Part 3 Some notes — • IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! I know I promised this third and final part about two and a half months ago, but it's finally arrived. Thank you all so much for your patience and support. • As per usual, PLEASE pick this to pieces! This doesn't just include canon, but tell me if you think someone is out of character. And I wrote the last third of this in less than twenty-four hours, so let me know if anything is choppy. Also, I elaborate a little more on the role of a Throne Warden in this part which isn't technically mentioned in the Wingfeather Saga — tell me if it's plausible. • Again, I live in the UK, so forgive my strange spelling, wording, and even slang. If you have any questions on meaning, please don't hesitate to ask. • Last thing, sorry this is so long. The last part turned out a lot longer than I planned for it to be. Now, onward! * Vestiges of a dream still clung to Artham’s mind when he was woken. Arundelle’s gentle pleading brought him back to the present world, and he peeled his eyes open to see the sunlight filtering through a green leaf canopy above him. The wind had stilled, and the air buzzed with the pleasant heat of an afternoon sun. “Artham, are you awake?” “Yes,” he yawned. “What is it?” “It’s well past midday. The horn blew not too long ago, so the festivities will begin soon.” It took a few moments for Artham to process this information. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he sat up. “What? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he said frantically, scrambling down the trunk. “I’m sorry,” she said, peering down from her perch. “I lost track of the time.” Artham bit back a retort. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep anyway. “My family and I will be at the party,” Arundelle added. “Will I see you there?” “Yes,” he said tersely, hopping down onto the ground. “I’ll see you later.” Artham ran to the castle as fast as his legs would allow, but he took no joy in it. He was too consumed in his thoughts and concerns, chastising himself for being so careless, so distracted, so taken away with — Arundelle. The very thought of her ignited in him that same exhilaration. Such joy as he had never known before hummed beneath his very skin, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if this energy carried him to the clouds. Never before had he felt such happiness, such bliss. And it was because of her. Because of this girl. Arundelle. Why? He and Arundelle had known each other since they were children, and had been loyal friends for as long as he could remember. They had always enjoyed spending time together: exploring Castle Rysen’s extensive library, strolling the surrounding grounds, and writing stories and songs. So why was this time so different? Why was he experiencing such powerful emotions and thinking such ludicrous thoughts? Or… had he always felt this way and only just noticed? Artham wrestled with these questions until he reached the castle, hardly noticing the decorations that were being arrayed in the street, or the musicians and dancers practising. When he finally stumbled onto the grounds, gasping for air, he was struck with a terrifying realisation — he had left Esben behind! Artham gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. Forgetting the festival was one thing, but forgetting his brother was another entirely. How could he have been so foolish? So forgetful? What kind of apprentice Throne Warden was he? With a frustrated sigh, he turned to run again to the Illing Inn to retrieve Esben. It took some time to pull him away from the twins, but the brothers returned to the castle to find their mother, Nala, searching for them. She had sent a few guards to search for them at the beach and in Lorryshire an hour ago, and was worried they had gotten lost. “You two are filthy,” Nala scolded with a hint of a smile. She plucked a twig from Artham’s windblown hair. “Now go wash and get dressed. Your clothes have been laid out for you already.” The brothers tore across the grounds toward the open gate and grand castle doors. Most of the spring festivities would be celebrated inside the castle’s dining hall and ballroom, as well as the grounds outside. Wonderful scents were drifting up from the kitchens — much to Artham’s longing, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. Artham quickly cleaned and dressed, and surveyed his reflection in the mirror one last time. His wet hair hung in loose, twisted locks, dripping water down the front of his navy velvet tunic and the back of his neck — causing him to shiver. His wide blue eyes stared back at him as he shifted his weight, wondering if he was presentable. Artham blinked a few times, his brows furrowed in confusion. He had never been concerned with his outer appearance — ever. Yes, he was cleaner and more responsible than Esben, who would have never bothered to bathe in his life if it was his decision. But Artham felt insecure. Did he look all right? Was he overdressed? Or underdressed? Did he smell clean? Was he sure he got all of the twigs and leaves out of his hair? Without warning, Esben began pounding Artham’s bedroom door. “Are you ready yet?” he shouted. “Hurry up!” As soon as Artham unlocked and opened his door, Esben came tumbling through, wearing a green velvet tunic and the muddy boots that he had brought back from the inn. He hurled himself onto his brother’s bed, sprawled on the sheets. “So why were you so late?” Esben asked, swinging his hanging legs. “I fell asleep,” Artham said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You fell asleep?” His younger brother sat up, his freckled face scrunched with confusion. “Where did you sleep?” “In a tree,” Artham answered, realising he was sounding more and more ridiculous. He began lacing his boots that he retrieved from the inn, which were also mud-spattered and grass-stained. “Why did you sleep in a tree?” “It was really peaceful,” Artham said tersely, and decided to change the subject. “Did you have fun with Cador and Sheridan?” Esben nodded happily. “We stayed at the inn the entire time. Natan brought us sausage bread and we got to play some zibzy before going back upstairs. It was really fun.” “Good,” Artham replied, tying off the lace. The boys joined their parents and aunt downstairs to greet the first of the guests that were filing into the castle. Nala buttoned Esben’s open collar and laughed as she tousled Artham’s hair. “You’re as wet as a dish rag,” she said, standing on her toes to part his tangled hair down the middle so that his bangs framed his face instead of covering