Post by Muse on Jun 1, 2013 22:04:48 GMT 10
Title: Alternative
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 525
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 3A
Summary: He warns her not to give Roger an opening.
Warning: Character death.
Jon rubs balm carefully into her hands, bandaging them lightly. His blunt fingers are surprisingly soft against the irritated and sore skin. “There. Can you still bend them?”
Alanna flexes her fingers gently. “Should be alright.” She looks up at her former knightmaster, her friend, and sighs. “I’m sorry, you know. I wish—“
Jon half turns, his face hidden in profile so Alanna can’t make out his expression. “It doesn’t matter. Just, don’t—“ he trails off. Grabbing Lightning from its place on Alanna’s bed, he holds the sword out to Alanna hilt first.
“Don’t give him an opening.”
***
Not in recent history has a squire left the Chamber of the Ordeal and all-but-immediately accused a member of the nobility of crime, much less high treason. Anyone who has had experience with the Chamber knows that the being within simply doesn’t function that way.
I am forbidden to speak about what I’ve experienced within the Chamber. It is forbidden. Alanna repeats this in her head as she walks, foot steps a staccato rhythm keeping time with the words as she makes her way to the Great Throne Room.
Jon stands with his parents, regal and stiff legged even if he is the same color as curdled milk. Alanna catches his eye, dropping to a crouch with one leg extended to stretch and attempt to limber up muscles that have seized and tightened since the morning.
Jon only glances away when Roger enters the room, opposite Alanna, his own blade held casually in his grip.
Roald calls them to attention, and Court holds its collective breath.
Alanna breathes in and lifts Lightning up to guard position. She exhales, and rises to the balls of her feet, steady and waiting.
When Roald calls the beginning of the match, his voice is lost in the roar in Alanna’s ears and the ringing clarity that clears her head when Lightning meets Roger’s blade.
Roger’s eyes shine with an unsettling, guttering light that worries Alanna in a way that the cool, reassuring light in Jon’s never has. She notices this as she dances away from his blade, trying to keep out of reach of his longer arms.
He is not a swordsman.
She is.
Too bad.
She begins a combination with a reverse crescent strike that should come slashing up towards his face and drive him back onto the defensive.
Instead of falling back, Roger lunges forwards. Alanna, taken off guard, slips, socked foot sliding on the sweaty floor.
She doesn’t see the blade until its too late. Her balance is off but she’s still standing, supported, shoulders to hips to knees against Roger.
There’s something cold, pressing against her chest, something cold spreading slowly and she tries to breath but the cold stops it and she can feel her breaths coming faster.
Over Roger’s shoulder—he’s smirking and she can hear him—Jon’s blue eyes blaze in his dead white face.
Hmm. What an interesting turn of phrase.
Roger shoves her away, and Alanna loses track of herself somewhere before the floor.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 525
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 3A
Summary: He warns her not to give Roger an opening.
Warning: Character death.
Jon rubs balm carefully into her hands, bandaging them lightly. His blunt fingers are surprisingly soft against the irritated and sore skin. “There. Can you still bend them?”
Alanna flexes her fingers gently. “Should be alright.” She looks up at her former knightmaster, her friend, and sighs. “I’m sorry, you know. I wish—“
Jon half turns, his face hidden in profile so Alanna can’t make out his expression. “It doesn’t matter. Just, don’t—“ he trails off. Grabbing Lightning from its place on Alanna’s bed, he holds the sword out to Alanna hilt first.
“Don’t give him an opening.”
***
Not in recent history has a squire left the Chamber of the Ordeal and all-but-immediately accused a member of the nobility of crime, much less high treason. Anyone who has had experience with the Chamber knows that the being within simply doesn’t function that way.
I am forbidden to speak about what I’ve experienced within the Chamber. It is forbidden. Alanna repeats this in her head as she walks, foot steps a staccato rhythm keeping time with the words as she makes her way to the Great Throne Room.
Jon stands with his parents, regal and stiff legged even if he is the same color as curdled milk. Alanna catches his eye, dropping to a crouch with one leg extended to stretch and attempt to limber up muscles that have seized and tightened since the morning.
Jon only glances away when Roger enters the room, opposite Alanna, his own blade held casually in his grip.
Roald calls them to attention, and Court holds its collective breath.
Alanna breathes in and lifts Lightning up to guard position. She exhales, and rises to the balls of her feet, steady and waiting.
When Roald calls the beginning of the match, his voice is lost in the roar in Alanna’s ears and the ringing clarity that clears her head when Lightning meets Roger’s blade.
Roger’s eyes shine with an unsettling, guttering light that worries Alanna in a way that the cool, reassuring light in Jon’s never has. She notices this as she dances away from his blade, trying to keep out of reach of his longer arms.
He is not a swordsman.
She is.
Too bad.
She begins a combination with a reverse crescent strike that should come slashing up towards his face and drive him back onto the defensive.
Instead of falling back, Roger lunges forwards. Alanna, taken off guard, slips, socked foot sliding on the sweaty floor.
She doesn’t see the blade until its too late. Her balance is off but she’s still standing, supported, shoulders to hips to knees against Roger.
There’s something cold, pressing against her chest, something cold spreading slowly and she tries to breath but the cold stops it and she can feel her breaths coming faster.
Over Roger’s shoulder—he’s smirking and she can hear him—Jon’s blue eyes blaze in his dead white face.
Hmm. What an interesting turn of phrase.
Roger shoves her away, and Alanna loses track of herself somewhere before the floor.