Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 15

A Note of Terror

Notes:

So...reasoning for my lack of posting...

My AC has been out for the past few days and the motivation to write and post has been hard to come by...because the feeling of being incurably sticky is probably one of the most annoying things in Aerwiar. There's a reason why stories never take place in the summer, and it's because to accurately describe the characters, they would have to always feel so gross and moody...

ANYWAY-

Here is da chapter. I like this chapter. It's probably one of the few chapters I really, really like in this story. Anyway :DD

*****

It was the beginning of more change. Nothing was as it had been, and it never would be again. Rebuilding Anniera was grueling, even with everyone working, and dismantling the unneeded ships in the Fang fleet, fitting frames together with minimal tools, some makeshift, as Ban Rona needed them as well, and slowly erecting true houses proved as difficult as had been anticipated. 

Regents were chosen with care, six to be exact (seven if you counted Artham), and they took people to the farther reaches of the Isle, hoping to settle Anniera as before. Janner and Artham went with one of the groups who forded the Rivers of Anniera, the ones that spread out across the entire Isle. There, they poured the Water, and thus the whole land received the Maker's gift of life.

Artham had never expected ease in the work, but he had hoped for cooperation between the people. He had hoped for the Anniera he had once known to rise again, slowly but surely. Truthfully, it seemed as though that had happened. Other than the fact that they were literally building from the ground up, at least. It was an odd Anniera to build up, one with veins of old and new coursing through it, tradition and spontaneity. Yet the Maker had approved it all, even the unconventional choice of Throne Warden and High King that presented its own complications.

Janner's mindset reminded him so much of Esben when he had first taken the Throne after their parents died, their father in a freak hunting accident and their mother of grief weeks later. The thought came to him every time he saw his nephew, still far too gaunt and pale, too easily exhausted, too fragile. It came so often, in fact, he was ever astonished no guilt or grief related to Esben accompanied it. The weight of Esben’s death, of all that had happened to it—the moment Kalmar had melded with them, it had disappeared in a blink, the most glorious blink he had ever experienced. How thankful he was that he had been left with only love for his brother, not tormenting grief and guilt. Somehow, though, and only by the Maker’s blessing, he felt no guilt regarding Janner’s condition or Kalmar’s death. For that, he was infinitely grateful.

He was Throne Warden for a new king, now, yet this King grieved silently for his fears, frustrations, and failures. Frankly, it was nearly enough to break Artham's heart. Would guilt and grief never be absent from their family? They had trampled so many hearts for years, and they still did. The look in Nia’s eyes, the hauntedness in Janner’s countenance, the discomfort in Sara’s composure, and the tearful acceptance in Leeli's face, oh it hurt. Not in the sense of torturous guilt, but it hurt nonetheless.

Artham wanted to fix it more than anything.

“Luv, what are you doing in that tree?” Arundelle’s laughing voice called to him from the base of the enormous tree he perched in, one of the many that had sprung up from their "accident" with the Water. 

Without losing his balance from being startled out of his thoughts, Artham quickly scrambled down, running a hand through his hair. He liked escaping to trees to do his thinking; he always had. He had made his home in Glipwood in the forest and in trees for a reason.

“Just thinking,” he replied cryptically, knowing even before he said the words that Arun would crinkle her eyes and cock her head before taking his hand in hers, non-verbally demanding to hear his thoughts.

She did, in fact, do just that, and it made his heart flutter with the urge to write yet another poem about her. The only trouble was that with everything he had written about the First Well, about Janner, about Anniera, about the healing of the land, and, of course, about her, he was running out of room in his journal.

“Do I really have to ask what you're thinking about? Artham, you usually figure it out as soon as I look at you that your thoughts are what I want.” A bit of disappointment lilted on the edge of her lovely voice, and Artham shook his head and kissed her hand as an apology.

“Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I was lost in thought. Both times. Just now and in the tree.”

Arundelle smiled at him, and all was forgiven, if there had been anything to forgive in the first place. “And what were those thoughts?” she asked as she took his arm, leading him on a walk through the forest.