it. “But you both look wonderful.” “Thanks, Mama!” Esben grinned. “Thank you, Mama,” Artham nodded shyly. He normally squirmed while his mother fixed his hair as he insisted that he was old enough to do it himself, but for this occasion, he was grateful for it. When Artham turned, he felt his heart leap into his throat. His father was embracing Natan, who carried a whistleharp under his arm and was dressed in a silk tunic and sash that seemed out of place on him. His mother and Merna greeted each other with a flurry of exclamations and compliments on their festive dress. And at Merna’s side was Arundelle, waving at him with a nervous smile. Artham had completely forgotten his anger from earlier and waved in return. Her sage green dress complimented her father’s attire — sleeveless and trimmed with gold and silver. With a wreath of flowers in her hair, she had the appearance of a tree come to life, like a forest queen greeting her subjects. She was breath-taking. Arundelle embraced Jru and Nala and Illia, laughing as they commented on how much she had grown. The adults were so busy conversing that none of them noticed Esben sneaking away with the twins to the kitchens. “You look handsome,” Arundelle said when she turned to Artham. “You, too,” he started before his eyes widened. “I mean — beautiful. You look beautiful.” “Thank you,” she said, looking away. Her smile faded. “I’m sorry about earlier. I should have woken you. You just looked so peaceful, sleeping there. And you were snoring, too,” she added with a giggle. Artham felt his cheeks reddening. “Sorry.” “No need to be sorry. It was kind of cute.” Artham was unsure how to respond. Was she complimenting or demeaning him? Should he thank her? But the way she was looking up to him, smiling and shifting her feet… was she waiting for something? But something in her eyes dimmed. “I’ll have to go now,” she said. “I’m singing with my father tonight. But we can meet afterwards, if you like.” Artham swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “All right.” Arundelle nodded with a sad smile, and she turned to follow Natan into the dining hall. As Artham watched her leave, he felt he missed something. Why was she so sad? Did he do something wrong? That was very strange. Artham had never seen her so disappointed. “She’s quite taken away with you,” said a voice from behind him. Artham nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around to face his Aunt Illia. Her hair was pulled into a long braid falling down to her waist, and her dark eyes were alight with something like mischief. It was rare to see her in the gown she was adorning tonight, the only one she owned that was held together by stitches and patches of odd fabrics. For years, Nala had offered Illia her own gowns, but her sister-in-law refused. Illia was never one to worry about her external appearance, but there was a special beauty in her plain, tanned face and gangly form. Illia was like a second mother to Artham, and yet she wasn’t. Nala coddled her sons at times, and lavished them with a motherly love only she could give and was supposed to give. As the Throne Warden training her apprentice, Illia treated Artham not just as her beloved nephew, but as an apprentice in need of training. Nevertheless, the two shared a special bond only Throne Wardens could have, one that Artham hoped to share with an apprentice he may train someday. If Esben ever grew up, that was. “We’re just friends,” Artham said bashfully. Illia laughed, crossing her arms. “I think she wants to be more than that.” “What do you mean?” his voice shook. His aunt shook her head with a sigh. “She’s in love with you.” Artham felt his joints lock in place as his face reddened considerably. Every inch of him was trembling, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move or speak. The idea of Arundelle being in love with him drew a blank in his mind, and he was assaulted by conflicting emotions and countless questions. “Um…” Artham swallowed the lump in his throat with great effort. Wasn’t it obvious? The way Arundelle invited Artham and Esben to Illing Inn without her parents’ consent, how she held his hand and brought him to her private writing tree, and didn’t wake him up to spend more time with him. And how she looked at him, with such fondness and excitement and expectancy in her gaze… could she really be in love with him? “And judging from your facial expression,” Illia added, “you’re smitten.” “I-I’m… what?” Artham managed to stutter, his jaw falling open. Something warm and wonderful blossomed in his chest while a wave of nausea rolled inside his stomach. It was joy and anxiety and apprehension all in a torrent inside him, manifesting in his flushed face and his body shaking like a windblown leaf. An onlooker may have thought he was ill. Illia appeared amused and cocked a brow. “Don’t try to deny it. Everyone can tell.” Everyone could tell there was something between him and Arundelle Artham shuddered at the thought, and only averted his eyes in response. “You know I’m not one to dance around the point,” Illia placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have fallen in love with a girl who shares the same feelings. Do you realise how often this happens?” “Not often, I suppose,” Artham mumbled. “No, it doesn’t.” Illia’s brows furrowed as she became serious. “But you have a decision to make. You can pursue Arundelle, who is a wonderful young woman and has already proven to be a good friend. In a year or so when her parents approve, you can begin courting her. Maybe one day even marry her.” Something stirred in Artham’s chest at the word marry. The thought of a wife had crossed his mind a few times, but it never seemed to fit with his Throne Warden responsibilities. Protecting his younger brother was the reason for his existence, his very life and breath. Having a wife and family of his own could divide his desires and interfere with his duty to his brother. “Or,” his aunt paused with a sigh, “you can do what I did. You can draw the line at friendship and abandon any kind of romantic feelings you have for her.” Artham glanced up to meet Illia’s eyes, where sorrow and regret swirled in her irises. A moment of silence passed between them. “Is that why you never married? Because of Papa?” he asked softly. Illia nodded. “I had fallen in love with a young man named Cailean, and he shared feelings for me as well. He was going to court me, and my intentions were to marry him. But once I realised that my thoughts were consumed with him and I no longer thought of my brother, I ended our friendship.” Ending his friendship with Arundelle… it