For Weiryn, Five Things That Never Happened To Alanna, PG-13
Dec 26, 2014 7:05:48 GMT 10
Verasque likes this
Post by Seek on Dec 26, 2014 7:05:48 GMT 10
Title: Five Things That Never Happened To Alanna
Rating: PG-13
For: Weiryn
Prompt: 4. Alanna goes to the Convent AU - angsty or total fluff
Summary: Five paths branching out from when Alanna went to the convent.
Notes: I used a standard Five Things format. Unfortunately, instead of going full-on angst, it got somewhat...quirky at points. Still, hope you enjoy it! Happy Wishing Tree!
-
I. Unbound
The First Daughter of the convent called Alanna to her study the night after she’d been punished for climbing a tree to hide from etiquette class by being made to kneel all night on the cold flagstones of the Goddess’s chapel.
“Alanna of Trebond,” the First Daughter said. They hadn’t spoken; Alanna had only seen the woman from a distance. Up close, she could see grey in the woman’s copper hair, and her cool, pale eyes looked as though they’d measured her up and found her seriously wanting. “This is not the first time your name has been brought up in my study. It is, however, the first time we’ve spoken.”
Alanna tried her best to conceal a yawn. She was stiff, and exhausted—probably what the Daughter in charge of discipline had in mind. “First Daughter,” she mumbled, bleary-eyed.
Fingers steepled, the First Daughter took a long look at her and said, “Explain it to me.”
Alanna blinked. “I…don’t understand,” she ventured, into the silence. “Explain what?”
“Everything,” the woman said. “You frequently talk back to the etiquette teachers or hide from classes, you refused to learn to ride side-saddle and simply mounted up everytime the riding instructor tried to correct you, you spend most of the social talk class making direct and barbed comments about exactly how inane you find everything…and I understand that you stuck Delia of Eldorne repeatedly with a sewing needle and then hit her in the mouth because she wouldn’t leave you alone. I could go on, couldn’t I?”
Alanna flushed.
“But,” continued the First Daughter, “Your teachers also report that you apply yourself—grudgingly—in the classes teaching you the mathematics of running a fief. That you pay attention when they talk about a noble lady’s duties in defending her fief, though I suppose you must know that already, coming from a fief this close to the Scanran border. So. I believe an explanation is forthcoming.”
Alanna looked at her clasped hands. Tiredly, she grated out, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.”
“Is that all?” She looked up to see the First Daughter raise a sardonic eyebrow. “Truly, I would have thought that any of us could tell that by now, girl.”
“My father forced me,” Alanna said. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to learn to be a lady and go to Court and meet some knight and raise children and run a fief. I want…I want to become a knight, to ride off and to have adventures.”
“That decision was not your father’s to make,” the First Daughter said briskly. “Close your mouth, girl, you’re gawking. I’m not a market sideshow. Didn’t anyone tell you? A woman has rights in this land, under the Goddess. You could have fought his decision for you; no one could have enforced it then, especially not here, when we are servants of the Goddess ourselves. But a knight…there were lady knights once, a long time ago. Unfortunately, this is a path closed to you today.”
“I know,” Alanna replied. She rubbed at her eyes, hoping she would last the rest of…whatever this conversation was turning out to be. She’d expected to be reprimanded—just the latest in a chain of disciplinary incidents since the day Maude had escorted her to the convent and left her there. She hadn’t expected to be told…this.
The First Daughter sighed. “Look,” she said, bluntly, “I have a lot of reports to read today. And you’re tired—anyone can see that. Whyever I insisted on seeing you right after Daughter Mira kept you up all night…Mother preserve me, I don’t know. Get some sleep. Take the rest of the day off, and think very hard about what you want. And tomorrow, we will talk about that—and about how you’re going to get what you want.”
Alanna blinked again. She said, haltingly, “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not here to break you, girl,” the First Daughter informed her. “I’m here to make women, and to serve the Goddess. And I’d have to be both blind and stupid to force a woman into a mould she isn’t going to want to fit. You can’t be a knight, but your magic teachers tell me you have the Gift, and a lot of it too, even if you don’t want to use it. Your fool father’s putting you in a corner you don’t have to be in, but all I’m saying is, you have options, girl. And we’re going to talk about what they are. Understand?”
Alanna scrubbed at her blurring eyes, and said—her throat choked up, the first time—“Thank you.”
II. Broken
Francis of Nond watched the figures dismount in the palace courtyard and said, casually, “That your sister?”
