Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 30

The Choice is Made

Notes:

Time for a bit more action in the chapter!!! Sort of...

*****

“D’ya see anythin’ yet?” Maraly hissed, trying once again to see around Gammon’s hulking, dark form in the even darker night. 

It looked as though he shook his head in response, but since he was not wearing the traditional, enormous, absolutely ridiculous Florid Sword wide-brimmed hat, that sort of thing was difficult to tell when one couldn’t exactly see. 

The moon was hidden by increasingly dark, thick clouds, meaning rain was probable and being sighted was not. Being sighted would not be an issue, of course, at least not too much of an issue, if they were back in Dugtown, making sure no one killed each other on the streets because of a bar brawl gone wrong.

However, they were not in Dugtown. They were still among the Phoob Islands, not all that far away from the monster of them, the one where the Fanging business had taken place for probable years, though, considering how long Green Fangs had roamed Aerwiar, possible months.

And, of course, the reason for them being in such a wretched place: Gammon felt like something had gone wrong with Artham’s mission to save his daughter, and so they were now coming to provide assistance. 

It was not often that Gammon risked everything for a hunch, a feeling. He was the practical sort who normally wouldn’t, and thankfully it was a matter they both agreed on. Doing things based on feeling generally ended in doom and utter failure. However, Maraly had come to learn over the past few months that Gammon was more susceptible to listening to a feeling than she was. Something about the way his brain worked got him a bit paranoid at times, thinking a bit featherbrained, so he would, on occasion, fly into something based on a feeling or a worry. 

This trait came in handy when he was thinking on the fly and trying to come up with another clever line for the Florid Sword. He had even figured out several for her, which was a considerate thing that made her feel a bit guilty, considering she never used the lines. Gammon enjoyed being flashy and obvious in the way he carried out his trysts through town, whereas she preferred stealth and secrecy. The less people who knew she existed, the better. Shadowblade was just what the name suggested: a shadow cutting through the dark, never known by any and only seen by few.

Florid Sword and Shadowblade aside, this slightly-flabbit-chasing-occasional-habit of his also kicked into high gear unexpectedly after Artham had disappeared into the dark, enough to where he had to get up and pace at least once every two hours. And as time had gone by, that pacing had become more and more frequent, as had muttering and eventually speaking out loud about his concerns. 

That had made Maraly uncomfortable, obviously. Yes, she loved Gammon fiercely and in a way she had never loved anyone else, but it didn’t mean she liked hearing his thoughts. It wasn’t just his thoughts, of course. It was everyone’s. Including hers. She hadn’t even really liked hearing Sara’s thoughts at first, but she had paid attention to them out of necessity. Eventually she figured out she really didn't mind hearing thoughts if they were sensible. It was when they weren't sensible that they drove her batty.

In the end, Gammon’s rather irksome paranoia had been what led them to venture into the waters surrounding the Phoob Islands that evening, using a boat he had stashed on another island. This, he had retrieved mere hours after Artham had set out several days earlier, meaning he was not soaking wet anymore. Though he may have complained about his socks still being slightly damp, another detail which Maraly had no desire to hear. 

“What’s the plan?” she finally asked after they had rowed on in silence for long enough that she was growing uncomfortable, especially when considering that if she was seeing correctly in the dark, they were about to bump into the target of the Phoob Islands. 

More silence followed, the sort of uncomfortable silence that follows an unanswered question. Maraly couldn’t help but shift in her seat. Perhaps she hadn’t liked Gammon’s muttering, but at least it had been noise. Now all she heard was the slap of the waves against the boat and the oars and each other.

 “I’m not sure,” he eventually said, slowly, and definitely uncertainly. “My guess is we’re going to be doing a bit of thinking on our feet.”

A rustle, a strangely familiar one, sounded as soon as he said the words, and though she couldn’t see it, Maraly guessed he held a finger to his lips. She didn’t need to be told to be quiet twice. Her hand slowly snaked down her side, and she picked three of her daggers out of various pockets and straps. 

Though she could not see it, she knew Gammon was itching to do the same, but with his sword. She considered offering to row and give him the chance to arm himself, but just then the boat bumped a bit jarringly against the shore and dramatic hissing filled the silence air.

The boat securely stuck on the pebbly and mucky shore, Maraly leapt out, daggers in hand, ready to face whatever scaly or furry or winged creatures stood before her. Nothing moved though, other than the air next to her, stirring as Gammon joined her. 

