as he looked around for a brief second before—

Being slammed against the stone wall. At least he had managed to keep a hold on his sword this time. 

As Janner choked from the forceful shove and the blade — though this time it was his sword blade; how had she gotten it anyway? Hadn't he had it barely a second before? —  that was once again being pressed against his throat, Amrah tsked her tongue. “Janner, you must know that running is not an option. It is by no means going to work. I want you to do two things: trust Gnag’s word and deny the Maker’s love for humanity or die. It is really that simple.”

Sure, ‘simple.’ Janner kept his snort of humor and disgust to himself. “You’re right,” he choked out. “It is. Choosing not to run. I choose death. It’s better than living with shame.”

Amrah laughed in spite of his answer. She didn’t glare or seeth. She laughed. “You really don’t realize what I have done, do you?”

“What’ve…you done?” Janner stared at her but didn’t dare move his neck.

She smiled wickedly and peered into his face. “I have pitted brother against brother, High King against Throne Warden. That was my goal all along. It took some effort to get there, but I have finally reached it.”

Janner seethed inwardly and barely resisted the urge to free himself from her grasp. “No, you haven’t. I’m not against him.”

Amrah cackled. “Oh, but you are. Do you not see that every time you sacrifice for him, every time you put yourself in harm’s way to rescue him or to help him, you break his heart? Do you not see the look in his eyes when you tell him to run away and retreat so you can save him? You have set yourself against him and caused him pain over and over and over again in your efforts to be a Throne Warden. Some Throne Warden you are,” she snorted, then nodded to the Bat Fang. 

Janner felt a hard press against his neck one more time for “good measure” before the sword had fallen to the stone floor with a clang, and then he was falling to his knees, drawing ragged breaths but not thinking about the relief, looking at the stone floor without seeing it, and hearing Amrah’s horrid laughter without really paying it any heed. He put his left hand to his throat as he supported himself shakily with his right, not even caring about the numbness. He should have been convincing himself to escape, but he wasn’t. He should have been at least trying to stand, but the thought never even occurred to him. 

Through his mind swirled Amrah’s words, a hissing storm of failure. How had he missed it? How had he not seen that he was breaking his little brother every time he tried to save him? 

Janner closed his eyes and felt tears rolling down his cheeks. When he had dived into the icy sea to rescue a newly-Fanged Kalmar, his brother had dealt with the guilt of it for months afterward, even if he had not told anyone. When he had died, he had destroyed his brother through his sacrifice. And just now, when he had sent Kal away to get Artham’s help, he had purposely told him to leave him to his own death. Once again, he was going to break Kalmar’s heart and hurt him in the cruelest way possible.

What kind of Throne Warden was he?

“What’d you want?” Janner whispered, his voice and heart broken and crestfallen as he looked up at Amrah’s face. 

Her eyes glinted. “I was going to drop you onto a ledge and make you stand there until you collapse from exhaustion. But the satisfaction in that would have been watching to try to cling to life. If I put you there now, you would probably tumble off the ledge immediately. So I have chosen a better way.”

How considerate of you, Janner thought miserably. 

“I have chosen this way.” She walked over to a part of the wall and pressed her hand against it as if she was looking for something. A smile danced across her face, and Janner knew she had found…whatever it was. Worry roiled in his stomach as Amrah drifted towards him again. What was she about to do? 

It doesn’t matter. Look at what I’ve done. I deserve whatever she has to throw at me.

No, Janner, a commanding Voice spoke in his mind, and Janner knew who He was. Janner, you have more work to do for Me. So here is your next task. The Maker’s next words fell across his heart like a spring rain. Janner, tell her about Davion. Tell her about My child. 

Could he tell her? Could Janner really tell her such a thing? Did she deserve it?

Everyone needs a chance. Tell her before it is too late. His voice urged Janner again, and he sighed. “Amrah,” he called out hoarsely, his words ending in a cough. He steadied his breathing before continuing. “Amrah, you need to know something.”

Amrah glared at him. “Of course I do. What is it?”

Janner breathed carefully, shallowly, praying that the Maker would give him the words he needed to say. “Gnag…Gnag was loved by others.”

She blinked at him, first in incredulous disbelief that was covered in joy for just a second before it all fled and angry and hatred took its place once more. “No,” she whispered, clenching her fists. “No. Everyone rejected him. They hated him. That is why he did what he did. I am the only one who ever truly loved him and understood him for who he was, not for whom they wanted him to be.”

Janner shook his head and forced himself to stand shakily, sheathing his sword at the same time. It felt heavier than it was supposed to, and his hand burned from the Fang venom. “No, they didn’t. His mother named him, ‘Davion,’ and called him her beloved. Bonifer and Will lied, Amrah.” 

She shook her head again. “No, no, that’s not true!” her hands flew to her ears and her face contorted in anger. “Gnag was right. Gnag was always right. And he said he was unloved.” A sob escaped from her throat and she felt blindly for whatever was hidden in the wall. 

“Amrah,” Janner whispered, this time walking toward her, his steps unsteady. Tears gathered in his burning throat and eased his urge to cough. “His last words were, ‘my name is Davion Wingfeather, and I was loved.’”

She shook her head again and her eyes flew open, flashing in anger. “How dare you disrespect him and mock him and try to put lies into his mouth!?” 

“They are the truth,” Janner whispered, begging her to understand. 

Amrah stared at him for a brief second before shrieking a blood-curdling scream that sent Janner’s mind spinning. The air in the room twisted and thickened, wavering from her yell, he watched her as if through a fog as she ran not towards him as he had expected but away towards the wall. Her arm moved, and before Janner could process what she was doing, she yelled above it all: “Your lies will be your doom. Remember that you have failed your brother yet again. MEET YOUR END JANNER WINGFEATHER!”

Abruptly shocked out of the disorientation, Janner heard the sound of crumbling stone and saw Amrah's black skirts whisking away to somewhere else in the castle.

He looked above his head just in time to see the ceiling come crashing down. 

*****

Kal had just reached the doors of Castle Throg when he heard an ear-splitting shriek tear itself from Amrah’s throat. She glanced back at him for just a second, and Kal caught a glimpse of her eyes, hideous and glinting. She turned back to look at Janner and said: “You have failed your brother yet again.” The next words were blocked by the sound of cracking stones from above. Kal saw the ceiling right above Janner shake with anger, and barely held in a scream as they began hurtling toward his brother.

*****

Notes:

*coughs awkwardly

Answers tomorrow morning, I promise. But, for now: thoughts, anyone?

I have this headcanon that Amrah did the ceiling-fall-thingy because Ouster Will made sneaky modifications to Castle Throg. He didn't really trust anyone to be totally loyal to him, so he came up with a bunch of ideas on how to subdue them if necessary. It's similar to my theory that there are trapdoors in every room that lead to the nearby dungeons.