Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 73

A Rescuer in the Snow

Notes:

I'm sorry for hurting you 🥺

*****

Artham had flown reconnaissance around Castle Throg a half hour before and was about to write a poem for Arundelle and Asteria. He settled into a self-made nook pressed up against the wall in the middle of the cave. There was enough light to write, but it was far back enough that the chillier winds could not reach him. Artham covered his arms and chest with his wings as if they were a warm, feathery blanket and began writing. 

That was the moment he felt a tremor run through the ground beneath him. The cave floor vibrated and in the distance, he heard the sound of falling rocks. 

Artham paid it little head. It happened from time to time, it had happened several times since he had been there; the stones would shift or the ice would melt a little and then refreeze somewhere else or the wind would gust in a particularly strong manner and hurl itself at a precariously tilting mount of stone.  

But even though he initially did give it more than a moment’s thought, it prodded his mind and poked into his thoughts, begging for an audience. Artham tried to ignore it for a little while and it worked temporarily, but soon the rockslide was worrying him. He had no idea why , he just felt like something was wrong, that something had happened. 

It’s a frustrating feeling to have, Artham thought as he slipped his small journal, quill, and parcel of ink-powder into his waist-pocket, where they would be safe from harm. Having the notion that something is always wrong.

“Though something could be wrong,” he said aloud as he took a running start inside the cave and sprinted from the mouth, leaping into the frigid, crisp air in a powerful whirl of feathers. “And if that is the case, I have no choice but to offer aid.”

Artham beat his wings and pushed himself up high, scanning for any sign that something that would affect his nephews had gone awry. He noticed nothing amiss. Nothing to indicate that something catastrophically out-of-the-ordinary had happened. Nothing that even remotely squeaked: “danger!!!” 

Still, something felt strange and abnormal. Perhaps something had happened to Leeli, Thorn, and Hulwen. But no, that could not be the case. If something happened to one of their party, Artham would know. Someone would scream it at the top of their lungs.

Sighing, Artham looked down at the cave and patted his pocket where his journal lay longingly. He could go back to writing about his family or he could fly reconnaissance once again and be discouraged when he failed to see any sign of his nephews. Why Leeli would not connect with them through her music, Artham did not know. He could always leave and ask her to try playing, but the trouble was that it would be considered abandoning Janner and Kal to the mess in which Amrah had tied them. At least, he would consider it abandonment. He was not about to leave his nephews if being near gave him the opportunity to keep them from being hurt or killed. 

“Well, I suppose that settles it then,” Artham said to himself as he flew in the direction of Castle Throg. “We fly reconnaissance once more.”

*****

Through his wracking sobs, shuddering breaths, and grating coughs, Janner managed to blink enough tears away so he could bandage and Kalmar’s arm as best he could, even though there were almost no bandages left, ripped or otherwise. When he ran out, he used strips he tore from his shirt, wincing at how filthy they were. But it was the only thing he had in the moment. He prayed it was better than nothing. 

Janner had no other choices. Certainly not since Kal had just—

A sob escaped from his throat, and Janner pushed all those thoughts away by focusing on getting his twisted, deformed pack strapped shut and onto his back into a position where it in its single-strap-state would still stay. He could not dwell on grief now. He needed time to think about it, and he would, but at that moment he did not have time. Kal did not have time. What little time they possessed needed to be used wisely, and then meant getting his brother to safety, not reminiscing on the implications of what he had done. 

“Kal, this is going to hurt,” Janner whispered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything to help it.”

There was no response other than another bubbling breath, taken in pain that Janner sincerely hoped Kal could not feel. 

He steeled his nerves and carefully rolled his brother onto his left, mostly-uninjured side before resting him gently on a piece of rubble so he was in a half-sitting position. Kal groaned, and Janner tried not to think of the very real pain rushing through his brother’s body with every moment. 

He crouched a little and ran his fingers through Kal’s hair. “This is going to be worse,” he said softly as he swung Kalmar’s left arm around his neck. Janner picked up his brother’s right arm tenderly, placing it in his lap, then bit his lip as he whimpered. Kalmar’s limp fingers brushed against Janner’s shoulder, and as he wrapped his right arm around Kal’s back and his left underneath his knees, he squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of the pain he was about to send coursing through his brother’s body.

He was right. He stood, and Kalmar tensed immediately. His breathing quickened for a moment and sent him into a fit of coughing, causing more blood and more internal destruction and laying more grief and guilt upon Janner’s heart. 

When he finally stopped, they began their arduous journey towards Artham’s cave. Janner forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as he waded through the rubble. He was terrified he would fall and hurt Kalmar even more than he already had been or that his trembling legs would give out and he would fall to the ground, still hurting his brother. 

Just don’t make a mistake, he told himself. Don’t do anything to hurt him. DO NOT FAIL HIM. 

Janner trudged out into the freezing cold air of the courtyard, terrified that his torn and blood-covered cloak would not be enough to keep Kal warm. What would he do, what could he do if he couldn't even prevent cold and shock from killing him?

A glimpse of something in the corner of his eye made Janner stop and turn his head. Like the Maker's warm breaths of Goodness, he saw something that would quiet his worries, even if only for a time.

It was Artham's cloak. Discarded aimlessly in the courtyard in a crumpled heap.