She heard the slight clang as he grasped the hilt of his sword, then the wonderful zing as it slid from its sheath. As if orchestrated by some unseen force, the moon slid out from behind dense clouds in the same instant, setting the blade aglow and revealing the Fangs facing them: seven, five Green and two Grey, all hissing or growling now they could see their quarry. 

More like their killers, Maraly thought smugly, smirking, waiting desperately for Gammon to give the signal to strike. 

“Art thy souls ready to meet thy dooms?” Gammon asked, slipping naturally into his Florid Sword voice and charging at the same time, "Aha!" also springing from deep inside his chest.

Maraly grinned, let out a whoop! and followed, knowing the two of them could easily take on seven Fangs.

They had dealt with far worse, after all.

*****

As Amrah worked to unlock the cage door, Artham moved himself in front of Ilana defensively, despite the annoying swinging accompanying the motion. “What are you doing?” he asked, glaring at her while simultaneously surveying the cave, checking for Fangs or any other sort of threat. If Amrah planned on keeping her word, one or both of them would likely be dying very, very soon if nothing else was done. He was more than willing and certainly planned to intervene, but it would have to be done in a calculated manner.

“Exactly what I told you, Artham,” Amrah said coolly, taking her time with the lock. “You will be executed in a most brutal manner for the crimes you have committed against your daughter.” 

Behind him, Ilana slipped her hand into Artham’s inconspicuously, making him smile and bolstering the resolve he hadn’t realized would need bolstering. He took the gesture as what physical touch tended to imply: trust, fear of the other person, need for protection. It was good to know Ilana wasn’t listening to Amrah’s lies again. 

Eyeing Amrah cautiously, Artham risked gathering a bit more information. “You’re going to kill me in front of her?” he asked, putting up a front of incredulousness. He really wasn’t that surprised at all, knowing Amrah. “That seems a bit cruel. And if you want to sway her back into listening to you, it’s not exactly your brightest idea. And I don’t see a weapon.” He surveyed her person, checking for any sort of weapon. He didn’t see one, but she could have easily concealed a dagger in the dark folds of her dress or up her sleeve. 

Amrah’s eyes flashed as the lock clicked. “Don’t give me advice,” she growled. “And I never said I would be doing the killing, did I?” 

The sound of growls and hissing began as if on cue, several sets of glowing, yellow eyes emerging from the dark. Artham felt his heart sinking. The chances of getting out of this in one piece with Ilana were growing slimmer by the minute. 

“Now,” Amrah said briskly, almost happily, as if she was about to run a pleasurable errand. “These are some of the more crazed Fangs, the wild ones who’ve been without a stone too long. They’re instructed to kill anything that looks vaguely person-like as soon as I give the signal, so, Ilana, darling, we’d better get out of here.”

A huff sounded from behind, and then Ilana crawled across the bottom of the cage, now sitting next to him. He glanced at her and couldn’t help but smile at the fierce glow in her eyes and the furiously pursed lips. She looked like Arundelle when she got angry. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still in this cage you threw me in.”

Amrah scowled at her. “I have the key, brat. The door’s unlocked already. You’re welcome to come with me. And who told you I threw you in, this lying monster?”

Ilana crossed her arms in front of her chest. “No,” she said slowly, still fierce and undeterred, despite being called a brat. “Simple reasoning told me. It turns out that telling the difference between lies and truth comes pretty easy when you hear something true.”

Amrah clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. She reached for the cage door stiffly, then flung it open in anger. In a flash, her hand had fastened itself onto Ilana’s wrist, wrenching her out. “We’re going,” she seethed. 

The sudden change in weight distribution sent the cage swinging madly, the door clanging and Artham tumbling unexpectedly, his heart in his throat as he slid toward the entrance that now led to the far-below rocky bottom of the cave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilana stumbling behind Amrah, then yanking her hand away and shouting, “No, we’re not!”

Another surge of panic fluttered through Artham, and he knew he had to get out of that cage and to his daughter quickly, before Amrah did something dreadful to her. Taking a breath, he inched toward the open door and steadied himself there for a moment before springing from the lurching cage.

He landed on the cliff edge, safe, not anywhere near wobbling off, and in time to focus his attention on Amrah and Ilana again.

Spinning around, Amrah stared at his daughter, her dark-cloth-enshrouded face first filled with grief, then anger. She raised her hand, about to slap Ilana.

Artham was standing between horrid-not-crab Amrah and Ilana the same moment, catching the former’s wrist deftly. “You can’t take her if she doesn’t want to go with you,” he said calmly, despite the way his heart pounded at the same time knowing if Ilana stayed with him, he would have to protect her from the Fangs somehow, and he wasn’t sure he could do that. 