Thom grunted in acknowledgement.
“She looks like you,” Francis observed. “Same eyes, too.”
“We’re twins,” Thom said, irritably. “What did you expect?”
“Point,” Francis acknowledged. “Well, what’re you doing?” He gestured—remembering that Thom didn’t like contact very much. “Go talk to her.”
Thom chewed at his lip. “Not with everyone…gawking,” he mumbled. It was true; all their fellow pages and squires were watching this year’s arrivals from the convent—some had even struck up the courage to talk to some of them. And Alanna had…changed.
The letters had stopped coming from the convent more than two years ago; he’d stopped bothering ever since. He’d even snuck into the kitchens to use the fire to try to scry his sister, and gotten himself punished for his trouble. There was no sign of her; it was as though Alanna had been shielded from his scry by forces beyond his power league.
Once again, Thom cursed the limitations of the palace library. If only he’d been the one to study magic at the City of the Gods…
Instead, he took one step forward to greet his sister and hesitated as a familiar dark-haired figure crossed the courtyard. “My lady,” Prince Jonathan of Conté said; white teeth flashed in a smile that—Thom thought sourly, the prince had practised on most of the ladies at Court by now. “Permit me?”
His sister smiled and said something—low, soft laughter, and she permitted herself to be helped down from a pony she probably could have mounted and dismounted from in her sleep.
They were still speaking; she offered the prince her hand then—he held it for a moment, kissed it lightly, and then carefully guided her off, into the reception prepared for the ladies at the palace.
Their eyes hadn’t met at all in that entire period of time—but somehow, Thom had the feeling that he’d made a big mistake, all those years ago, when he’d watched his sister ride off to the convent and went to Corus to face his own future.
III. Guardswoman
Talia swore. “He’s on his land,” she said. “You know the law. Untouchable, now.”
Alanna said, chin thrust out stubbornly, “I’m from Trebond. My family is in the Book of Gold. Where’s Malven, the Book of Silver? Copper? I’m going in and I’m dragging him out by his ear if I have to.”
“It’s not about nobility,” Talia said, finally. “You should know that.”
“It’s about justice,” Alanna retorted. “That’s three palace servants he’s touched, and a fourth doesn’t ever want to see him again, much less testify in the Court of the Goddess.” Almost reflexively, her hand moved to the ember stone at her neck.
Talia’s gaze followed the movement, and she said, hesitantly, “Are you being told to—”
Alanna shook her head. “Mother save us, I’ve told you enough times. I hardly hear from her. It’s not as though she’s looking over my shoulder all the time to tell me how to do things.” The cat with the purple eyes, she saw, was still following them. She bent down and stroked him, idly. He purred and butted gently against her boot.
“You could just keep him, you know,” Talia said.
“I can’t,” Alanna replied. “You know how the temple gets about pets.” She could’ve probably broken the rules, and no one would’ve blinked an eye, but she stood out enough as it was. Most of the priestesses and temple guards had some story or other, but none of them had been rescued from a convent by the most senior priestess of the Goddess’s temple in Corus. Add that the Goddess had ostensibly sent Priestess Hilde the same dream, night after night, asking her to retrieve a girl from the convent and whispers inevitably followed Alanna wherever she went.
She’d asked the Goddess, once, about that. The Goddess had simply smiled and neither confirmed nor denied it, merely replied that there were a great many paths she could have taken, and even the gods couldn’t tell what was to happen.
So, an evasion, then.
“I don’t think it looks like you have a choice,” Talia replied, amused. “He seems to have kept you.”
Exactly, purred the cat. Alanna wondered if she should name him, and then pushed that thought away. She wasn’t getting a pet—she didn’t need more people talking about her in the Goddess’s temple! She checked her sword, and her back-up knife. She rather thought that Ralon of Malven might be inclined to put up a fight.
At this point, Alanna thought darkly, she was more than happy to oblige him, if he was planning on being stupid. “Wait here,” she told Talia. “I’ll be back in a few moments.” Loosening her sword in its scabbard, she strode confidently onto Malven soil and kept walking.
IV. Lioness
“Who’s that?”
Liam Ironarm glanced across the table. Had he set foot in Tortall in the past few years, he might have vaguely recognised the figure being indicated as the missing Alanna of Trebond, a matter talked about over the kingdom because Duke Roger of Conté had eventually been implicated in her disappearance—and, it was assumed, death. The lass had been snatched from a convent. That was another thing that’d have set tongues wagging all over. And by now, word of the young Lord Trebond unmasking the Duke’s foul deeds had spread all over the Eastern Lands.