sounded harsh, cruel even. But wasn’t Esben worth it? “What should I do?” Artham finally asked. “That is entirely up to you,” she smiled, lifting her hand. “I won’t force you to do anything, nor can I tell you which is the right decision. There is a reason why many Throne Wardens never married, but there are plenty also who did, and found much joy in it. But the Maker will guide you. That is all the advice I can give you.” Artham could only nod, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking. Illia smiled and turned to take her place at her brother’s side once more. Artham felt the urge to speak, and yet he had no words. He could sense the dividing path in front of his feet, and whichever one he took had repercussions that would affect the rest of his life. This wasn’t something he could ignore, and it couldn’t wait, either. No matter the decision he made, his friendship with Arundelle would never be the same after tonight. The noise of his growling stomach cut through the noise. Artham suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. He considered sneaking into the kitchens to avoid any encounters with the guests now flooding the castle corridors. It at least guaranteed he wouldn’t meet Arundelle and a chance for him to sort out his thoughts and come to a decision. The cooks were too busy to notice Artham’s quiet entrance, and only a few gave a quick greeting before resuming their busy work. None of them minded that he took a few scraps of food for himself — it was something he and Esben did often. When he was satisfied, Artham found a small nook in the musicians’ loft overlooking the hall where most of the guests were gathered, nibbling on a pastry. It was now he wished he had brought a book to occupy him or a journal where he could expel all of his thoughts and worries. But he knew it would only distract him more. He had to focus. And yet Artham found himself drawn toward the sage green dress weaving among the people, belonging to the lovely Arundelle. Her graceful stride, cascading dark hair, twinkling eyes — Oh, how she plagued his thoughts! Artham stubbornly turned away, clenching his jaw in anger and frustration. He had to think. What was he going to do? Artham was the apprentice Throne Warden of Anniera, charged with protecting the future High King, Esben Wingfeather. His entire life would be devoted to remembering and to reminding and to keeping his younger brother safe. It was a sacred mantle the Maker bestowed upon him, a responsibility Artham was honoured and humbled to uphold… And he was terrified. But Artham wouldn’t be the Throne Warden until Esben became king, and that wouldn’t be for many years. That could wait. And then there was Arundelle. The daughter of the Royal Bard, a poet, musician, and lifelong friend. Her beauty was beyond comparison, as lovely as the Shining Isle itself. And her intellect was unmatched among any other girls he had met — from the way she could recite songs and melodies to her brilliant and bouncy poetry. Even if he didn’t have feelings for her, he couldn’t deny the wonderful young woman she was. But he did love her. Artham released a shaky breath. Maker, what should he do? His thoughts drifted to a world where he would deny any kind of romantic love, and live his life completely devoted to Esben. It was simple and noble, he thought, and he admired that kind of loyalty. But then he imagined the days when Esben was old enough to court and marry. It certainly seemed a long way off, and virtually impossible to pair a rascally thirteen-year-old boy with any poor, unsuspecting girl. But it would happen one day — Anniera needed the next High King or Queen after all. Esben would have his own wife and children, his own family to care for alongside his kingdom. It certainly seemed very lonely, watching all of this unfold while Artham denied that for himself. Did he really want that? Was that what the Maker wanted? Artham leaned against the cool stone of the castle wall, closing his eyes “Just tell me what to do,” he murmured. “Whatever You want, I’ll do it.” The sentence had hardly left his mouth before he heard footsteps and suppressed laughter. He would have laughed at the irony of interruption, but only found himself annoyed. He sat up, internally groaning at the sight of Esben and the twins. They had scampered up the narrow staircase, no doubt to escape an angry victim of their mischief, now toppling over each other into the loft. All three of them had already stained their evening attire, their hair askew and windblown after much running, and smelled faintly of freshly overturned soil. The sight concerned him. “Were you sleeping again, Artham?” his younger brother asked with a raised brow, plopping down in front of him. It wasn’t a condescending question nor did Esben mean for it to be, but Artham responded with irritation. “What were you three doing?” Cador and Sheridan were hovering over the stairwell, most likely waiting until the coast was clear to begin their shenanigans again. Esben started giggling. “While Natan was gone, we buried his whistleharp.” Artham’s eyes widened. He wasn’t a musician, but he was sure burying any kind of instrument wasn’t good. “What? How? Where did you even get the tools?” “We didn’t bury it really —” “What were you three thinking? You could damage Natan’s whistleharp.” His younger brother shrugged as if it hadn’t occurred to him. “We just covered it with dirt in the garden. It was very funny watching him look for it, though. He finally decided to use Arundelle’s. She brought it with her.” “You should give it back, Es,” Artham warned. “That whistleharp means a lot to him.” “He’s got a replacement, though. We’ll give it back after the party. It’s fine, I promise!” Artham was about to object when Cador or Sheridan — he could never tell the difference — called from the stairwell. “Artham!” one of them said. “We forgot — Aru is looking for you!” For a moment, Artham didn’t move. His body went rigid as he tried to control the tremor in his hands. “Okay,” he once again tried to sound nonchalant, standing to his feet. “Bye!” Esben waved from his seat on the ground. Artham could only nod when his brother said goodbye, unable to loosen his dry tongue. Maker, help me, he prayed as he descended the narrow staircase. Nothing registered in Artham’s mind as he left the haven of the musicians’ loft and stepped into the throng amassed in the great hall. He shuffled between faces and tables, giving some kind of muttered answer or nod to anyone who greeted him. When he finally stumbled out the open doors leading into the gardens, he was awakened from his daze. The breeze was a mere whisper in his ears, gently shaking the trees and carrying a soft scent of rain. A round, full moon hung in the sky above him, casting its silvery net of light, and the stars gladly joined in twinkling dances. It was surprisingly chilly, and Artham was tempted to retreat inside. But someone called him. It was such a beautiful sound. To have his name on her lips, spoken with her very voice, evoked such delight. Artham felt his heart surge in his chest like it was taking flight, and saw Arundelle sitting cross-legged on a stone bench. A willow tree was draped around her seat, concealing her in a curtain of leafy tendrils. Only the glow of the castle’s light illuminated her, and he could only just see her eyes — a pair of jewels glinting in the shadow. “Yes?” he found the word slipping from his mouth before he allowed it. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering, but it felt irreverent to not be quiet in such a still place. “May I speak to you for a moment?” Artham strode toward her with some hesitation, his footsteps muffled in the wet grass. As he drew closer, he could see a strange sorrow contorting her face, almost like she was about to cry. Had she been crying? Did this have to do with the disappointed look he saw earlier? Would this be a good time for him to say anything about his conversation with Illia? Artham took a seat across from her, folding his legs so that he was balanced on the bench and facing her. Arundelle remained shrouded in the dark, her arms wrapped around herself as she shivered. He could see vapour from her breath in the air like clouds of mist. “Are you cold?” he asked. Arundelle didn’t answer. Artham opened his mouth to speak again, but no words came. Questions as to why she called him or what she wanted to talk about never found their way to his lips. Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the cool air burning his nose and throat before exhaling. Please… tell me what to do. “Arundelle,” Artham began, unsure. “I have something to tell you.” “Me, too,” she said quietly. “May I go first?” “Sure.” Arundelle released a shaky breath and lifted her head, but never turned to meet his eyes. “I wanted to apologise to you.” Artham blinked a few times — that caught him off-guard. “For what?” “I have been very unfair to you. I have been arranging things so that we could spend more time together.” “What’s wrong with that?” “It was my motives that were unfair,” Arundelle paused, her expression unreadable in the dark. “I… I was trying to manipulate you. To fall in love with me.” A silence swallowed every single sound. Artham couldn’t hear the wind or the music and voices in the hall. Only his pounding heart and the cold from the stone leaching through his clothes kept him grounded to reality. “I just wanted to say I was sorry,” her voice was hoarse as she restrained her tears. “I’m so sorry I tried to force this on you. Everything I did today was to try and win your affection. It was selfish and I wasn’t thinking about how I was affecting you. And… I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore.” Artham struggled to find the right words. He wasn’t expecting that, and he certainly didn’t notice it. How should he respond? There was a long stretch of quiet before he spoke in a hushed whisper. “I didn’t realise you liked me so much.” Arundelle laughed tearily. “But that was all I had to say. What were you going to tell me?” What was he going to tell her? “Arundelle, you are one of my best friends,” Artham said hesitantly. “And I would like us to continue to be friends. But… I do love you.” Arundelle sat up, turning to meet his gaze. Tears glistened in her eyes as her flushed face drained of colour. Her mouth was open in surprise, hands grasped over her heart. “But the Maker put me here to protect Esben. If I were to marry, I would be divided between my wife and my brother. It’s the same reason why my Aunt Illia and many other Throne Wardens never married.” Artham clenched his fists out of frustration, his fingernails digging into his skin. “But I’m not sure what I should do. I want to be a good Throne Warden, to do what the Maker created me to do. But I don’t know if that means I should be entirely devoted to Esben.” She gently placed her hand on his knee. “If you believe you should be entirely devoted to Esben, do it,” Arundelle’s voice wasn’t just sincere, it was firm. Her brows were furrowed, her jaw clenched in a serious expression. “Being a Throne Warden is your purpose in this life. Don’t let me or anyone or anything else stop you from what the Maker is calling you to do: protect.” Something in Artham’s heart shifted. It was like the breaking dawn, like a curtain being drawn back. Arundelle was willing — no, she loved him enough — to let him spread his wings. Even though she was being manipulative before, she was now surrendering her desires to let Artham fulfil his calling. She would be sorrowful to release him, yes, but she would rather that he be free. This was the answer he was waiting for. Joy bubbled up from Artham’s chest and manifested as a laugh. He was smiling so deeply that his face was sore, and he relished the Maker’s pleasure surging through his soul. This was what He wanted. Arundelle lifted her hand, giving him a confused and amused look. “Why are you laughing?” “That’s what I was waiting for you to say!” Artham exclaimed. Still laughing, he leaned forward and embraced her, his arms gently cradling her petite frame. She smelled wonderful, like the white primroses braided into her hair. Artham froze, suddenly realising how intimate they were. He immediately jerked back, blushing. “I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry —” “No,” Arundelle stopped him with an unsure smile. “Don’t apologise. But I’m still confused.” “What you said — that was the answer from the Maker I was waiting for,” Artham explained. “I’ve decided I’m going to pursue you — if that’s what you want.” Arundelle’s smile alighted her face like a lamp in the dark. She still sounded teary as she bobbed her head, “Yes, of course!” Arundelle took Artham’s strong, calloused hands in hers and kissed his cheek. Her lips caressing his skin only lasted a moment, but Artham relished that simple touch, that simple gesture that meant she loved him. THE END

