Post by Seek on Oct 3, 2010 4:16:54 GMT 10
Title: Dance of Swords
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1408 words
Category: Tortall
Summary: Alan/Liam, and a dangerous dance.
Peculiar Pairing: Alan/Liam
-
This is the sword, thrust into the centre of the white swirls and loops of a dizzying mage-gate, meant to break Tortall asunder.
He’s gone there sometimes, since he was a little boy, hazel eyes staring solemnly at the hilt he’s too short to reach. Mama’s, he thinks. He reaches out with his small hands to touch it anyway, and in his mind, he does so.
For now, that is enough.
-
This is the sword, made from two blades, or so Mama says. Her Lightning, and the Duke of Conte’s nameless sword. Maybe, Alan wonders – but he never gives voice to the thought.
He isn’t sure about becoming a knight. Mama’s a knight, but Papa isn’t, and Papa’s fine with him doing just about anything. Thom’s got the Gift, and Thom’s going to study at the University, and Aly spends the time climbing trees and spying and annoying Mama. He stares at the sword, and imagines that maybe one day, he’ll wield it. Maybe they’ll call him the Lion, and he’ll be just as famed as Mama.
He reaches out to touch the hilt, just once, fingers barely grazing it.
Who is he trying to convince?
-
He doesn’t go in the fall.
He spends the time riding horses, going to the cliff and feeling the sea breeze ruffle his hair and breathing the salt spray and sketching the rocks in stark charcoal colours.
When asked, he says he can’t decide.
Aly grins but says nothing. He can’t hide anything from her, really.
Once in a while, he finds himself drawing a sword, hilt blackened and jewels cracked, and the gate behind it is white. He can’t really remember the patterns of the gate. The former gate doesn’t matter. The sword does.
He keeps each sketch away, carefully.
Each drawing is an unasked question, and sometimes, Alan doesn’t know if he really wants an answer.
-
He goes in the fall.
It is the last sketch that decides him; the sword grey-toned in the darkness, dreaming. Waiting for someone to set a hand to it.
Waiting for the boy who will hear its steel-song.
-
Prince Liam of Conte starts as late as he does.
This is Liam; neat black hair, never disordered, and hazel eyes that watch him appraisingly. Alan doesn’t set his hand to his charcoals. There’s something about Liam that’s difficult to pin down, that shifts and wriggles and hides when he tries to capture it later.
He will keep every failed attempt anyway.
This is Liam; smile quirked at the corner of his lips, as he says, “You’re Alan of Pirate’s Swoop, aren’t you?”
“Yes, your Highness,” Alan says.
Their parents were friends as pages. He’s not sure if they are supposed to be, but evidently, they both feel the same, because Liam says, gracefully, “I’m Liam of Conte. My friends call me Liam.”
“Am I your friend, your Highness?” Alan asks, before he can bite his tongue.
“I don’t know,” Liam admits. “But I’d like to be.”
“Then it’s Alan, Your – Liam.”
This is Liam.
Maybe it’s something to do with being the son of the Lioness, and the son of the king, but the two of them become friends from the first day.
-
He isn’t meant for the sword.
When his fingers first close around the hilt of a wooden practice sword, Alan wonders if it’s supposed to feel natural. If it’s supposed to move like a part of his arm.
It hangs there, weighted, and slows him down.
Donalan hammers bruises all over his skin.
Later that night, Liam will come to his room, and roll his eyes a little and place his hands against each and every one of them, and will ease and heal the bruises in blue light.
“I learned from the palace healers,” He says, when Alan glances at him questioningly.
He will pause. His hands will linger, like the memory of a sword thrust into a dead gate, in the heart of the catacombs that are buried beneath the palace.
Alan will not say anything. Instead, he will ask, “And you chose to become a knight?”
Liam will shrug, will say, “It seemed best.”
They will ignore the way Liam touches Alan, as if discovering something new along the faded bruises, and the strong lines of his skin and jaw.
They will ignore the way they both pretend there’s nothing to it.
-
He isn’t meant for the sword.
Josu’s Dirk beats him up, until Alan’s cramping fingers can’t hold on to the sword hilt, and can’t let go of the sword hilt either. “Pirate’s Swoop,” Sergeant Ezeko mutters, frustrated. “Haven’t learned our mother’s sword skills, have we?”
“No, sir.” Alan mutters, scarlet-faced as he faces Josu’s Dirk again. Mithros, he hates this so much sometimes. His mother says, practice. So he forces himself to keep holding on, to keep training and practicing, in the hopes that the endless drills will burn themselves into his trembling muscles.
“I don’t know,” Liam says, as they laze in the courtyard, watching the sparrows flock the trees. Alan stares upwards at the leaves and the sunlight; Liam leans against the tree trunk, as if he won’t even permit himself to be seen lounging. “It’s about practice.”
“I’ve done that.” Alan grumbles. “It still doesn’t work for me.”
