#nala wingfeather

[kanerallels]

Today for @monthly-challenge's Spring Fling we have day 13: Earth! I wrote another Wingfeather Saga fan fic-- hope you guys like it! It's kind of a follow up to the one I wrote a couple days back, I'll link that here! (I'd also like to put these up on AO3 but I so do not have the motivation and energy for it right now. Perhaps later!)

(TW for mentions of death)

From the earth we come, and to the earth we are returned…

Esben stared straight forward as the priest continued speaking. He knew Artham was standing at his side, but his brother had his arm around their mother as she wept. And in this moment, Esben felt terribly, terribly alone.

His father, Jru Wingfeather, was dead. And he was High King of the Shining Isle.

It hadn’t been expected. Not really. His father had been older, yes, but healthy and hale. Mere days earlier he’d been joking around with the two of them, eyes sparkling with joy.

And then, two days ago, he passed in his sleep, a smile on his face. The doctor guessed that his heart had given out, which Esben still didn’t fully understand. How could one’s heart give out if it was so full of so many things? And his father had loved his family, and Anniera, with all his heart.

Nevertheless, he was gone now. Which meant Esben was the High King, and that was a little terrifying in a way that Esben preferred not to contemplate more than he had to.

Sure, he’d been training his whole life for this. But he was nineteen years old, and felt horribly unprepared and unready, and his heart still ached whenever he thought about taking up the crown his father had worn not even a full week ago.

They were going to have to have a coronation. Esben almost groaned out loud at the thought. He couldn’t imagine pretending to be kingly and majestic in front of a crowd right now. If he tried, he’d probably start to laugh. Or cry, and neither option was particularly appealing.

Artham’s nudge in the ribs startled him out of his thoughts. For a wild moment, he worried he’d voiced his thoughts out loud and his brother was going to scold him. But there was no reprimand in Artham’s gaze as he tilted his head silently at the priest, who’d finished speaking and was watching him expectantly.

Oh, right. He’d almost forgotten his own part in the ceremony. Stepping forward, Esben forced himself to look at it— the grave, the coffin that held his father. The mound of fresh earth next to it loomed darkly as Esben approached.

Reaching out, he took a handful of the earth and dropped it on top of the coffin. “May the Maker receive you with all joy, even as we mourn you here,” he recited, loud enough that the crowd could hear. Hesitating, he stared down at the coffin and added, only loud enough for him to hear, “I’ll try to make you proud, Papa. I’ll be a good king.” I hope.

He stepped back, and everything was suddenly moving faster than he could process. Before Esben knew it, the gaping hole was filled in, leaving a dark patch to mark the grave. Artham stepped forward with a tiny sapling, the roots encased in a ball of dirt. Together, as was the tradition, the two brothers dug a hole in the mound of dirt covering the grave and planted the sapling. As Artham shored it up with dirt, Esben stared at the small tree. Out of death, new life. Somehow, that thought didn’t bring him much comfort yet.

They got to their feet together, Artham’s hand on his shoulder lending Esben a little comfort. In turn, he put his arm around his mother’s shoulder when they moved to stand next to her. She pressed her hand against his, and Esben could see her blinking back tears.

And then the funeral was over, and they were heading into the main hall of Castle Rysen, where food had been set out and they could visit with the guests who came to express their condolences and support. 

Esben had expected to hate this part. But as guests stopped by, their words lent him strength. They spoke about his father, telling stories— of the king and the man, stories that were funny and stories that made both brothers and their mother cry. It was a bittersweet way to spend the day, mourning the High King, but celebrating him, too.

“It’s how Jru would have wanted it,” their mother said quietly. “He would have loved this, so many friends together here.” She gazed across the room, at the groups of people talking. 

“Sorrow, yet joy,” Artham said. “Loss, yet healing.”

Nala laughed softly. “Exactly.”

It was enough to bring a smile to Esben’s face, but only briefly. As another guest approached his mother, he murmured an excuse and slipped away. He needed a minute to himself, just one.

