Standing Steady in the Storms Ch. 74

An Answer

Notes:

This is the second-to-last chapter before the end! I'm working on editing Ch. 75 for a few things that will need to change, and that'll come out this evening^^

*****

The freezing winds bit through Janner's threadbare shirt and froze his cheeks and hands and feet. They had become ice when the storms first began, but he could still feel the cold in them, except for his right hand which felt like nothing. His chest ached from trying to breathe and run and fight and stabbed his heart every now and then because of the bruising.

And then there were the Storms.

Janner was sick and tired of all the storms in his life. When he closed his eyes, there was a storm. When he opened them, another one manifested itself before him. When he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to force the imaginary storm away, yet another one swirled behind his eyelids more chaotic and horrendous than the ones before it. 

That was what had happened when Artham left. When he was gone, when his strength had disappeared from sight and when Kal — the only reason why Janner even kept going, kept hoping, kept putting one foot in front of the other — had vanished as well, the storms had taken over. 

They howled and screamed at each other, hurling lightning and hail without any real target, their anger louder, fiercer, and viler than anything that had ever come across Janner’s mind. 

First, there was the Storm of Blame. It threw tantrums like a toddler, shrieking and yelling, declaring that it would find someone to accuse for the wrong that had been done. Its snow stung like venom and its sleet smarted like the end of a whip.

The second Storm was that of Suffering. It wept and wailed and begged for answers, asking why everything had come about the way it had, why hurt and grief had been endured so many times. Its rain poured down like torrents of tears, wet, cold, and sharp.

The third Storm was full of Hatred. It was angry, spitting, and hideous, and fought with the Storm of Blame. The Storm of Hatred burned everything, desperate to find something to sear with its brand-like hail as the Storm of Blame was to whip something into “understanding” and “repentance.”

The fourth Storm was the Storm of Despair, and like its partner, the similar Storm of Suffering, Despair grieved. It grieved as if there was no hope, there was no moving forward, what had happened could not be reversed and what everything looked like was how it would be. Nothing would change. Its crashing, thundering voice drowned out all hope in life. 

Blame and Hatred fought against Suffering and Despair, their howls and screams echoing across Aerwiar. They hurled lightning and hail without any real target, their anger louder, fiercer, and viler than anything that had ever come to pass.

And at the center of it all crouched Janner, desperate to hide from their fury and grief, desperate to stay away from their anger and hopelessness, desperate to cling to what he knew to be the truth, even though it was growing harder and harder to believe.  

He didn’t know if he could believe it. Janner did not even know if he wanted to believe it. Every so often when the storms’ lightning or rain or hail missed him, he found himself being convinced by their thoughts and horrendous minds. He found himself searching for something to blame — me — he found himself searching for a reason for the suffering — none — he found himself searching for someone to hate for what had happened — Amrah — and he found himself despairing in the hour of bleakness, when all hope was lost and all strength was gone. 

Janner felt as though he was running a race that he could not win, a race that had no end, a race that forced him to go faster and faster until he collapsed in a heap because he could go no further. And then someone would come and scream in his ear and he would start back up again, stumbling and tripping as he had before.

That was what his mind was going through. His mind was exhausted, but it continued to storm. His chest was suffocating, but he continued to breathe. His heart was broken, but it continued to beat.

And he prayed it would continue to do so for as long as his King lived.

*****

“We don’t have time for questions,” Artham said abruptly as he hovered in front of Hulwen, Leeli, and Thorn, Kalmar wrapped in furs laying limp in his arms. They had not been too difficult to find, but fear in his heart and the knowledge in his mind that he was holding the dying King of Anniera in his arms was almost more than he could bear. It made him think of himself and Esben when they were younger and innocent, of when their innocence was destroyed by Gnag the Nameless, of when he became the abandoner, of when Esben died, of the guilt it had all caused.

He felt a pinprick of it now, just a tiny dot of fear and guilt that threatened to sneak up on him and throw him headlong into despair. He could not allow that. He would not. And he would not allow that to happen to Janner, either. Not again. Not like this.