Part 2 Some notes -- • First, thanks so much for all the people who encouraged me to write a second part! I hope you find this just as or even more enjoyable than the last. • As always, PLEASE pick this to pieces. If anything is canonically incorrect, please let me know. • I live in the UK and spell accordingly, so please forgive my strange spelling and wording. If you have any questions about said spelling and wording, I will be glad to answer them. Now, on with the story! * The inn was brimming with several travellers and merchants who were making the pilgrimage to Lorryshire for the spring celebrations. Voices and laughter and a gentle music flooded Artham’s ears, overwhelming his senses. He could dimly hear Arundelle enter behind him, and sense her presence at his back. She asked him a question, something about if he had seen Esben. There. Artham saw Natan sitting beside the fire, his whistleharp in hand, his eyes closed in concentration as he played a low, mournful ballad. He seemed oblivious to the noise surrounding him, a look of perfect contentment on his clean-shaven face. The slightest turn of his brow, and the way his lips lowered as he blew into the reed of his instrument, all hinted at a deeper sorrow beneath his peace. Artham could have sworn he had seen this same look on the bard’s face for as long as he could remember. Natan was a man of peace, a rock, a fortress, strong and impregnable. And yet… he was always sad. He was like the man who had accepted the cold reality of his world, and had no other choice than to live in it. All of this ran through Artham’s mind as he squeezed between tables and benches, and apologised to Mrs. Illing when he nearly toppled her over as she carried several goblets on a precarious tray. When he finally made it to Natan, he bent on one knee to speak to him, and hesitated. The bard still seemed so deep in his… whatever it is he was in, that Artham didn’t want to interrupt. Arundelle spoke from behind him. “Papa?” Natan finished the last of his melody, ending on a particularly dissatisfying note, as if there was a missing happy ending after a great battle. He opened his eyes, which were soft and grey like swirling storm clouds, and turned to face his daughter. He hardly seemed to notice Artham, who was kneeling directly in front of him. “Yes, love?” “Where’s Esben?” Artham blurted. “Did he come in here?” Natan settled his gaze on Artham. “Yes. He was looking for my sons. He should be upstairs, where I sent him, in our room.” “Thank you, Papa,” Arundelle replied. “Come on, Artham.” With a grateful nod to the bard, Artham stood to his feet to follow Arundelle. Natan continued to play his whistleharp, this time beginning with a steady plucking of the strings, creating an eerie melody that was carrying him into — Artham shook his head to clear his mind as he ascended the stairs. He often forgot, having no musicians in his family, that the Maker had instilled a powerful magic in music. There was something so alluring about a melody, like a poem singing without words. He wondered if Arundelle felt the same way. She led Artham to one of the rooms at the far end of the hall, from where he heard a very loud and ominous banging. Nearly all of his anxiety fled, because only Esben could create such a raucous. His thoughts were confirmed when Arundelle carefully opened the door, nearly assaulted by a book flying through the doorway. Laughter and shouting pierced the air, and Arundelle hid a chuckle as she invited Artham inside. His jaw dropped at the chaos ensuing in the small room. The beds had been moved and completely stripped of their sheets and pillows to create some sort of fort behind the dresser, which was also pushed away from the wall. Esben and the twins were scurrying between the barricades they had constructed, hurling whatever objects were nearby, including pillows, books, and articles of clothing. Artham ducked when a comb was thrown in his direction. He understood now why Natan preferred to be downstairs while Merna was away. Annoyance quickly overshadowed his concerns. “Esben —” he started, stepping into the torrent. He was promptly smacked by a tunic, which hung over his head like a veil. The three boys were still for a few moments, waiting for Artham’s reaction, before bursting into fits of laughter. He was thankful for the covering over his face as his cheeks burned at the sound of Arundelle’s giggling. Artham huffed, pulling the shirt off of his head. “Esben, you know you can’t run off like that.” “You knew I’d be here.” “Still —” Artham cut himself off with a sigh. Esben had a point. “Please don’t ever assume I know where you are.” Esben hardly seemed to be paying attention anymore as the boys began their game again. “I will come back to make sure you get ready for the festival.” Artham added, ducking as something whistled over his head. “And don’t throw anymore books!” The boys had returned to their playing as if their siblings were never there, completely ignorant to Artham’s presence. He sighed and turned to leave. Arundelle followed him outside, softly closing the door behind them. “Don’t worry about them. They’re just excited to see each other.” “I know.” “My papa will be here to watch them. So what would you like to do?” Artham turned to face her, finding his heart fluttering as she stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes twinkling in a smile like she held some untold secret. He found it difficult to speak with the lump in his throat. “Whatever you would like to do, I guess.” “No, I asked what you would like to do.” “I would like to do whatever you would like to do.” Arundelle rolled her eyes. “We haven’t seen each other in two years, and you have nothing you want to show me or do with me?” Artham blushed again, swallowing. “I would like to do something with you, but I want to do whatever you want to do.” If it were possible, Arundelle’s smile deepened. “Follow me, then.” To Artham’s shock and delight, Arundelle took him by the hand — her graceful, ink-stained left hand in his rough, calloused right — and led him down the hall and stairs. He was so focused on her warm, gentle touch, completely oblivious to his careening down the steps and stumbling past people and tables and chairs. She released her grasp when they left the inn, and it was as though Artham was snapped out of a trance, and found himself in the present world again. Something like queasiness lingered in his stomach, and he found his lips in a perpetual smile. She had held his hand. “Where are we going?” he asked, still in somewhat of a daze. “I want to show you my favourite place in all of Anniera,” Arundelle replied. “Come on, it’s not far.” Artham was dimly aware of the warm stones in the road beneath his feet as he walked beside her, which served to remind him he had left his boots behind in the inn — but the thought quickly passed. Arundelle was quiet, humming a tune he didn’t recognise, one that stirred