There was a small door in the right hand wall of the hall that led out to a balcony set in the side of the hill. A set of stairs led down to the green below, but Esben didn’t take them now. He just leaned against the railing and took a long, deep breath. Finally, he had a moment to himself, to think.

The sun was shining, which seemed a little wrong. Most funerals he’d read about had rain. When his aunt died, it was raining. But the sun was shining, the light glimmering on the sea. The breeze streamed through the nearby trees, the hush of leaves reaching his ears even from a distance.

It would have been a nice day for sailing, and Esben almost snorted at the thought. At the fact that he could think about those things when… when he was the High King now.

Every time he thought about it, the idea seemed to weigh a little heavier on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes. Oh, Maker. How am I supposed to do this on my own?

He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been there when he heard the door behind him open, then close, and soft footsteps sounded. Artham? It didn’t really sound like him, which meant it was probably a guest. Esben straightened up, turning to face— Nia Helmer?

His eyes widened as she said, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I thought you’d probably want some time on your own, but Artham— well, he disagreed. I can leave, if you—”

“No,” Esben said immediately. “Stay. Please?”

The small smile she gave him sent a flash of warmth through him, and she came to stand next to him, hands resting on the railing as she stared out at the view.

Esben, however, wasn’t watching the view anymore. He was watching her— dressed in dark, somber clothing, her dark hair braided and twisted back, not a strand loose.

Artham had been right to send her. Anyone else, he would have been impatient or short with, but Nia… he didn’t think he could bring himself to snap at her. They’d been writing back and forth for three years now, with the odd meeting in person when he came to the Green Hollows with his family. 

Every time Esben got a letter, he read it again and again, tucking it into his shirt and carrying it close to his heart. He had one with him even now, although he probably shouldn’t admit that. Nor should he admit that just seeing her again seemed to lift some of the weight from his shoulders, to bring him peace he desperately needed.

He looked at her again, at the way she was gazing at the trees and the ocean before them, the sunlight highlighting her skin. Then again, maybe he should tell her. 

But not now. Not when he’d just lost his father. A twinge of guilt went through Esben. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now.

“I’d guess you’re tired of being asked how you are,” Nia said, breaking through his thoughts.

Letting out a low chuckle, Esben admitted, “I’ve gotten a lot of it, yes.”

“I thought so. So then… what do you need?”

Esben glanced at her, surprised, as she continued, “I can leave you be, or we can talk, or I can just keep you company, or I can get Artham out here. And if you need a hug, I’m here.”

A laugh slipped out, despite himself. “You are… incredible.”

“I’m just doing what anyone would do,” Nia said, turning slightly pink.

“No. You’re incredible. Trust me.”

She smiled. “Well, then, are you going to help me in my incredibleness and tell me what you need?”

“Yes, ma’am. I…” Esben hesitated, then said, “I’d take a hug.”

Without hesitating, before he could think better of his words, Nia pulled him gently into a hug. She was warm and smelled like something sweet, and Esben could feel the strain of the day melting away.

“How am I supposed to do this?” he whispered into her hair.

“Take it one day at a time,” she said quietly. “And remember you’re not alone, Esben. You have people who love you, who will support you. Artham, and your mother, and—”

“And you?” he asked, pulling back a little, his heart stuttering a little as he looked at her. It was something else he shouldn’t have said, maybe. But with Nia in his arms, it felt a little like he could topple the world if he needed to.

She smiled at him like the sun rising over the Shining Isle. “And me,” she told him. “Though… I cannot stay long. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Esben said, taking her hands. “Just hearing your voice for now is enough. I’ll be here at home for a while after the funeral, but… could I come see you, sometime soon? And your family?”

“Please do,” Nia said, and he knew that she understood exactly what he was thinking.Sorrow, he thought, and yet joy. Finally, he thought he understood it.

