Through Ages of Weary Fulfillment: Ch. 9

Acceptance

Notes:

EDIT: I was working on posting Ch. 10, and then I realized there were two Ch. 8s!!! So I'm working on fixing that and posting 😅

I feel like things are moving really slowly. Granted, the title of this story does include both the words "ages" and "weary"...

Once we get through this beginning part that hopefully won't carry on past Ch. 13, hopefully things will get more interesting...my apologies until that point...

*****

They left for Anniera that day, the new citizens of Ban Rona settled as well as could be hoped in a ruined town, eager—and already beginning—to work on rebuilding and contributing to society. A few when given the option did ask for passage to Skree, but all who requested it did so for the families they had left behind and hoped to see again. The Wingfeathers promised to send a ship their way within the next few days, one of the ships from the Fang fleet still anchored in one of the Annieran harbors. 

Janner couldn't help but think that depending on how many of the people in Anniera chose to either go to Skree or even live in the Hollows, they might need to send more than one ship. He was too tired to bother noting that verbally, though, and chose to leave the thought unspoken. If need be, he could express it later. 

As it was, though, he noted as the wind blew in his face and hair, freezing the former and crazing the latter, they were heading for Anniera now. Leeli had ended up playing her whistleharp out of boredom and accidentally called Hulwen, which in the end worked in their favor. They needed to leave anyway and promptly did so, saying a temporary goodbye to Oskar, Clout, and Olumphia and accepting people’s condolences as best they could. It was hard to do so without wanting to keep again, though, and multiple times during the process, Janner found himself not so tired that he was incapable of crying.

The memory brought tears to his eyes, reminding him that soon there would be more people, more questions to answer, more announcements. 

He winced inwardly. He hated that they had to go through the pain of constantly speaking of Kal's death diplomatically and adding in his appointment as King like it was a bonus or something positive. It wasn't positive at all, that was the truth! It was wrong, so very, very wrong. It was not as it had been for epochs. The oldest was meant to be Throne Warden, to serve his younger brother or sister and Anniera, to protect, to uphold nobleness and integrity for as long as they lived. The oldest was never meant to be King. It went against tradition, against conscience, against…did it go against the Maker?

Janner felt himself briefly slipping back into reality, long enough to know that he sat in front of Artham and was held close and secure, even as the powerful winds buffeted him and made him feel as though they would carry him away at a moment’s notice. 

But back to the concerns over Throne Wardens and Kings, he reminded himself.

Did Kal’s choice, that of choosing him as the successor, go against something the Maker had set in place? Was the Maker the one who chose that the older would serve the younger after the disaster with Ouster Will, or was it another’s choice, the choice of man? Either way, the Maker had not rebuked Kalmar’s choice; He had even gone so far as to nearly approve it. Janner had heard Him speak, had responded, requested, received answers. Why, then, did he find believing it so impossible.

Maker, help me, he cried out in his heart. All he could do was pray when his heart ached, trust when he seemed impossible, believe when all was hopeless. They were known facts residing in his mind, so very well-known in times of peace. In times of grief, though, they seemed as though the truth in them teetered on a thread.

Shaking his head a bit, though not so much that Artham would ask him what was wrong, Janner looked past the blue dragon’s great, majestic head and saw in the distance a mass of land, great cliffs, though not so great as those in Glipwood, rising up on one side, covered on top by a hint of lovely greens and whites and other colors that confused him. He cocked his head and without turning around asked, “That's not Anniera, is it?”

The last he had seen of Anniera had been a charred and blackened land, its wounds from the nine long years of burning numbed by the glorious flowers from the previous night’s rainstorm. Now, though, not only did the land glow with millions of shades of flowers but lush greens of beauty and vibrancy covered every swooping stretch of land visible. Seemingly overnight, grass had grown across the entire Isle, joining with the new life of the redeemed Cloven and Fangs. 

“Indeed it is,” Artham replied grandly, and without looking, Janner knew his uncle smiled with delight. “She’s not quite like she was before Gnag came but in time I know we can rebuild. Perhaps not quite to the height of before, but with everyone there'll soon be homes and villages, and the rise of Rysentown and Lorryshire and the other great cities,” nostalgia crept into his voice, and when Janner finally did turn his head, Artham's eyes stared off into the distance, dwelling in memories.