Artham hummed, trying to decide what all needed telling and what could stay inside. “Just a jumble of all the normal things, I suppose,” he began. “Janner, grief, failure, Kalmar. All of that lot, really.”

Arundelle looked at him sharply. “Whose grief and failure?”

Sighing, Artham shifted his gaze away from her and into the woods. Why? “Please don't think I’m still tormented by everything. I'm not, I promise. Esben…that's alright now. I was thinking about Janner’s grief and how he thinks he has failed.”

Abruptly stopping, Arundelle sighed deeply and looked him straight in the eyes. “Artham, I wasn't talking about Esben. I was talking about…well, about me and—” 

It sounded as though she wanted to say something, and Artham knew exactly what she wanted to say, but it did not need saying. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly as if he would never let her go.

“Oh, Arun, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the prickle of tears. “I…I didn't forget you. I felt—feel— terrible for what I did to you, and I am so inexplicably sorry. Will you— can you forgive me?”

She pulled away a bit, and Artham forced himself to look at her, studying the necklace she wore more than anything else for fear of seeing something terrifying in her eyes, like sadness or disappointment or anger. The necklace was simple, nothing like the grand jewelry she had worn before the Fall, but it was beautiful just the same. Not as beautiful as she was, though. Nothing would ever be as beautiful as she was. And even if she was angry, her beauty shone brightly just the same.

So concentrated was he that he nearly missed her whispered, “I never blamed you anyway.”

The relief washing over him was a cooling rainstorm, and Artham couldn't help but laugh a bit. Taking her hand and drawing her close, he led Arun through the sunlight-filled forest. The “path,” if one could call it that, was one he had created himself, and when followed correctly, it looped to the skeletal Rysentown and crumbled Castle Rysen after a nice trip along the beach. He needed to get back to the rest of the family, he truly did—more to keep Janner from killing himself during that afternoon more than he had in the morning than anything else—but it was still off-hours time of the day when no one could do labor. It was probably fine.

He and Arundelle continued walking, emerging from the woods near the beach a stone’s throw away. A small drop-off separated grass from sand, and Artham jumped down quickly, turning to lend Arundelle a bit of help. 

Giggling, she took the hand he offered, then gasped and laughed aloud when he pulled her into his arms, holding her bridal-style, and spun her around. “Artham P. Wingfeather! Put me down,” she demanded, smiling all the while. “What if someone sees?”

Artham chose to listen, and set her down gently, grinning boyishly as she began walking away. “Now, Arun,” he murmured, and she stopped in her steps and turned around, looking at him only as she did when he used his pet name for her. As soon as she was within his grasp, Artham reached out for her hand. “We’ve hidden this from…a number of people for ten years. How much longer—”

Arundelle shook her head, pulling her hand away. “You're the one who wanted it in the first place, and you can be the one who tells them. Choose the time, choose the place.”

Irritation flashed through her eyes, and Artham hated it. He didn’t hate her or even her irritation, mostly that it was directed at him and that he had been the cause of it. “I…I know I should, but what if they’re angry? It is too much to spring on them now, what with everything?”

Arundelle’s eyes softened, and the tension in Artham’s shoulders he had not realized existed vanished in an instant. “Who are you worried about? Nia is the only one who would actually be upset, but we don’t have to worry about her. She knows.” 

“She’s never mentioned it though. Not even indirectly. She buries the feelings she doesn’t want to deal with, you know that. What if…”

Her eyebrow raised a bit, Arundelle finished, “What if it’s really because she’s angry about the whole thing?”

His response of his eyes shifting from her face to the sand beneath their feet and back again was as good as a “yes,” he knew.

“Well,” Arundelle said briskly, beginning their walk across the beach. Artham followed and shortened his stride to match hers, though she had always been tall (taller than him for quite a while when they were children, in fact) and the shortening was not of a great amount. “Clearly this goes back to your concern that Nia will eventually decide hating you is the best option.”

Artham flinched and immediately began inwardly scolding himself for doing so. He was past all that. He was past the guilt. He was supposed to be so completely and totally done with it.