“So please do not ask any. Get Kalmar help, whatever is fastest and safest. Emphasis on both, not just one. Speed is vital here. He has internal damage and,” Artham lifted a fold of the cloak to reveal Kalmar’s right arm. Leeli gasped in horror and her hands flew to her face, while Thorn simply stared and blinked in confusion. “It's crushed. I think I know what's going to have to happen once you get back, but please: be careful anyway.” By this, he meant he expected amputation would be necessary, and even then the chances of Kalmar actually living would likely be nonexistence, slim, at the best.

Amidst the shock, Thorn managed to urge Leeli up onto Hulwen’s back. He scrambled up after and sat behind her, leaving a person-sized spot for Kal. “You can put ‘im ‘tween us, Mister Artham.”

Artham smiled. Thorn was a good choice for his little princess. She could not have chosen a better man.

As he flew above the three of them and carefully lowered Kalmar — who groaned several times at the movement. Artham felt his stomach twist in grief and sympathy — into their open arms.

“Please, keep him safe,” he whispered to them. Leeli and Thorn nodded fervently. They looked straight ahead, but Artham could see tears glistening in his niece’s eyes.

Just before leaving, Artham flew to Hulwen’s head and spoke to her softly. “Please, come back for Janner and I once you get Kalmar to safety. He needs help as well.”

Hulwen dipped her huge, scarlet head. I will. Do not fear, Artham. I will return.

In the next moment, her wings had spread out, golden in the light of the sinking sun. A few seconds later, they were off towards home and safety and, Artham prayed, life.

“Now it’s time to get my other nephew,” he whispered.

***** 

Janner watched the storms and their Blame, Suffering, Despair, and Hatred and saw them advancing on each other and on him at the same time. They reached out their long, white, burning fingers of fire and grinned with their pointed teeth of icy hail. He felt the burn of Suffering and Despair sear his heart and the bite of Blame and Hatred sinking their teeth into his helpless mind and he cried out in pain and grief but there was no one to hear him, no one around for miles, no one to rescue him from his mind that was once again ready to torture him to death and destroy him from within. 

Until strong arms enveloped him, a shield of warmth, love, safety, and protection from the grief. They beat back the storms, but they still clung to his heart and mind with their hot, icy fingers of determination and hatred. Janner heard himself whimper in pain, and in response the arms encircled him more tightly than before, throwing off the hateful hands and freeing him from grief and despair.

***** 

He awoke to the feeling of being held. He did not feel entirely safe, and the walls of protection seemed fragile and frail and unsteady. The memory of Kalmar came back to him, and he remembered what had happened, how his brother was dying and quite possibly gone and how it was because Kal had felt a need to protect him which meant that it was his fault and Amrah’s fault but whose fault really was it, and all that really mattered was that he hadn’t protected his brother the way he was supposed to and there was nothing, nothing at all he could do about it and—

Then protective, mighty, loving arms wrapped around him and chased away his terror. “It’ll be alright,” Artham whispered. “Whatever happens, it’ll be alright.”

Shuddering exhaustion and fear ran through Janner’s body, and his eyes brimmed with tears that were ready to spill over. “How?” he asked deserpately, drawing in a tentative breath that made him gasp in pain. Janner went into an agonizing coughing fit that sent tears of pain and grief rolling down his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to make it all just stop. Artham pulled him closer, one hand on the back of his head and the other massaging concentric circles into his back in an effort to soothe and comfort.

When Janner finally stopped coughing, he felt himself falling backwards against his will, utterly exhausted. His breathing sounded shaky and hollow, but he didn’t know why. 

“How?” he repeated more carefully this time, raising his eyes to look at his uncle’s face, even though what they were really begging him to do was close them and allow his mind to drift away and just sleep. But if he did that, the storm would come back. He couldn’t bear the thought of the storm coming back. 

Artham smiled at him, just a little bit of a smile that looked tired and grieved. “My cloak that you and Kal somehow kept with you the entire time you were doing who-knows-what in Throg was inexplicably warm to the touch. It was not of Aerwiar, Janner. It was done by Someone else. I do not believe He will allow Kalmar to die after what He has done to prevent it from happening.”

