So, Tell Her a Story...
Notes:
The word, "maneleon" is pronounced main-LEE-on. It's basically an Aerwiaran Lion
*****
As he glanced over at his now-sleeping daughter, Artham struggled to force himself to think rationally. He knew once he convinced himself to, once he had gotten over the previous frustration and grief, he would. Until that point, though, he would wallow in failure. He had done it all his life, and he certainly wasn’t proud of it. There seemed to be no other way, though. Other methods had been attempted over and over, and yet only this maddening yet eventually effective one seemed to work.
All he had secretly hoped for had crumbled to bits. Perhaps it was selfish, but the thought of having one person in Aerwiar, one person in his life who had never and would never know him as the foolish coward he was, had pushed him forward more than he cared to admit. It was an underlying purpose, of course, not the obvious one, not the one at the forefront of his mind, but it was there, and it was real, and it was painful. Painful because…it had absolutely failed. His daughter, his dear daughter Ilana—how fitting for Amrah to have named her something akin to “tree,” considering he and Arundelle had always loved them—already knew what lay beneath the mask he wore, what resided under the surface, infecting his entire soul.
He was a coward. A fool. He had left her to die. She hated him for it. Of course she did; it was the only reasonable response. Had he really been so blind, stupid enough to think Amrah had told her nothing about him? Yes, he had managed that level of idiocy, and Amrah had told Ilana a mess of truth jumbled with lies. That was her method: mix the two and create a passable art forgery. She wasn’t the first evil person who had done it, and she would not be the last.
What Artham really hated was how well it worked, how expertly it had slipped knives into his heart and mind. The finesse of it all was astounding, really, how perfectly she had predicted Ilana’s reaction to his admittance and his reaction to Ilana’s resentment.
She had studied them both for years, he supposed. The melding chamber in the Phoobs had been a “recent” addition to Gnag’s forces, so he had seen her many times while imprisoned in Throg. And, of course, she had raised Ilana as her daughter these past nine years. That had provided endless time for observation.
His eyes drifted toward Ilana again, and despite what her (not, Amrah’s) words had done to him—choked him, suffocated him, stabbed him—he couldn’t help but smile. Truth be told…he would have done the same thing if he had been in her shoes. Oh, perhaps he wouldn’t have begun talking to the random stranger he was locked in a cell with so soon, but he would have opened up eventually, made the discovery, and been absolutely furious.
The trouble posed now, however, was the issue of getting out of the Phoob Islands together. He had come for his daughter and would not leave without her, yet he could by no means risk threatening, scaring, angering, or deceiving Ilana to do so. If she could not trust him, all was lost.
It would be quite a risk, convincing her to trust him. He would have to somehow prove his love and loyalty without completely disparaging Amrah. It didn’t matter that Amrah was the “bad guy,” to use the vernacular from fictional tales. He simply could not set himself up as wonderful and Amrah as evil, or even a less controversial “good” and “bad.” Ilana would counter it in seconds and such a drastic tactic could cause her to doubt him.
But speaking of fictional tales…perhaps they were the key. As a child, he would have readily listened to and learned from a story or legend far faster than from a lecture or scolding or teaching. If Ilana had reacted to his declaration so similarly to the way he would have, maybe the way he would understand was just what she needed as well.
He prayed the Maker would let it work.
*****
“Hello,” Ilana heard a few moments after she woke up. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Where was her mother? Clearly her father was more Coward than violent, angry Beast. Surely her mother could take him on, subdue him easily, at least enough to get her out of the same cell he was in. Though if he had taken the keys, as she suspected, that would pose a bit of a problem.
“How did you sleep?” were the next words, pleasantly spoken, that came from his mouth. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Surely, he had better places to be.
Without turning her head to look at him—she continued staring between the bars of the cage, looking at the ground far below, illuminated by the sun coming through the openings in the roof of the cave. The melding chamber was in a corner, barely visible, and she remembered once again how confused she always was regarding her mother’s willingness and even joy regarding turning children into wolves and lizards—she replied drily, “Don’t you have something better to do than sit in a locked cage with me?”
Artham—that was his name; she had forgotten briefly—laughed a bit. “I would prefer going with you to meet the rest of our family, but as of right now we’re both a bit locked up in here, don’t you think?”
Ilana shot him a doubtful glance, only to see something odd that looked a bit like sarcastic merriment—did such a thing even exist?— in his eyes. “You have a key to get out, I’m sure,” she retorted. “You’re the one who wanted me locked in here, after all, and since Mother hasn’t come for me, you must have taken her key.”
Shaking his head, a bit of sadness came into his eyes. “No,” he said softly. “I have no key that will open this lock. I’m just as much a prisoner as you, Ilana.”
Ilana stood and planted her hands on her hips, scoffing. “You think you’re a prisoner? I really just don’t understand you.” Shaking her head in disgust, she plopped down onto the rather uncomfortable floor of the cage. Her stomach growled. She wondered if her mother would get something for them—or at least her—to eat.
