Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 14

Crowned

Notes:

So I think the swearing in part of this chapter is a little dry, and that's kind of sad, considering the amount of time I poured into thinking of what would actually happen in this ceremony. Oh, well 😅

Also, I've had the worst time trying to come up with names for the chapters in this story, so I'm really sorry that they're all so terrible 😅

*****

Janner knew it would be only moments before Nia or Artham or someone else came down, letting him know it was time. He shuddered at the thought of it being time for what should have been his brother's coronation as rightful High King of Anniera, yet here he was, the role thrust upon him. Once again, he thought of how it was not a true kingship, just a stewardship until the next rightful second-born took the Throne. It was a small comfort, very small. The most comforting of all would have been Kal’s presence, Kal groaning and whining about how he had to look presentable, Kal protesting about wearing nice clothes, even though the nicest clothes they had to wear were the ones on their back.

Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes and Janner blinked, not caring when they rolled down the side of his face and onto his neck, dampening the collar of his Durgan cloak. He wore it all the time now, even if he wasn't really an official Durgan anymore. It provided decent warmth, and he was always cold.

The door separating the cellar from the rest of the exposed ruin opened suddenly, and Artham appeared. He had spent a good deal of time helping Janner with the Water distribution (which ended up becoming more of a planning session on just how to determine the best rivers to pour the Water into so Anniera would "heal itself" in a way) and just recently began working on other building projects, but he had made sure to construct a door for them, providing some privacy. 

“It's time,” he said as he came down the stairs, holding an oil lamp so he wouldn't stumble over something in the dark.

Janner sat up quickly, wincing as his entire body protested. He didn't want to appear completely against complying, since the Maker had technically pushed him in the direction of kingship as well. There also wasn't a need to make petty trouble. 

“How did you sleep?” Artham asked, holding out his hand for assistance.

Eyeing the gesture suspiciously, Janner gave in and accepted the help. He didn't want it, but he might have needed it. And appearing agreeable might mask the lie he was about to tell. “Well enough. Leeli and someone who sounded like Thorn were being a little noisy at first, but after they left, sleeping wasn't that hard.”

Artham nodded and smiled as they began walking toward the stairs, their way unnecessarily lit by the oil lamp. “I'm glad to hear that.”

Janner chose not to reply, feeling guilty about lying. The truth was that he hadn't slept at all, and none of it had been Leeli or Thorn’s fault. His mind was the culprit, robbing him of sleep more often than he cared to admit or share with his family. Even when he was exhausted the thing wouldn't shut down, taking him around in redundant circles of doubt, of guilt, of frustration.

They came out into the chilly night air among the ruins of Castle Rysen and what looked to be the entire Annieran population, the sight of which caused him to close his eyes, breathing in and out slowly, and open his eyes again; a different person. At least, he appeared to be a different person now. This was the ruse he had worked hard on, the diplomatic one he had a feeling he would need quite a lot in the extended future.

Artham placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly. “I know you don't want this. I can't imagine having kingship thrust upon me if I was in a similar situation, but I know it hurts. Is there any way I can ease your pain?”

Janner glanced at him, trying to block out the rest of…of everyone staring at him, expecting something he was not ready to give. There was a softness, a compassion in his uncle’s eyes. Artham was sincere. He shook his head anyway. “I don't think so.”

“If you ever need to talk or just need someone to listen, I'm always here,” he whispered, despite what Janner had said less than a moment before. “The rest of the family is over there, waiting.”

Janner's eyes followed in the direction Artham pointed, and he saw his family (plus Sara) standing there. “I guess we shouldn't keep them, then,” he said, forcefully cheery.

“The time has come to pass the Throne on to the next generation,” Nia declared, her voice unobtrusive yet powerful enough to carry across the entire crowd. “Though the circumstances are far from traditional, they are not any less official or ordained. The Maker’s Will as well as that of the former King, High King Kalmar Wingfeather, resides in these decisions.”

Standing between Artham and Leeli, the former calm and the latter oddly jittery, Janner couldn’t help but feel terrified. He was not alone, and for that he was thankful, but even the support of his dear uncle and sister, whose ceremonies had already occurred, was not enough to chase away everything taunting him.

Terror and dread and frustration and anger and doubt and every single negative state of being possible filled his mind, racing through at a speed that sent his heart into his throat. The only thing keeping him grounded was an undercurrent of acceptance that ran through it all, an acceptance that only the Maker could have placed on his heart. Half the time, he didn’t even know if the acceptance was real or fake, but when he focused on it, when he zeroed in on the idea of it, on that speck floating around in his mind, he knew it was true, solid, firm, safe ground. That told him the Maker created it, for if it was a figment of his imagination, as soon as he set foot on it, the idea would shimmer and disappear, sending him plunging into nothingness. 

