Chapter Text
When his back started to itch, Peet didn’t think too much of it. He spent quite a lot of time between baths and there was always this fear that there would be too much of a small window between the storm in his mind and the moments of clarity. During those moments of clarity that he feared the water and what would happen if he managed to be caught somewhere when that storm of insanity returned. He thought that maybe it was the dirt, or the grime, or the countless other things that covered him that caused his back to itch. It wasn’t too bad, so it was easy to ignore.
The itching didn’t raise any red flags. So he ignored it and focused his attention on protecting the Igiby-feathers.
Until he realized that was doing anything to get rid of it. He would grab a stick for the itch. He would rub his back up and down on the trees when he was really desperate but he just assumed it was because of his lack of bathing.
And when it disappeared, he thought he was fine.
Then it came back twelve-fold, right between his shoulder blades. Peet would lay awake for hours at night, doing nothing but crying over the pain that was exploding between his shoulders. Nothing he used, branches, sticks, his own claws, nothing worked to dislodge the itch. Peet started to think that there was something seriously wrong with him, that maybe he got into a batch of poison ivy or something. He didn’t remember touching poison ivy, but there were a lot of things he didn’t remember.
His back was in absolute agony by the time he realized that something was seriously wrong with him, and he needed help. The itching had dissolved into tingles, which had dissolved into a painful sort of cramp that had him bending over and gasping and sobbing. Peet stood up on shaky legs and the next time he blinked, he was ankle deep in the snow, far from home. He didn’t know where he was. He didn't know where he was going.
All he knew is he needed help.
The world was narrowed down to white, cold and pain. His mind returned to that jumbled mess it had become since the fall of Anniera. It was nothing but a series of Esben, need to find Esben, wounded? Hurt, need to find the children, bleeding? Need to save the Featherbies, Igg-feathers-
A jerk of pain had him stumbling. The cold seeped into his hands, through the thick skin of his claws. Tears clouded his eyes as another tight pull of muscles between his shoulder blades. Peet didn’t want to move. The thought of moving made him want to just curl up and freeze. At least the cold would take away the pain, and it wouldn’t hurt. It would be like falling asleep-
Peet sobbed.
You’re weak.
“N-not….”
Yes you are. You were once a Throne Warden. A powerful protector. Now look at you: laying in the snow, freezing, starving. Crying like an infant over a little pain.
“H-hurts….c-can’t….”
You should’ve fallen instead of Esben. He would’ve been strong enough to survive what brought you knees. He sobbed again, falling into the snow and curling in on himself.
“Pl-please…can’t….do this anymore…”
The children need you, a voice said.
He didn’t know whose voice it was, it was there when he was at his lowest. It would break through the heartache and the sorrow and the agony of who and what he was. Of what he failed to do. Of what he failed to be. He failed Esben. He couldn’t fail the children. Peet needed to find help.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He was shaky, the pain running down his spine was like a searing fire. Everything zeroed down to the pain, adn the unsteady steps he took.
Left, right, Iggyfeathers, left, right, Wing-ibies, left, right, Esben, I’m sorry, left, right-
“Jannar! Tink! Time to come inside!”
He came back to himself suddenly, looking up to see that he was on the verge of the forest that bordered the Iggi-feather’s residence. The sun was starting to set, the wind picking up with a harsh chill that left him shaking. There was no doubt that his cheeks were pink and his lips were beyond chapped. For a blessed moment, thank the Maker, the pain in his back died down for a moment. Then another wave hit.
He jerked forward, crying out. Peet grabbed the trunk of a tree with all his might, claws chipping off pieces of bark. More pain, more tears-
Something hot passed his lips and he stumbled forward. His threadbare clothes soaked up the snow beneath him. All he was aware of was the pain. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. His vision flickered as wave after wave of pain hit him.
He would have laughed at how pathetic he was. But the pain-
I’m dying, he thought as his vision flickered again.
One more last wave of pain, the sound of ripping and Artham P. Wingfeather knew nothing.
When he woke again, the world was warm. He was on something soft. Softer than his bed in the tree castle. Where was he? He shifted, gasping as his back muscles twinged. They were beyond sore, like he did sword training with Esben and overdid it. His ears twitched when he realized there was a crackling somewhere. There was a fire burning somewhere-
He needed to get out, the castle was on fire-
“Don’t move, Artham.”
He groaned as a firm hand gently pushed him back down. His eyes were closed, and the Maker above didn't want to open them. For the first time in a long time, since he left Anniera, he felt safe. He could sink into the softness of the world below him and just never come back to the surface.
“Is he awake?” A rough voice asked. Peet pushed his face into the gentle softness beneath his face- a pillow….an actual pillow, he realized, oh it’s been so long since he felt the softness of a real actual pillow-
“Barely.” A soft voice answered. Something soft and cool was placed on the crook of his neck. “Artham? Can you hear me?”
Normally, his real name would send him into a terrible fit of pain and agony, flashbacks of the fall. He would hear Esben calling out to him, asking him why he had left him, abandoning him to the darkness. But he was so tired now that all he could was hum in acknowledgement.
“Artham?” He was quiet, praying that his mother….that had to be his mother, who else could it be?....would leave him to sleep this off. A petite hand, as rough and calloused as his own use to be before the claws, gently pushed against his forehead. It brushed up against his wild hair, and he couldn't help but lean into it. There was a sigh. “How did we get to this point?”
“All in the Maker’s plan, Nia. All in the Maker’s plan.”
Nia….of course! She was always such a caretaker in Anniera. Maybe he was sick? Yeah, yeah that makes sense. If she was taking care of him, he had nothing to worry about. He relaxed, something on his back shifting and weighing him down. But because he was so tired…..so sore….he just pushed his face into the pillow and sighed.
“Sleep well, Artham. We’ll be here for you when you wake up.”