Janner thought he heard a trace of doubt in that last sentence, but he was too sleepy to question it. “Keep what from happening?” he murmured instead, desperate to stay awake.

Artham laughed a bit this time. “After surviving a castle-collapse, you were able to dig Kalmar out of a pile of rubble (the state of his and your clothes is an obvious indicator) and somehow managed to carry him through the snow all the way to where I met you and deliver him to me as safely as possible. All the while battling exhaustion, the brutal beating your chest took recently, and whatever havoc the debris from the collapse wreaked in your lungs. You brought Kalmar to me and both of you are still alive.”

Janner’s mind moved sluggishly, processing each part of what his uncle had said far slower than he usually would. It threatened to pound hail and gale-force winds against him every time Kal was mentioned, but he did his best to force them aside. 

When he finally got to the part where Artham mentioned his chest and then debris from the ceiling — oh, that’s why it’s been nearly impossible to breath since then, he realized — he blinked and glanced down for a second, wondering how Artham knew about the arrow, or at least the bruising. He saw a shirt, but it was not his own.

Shifting sleepily, he asked, “Where did my shirt go?”

“You’re not wearing it anymore. It’s honestly terrifying. Have you seen it in the light of day? Someone could have been killed in that shirt and then dumped in a waste-pile. That’s what it looks like.”

“That’s pretty much what happened,” Janner said with a half-smile. “An attempt, at least. An arrow to the heart. Your cloak kept it from doing damage.”

Artham opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. After doing this several more times, he finally said, “Sara’s going to be furious at the state of that bruise.”

Janner felt an urge to laugh just a bit, but he stopped himself. “So what shirt am I wearing?”

Artham grinned at him. “Janner Wingfeather, you are currently wearing my shirt. It is practically falling off of you because, once again,” he said as he stood up easily, still holding Janner in his arms and carrying him as if he weighed no more than Asteria. At the same time, though, Janner found himself trying to comprehend how he had not noticed that his uncle was shirtless. “You have managed to half-starve yourself. You really need to stop doing things like this. It’s not safe.”

Thinking of his brother, Janner smiled bittersweetly. “Kal said the same thing.” There was one lovely thing he had just recently discovered about being too tired to really think: he could only focus on one thing about his brother at a time, and he was choosing to focus on something wonderful about Kal, about how he had his moments of being strangely caring and kind, rather than focusing on the fact that he could very well be dying at the moment.

Artham’s words took over the terrifying, potential thoughts as he pointedly stated, “Well, he’s right.” 

As they moved along, Janner realized he hadn’t even bothered to look at where they were or even ask about it, and couldn’t help but wonder at the strangeness of it. But he was too tired to crane his neck to twist his head around or move any further than where Artham held him securely. He yawned, barely managing to stave off the coughing fit that wanted to follow and whispered, “Where’re we going?”

“To Hulwen,” Artham replied. “She arrived a few minutes ago — you probably didn’t notice, but I did — and she’ll be taking us home.”

“Is Kal there?” Janner murmured, barely registering the sensations of getting on Hulwen’s back before they were flying through the whistling, late summer air.

Kalmar is in Anniera, Hulwen said softly. That was the course the Maker placed us on, and we took it. You and Artham will be going there as well.

“Thank you,” he mumbled sleepily, his eyes now completely shut. He was leaning against Artham’s bare chest, and he felt his uncle’s wings wrapping around him, serving as a blanket against the chillier air they would pass through during the flight. 

“But why did he do it?” he whispered, desperate to have an answer to the question that still lurked on the edges of his exhausted, fuzzy mind.

“Because he loves you,” was Artham’s soft, steady answer that echoed in Janner’s dreams and chased away the storms encroaching upon his heart.

*****

Notes:

Finishing this evening 🥹🥺

Oh, and the reason why Artham doesn't mention anything about Janner having pneumonia is because a) I still can't think of a good Aerwiaran name for it and b) it's not anything that Janner can change, plus Artham doesn't feel the need to voice that concern any further.