Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 23

Welcomed by Darkness

Notes:

Time to find out what Artham's up to! Since a bit of time has passed between the previous Artham chapter and this one, I had a bit of a hard time conveying how Gammon and Maraly reacted when they found out about a good deal of the things that happened in Anniera, so let me know if it feels like I skimmed over it too much or didn't do the section justice^^

*****

“Are you certain you don’t want backup or an extra scout?” Gammon asked again.

Maraly crossed her arms and glared at them. “Or two!” she interrupted indignantly.

Artham shifted his mindset away from the small boat he had nearly hopped into and shook his head. “No, but thank you. Both of you,” he added, giving Maraly, clad in her Shadowblade attire, a kind smile. 

Both she and Gammon had stuck around for two days, more or less, at least. The time had been spent constructing a sketchy plan that wasn’t much more than “don’t get caught.” Of course, there was the benefit of the borrowed boat, plus the promised assistance if anything looked awry. 

Gammon gave him a brisk nod and studied the ground a bit oddly. Cocking his head, Artham stared at him, wondering which of many hidden things raced through his friend’s head in that moment. 

After a few moments of silence, in which Maraly began picking her nails because she lacked skills in whatever department was taking place, Gammon looked up, and facing straight ahead, not looking at anything but the island beyond said, “I pray the Maker lets you find her Artham, I do. If the time arises…save her no matter what the cost. Knowing you gave your all is the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself.” His voice had grown quieter as he continued speaking, and his hand had strayed uncharacteristically and clutched Maraly’s upper arm. 

Artham nodded. He knew what Gammon spoke of. His daughter. His wife. Those he had lost. The similarities between the two of them were odd. Perhaps that was why they had hit it off so well in Kimera. “I know,” he said quietly, reverently, clapping his friend’s shoulder in parting. 

*****

Glancing up at the barely visible moon, Artham couldn’t help but feel as though someone watched him, as if a beacon of light shone on him in the boat, exposing him and rendering the hobbling plan useless. It was ridiculous he had such thoughts, considering it was the deepest part of the night, and nothing except the water the oars disturbed stirred.

Though, paranoia never hurt anyone, he mused, looking out into the darkness of lapping water, twinkling stars, and crouching islands. All the little bits of the Phoobs were distractions, obstacles. His aim was the largest, the most secure, most fortified. 

Of course, it was also a good distance away, especially when considering how agonizingly slow he had to move in order to avoid detection. It was a precaution more than anything else. Unless Amrah had scouts giving her information—-frankly, it was quite likely—she wouldn’t know he had technically cheated (not entirely on-purpose) by involving Hyrindale and Gammon and Maraly. They had given him a bit of useful information: they were in the Phoobs checking out a report of a lone Fang ship that had passed through just days earlier. It had to be Amrah.

Speaking of them, he thought suddenly, his mind flashing back to when he had told them. There had been an awful lot to tell, especially since the Enramere was only two weeks into her return journey; she and her crew had stayed a bit longer, helping the land and her people onto their feet again.

It meant Janner’s death and life were news to them. A few tears escaped from Maraly’s stronghold at the first announcement and even more at the next, to which she also jumped and punched Artham very hard in the arm—it smarted since she managed to hit him in the same place Gammon had swiped his blade—demanding why he hadn’t led with that information. 

Kalmar’s subsequent passing was a shock too, though perhaps the most heartbreaking part of it was when Maraly asked, her voice breaking, “He didn’t come back though, right?”

Nodding was nearly impossible, but Artham managed. “He died well,” he added softly, as if that made it any better. It didn’t, not really. Not in the moment. In the long run, maybe it mattered. But when the pain was fresh, no one cared how or why a loved one died. They only wish they were alive again. 

“Now it feels wrong that we were happy about Janner bein’ alive,” she murmured afterward, twisting her black mask in her hands. “But not bein’ happy ‘bout ‘im seems wrong, too.”

Artham closed his eyes and nodded in response. “I know,” he whispered. “We weren’t sure what to think either. We still aren’t.” He didn’t think they ever would be. It wasn’t the sort of thing one ever understood. Artham knew what Janner felt, the way it hung over his head constantly. He hated seeing his nephew suffer in any way that was even akin to what he had felt. 

Sighing, he refocused his mind on the task at hand and again looked out at the water, his eyes settling on the mass swallowing more and more stars by the second. 

It was so close. His heart quickened. A few breaths, in and out slowly to calm himself. The boat thumped against the island and he nearly jumped, his hand clutching the side of the boat for support.

Artham bit his lip in frustration as he stepped out of the boat and onto shore, being certain to secure it so it wouldn’t drift. The last thing he needed was difficulty escaping while being chased by a crazy crab lady.* Chances were that no matter how the Maker intervened, getting out of the Phoobs and securing his daughter would attract unwanted attention. 