a sense of adventure as well as longing for the hearth. “What’s that you’re singing?” he asked, finally finding his voice. He still wasn’t sure why he found it so difficult to speak. “It’s a lullaby my father wrote for me before I was born. He sings it every night as my brothers and I fall asleep,” she answered somewhat shyly. “I’m sorry, I’m sometimes not aware that I’m humming.” “Don’t apologise,” Artham laughed. “Your voice is beautiful.” “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I just don’t want to give the impression that I’m bragging about myself.” “You aren’t at all.” “But I don’t want anyone to praise me,” Arundelle continued, her brows furrowing as she stared ahead, deep in thought. “I don’t want to be praised for something I was given.” “What do you mean?” “I mean I did nothing to receive the gift to sing,” she explained, “or write or play the whistleharp, even. Yes, those gifts were cultivated from years of training, but I did nothing to deserve those gifts.” “It was the Maker’s good pleasure to do so.” “Yes. It’s why I don’t want to use my gifts to receive praise from others. They’re only for His pleasure.” Artham was quiet for a few moments, carefully considering his words. “I don’t think that’s entirely right.” Arundelle raised a brow. “Explain it to me.” “When your father sings your lullaby to you, is it for your pleasure?” “I suppose,” she said slowly. “But he sings your lullaby because he loves you,” he explained. “Because he loves you, he wants to do something that makes you feel loved, that pleases you. I think the Maker gave us gifts not only for His good pleasure, but because He loves us, and loves giving us gifts. And those gifts are meant to bless Him as well as others.” Arundelle was quiet, a shadow of a smile on her face as she contemplated his words. Artham anxiously waited for her to respond, unsure how to interpret her silence or facial expression. Had he offended her? Did he say too much? Not enough? Did he sound stupid? Or did he sound arrogant? Was his rebuke too harsh? Should he have not said anything in the first place? Should he apologise? “You’re right, Artham,” she said finally, her full smile returning. She turned to face him, and the shame that once resided in her irises had all but disappeared. “Those were some of the wisest words I’ve ever heard. You’re a good friend. Thank you.” Elation swelled in Artham’s chest once more until he felt he was going to burst. Or even better yet, it would carry him into the sky, where he could shout and sing for joy. Nothing in all of Aerwiar felt more wonderful. “You’re welcome,” he answered, his voice shaking. Why was there a tremor in his voice? Why couldn’t he stop smiling? Arundelle led Artham to the cliffside on the far east side of Lorryshire, where the land rose up over the sea like a petrified ocean wave. Tufts of grass sprouted between enormous black and grey stones, and a few shrubs and saplings had poked their way past the rock. The air was salty and wet, and the wind roared in their ears and playfully tossed their hair. Finally, they came to a stop at an enormous tree, its branches rocking like it was being cradled to sleep by the breeze. It bent slightly over the cliff, peering into the sea below. “This is my writing tree,” Arundelle explained, her voice hardly heard over the wind. “It’s where I come to think and sing and be alone.” Artham felt like he was intruding, but was honoured nonetheless. They climbed the tree and nestled in its swaying branches to watch the sea rush to meet the sky at the horizon. For a while, they were silent, enjoying each other’s company and the beauty of the Maker’s hand. And all the while, Artham couldn’t deny that something inside of him was soaring. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing — it felt right. He knew he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in Aerwiar, and wished he could remain in the boughs of that tree with Arundelle forever. Then, over the whistling breeze, Artham heard singing. The voice was soft and fragile, alluring and gentle, rising and falling ever so gracefully in an enchanting melody. It was unlike any other sound in the world, comparable with the lone fendril’s song as it streaked across the sky. “Sail away on silver seas Cease to cry, my love Dry your tears in the breeze O sweetest love, cease to fear The night does not last Dawn will come soon, my dear” Artham was enraptured by the lullaby, and found himself leaning against the tree trunk, his eyes fluttering closed. For the first time in years, he slept in those sweeping branches above the thrashing ocean in complete peace, his mind wrapped around nothing else other than the lovely Arundelle.

Prologue Some notes: • PLEASE pick this to pieces! If anything is canonically incorrect, please let me know. I take quite a few bold steps in this story canon-wise, so let me know if any of them are out of line. • If you haven’t read all of the Wingfeather Saga and Wingfeather Tales: Seven Thrilling Stories From the World of Aerwiar, I wouldn’t suggest reading this. The events that take place here heavily rely on all of the events in those five books. (If you haven’t read Wingfeather Tales, you technically can read and understand, but there will be spoilers.) • And as always, I live in the UK and spell and write accordingly. So forgive my strange spelling and wording😁 • Lastly, this “Prologue” is more like two chapters in one post. On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness starts with three little “introductions,” and I do the same here. * A Brief Introduction to the Shining Isle of Anniera Many people, even those beyond the edges of the maps, know of the legendary exiled High King of Anniera, his Throne Warden brother, and Song Maiden sister who vanquished Gnag the Nameless and his Fangs of Dang. They are Janner, Kalmar, and Leeli Wingfeather, who liberated their cloven people and restored the Shining Isle to its original glory. For many years after Gnag’s reign, the people of Anniera lived in peace, basking under the joyful rule of their High King. It took at least a decade for the island to begin flourishing as it once did, and begin trading in the Green Hollows and Woes of Shreve, as well as relearn their old stories and songs from forgotten days of old. Soon, the Shining Isle was rebuilt over the ruins, and the people took on their new names and put the pains of the Great War behind them. Towns and villages were built, forests and farms were cultivated, and roads and paths were unearthed and paved. People began to settle and farm, fish and sail, and sing and write songs again. Anniera