 “Although our land lies crippled from its demolition, lacking hearth and house of the material kind, that which resides in our hearts defines us, as it has always defined Annierans,” Nia continued, and Janner knew her words stirred up joy in many hearts. “And I believe we will all say our union is a beautiful one.” 

Janner watched the crowd, enraptured as it was by Nia’s words. He only caught a glimpse of the side of her face every once in a while, as she looked out at the people the majority of the time, but every so often her eyes met his, and he saw the way they shone with a million thoughts of every kind.

Nia abruptly turned toward him—it was not really abrupt, it only seemed so in his mind—and he knew it was time, time to swear he would do something though he had not a mite of faith in himself.

“Janner Esben Wingfeather,” she said clearly, calmly. “Please, step forward.”

He felt Leeli squeeze his arm encouragingly before he did so, and despite the terror running rampant in him, Janner couldn’t help but think it was odd that she seemed so agitated. Panic began taking over his heart, but he did his best to push it away, focusing his attention on Nia rather than the enormous crowd of expectant people behind her, all staring.

Nia looked at him thoughtfully, and something about her eyes made Janner’s heart want to break. “This should have been your father’s role,” she whispered, nearly choking on her words. They were clearly not meant for the general public’s ears. Janner couldn't help but think Kalmar was the one who should have stood there, not him. “Do you swear to seek the Maker’s counsel in all you do?”

“I do.” His voice trembled. He wondered if anyone heard.

Smiling a little, Nia nodded and continued. “Do you swear to serve this Land and her people for as long as the Maker allows?”

“I do.” His voice trembled less, but only because he forced himself to speak that way. 

“Do you swear loyalty to your people, your family, your land, and your Maker?” There was a weighty tenderness in Nia's words, conveying an odd sort of paradoxical truth.

“I do,” he said again, his words clear and unobstructed for the first time. He would never betray.

A little light flickered in Nia's eyes before she spoke again, almost as if she knew he would agree to and never sway from the next vow. “Do you swear to rule honestly, fairly, without favor for one over the other?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to abide by the Maker’s morals, to spare life when the time calls but also to order it void when necessary?” Gravity flitted onto her face, gravity that was rightly placed.

The thought of such a thing made Janner’s heart waver, and it was with barely audible uncertainty that his said, “I do.”

“Do you swear to guide your Land and people in the Maker’s ways, to guide your family, your children, your grandchildren in the same?”

Fear struck Janner’s heart that such a task had been placed on his shoulders, and it was a moment for he softly said, “I will do my best. All have free will.”

Nia nodded approvingly when she heard those words. “Do you swear to serve the Maker above all?”

With a steady voice Janner prayed would not be a lie for much longer, he replied, “Yes.”

“Then, my son,” Nia said tenderly with what sounded like confidence. “Please, kneel.” 

Janner obeyed, his right knee pressing into the ground while his left arm rested on the other leg. He felt himself trembling with fatigue and desperately hoped she would not keep him in the position longer than he was able. 

“Though we have neither a crown nor scepter, the lack of those does not make you any less a King in the sight of your people,” Nia said, gently, yet loud enough for all to hear. She stepped forward and bent, taking his right hand in hers. “Janner Esben Wingfeather, I—”

“Wait!” someone hollered from the crowd. Janner blinked in confusion and surprise when he saw Thorn O’Sally, caring what looked like a collection of odd brush in his arms. “My ‘pologies, everyone,” Thorn said when he was in full sight of the entire crowd of people. “But Missus Wingfeather, Leeli an’ I made this.” His arms outstretched, a circlet of verdant shades of green leaves, a few of the silvery white flowers woven into it, lay in his hands. 

“Thank you, Thorn,” Nia murmured after she recovered from the shock of having an entire coronation interrupted. Gingerly she took the crown and turned back toward Janner. “It seems there is a crown after all,” she said, smiling.

Janner bowed his head and felt the circlet press into it, weight slamming down on his shoulders as it never had before. It was not the only thing given to him, for Rudric's sword followed suit.

“Janner Esben Wingfeather,” Nia began again, and like before, he felt her hand slip into his that did not clutch the sword. “Rise, my son and King.”

As the people cheered, Janner looked up at her, and saw grief and love in her eyes that he was sure matched his own. Standing with effort he gazed out at the people, wondering how in Aerwiar he would serve them when his head already spun and his body threatened to collapse on the spot. He had not the strength for it, neither in heart nor in mind. 

Look to Me, and I will give you My Strength, the Maker said in his heart, the words far louder than those of the clamoring crowd.

*****

Notes:

Alright, hopefully you all like this chapter more than I do! Tomorrow we'll have a shift in the plot (i.e., there's a three- or four-week time skip) that will introduce a bit of a ripple in the otherwise fairly peaceful rebuilding of Anniera :)

What the ripple actually is won't be 100% clear until Ch. 15, though 😉