Liam regards him, and then his lips quirk again in his typical smile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What does?”
“Your not being a good swordsman.”
Alan raises an eyebrow. No, he wants to say, I’m the son of the Lioness. I’m supposed to be good with a sword. And you’re the son of the king. I’m supposed to be the Lion to your Prince.
He says none of this aloud, just shrugs.
“No,” Liam says, judging his expression correctly from the doubt on his face. “You can be the one who goes around and talks people into things. Like Father. I’ll be your sword arm.”
“Does that mean you’ll save me from Loren?” Alan asks, slyly.
Liam gives him a reproachful look.
“Alright, alright.” Alan concedes. “We’ll stick to letting you pummel me with a sword until I get better.”
“I heal the bruises, don’t I?” Liam points out. He catches Alan’s eyes with his, and neither of them look away when Alan slips closer.
-
This is the sword.
Seemingly untouched by the passage of the years, only now he can reach out and place his hand on the battered hilt (someone must have come recently, he thinks, because he doesn’t remember the soot being cleaned off).
He is drawn to it, almost-mesmerised, and feels his fingers close around the hilt. In a children’s tale, he knows, the sword will be drawn from the gate by the rightful hero, the rightful knight and he can’t help but feel his heart pounding in his chest, even though he knows it can’t be pulled out or his mother would still be using it.
Any last dreams, any last hopes die when the sword sits firmly in the gate, no matter how much he tugs.
He doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. What does he even want?
“You don’t have to be my champion, you know,” Liam says, watching.
“I know,” Alan says. But, he thinks, what else can I be?
-
This is the sword.
Mithros bless it, it’s from Raven Armory, and when he draws it, he watches the flickering candle flame play along the blue-rippled length of mirror-bright steel.
“I thought you should have a sword anyway,” Sir Liam says, and Sir Alan of Pirate’s Swoop doesn’t trust himself to say anything.
(There’s an unspoken communication behind this, that none of them will ever dare voice, because they know this will destroy everything else, and that Liam has a duty.)
“Thank you, your Highness.” He says. They both know sword-lore, and so Alan slices the blade across his palm, kneels, offers the bloodied sword and his oath of loyalty back to Liam.
Liam pulls him to his feet, and if his fingers are more gentle, if the liege-kiss on the cheek is fiercer than it should be –
They pull away. They are too used to walking the sword-edge of duty, and wise enough to know that it is as safe as a dance of sharpened swords, and yet Liam is one of the best swordsmen in their generation, and Alan –
Alan is discovering the future, written in the steel of a different sword.
-
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1408 words
Category: Tortall
Summary: Alan/Liam, and a dangerous dance.
Peculiar Pairing: Alan/Liam
-
This is the sword, thrust into the centre of the white swirls and loops of a dizzying mage-gate, meant to break Tortall asunder.
He’s gone there sometimes, since he was a little boy, hazel eyes staring solemnly at the hilt he’s too short to reach. Mama’s, he thinks. He reaches out with his small hands to touch it anyway, and in his mind, he does so.
For now, that is enough.
-
This is the sword, made from two blades, or so Mama says. Her Lightning, and the Duke of Conte’s nameless sword. Maybe, Alan wonders – but he never gives voice to the thought.
He isn’t sure about becoming a knight. Mama’s a knight, but Papa isn’t, and Papa’s fine with him doing just about anything. Thom’s got the Gift, and Thom’s going to study at the University, and Aly spends the time climbing trees and spying and annoying Mama. He stares at the sword, and imagines that maybe one day, he’ll wield it. Maybe they’ll call him the Lion, and he’ll be just as famed as Mama.
He reaches out to touch the hilt, just once, fingers barely grazing it.
Who is he trying to convince?
-
He doesn’t go in the fall.
He spends the time riding horses, going to the cliff and feeling the sea breeze ruffle his hair and breathing the salt spray and sketching the rocks in stark charcoal colours.
When asked, he says he can’t decide.
Aly grins but says nothing. He can’t hide anything from her, really.
Once in a while, he finds himself drawing a sword, hilt blackened and jewels cracked, and the gate behind it is white. He can’t really remember the patterns of the gate. The former gate doesn’t matter. The sword does.
He keeps each sketch away, carefully.
Each drawing is an unasked question, and sometimes, Alan doesn’t know if he really wants an answer.
-
He goes in the fall.
It is the last sketch that decides him; the sword grey-toned in the darkness, dreaming. Waiting for someone to set a hand to it.
Waiting for the boy who will hear its steel-song.
-
Prince Liam of Conte starts as late as he does.
This is Liam; neat black hair, never disordered, and hazel eyes that watch him appraisingly. Alan doesn’t set his hand to his charcoals. There’s something about Liam that’s difficult to pin down, that shifts and wriggles and hides when he tries to capture it later.
He will keep every failed attempt anyway.
This is Liam; smile quirked at the corner of his lips, as he says, “You’re Alan of Pirate’s Swoop, aren’t you?”