was teeming with life, just as it had before. It would be a quarter of a century before danger once again lapped the shores of the Shining Isle. * A (Slightly) Less Brief Introduction to the Wingfeather Family In the Maker’s great blessing, the Wingfeather family grew much in those twenty-five blissful years. Castle Rysen was quite empty when High King Kalmar first began to rebuild it, and now it was fully restored with a family twice the size inhabiting it. When Kalmar was of age, he began courting a girl called Galya. Five years later, after much anticipation and many sleepless nights, he found the courage to marry her. Not too long after, Galya gave birth to their first daughter, Liel. Two years later, her younger brother and the future High King, Jeshri, was born. And then came their Song Master brother, Rayen, and finally Ira, the first Lore Wain in generations. All of Anniera rejoiced over them all, and took each of them as a sign of the Maker’s hand upon the kingdom. No one had any doubt that the Shining Isle would continue to prosper. But even then, everyone felt an unease creeping over their island. And even then it was quickly forgotten and dismissed as old suspicions. Even before Kalmar took Galya to be his wife, Janner Wingfeather married Sara Cobbler, a daughter of Skree, as soon as they were of age. It was a while later before they had twins, Eremund and Illia, named after the great Throne Wardens before their father. Sara nearly died the night she gave birth to them, and could no longer bear anymore children. The family and people grieved over this, but were grateful to the Maker that Sara and her children lived. It was a day of much sorrow and joy when Leeli Wingfeather left the Shining Isle to be married to Thorn O’Sally, a son of the Hollows. Her family visited her many times throughout the year, and Leeli and Thorn, always followed by their faithful dogs, visited Anniera even more. And even before Janner and Kalmar, Artham Wingfeather, their uncle and their father’s Throne Warden, finally married Arundelle, the love of his life, after ten years of waiting. They had one child, Esben, named after the High King before Kalmar, Artham’s younger brother. Nia Wingfeather, who was widowed during the Great War, gladly cared for her family as a mother and grandmother, and became a keeper of Anniera’s history, culture, and tradition. Besides Janner, Kalmar sought his mother’s counsel in all his years of rule. And that was why High King Kalmar Wingfeather turned to his mother when Prince Majah of Yorsha Doon came to the Shining Isle dressed in rags, begging to help. * Lemme know what you guys think and if I should continue this! I’ve told this idea to many fellow featherheads, and they’ve all agreed I should write it. I appreciate any feedback!

Bonifer Squoon ruined everything. From the very beginning before the Wingfeather Saga, he poisoned the Wingfeather family like a silent cancer, steadily growing unnoticed until it was too late. Even before the Saga, he deceived each of the High Kings: Ortham, Esben, and was even going to give young Kalmar to Gnag the Nameless. When the Wingfeathers, Oskar, and Podo came to Ban Rona, they were met with much strife and anger from the Hollowsfolk. Artham was chased away and fled to Skree because he couldn’t stand being so close to Throg, and the people couldn’t tolerate having a cloven among them. (Kalmar was also treated similarly.) But when I was rereading The Monster in the Hollows when Artham is about to flee to Skree, I realised… If Artham somehow remained behind in the Green Hollows, would the Wingfeathers have been warned about Bonnifer Squoon? Yes, it’s a wild thought, but I wonder if Artham knew about Bonifer’s betrayal. Esben clearly did when he took his revenge on Bonifer at the end of TMitH, and Bonifer also admitted to opening the gates of Castle Rysen to be overrun with Fangs. So did both of the brothers know of the man’s treachery? Technically, since Artham was carried to Throg along with Esben, neither of them would have known that Bonifer survived. But if Artham knew Bonifer was still alive and well and living in the Hollows, would he have left? Would Bonnifer Squoon have been arrested if the Hollowsfolk knew of his treachery? If he was, then the Wingfeathers wouldn’t have been betrayed to Gnag the Nameless. Would Kalmar have found the bear cloven in the cave? Would they discover that the cloven was Esben all along? And would Nia would have married Rudric? And an even deeper thought… Would Esben still be alive if only Artham stayed?

Okay, so I was looking back over N!OBE and I realised something CRAZY, guys. I know this is in tWatWK discussion, but you'll soon see why I put it here. It was not a mistake. So I was reading back over the chapter "Ouster Will and the First Books." And I found this on page 85: "'Her name was Alma Rainwater,' Nia said. 'She was a good friend of mine. We always thought she would marry your uncle. We hoped she would. But she never made it out of the castle.'" STOP. RIGHT. THERE. At the footnote at the bottom of page 85, it says, "Though little is known outside of the Shining Isle, Alma Rainwater was one of the many Annieran poets whose work was hailed as revolutionary because it rhymed and followed a strict form called ba-dum-ba-dum pentameter." We know that Alma Rainwater was actually the pen name of Arundelle, as we learn in tWatWK (pg. 225). But the reason I stop us at page 85 of N!OBE is this: Why was Arundelle in Castle Rysen the night Anniera was invaded? According to Nia, she was there with them when the Fangs came, and she never made it out of the castle. But why would she be there? She didn't live there. She was an honoured poet in Anniera, yes, but that doesn't mean she lived in Castle Rysen. And we read in tWatWK, after Janner plants the new seed (😢) to restore the Annierans to humans, Arundelle is also transformed by Janner's sacrifice. And after Artham learns she's alive, she asks him, "Artham Wingfeather, will you still have me?" (pg. 487) When I first read this, I thought it was because of her failure in the past when she became a cloven. But why would that matter now if she's restored? So that brings us back to our original question: Why was Arundelle in Castle Rysen the night Anniera was invaded? My theory is this: Artham invited her to the castle so that he could propose to her.😏 And either he never got around to it or she never said yes because the Fangs were storming the castle. So this would explain her question, "Will you still have me?" So what do you guys think? Why do you think Arundelle was in Castle Rysen that night?