“I doubt she’ll bring anything,” Artham spoke up, in answer to the intrusive noise her stomach had made. “She’s brought* nothing other than water since I’ve been here, and though her attempts to keep me and now us from dying of dehydration are appreciated, being hungry isn’t exactly a pleasant state.”
Ilana snorted and narrowed her eyes a bit. “Well of course she hasn’t gotten you anything to eat. Were you crazy enough not to bring your own provisions on your stalking mission? No, I’ve got it. Maybe you were so confident you thought you could pull off whatever it is you’re doing in little enough time to where you wouldn’t even need extra food or water.”
A small muscle in Artham’s face twitched, and he looked away, saying nothing. A twinge of guilt for insulting him repeatedly crept into Ilana’s heart. Rather, not guilt but embarrassment. Even if the man was her beast-of-a-father, he was her elder and deserved some amount of respect.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, wanting to get it in before too much time had passed and such a word would prove pointless and frankly, awkward. “Whatever I think of you and whatever horrible things you’ve done or said or thought to or about me, I shouldn’t be rude.”
Artham was quiet for a few moments before finally saying, “Thank you.” Ilana thought that would be the end of it and clammed up again, but he continued speaking. “I know the words ‘thank you’ can come across as shallow a lot of times. Why don’t I tell you a story to show I really do appreciate it?”
Wrinkling her nose, Ilana looked at him strangely. “Why in Aerwiar would you do that?”
He shrugged. “I have my reasons.”
Ilana shook her head. “I guess you can. But I’ve settled on it, I think. Actually, I settled on it a while ago. I’ve just been thinking about it more, building up a case.”
Artham looked at her curiously. “Settled on what?”
“On what you are,” she replied simply. “You never make any sense. Mother says you’re angry and violent and a coward, yet you’re sitting here asking me if I want you to tell me a story. That might fit the coward side of you, but not angry or violent. You seem nice, actually. So, I’ve decided that you’re not a coward or a beast or a monster or kind or considerate or any of those things. You’re mad. Deranged. Crazy. And that’s the end of it. It’s the only explanation.”
The entire time she had been speaking, all sorts of things had fluttered across her father’s face, confusion, concern, worry, uncertainty. Now, though, joviality settled there. “I’ve been called crazy by many people. In fact, I was the town madman in Glipwood for many years,” he confessed. “So why don’t I affirm your belief in my insanity by telling you that story?”
He seemed so eager and so childlike in his eagerness that Ilana nearly laughed and actually did smile. Something in her spirits lifted when she saw the look on his face, when she saw the way his blue eyes sparkled. She knew part of it came from her re-discovered belief that while what her mother had said was true, it wasn’t all true. He couldn’t help it. It was madness. “Sure. Why not?”
Artham told her a story about two cats and their little kitten. The kitten was lost, taken by a maneleon and raised by her captor, being told she wasn’t loved by her parents. This wasn’t true, of course. Her parents, the two cats, simply watched her die and were told by the maneleon that it was indeed her fate. The little kitten grew older, always wondering why she wasn’t like the maneleon, why she wasn’t vicious, why she had irrational dreams that made her heart soar.
At that point, Ilana knew Artham spoke of her, the kitten, of her “mother,” the maneleon, and of himself and her real mother, the two cats longing for their lost child.
The tale ended with the father cat coming to rescue his kitten daughter, but she didn’t want to go with him. She was scared and thought that because he had been gone so many years, he didn’t love her. He hated her, in fact. “But it isn’t true,” Artham said softly. He looked straight into her eyes. “It never was true.”
Ilana rested her head in her hand, thinking. “What did the little kitten do?” she asked quietly, the love that had slowly blossomed in her heart over the course of the story now trembling in suspense or confusion or wonder, which or all, she wasn't sure.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “We haven’t gotten that far quite yet.”
Reaching out and slipping her hand into Artham’s, Ilana smiled at the look of surprise on his face. “I think I know.”
In the next moment, she was in his arms—in her father’s arms—wrapped in the tightest, safest (despite the cage's swinging), most lovely hug in Aerwiar. It was far better than anything she had imagined, and it brought tears to her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and when she pulled her head away from where she had buried it in his chest, she saw tears rolling down his cheeks.
He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then a shrill voice split the air, though not totally shattering the moment. “How wonderful. The reunion is underway, and I wasn’t even notified. That’s alright. It gives both of you a bit more time to be together before I kill you.”
*****
Notes:
Yay, Ilana likes him, now! 😄 No, Amrah broke in and spoiled the moment! 😣
Artham's decision to tell Ilana a story was based on a quote from Andrew Peterson: "If you want a child to know the truth, tell him the truth. If you want a child to love the truth, tell him a story." <3 <3
The chapter title is inspired from the same...
Again, let me know if canonical errors have arisen^^
**HIGH PITCHED WHIMPERING*