Scoffing, Amrah smiled a little bit. “Not exactly your brightest idea, Artham,” she said, mocking him with his own words. “You don’t even have a weapon to fight the coming Fangs.” (they growled again as if to emphasize their presence) “I’m doubtful you can survive this, so how will your daughter? She’s even more defenseless than you are.”

“She has me,” Artham said softly, reaching for Ilana’s hand and squeezing it comfortingly. “And the Maker, of course. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Amrah stared at both of them, her eyes filled with disdain, her mouth set in a thin line, as if she wished she had a weapon on her so she could kill Artham then and there. She breathed heavily, bent down and kissed Ilana’s cheek briefly, to which the receiver flinched and wiped the gesture away. “Finish them,” she hissed, then picked up her skirts and ran, the dark cloth billowing behind her as she fled. 

The signal was a rather obvious one, and in an instant Artham had gathered Ilana in his arms and run toward the cage. It had begun swinging a bit less, and he reached out for it, pulling back on it when he caught it and steadying the motion. “I need you to stay in here, alright?” he breathed as he set her inside. “It’s the safest place for you.”

Ilana nodded vigorously, her eyes full of both trust and fear. “I will,” she said softly, the words slowing Artham’s racing heart, speeding up with the sound of every claw scratching against the floor of the cave.

He shut the door for another barrier of protection, thankful it was impossible to lock without the key. Accidently locking his daughter somewhere was not what he wanted. “Only leave if I fall, and by fall I mean actually getting killed, not just getting knocked to the ground.” He hated amending his words to make them more direct, but he wanted to ensure her safety. 

Ilana nodded, her breaths becoming shaky and fearful. “Okay.”

Artham smiled a bit. “I love you,” he replied, turned to leave, and turned back. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Don’t open them. Don’t look. Close your eyes, Ilana. Please.”

“I will, Daddy,” she murmured, her eyelids shutting, her hands covering them as well. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Artham reached through the bars, cupped her cheek in his hand, and turned to face the Fangs. He walked toward them, wanting to put distance between himself and Ilana for safety. Seven Fangs. Could he handle seven crazed Fangs weaponless?

“Maker,” he breathed, beginning to run forward as the first three charged. “Give me the strength and courage I lack.”

*****

Ilana kept her eyes squeezed shut the entire time, her father’s words playing in her mind over and over again, in some vain attempt to block out the sounds of blades clashing and grunts of pain and screams as Fang after Fang was killed. The sound of a Fang lunging against the cage sent her tumbling, shrieking with terror, but she didn’t open her eyes, she didn’t, and soon she heard her father, fighting the Fang, keeping her safe, and the cage swung more gently. 

Even so, it wasn’t long before she began pressing the backs of her ears, closing them off from hearing. She was not tempted to look, not in the least, but she was terrified of hearing the sound of her father’s death. Even the thought was unbearable, so she hummed a little tune that went with a song she had written. When that wasn’t enough to drown out the sound, though, and a particularly horrifying cry of pain that she knew belonged to her father reached her ears, she began singing.

I am safe within your arms, 

Your hold on me will never fail.

I’ll never come to any harm

As long as you prevail.

You will fight for me forever

And with you I know I can be safe

‘Cause these hearts of ours are tethered

And the bond can never break.

I cry in anguish, my heart burning

Wondering why my throat now aches.

My very soul is even yearning

Even as it weeps and shakes:

"Why to these lengths do you go,

When it could send you to your grave?"

But now I simply know 

That’s the kind of love we crave.

*****

Notes:

I cannot take credit for the "close your eyes, and I'll fight them, keeping you from seeing any more horror" idea. I pulled this from Sound of Freedom, at the end, when Tim Ballard is rescuing the girl. Of course, he says, "cierra tus ojos," and it's just so much softer and gentler in Spanish, plus Jim Caviezel does that thing with his voice that makes it even softer, like a murmur.

But all things aside-

Also, the song that Ilana sings! That poem was fun to come up with...and, yes, I did put it to a tune that I made up, but since I can't read or write music, I couldn't possibly say what notes I hit.

And the title refers to the choice Ilana makes, that of choosing Artham or Amrah :')

Anyway, that's how things are going with them^^ I don't know if it's as intense as I want it to be (I don't think it is) but part of this is because I'm focusing on Ilana's POV, which does make it less action-oriented.

Please let me know if there are canonical errors^^