Smiling, he focused his attention on Anniera once more, marveling at the land and her people. They had never really counted the number of those who came for healing initially, but he realized with a sudden pang that not all the Fangs had come for healing—about half had stayed behind, scattering into the Blackwood or the far reaches of Dang. It was a miracle they had not been attacked while looking for the Well, or even before, when Kal and Artham had worked with the other plan. 

By the second, Janner became more and more astonished and baffled by the situation as a whole. In truth, he and Kalmar were the only ones in their family who had known about all the Fangs left behind, yet he had just remembered seconds before and it had likely slipped the latter’s mind and somehow not ended in more death.

Yet even so, he thought, his heart aching and sending a shiver of weariness through his entire body. It still did end in some death. His death. It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have died. I should have done something. I'm his Throne Warden. How could I have failed Kal so horrifically?

Janner felt tears gathering in his eyes again, but too weak to withstand the wind from the dragon’s wings, they streaked across the side of his face, damping his hair, instead of rolling down his cheeks. He was thankful for it, even more thankful that any residue dried almost immediately. No one needed to know he had cried. His tears didn't matter. They…they didn't mean what Nia’s or Leeli’s tears did. Their tears were ones of grief and sorrow. His contained a tinge of that, but they were selfish. 

“Coming in for landing!” Artham called out, more for Nia, Sara, and Leeli’s benefits than anything else. Janner felt a shift in the blue dragon’s form, and then a fast downward spiral began, one that sent his innards churning as only the rocking of the Enramere had during a storm.

Rather than focusing on his personal dis—

Janner felt his mind shift, as if it had zipped away for a moment before coming back again. He realized first that there had been a brief second of soundlessness, then that Artham’s grip around him had tightened. It seemed as though he had a memory of someone whispering, “slower,” but couldn't be certain.

“Sorry,” Artham murmured in his ear. “That was too fast. Are you alright?”

Nodding, Janner chose to respond with, “yes,” even though a pounding headache had manifested. That wasn't important though. Pushing past it, he worked to focus on Artham. Something was different about him. A levity in his tone and posture had come when they came within the close vicinity of Anniera. Janner wracked his mind for anything that would change Artham’s countenance so drastically, and a smile crossed his face when it dawned on him.

Arundelle.

If one Cloven had been healed, they had all been. If Artham had arrived in Anniera after his death, he would have seen Arundelle. They would have reunited, only to separate yet again for a venture of grief. Now, though, they were free to spend time with each other, to love, to marry, even, if they wished.

At least one thing will be right in the world, he thought as the dragons landed on the Isle, allowing them the chance to slip off before the first fragments of the close crowd came closer.

“Please go find Arundelle,” Janner whispered as Artham helped him down from the blue dragon’s back. “You should. You've been waiting for so long—”

“And abandon my King when he’s about to be swarmed by people and still in danger of collapsing?” Artham raised an eyebrow. “I don't think so.”

Janner sighed, choosing not to argue that he was pretty sure he was capable of keeping himself standing upright and walking on his own. Part of the reason he chose not to argue was because the first portion of Artham’s statement left him so speechless he could not reply. “Alright,” he said quietly, looking at the ground to avoid the prying eyes of not just the Annierans, but those of his family. “You'll see her afterward though, right?”

“Of course,” Artham murmured absentmindedly, squeezing his shoulder to provide reassurance. “Now do you want to explain to them, or should I?”

Janner felt himself flinch at the question, and he shivered next, more because of the gust of wind that swept toward him when the dragons left than anything else. “You can,” he replied quietly as he looked out at the crowd gathered around them, murmuring expectantly. “It seems right.”

It was terribly awkward waiting for Artham to explain everything to the crowd before them, more so since after the first few seconds in which Janner stared intently at the ground, Nia told him to look up at his people.