Janner walked over to it as quickly and as carefully as he could — which meant not very fast at all, considering that he was carrying Kalmar and finding himself almost incapable of breathing — and crouched, kneeling on the snowy ground while resting Kal in his lap. It soaked through his pant legs, but Janner was not concerned about that. He was concerned about the state of the cloak and if it would help his brother.

He reached out his left hand to touch the furs, and when his fingertips made contact with it, he could not help but smile. It was warm and dry and soft, even though it laid on freezing cold snow. Raising his eyes to the heavens in thankfulness, Janner grasped the warm furs and wrapped them around Kal, wary of his wounds but intent on protecting him from the cold.

When all was done and they were ready to leave, Janner stood up, his battered pack dangling by one strap on his left shoulder, his wounded brother in his arms. Walking unsteadily through the courtyard gates, he knew his own strength would not be enough to save them. “You have given us Your Fire. I hate to ask for more, but, Maker, I need Your Strength,” he whispered. “Please, give me Your Strength and Endurance.”

Breathing shakily and unevenly from the strain of carrying his brother and the dust-smothering from less than an hour before, Janner trudged forward into the snow and towards rescue.

*****

As Artham drew nearer to Castle Throg, he was able to see it more and more clearly. And as he saw it more clearly, he realized the rockslide he had heard was no rockslide. It was a collapse. Even from his distance he could see the great clouds of stone-dust rolling in the gusty, mountain-top breeze. 

That means something could be dreadfully wrong with Janner and Kalmar, Artham thought with a grimace. If he had been coming from a different angle, he would have flown directly towards Throg and examined the destruction. He would have looked for signs of his nephews and whether they were hurt or decent or perfectly fine. 

He thanked the Maker he was flying the direction he was. Otherwise, he would not have seen the bobbing, dark form in the snow that he saw as the stumbling form of one of his nephews carrying the other. 

Alarm filled Artham immediately and he rushed downward, desperate to do something to help. He assumed the worst: they tried to escape and Amrah had attacked. Janner had fought her and been severely wounded in the process. 

But when he drew nearer, he realized that was not the worst that could have happened. He saw not Kal carrying Janner’s bleeding body, but Janner carrying Kalmar’s. Artham saw that Kal was wearing his cloak, but it was so huge that it had slipped off a bit. There, Artham saw something that sent a shudder of fear through him. Kalmar’s right arm looked misshapen and was entirely swathed in blood-stained, dirty bandages, meaning one thing: that it had been crushed in the collapse,  and his head rested on Janner’s shoulder.

“He saved me,” Janner croaked, his voice wrecked and raspy. “Please, Uncle Artham, help.”

Artham looked into his nephew’s desperate eyes and saw the way they trembled. “Aye,” he whispered. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll go get Hulwen. She’ll come and bring both of you to safety.” 

Janner shook his head fervently. “N-no. I need you to take him to get help as fast as possible." 

Artham stared at him, seeing tear-streaks trailing down his dirty face and his right hand, bloodied for who-knew what reason. He heard the sound of Janner’s breathing and it scared him. That's a terrible idea. What in Aerwiar makes him think that being left alone on a mountain is a good idea? “Please,” he urged. “Let me help both of you. You’re both hurt. You can barely breathe and I’ve no idea how you’re standing. You need help just as much as Kalmar.”

“No, please,” Janner begged. “I can’t do this alone. He- I don't know why but I just...I can't just—”

“All the more reason why I shouldn’t leave you here,” Artham interrupted. 

Something between anger and fear flashed in Janner's eyes, and he trembled. Artham saw Kal begin slipping from his arms, and he put his arms out quickly, wondering why he had not bothered to take away some of the weight before.

“Just LEAVE ME, okay?!” Janner raised his voice, staring at Artham intently. “Look, I think...I think Kal’s dying and I can’t do anything about it. Something’s wrong inside of him, and I need help.” He choked on his words and barely swallowed a sob.

A shiver of fear ran through Artham as he heard his nephew’s words. If Kalmar had internal damage, there was no guarantee that he would live. None at all. The Water from the First Well had healed Aerwiar as a whole. At the same time as the Maker had told them how to use the Water, He had also explained that His Well was now sealed out of human reach. It had the power of life, but if evil hands claimed the life, it meant death for the rest of Aerwiar. He dared not risk that. He had hidden it away, never in that life to be found by man or beast.

And unfortunately that meant there was little hope now. Janner knew it as well. No wonder he despaired. 

Artham lifted his eyes and silently begged the Maker for mercy and grace before looking back at Janner. “Aye, I’ll take him. Please, try not to worry. I will be back for you. I promise.”

Janner’s weariness left for a fleeting moment, and he was filled with the strength of one who has begun their journey refreshed and renewed. He shifted the rest of his precious brother's weight into Artham’s outstretched arms as gently as he could, feeling such relief that Kalmar's protection was now shared by another.

His uncle was gone in just a few seconds, disappearing over the white drifts of snow. As soon as he was out of sight, Janner felt himself being drowned in pure exhaustion, grief, and terror, and he collapsed into the snow.

*****

Notes:

I put the First Well thing in there because there's not always a fix-all. Sometimes people suffer. Sometimes people die. That was a core part of Peterson's work, and it was my desire to keep that present in this story 🥺🥹😢