But that doesn’t mean the worry will ever go away, he heard from a corner of his mind. 

“Luv, I’m sorry,” Arundelle said softly, laying a hand on his upper arm. “But there’s really no use beating around the bush, is there?”

Shrugging, Artham forced himself to smile a little, and after a moment of smiling, it wasn’t forced anymore. Perhaps he had been right about the guilt being chased away. “No, there’s not. You’re absolutely right.” He took a breath of resolve and continued. “I am worried bringing this…thing up will push her over the edge. Even though she knows...”

“I do believe Nia has been pushed over the edge already, Artham,” Arundelle interrupted drily as she went around a collection of shells she obviously didn’t want to break.

Though the truth in her comment made a fist in Artham’s stomach clench, watching her avoid the shells in an effort to preserve their beauty slipped a smile onto his face. “True,” he admitted. “Alright, then: I don’t want to tie a millstone to her when she’s already swimming in rough waters that she fell into after falling over the cliff.”

Arundelle shot him a glance of horror when he said that. “Are you making fun, or did you write a poem about Nia?”

Artham chuckled nervously. “Arun, you know I wouldn’t do something like that. Making fun, I mean. I did, in fact, write a poem.” He had it with him at that very moment, folded up in his pocket. He planned to add to it someday, when a change had come, when joy shone through the grief. Giving it to Nia was his eventual intention, but who knew when that would be, or if he would actually muster up the courage to do so? He had shared much with his sister-in-law (who was really more of a sister than anything else), but his poetry had not been one of those.  

“Aside from the poem,” Arundelle picked up where he had dropped off. “I understand where you’re coming from. But if you ask me, I don’t think there’s anything for you to worry about. Nia never struck me as the type to harbor anger on account of a decision made out of love. It’s not in her nature.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Artham murmured, only half-hearing what she had said. Not on purpose, of course. He would never fail to listen to Arundelle on purpose. 

Something had distracted him. Caught between two rocks, it fluttered in the sea breeze, being pulled this way and that. Curious, Artham stepped toward it, wondering what was on such a piece of parchment stuck on the beach, for what else could the cream, flappy thing be but parchment, and what else did someone do with parchment but put something on it?

“Artham?” Arundelle questioned, an edge of impatience in her voice. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what exactly this is,” he murmured as he reached out for the piece of paper, carefully working it free from the rocks. The last thing he wanted was to rip it, because if he did, he could miss part of what was on the paper. The thought that nothing was on it crossed his mind briefly and left as soon as he saw ink, and the thought that nothing important was on it did as well, until he looked closer and read the words and felt the way his head spun and his stomach clenched and his heart raced. 

“Artham?” Arundelle asked again, but this time her voice was much closer, with a note of worry in it. “Luv, you’re white as a sheet. What is it?”

Blinking, Artham handed her the note, for it was a note, a note with words intended specifically for them. His hand shook and he whispered hoarsely, “Read it.”

Her brow furrowed in concern, Arundelle took it from him and began to read, her lips moving, her hands trembling more by the second. When she was done, her eyes traveled back up and she began reading again, then again and again, until Artham’s mouth was dry with the stress of watching her.

Finally her arm dropped to her side, the piece of paper still clutched tightly in her hand, so tightly Artham wondered if it would rip soon. 

“Artham,” she said softly, her voice shaking. “What are we going to do?”

He pulled her into an embrace and looked out at the waves, coming into shore so completely oblivious of everything, of the note that had just rocked their world. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know.” 

*****

Notes:

*GASP!!!!

sO wHaT DoeS tHe NoTe sAy???? o.O

Also, I feel a need to credit Lost with something in this chapter. Desmond (Lost Character) and Artham are practically the same person (Demond's actor, Henry Ian Cusick, literally voices Artham), and Desmond's love interest is Penny. Desmond is to Artham as Penny is to Arundelle. Anyway, Desmond and Penny call each other, "Luv" (and, yes, it's spelled that way). It's super cute. So I decided to have Artham and Arundelle do it because...I wanted them to^^