“Yes, your Highness,” Alan says.
Their parents were friends as pages. He’s not sure if they are supposed to be, but evidently, they both feel the same, because Liam says, gracefully, “I’m Liam of Conte. My friends call me Liam.”
“Am I your friend, your Highness?” Alan asks, before he can bite his tongue.
“I don’t know,” Liam admits. “But I’d like to be.”
“Then it’s Alan, Your – Liam.”
This is Liam.
Maybe it’s something to do with being the son of the Lioness, and the son of the king, but the two of them become friends from the first day.
-
He isn’t meant for the sword.
When his fingers first close around the hilt of a wooden practice sword, Alan wonders if it’s supposed to feel natural. If it’s supposed to move like a part of his arm.
It hangs there, weighted, and slows him down.
Donalan hammers bruises all over his skin.
Later that night, Liam will come to his room, and roll his eyes a little and place his hands against each and every one of them, and will ease and heal the bruises in blue light.
“I learned from the palace healers,” He says, when Alan glances at him questioningly.
He will pause. His hands will linger, like the memory of a sword thrust into a dead gate, in the heart of the catacombs that are buried beneath the palace.
Alan will not say anything. Instead, he will ask, “And you chose to become a knight?”
Liam will shrug, will say, “It seemed best.”
They will ignore the way Liam touches Alan, as if discovering something new along the faded bruises, and the strong lines of his skin and jaw.
They will ignore the way they both pretend there’s nothing to it.
-
He isn’t meant for the sword.
Josu’s Dirk beats him up, until Alan’s cramping fingers can’t hold on to the sword hilt, and can’t let go of the sword hilt either. “Pirate’s Swoop,” Sergeant Ezeko mutters, frustrated. “Haven’t learned our mother’s sword skills, have we?”
“No, sir.” Alan mutters, scarlet-faced as he faces Josu’s Dirk again. Mithros, he hates this so much sometimes. His mother says, practice. So he forces himself to keep holding on, to keep training and practicing, in the hopes that the endless drills will burn themselves into his trembling muscles.
“I don’t know,” Liam says, as they laze in the courtyard, watching the sparrows flock the trees. Alan stares upwards at the leaves and the sunlight; Liam leans against the tree trunk, as if he won’t even permit himself to be seen lounging. “It’s about practice.”
“I’ve done that.” Alan grumbles. “It still doesn’t work for me.”
Liam regards him, and then his lips quirk again in his typical smile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What does?”
“Your not being a good swordsman.”
Alan raises an eyebrow. No, he wants to say, I’m the son of the Lioness. I’m supposed to be good with a sword. And you’re the son of the king. I’m supposed to be the Lion to your Prince.
He says none of this aloud, just shrugs.
“No,” Liam says, judging his expression correctly from the doubt on his face. “You can be the one who goes around and talks people into things. Like Father. I’ll be your sword arm.”
“Does that mean you’ll save me from Loren?” Alan asks, slyly.
Liam gives him a reproachful look.
“Alright, alright.” Alan concedes. “We’ll stick to letting you pummel me with a sword until I get better.”
“I heal the bruises, don’t I?” Liam points out. He catches Alan’s eyes with his, and neither of them look away when Alan slips closer.
-
This is the sword.
Seemingly untouched by the passage of the years, only now he can reach out and place his hand on the battered hilt (someone must have come recently, he thinks, because he doesn’t remember the soot being cleaned off).
He is drawn to it, almost-mesmerised, and feels his fingers close around the hilt. In a children’s tale, he knows, the sword will be drawn from the gate by the rightful hero, the rightful knight and he can’t help but feel his heart pounding in his chest, even though he knows it can’t be pulled out or his mother would still be using it.
Any last dreams, any last hopes die when the sword sits firmly in the gate, no matter how much he tugs.
He doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. What does he even want?
“You don’t have to be my champion, you know,” Liam says, watching.
“I know,” Alan says. But, he thinks, what else can I be?
-
This is the sword.
Mithros bless it, it’s from Raven Armory, and when he draws it, he watches the flickering candle flame play along the blue-rippled length of mirror-bright steel.
“I thought you should have a sword anyway,” Sir Liam says, and Sir Alan of Pirate’s Swoop doesn’t trust himself to say anything.
(There’s an unspoken communication behind this, that none of them will ever dare voice, because they know this will destroy everything else, and that Liam has a duty.)
“Thank you, your Highness.” He says. They both know sword-lore, and so Alan slices the blade across his palm, kneels, offers the bloodied sword and his oath of loyalty back to Liam.
Liam pulls him to his feet, and if his fingers are more gentle, if the liege-kiss on the cheek is fiercer than it should be –
They pull away. They are too used to walking the sword-edge of duty, and wise enough to know that it is as safe as a dance of sharpened swords, and yet Liam is one of the best swordsmen in their generation, and Alan –
Alan is discovering the future, written in the steel of a different sword.
-