[armulyn]

Wisdom to the Wise

The Wingfeather family’s possession of a collection of First Books is not exactly a secret, though few are the commoners who can claim knowledge of it.

They traditionally belong to the Throne Warden, and are kept in his keeping, and the scholars know that. One of the Throne Warden’s traditional titles after all is Keeper of Wisdom, whatever that means, and while most citizens of Anniera think it more metaphorical than literal, there are others who can correct them.

There are five of them, ranging from as thick and heavy as a small boulder to what is little more than a pamphlet the size of his hand. Very few in Anniera or beyond know that, save perhaps the most dedicated and lucky of scholars. 

Finally, there are a grand total of sixteen pages among the lot that he can read.

Though about seven people alive currently know that, Esben feels he knows it the best, flipping through aged pages with boredom and growing frustration. The strangely shaped, handwritten letters taunt him with their loops and bold strokes, some written hastily, slanted and sloppy, and others firmly, whether in triumph or emphasis no one will ever know. Whoever has put pen to the ancient paper has done so in a language none now speak— or, more’s the pity, read.

He has never been as dedicated to reading as Artham, or as relentless in pursuit of knowledge, but Esben has also never liked being told he can’t know something, and so he glares at the pages as if they can be cowed into divulging their secrets.

“Well?” he says aloud, “What am I supposed to learn from a collection of shapes?”

He isn’t talking to anyone in particular, save perhaps his subconscious, but nonetheless a voice answers from behind him. 

“Perhaps I could be of more aid if I knew what you are doing?”

Esben jumps, nearly knocking the ancient tome right off the end of the ancient desk— an impressive feat, as it’s the boulder book— before a hand shoots forward and rescues it.

“Why didn’t you knock?” he demands breathlessly of his brother, brushing himself off and pretending he hadn’t nearly gotten a heart attack. Artham looks at him as if he’s being exceptionally stupid, which is neither fair nor warranted in Esben’s opinion.

“I don’t usually knock when I expect a room to be empty,” he says, then glances around, “...Especially when it’s my room. So! Besides endangering priceless, helpless, and perfectly innocent books, what are you trying to do?”

“This book.” Artham returns the boulder book safely to his desk, but Esben gestures instead to the one beside it. It is of average size and weight for a book, but its ancient leather binding and yellowed pages mark it apart from the many volumes that can be found in Rysen’s library.

“...What about the book?”

“I don’t know! They’re all equally incomprehensible but it’s that one that annoys me the most. I don’t know why, but it won’t leave me alone.”

Artham picks up the book in question, handling the tome with far more care and expertise than Esben had bothered with. He flips idly through the pages, and Esben doesn’t have to crane his neck to know what his brother sees. Unidentifiable letter after unidentifiable letter.

“This is considered to be one of the oldest of them,” Artham says, “If indeed the ages vary. Aunt Illia told me it’s said to give ‘wisdom to the wise.’”

“How can a book be said to give people wisdom when nobody can read it?” 

“No idea, that’s just what Aunt Illia told me. I don’t think she knew what it means either. It’s pretty clear that it only gives people wisdom who already have it, though, so you might be out of luck on that end.”

“You’re hilarious.”

Artham grins at him, but then returns his attention to the infuriating book at hand. He flips to the first page, upon which is a single line of text across the paper. What it says, only the wind and stars know, Esben thinks irritably.

“Well, maybe we’ll never know what’s in it. It’s not like you need to know everything about everything in order to live, Esben.”

Like most things out of Artham’s mouth, it sounds smart and also vaguely profound. Not for the first time in his life, Esben laments his brother’s hobby as a poet.

“Philosophy is all well and good, but a linguist would honestly be more helpful here.”

“I know plenty of languages, I’ll have you know. Hollish, for example, and Shreven, and—”

“I don’t suppose this one happens to be among them?”

Artham squints closer at the text, then shrugs, “I know plenty of languages that people actually speak.”

“Well, that’s no good.”