I have heard quite a few crazy theories on Kalmar’s romance story after tWatWK. Guys. Kal did not marry Sara. Just… no. Even if Janner wasn’t restored by the Well (by some crazy miracle of the Maker)… Just no. But here’s the real reason I posted this! Janner has Sara, and Leeli has Thorn, but Kal seems to be a single Pringle throughout the entire series😢 (I have heard someone say he liked Maraly, but… I have my own personal reasons on why that would never work.) (Kal probably did like Maraly at one point, but he and Maraly are too similar to each other to have a good romantic relationship. Plus, Maraly’s happily fighting alongside the Florid Sword in Skree! And Kalmar obviously needs to rule Anniera. The end.) But what about… Galya???🤔😉 Anyone remember her? She was mentioned in one of the very last chapters of tWatWK. If you remember, she used to be Nuzzard (the Grey Fang kept by the Hollowsfolk, seen in both MitH and tWatWK). After Janner’s sacrifice, she bows before Kalmar and says, “My king! The Stonekeeper called me Nuzzard.” (My reaction: 😨😨😨😨😨 wHaAaAaAaT?!) Anyway, Kal picks her up, AND I QUOTE — “She was beautiful.” That one simple sentence has all sorts of meanings. It can mean she was just pretty in general, or Kal thought she was pretty. And Kalmar goes on, “Your new name shall be Galya. How does that sound?” Galya responds (quietly, shyly), “I like that very much, your majesty.” NOW. This sounds like a hopeless romantic rant, but I’d like to think that Kalmar ISN’T single and ISN’T with Sara OR Maraly. He’s with Galya😄 But what do you guys think?

Before you continue to read this post, I gauruntee you that I am not as crazy as you think. (HAH, I’M CRAZIER.) No, I agree that Artham and Peet are one and the same person… OR ARE THEY?! I just didn’t know what to title this post😂 I just wanted to point out the fact, and hear your thoughts on this, on Artham’s name(s?). Of course, his given name is Artham P. Wingfeather. We can all agree on that. But in OtEotDSoD, he’s introduced as Peet the Sock Man, Glipwood’s crazy person and comedian (i.e. reciting silly poetry, juggling buckets beside the precarious cliffs, and attacking innocent street signs with wonderful mothers). But I want to point out the fact that Artham NEVER calls himself Peet. Ever. In OtEotDSoD, when the Igiby (Wingfeather) kids are in Peet’s (castle) tree house, Janner asks him, “So… do we call you Peet? Is that your real name?” (pg. 181) This of course implies that no one in Glipwood knows Artham’s real name. Of course, I doubt Artham would actually introduce himself to the Glipwood townsfolk… why would he if he doesn’t live there? (All he does is, again, recite poetry, juggle buckets, and attack street signs. In his spare time, he protects the Igiby kids.) So you kind of get the idea that Peet is just his nickname? Like no one actually bothered to ask him his name😢 Or someone somehow learned about the first letter of his middle name (🤔) and just called him Peet. Point is, we get the idea he’s just KNOWN as Peet, not that he calls himself that. Anyway, on with the story. Artham replies, “What’s a real name? Is Janner Igiby your real name?” Janner replies, “Yes sir.” And Artham, being, well, Artham, asks, “Is it?” and keeps cooking (pg. 181)😂 This… kind of answers their question. Artham doesn’t seem to accept OR deny that Peet is his real name. He’s, of course, caught in between man and Fang, so that’s something to consider going on through his head. Some diligent readers might point out that in N!OBE, when going into Artham’s perspectives, he is called both Peet and Artham. Again, Artham doesn’t CALL himself Peet, but it is rather narrated in a way that looks like these two men (Artham and Peet) are fighting over one mind. So… where did the name Peet COME FROM??? My current thought is his middle name, which starts with the letter p. But… we never actually learn what his middle name is😂 (We learn Oskar’s! Oskar Noss Reteep😄) (Also, I love to imagine that his full name is Artham Peter Wingfeather. That would fit with the Peet name and… well, I think it sounds nice😂☺️) Or some random folk in Glipwood just… called him that? Like Artham is muttering nonsense to himself and hear his middle name somehow through his gibberish… I really don’t know😭😭😭 What do you think? I’m curious to hear thoughts from fellow Artham fans. Also… FANGS ARE UGLY!

Okay, when I first saw the WFS short and show, I was a little mad that Peet’s (or Artham’s, whichever you prefer) eyes were mismatched. (One was a brownish-yellow…? and the other was blue.) It is clearly said in OtEotDSoD, chapter four (Peet’s Castle), page 177 (yes, I actually looked this up😂): “His eyes were deep and blue, and they shone like jewels.” (Jewels of Anniera???🤨🤨🤔🤔🤔) (Jkjkjk I don’t think we would consider Artham and Esben to be Jewels ((if we are defining “Jewels of Anniera” to be ones that can open the Fane of Fire)) since they don’t have a third sibling.) But I had a thought. What if the artists were just trying to visibly display another form of his Fangishness without (what’s beneath) the socks? Let’s suppose that the hawk (show-wise, fire hawk, if you’ve seen season two) had brownish-yellow-coloured eyes? We already read in the books that Kalmar’s eyes turn yellow after he’s Fanged, and sometimes when the Fangishness took over him, there were flecks of yellow. When he was in his right mind, they were blue. What if, because Artham (Peet) is caught in between, one eye changed and the other did it? Like the mismatched colours are a way of showing him being torn between man and Fang? Mind you, I haven’t asked Andrew Peterson or Chris Wall this, and I don’t know if anyone has asked them this question before. I mean… Artham’s eye colour(s) is not really THAT important…😅 And if this has been posted on before, I’m sorry. I had no intention of copying😭 Hopefully this satisfies whatever questions you had about Artham’s eye colour(s)?😂 Tell me what y’all think, or if this theory is crazy. There are some crazy things rattling around my brain (which is why I joined TTH). Also… FANGS ARE UGLY!