He did so, grief taking away his breath at the thought. The Annierans…they should have been Kal’s people. Not his. And if all had to exist at its worst, they should have been Leeli’s. The information Artham relayed, the news about the monarchy: Leeli should have been the subject. Leeli was the second oldest of them now, after all. Leeli was the one with the most right to the Throne. Leeli was the one who at least knew how to make decent decisions without rashness or slowness thrown into the mix. She was the perfect monarch. 

Maybe there’s still a chance that we can switch it before Uncle Artham says anything, Janner thought hopefully, his mind barely aware of the words Artham said. He wasn’t paying attention to them. He couldn’t. He knew if he listened to the way Kalmar had died, he would begin crying in front of everyone, or at least coming close to it. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

Janner wished crying in front of others truly was the least of his worries.

“He appointed a different monarch in his place,” Artham said, the first full sentence Janner had actually bothered paying attention to. He supposed it was a good sentence to come in on: if he had any impromptu requirements, now was the time the prompt for them would be given. “King Kalmar named Janner Wingfeather, Throne Warden of Anniera as his successor.”

Confusion, uncertainty, and palpable doubt rippled through the crowd, churning Janner’s stomach with worry and fear. He saw their faces, a patchwork mix of grief, distrust, acceptance, and even anger. A shudder of exhaustion ran through his body and suddenly his mind raced: he was alone, no one else was there, everyone had left him, an angry crowd stared him down, blaming him for something that certainly was his fault, and he just didn’t know what to do. He felt as though a noose had tightened around his neck, drawing him away from air and reality and kingship and Sara—

Janner’s heart fluttered, and air slipped into his lungs again. A blink, then another, were all it took for him to realize that no one had seen his panic, and in the middle of it, the crowd had bowed low to the ground.

Embarrassment flooded through him and he shook himself, glancing around frantically for Artham. He needed to fix what was happening. He found him after a moment’s search, off to the side, down on one knee.

“Uncle Artham,” he hissed. “How do I get them to stop?”

Artham raised his head and smiled a little. “Ask them,” he said simply.

Sighing, Janner pushed away his irritation, vowing to unleash it later on someone, but only when he had the energy to do that and continue functioning without help. He bit his lip, hating that although he knew every moment he hesitated to say anything was another moment in which everyone bowed, yet an increasing reluctance to say anything for fear of saying it wrong mounted by the second. 

Clenching his fists, Janner finally muttered, “Let’s just get it over with,” before clearing his throat and saying, “Thank you…you can stand again if you want to.” He felt a flush of color creeping into his cheeks; he had meant the words to sound like an invitation rather than a command, but they also sounded as though there was a chance he wanted everyone to continue bowing if they were comfortable with it.

The tightness in his chest did not dissipate, even when it was clear everyone had ignored the portion of his offer he feared he had implied. So much so, in fact, that it nearly distracted him from hearing Artham’s next words. “Though now you will all know him as King, I assure you, he is your Throne Warden also,” were the steady words of consideration that came from his uncle’s mouth. “It is in his blood, his mind, his heart always. He served the late king as Throne Warden, and now he will serve you as both Throne Warden and King.”

Tears of gratitude filled Janner’s eyes, even as he wasn’t quite certain of the reason for it. Artham had vocalized the weight he already bore upon his shoulders, yet somehow it relieved him rather than terrifying him. He was still Throne Warden. His instinct had not been stripped from him. He would protect the Throne until the next second-born could take the Throne, until a rightful ruling fell in place. 

Resolve coursed through his veins, and though he knew it would disappear soon, he held onto it for the brief moment it rested in his heart. 

“I will,” Janner whispered, his gaze drifting across the crowd of attentive, acceptant, uncertain people, over Sara, Nia, Leeli, and Artham, unsure, grieved, expectant, and compassionate. “I will.”

*****

Notes:

Also, I just want it to be clear that the thing at the very end was not a coronation. There is an actual coronation that still has to happen....

The bit where Janner nearly passes out because of how fast they're descending is there because apparently when I wrote it, my brain felt like including some nod to my experience of nearly and then successfully passing out on a rollercoaster, which was so much fun! Anyway.... :DDD

Please alert me of any canonical errors that have risen.