Artham rolls his eyes at Esben, an extremely undignified action that little enhances his brother’s reputation as a dashing Throne Warden. The vaguely dirt-stained clothing and windblown hair don’t help either— he must have been outside.

“Well, I’m not certain how to help you on this front, little brother,” Artham says, “but you’re doing little good glaring a pile of pages into submission. Nia was looking for you a few minutes ago though, in the front garden.”

Esben rises from the chair eagerly, glad to leave the circling uselessness of staring in incomprehension at dusty pages. All the same, he pauses at the door, a strange feeling of failure sweeping over him. There’s something in that book, he knows it. And he means to find out what.

“...Now that I think about it, isn’t that the book that’s used for the kings’ annals, too?” Artham asks, following him out. Esben nods glumly.

“Aye, and those at least are in Common. I’ve been through those same sixteen pages sixteen times but whatever I’m looking for isn’t there. That book may or may not have wisdom but either way it’s doing a terrible job at imparting it.”

“Maybe if I hit you over the head with it—”

“Please don’t.”

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

Time for me to ramble about The Wingfeather Saga to try and distract myself from my depression and the fact that I’m sick and miserable!

~*Spoilers*~ for all the books

*

Okie so in the 3rd Wingfeather show episode Tink calls Peet old and I just. I just wanna address that for a second because it’s been poking around in my mind ever since. xD

So here’s what I think the ages of the adults in the Wingfeather Saga are as based on the kid’s ages, how long it’s been since Anniera fell and logic:

Let’s start with Esben and Nia. Since their kiddos were very little when Anniera fell (Janner was only three) it follows that they were also quite young, I’m gonna say mid-20′s, around 24-25. Nine years later that’d make them 33-34 years old, which seems logical.

I headcanon that Artham and Esben have the same age gap as Janner and Kal, so assuming Artham is only a year older than his brother that’d put him at about 25-26 (my age ;-;) when Anniera fell and 34-35 during the events of the series. That’s. That’s not old. Even if you headcanon him as several years older than Esben (say 3 or so) he’d still be in his 30′s.

(I’m not knocking Tink btw, he’s 11 and everyone’s old when you’re a little kid, especially weird guys with whitish gray hair that you don’t know are related to you.)

I don’t have any concrete idea of how old Podo is and it bothers me, Leeli in book 4 keeps saying he’s like, really old, but she’s also 9 so that’s probably not reliable. Assuming Nia’s in her 30′s during the books Podo is probably(?) in his mid-late 60′s. (Especially since we know he did a LOT when he was young, he ran with the Stranders, he was a pirate, and when he came to the Hollows he said he never sailed again until he traveled to Anniera for Nia’s wedding). I feel like Wendolyn was younger than him by maybe 5-6 years since she isn’t married when they meet, despite being an attractive and well-to-do young woman.

Mentioning grandparents, has anyone else ever wondered where the HECK Artham and Esben’s parents are? Like, they’re barely even mentioned in the books, I think we actually learn their names from a genealogy Janner gets from Oskar/the Great Library. And this is especially weird when you consider that Podo and Wendolyn are actively helping Nia and the kids escape when Anniera falls. That, and Esben is king already when Anniera falls and unless their parents had kids when they were older (which is possible) they won’t be that old and Idk why his dad wouldn’t still be ruling. Like, why pass the throne off to your 20-something son if you don’t have to? Why not train him more?

So here’s what I think happened to Jru and Nala Wingfeather: I think Bonifer killed them. Not Bonifer himself, of course, but I think he arranged their deaths in some way. It would be pretty easy, tbh, to have an “accident” where they died. All you’d need to do would be hire some pirates to attack a ship they’re sailing on, or sabotage the ship so that it sank once it set sail.