Painfully conscious of the crunch of pebbles underneath his feet as he crept toward the mass on the island, the fortress focused in the natural caves, Artham held one hand out, preferring not to bump into an enormous stone wall. Rather, he preferred his sword to stay put and not swing into stone if he walked into it. The clang of his sheath against such a hard surface would pierce the night and at least alert Amrah someone was near, even if she failed to actually find him in the dark. 

His fingertips finally brushed against rough stone, feeling a bit hewn, as if someone had taken some sort of buffer to it in an attempt to turn it regal rather than dilapidated. They had failed, of course, since the job was poorly done where it had been “completed” and only spanned only a small section of the outer cave. Artham couldn’t help but smirk. One couldn’t expect much in the artisan field from Fangs, it seemed. They were deadly and formidable when it came to combat, but they could not create. Melding snatched beauty from their minds and bodies, and the illness affected all they touched.

Artham felt as though he held his breath briefly with each step he took, with each inch his hand slid along the edge of the rock. He let it out when the step and slide yielded no results, then held it again with the next step and slide. 

The tension running through his mind at the thought of what could happen once he found the entrance to the cave, the back entrance, preferably, was so intense, so all-consuming, so at the forefront of his mind that when his fingers brushed not stone but empty air, he didn’t realize it at first. His mind was dumb for a moment, puzzled as to why his ability to feel had disappeared so suddenly. 

When it dawned on him, a thousand thoughts raced through Artham’s head in a moment, and a thousand metaphors accompanied them. He was running back to his captors, an animal of prey making its way back to the trap from whence it escaped. Yet though he did this, he was the same prey no longer. He had a purpose in running, a goal, a drive. 

Besides, he did not run in fear, he marched with courage (he took a step into the dark, a calculated step, a step of caution). 

Courage the Maker had given him, courage that would not waver (he ventured forward, knowing inaction was not an option, that it would be a mockery of everything wonderful bestowed upon him). 

Courage he should have had all along, courage that perhaps he did, but he had never recognized it (he walked further into the blackness, inky blackness that wrapped around his fingers and neck and mind). 

Courage that now coursed through every fiber of his being, sending his fingers tingling with the excitement of it (the tunnel continued on and on, seeming as though it would never stop, but that was alright. He had never been afraid of the dark).

Courage telling him he would give everything, even his life for his daughter he had not seen in years because he loved her dearly, fiercely, with all his heart (he took another few steps, and the sound of another’s breathing stopped him in his tracks).

Artham felt his heart leap into his throat briefly, and his hand went to his sword. He didn’t draw it yet, for drawing it would create a racket no matter how slow or swift he moved, and then he would lose the element of surprise. There was the chance whoever was in the tunnel with him was unaware of his presence. 

The sound of a striking match and a triumphant hiss put an end to that hope though. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered as he drew his sword, ready to very quietly end the life of the Grey Fang standing before him.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” it asked gruffly, narrowing its eyes at him before he had the chance to swing.

Artham considered this for a moment. “Not so smart as some, perhaps smarter than others. I’m not really sorry, but I’m going to have to kill you.”

The Grey Fang smirked. “No, you’re not. But I’ll take your sword you’re so kindly presenting to me, thanks.”

In a half second, Artham felt himself kicked from behind by something, and before he knew it he was on the ground. His sword did not fall from his hand because he was trained; that could never happen. Unfortunately, it did happen (sort of) when something dreadfully hard knocked into his skull, and the blade was wrenched from his grasp.

“Beasts,” he mumbled, blinking rapidly, desperately fighting to stay awake as they began dragging him in the direction he had been going. He hated it when his enemies hit him in the head hard enough to render him useless, but not so hard that he lost consciousness immediately. The lantern light was dimming. “I’ll have your heads soon.”

“I’m gettin’ tired of ‘im, Gronst,” said a high-pitched voice, likely belonging to the apparent Green Fang. “Can’t we just gonk ‘im an’ keep ‘im from talkin’?”

“Really wouldn’t prefer that,” Artham breathed, watching the darkness deepen. 

The Grey Fang, Gronst, snorted. “I don’t care what you prefer. Might as well get to hear a cry of pain.”

In the same moment blackness from the original hit crashed over him, something, likely his own sword, cracked into his mind, flashing white hot before plunging into a ringing abyss. 

He wasn’t sure if he cried out and satisfied the Fangs or not.

*****

Notes:

*Artham describes Amrah as a "crazy crab lady" because Janner told him about her and her weird melding thing "off screen." He'll go into this with more detail in a later chapter.

OH NO! Now Artham's been captured by fAnGs!!! What are we gonna do??? 🫣

Again, please let me know if there are any canonical errors....I don't think the details regarding Artham getting into the Phoobs via a different, small tunnel contradicts canon, because technically we don't actually see him go in, we just see him outside and then inside and then in the dangly cage after that. But please let me know if you think otherwise or if there's anything else amiss^^