Bonifer would have several good motives for this, I think. First and foremost, it’s going to be much easier for him to trick Esben, a brand-new, very young, king into believing his lies than an older, more experienced, king and queen. Not that I think Esben (or Artham) was an idiot, but Bonifer has had a really long time to learn how to lie and be a terrible person, and the younger you are the more likely you are to fall for stuff like that (generally speaking, there are always exceptions. like, I don’t think Maraly would have been easily tricked by Bonifer’s shenanigans because she grew up with the Stranders who are a bunch of lying tricksters. Meanwhile, Janner was tricked because he grew up among trustworthy and loving adults. Same thing with Esben and Artham).

Second, it’s possible that Jru and/or Nala had learned something that made them suspicious of Bonifer or were close to finding something about Gnag/the Fangs that would have ruined their plans, so Bonifer had them killed. Again, it’s really easy to set up an “accident”, especially when sailing is involved.

And finally, Bonifer just. really hates the Wingfeathers. Because he’s got issues. So of course he’d try to cause them all the suffering he could.

So, yeah, that’s why I think Esben and Artham’s parents aren’t around/aren’t mentioned in the books. Also my headcanons about ages.

[kanerallels]

It is honestly a miracle I managed to figure something out for today's Spring Fling prompt from @monthly-challenge: sports. Sports are not my thing lol HOWEVER I HAD A FUN IDEA for what was actually my first Wingfeather saga fic. Hope y'all enjoy!!

The sun was shining on the isle of Annieria. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the sky, sent on their way by the spring breeze. Far below sat the Shining Isle itself, mounted by the majestic shape of Castle Rysen, which sat on a green hill.

The grass swept down from the foot of the castle, covering the wide green that led up to the nearby road. And, running across the grass like their lives depended on it, were two boys.

They’d been there for hours already— first, playing a game of zibzy with some of the other children of the village. But when they’d had to go home, the two boys had lingered. They were, at the moment, playing a simplified version of a Green Hollows game known as “Get The Boot”, although in this situation it was a zibzy ball, not a boot. To anyone passing by, it would look strangely like the two boys were taking turns full on tackling each other and wrestling for control of the ball.

Which may have been true. But Esben wasn’t about to complain.

It was a beautiful spring day. The kind where it was a crime to stay inside for too long. He and Artham, his brother, had been so fidgety during their T.H.A.G.S lessons, that their mother, Nala, had eventually given up and sent them outside. She had told them, in no uncertain terms, not to come inside until they’d finally calmed down a little.

It had been three hours, and Esben was tired— but it was the good kind of tired, from defeating your friends at zibzy and wrestling with your brother while the sun warmed you overhead. Finally, he yanked the ball free from Artham’s grasp, rolled away, and flopped onto his back with a cry. “Ha! I win!”

Artham dropped down next to him, breathing hard and grinning. “I can still take it from you, though.”

“Nope. Game’s over and I won,” Esben told him.

“Says who?”

“Me. I’m gonna be the High King someday, remember?”

Artham scoffed good naturedly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t pummel you.”

Closing his eyes, Esben took in a deep breath, enjoying the sunlight on his face. Spring was the best time of year to him— when things were fresh and new and bright. And it led into summer, when the heat was such that their mother was forced to let them take a break from T.H.A.G.S to let them plunge into the ocean and cool off.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what the Throne Warden is supposed to do,” he pointed out to his brother, who grinned.

“Fair enough. You win this time.”

That was Artham— always willing to make peace between the two of them, even if he’d fight anyone else to the last breath. “Good,” Esben said, sitting up. “As the winner, I declare we should take out the boat now.”

“Now? What about dinner?”

Rolling his eyes, Esben said, “What about dinner? What about being out on the sea right now? Look at the sky, Artham! It’s perfect for a sail.”

Artham shook his head, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Fine.” Getting to his feet with a groan, he offered Esben a hand. “I’m with you, obviously.”

Grabbing his hand, Esben let his older brother pull him to his feet. “You always are,” he said. “Let’s go!”

And with that, the Throne Warden and the future High King took off across the grass, heading down towards the sea waiting for them below.