“Sellsword,” he said, casually, noticing the round targe the warrior carried, scarred from various blades. Not the proper shield of a knight in the Eastern Lands, and it was painted with sellsword red, always a telling sign in Maren. He saw the longsword, and what might’ve been a knife or two. The horse with the bow attached to the saddle must’ve been his, then. It was one of the many weapons a sellsword was proficient in, or they’d be hard up for work. This sellsword wore a padded jacket, with chainmail and the occasional steel plate, dull but well cared for. His posture was bored, as he looked around the inn and sipped at his drink.
“Look at those eyes,” Marek Swiftknife breathed. “Ain’t natural, I’m tellin’ you.”
Startled, Liam blinked, and saw what Marek meant. They were a bright purple he’d seldom seen in all his travels.
“Huh,” he said, finally. He called over the serving lady and asked her if she knew who that fellow over on the other side of the room was.
“That fellow?” Rysthia asked, raising an eyebrow. “You mean the Lioness?”
Marek almost choked. “Crooked God strike me,” he managed. “That’s the Lioness? The one that fought like a demon to put that Queen of Sarain on her throne? The one who beat the warlords of Sarain into submission in single combat, one by one?”
“Like a lioness over her children,” Liam said, thoughtfully, a hand on his ale glass. That line was from a popular tavern song about one of the many battles the Lioness had fought in Sarain—the same war that had given her the name she now went by.
“Thought she’d have been bigger, is all,” Marek said, defensively. “You know them stories.”
“Yes,” Liam acknowledged that, grinning. “Of course I do. And of course, if your errand’s important enough that you’d like some company on the road…”
Marek’s eyes darted from him to the Lioness, still nursing her drink in that corner, her gaze watchful. Finally he said, “Couldn’t hurt.”
He watched as Liam got up, and crossed the room, intent on the small lone figure that was the Lioness. He was interested in her—there was no mistaking that. Marek was observant enough to tell. The Shang Dragon and the Lioness, he thought, draining his wineglass. What did you know—it looked like this errand of George’s was giving him encounters with all sorts of legends.
V. Knight-Errant
She shouldn’t have been here, Jon thought. And they shouldn’t have managed to kill the Ysandir, somehow. The enormity of what they’d done came crashing down on him as they found their way out, towards the nearby oasis. It was all he seemed to be able to think, as they staggered out, and then collapsed onto the sand.
“Who are you?” he demanded. There was something familiar about the scornful way she’d glanced at him, back in the chamber with the Ysandir, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen that look before. The sword of purple fire had vanished, now that she wasn’t wielding it. He reminded himself to ask her to teach him that spell—he’d raided the palace library for spells that his cousin had forbidden them to touch, but there was nothing he’d seen that covered making weapons from the Gift. “Why did you come here, and where did you learn to fight?”
She said, “You shouldn’t have been here, your Highness.”
Jon said, “I had to see the city. My cousin was telling us about it, and so did the Bazhir, but…” he couldn’t place the feeling. He’d wanted to see it, so badly; an itch in his mind that had to be scratched, and now it seemed as though he’d made a terrible mistake. “But you know who I am, then.”
A faint smile. “You’re Prince Jonathan of Conté.”
“My friends call me Jon.”
“Are we friends, your Highness?”
He grinned; felt reckless, young, and just glad to be alive. “Why not?” he wanted to know. “You fight as well as any of the squires at the palace and you saved my life. Anyone who saves my life gets to call me Jon.”
She was quiet, for a few moments. “No,” she admitted, quietly. “You saved mine too. I’m Alanna. Alanna of Trebond.”
Jon blinked. “You’re Thom’s sister?” he demanded, incredulously. “He never talked about you.”
“I’m surprised you even got him to talk at all,” Alanna replied. “Thom…well. He’s Thom,” she finished, lamely. He had the faint impression he’d stirred something she didn’t feel comfortable about discussing with him.
“So, where did you learn to fight?” he prodded. “And why did you come here?”
“I learned to fight from the armsmen at the convent,” Alanna said, quietly. “The Daughters didn’t like it. We…fought about it, at first. But then the First Daughter told them they had no business telling me what I wanted to spend my spare time doing, and that it was my affair if I preferred whacking at things with swords to practising my needlework. And so they stopped.” She hesitated, now. Her hand, he noticed, clasped something that hung on a fine silver chain around her neck. “I…saw something in the fire,” she admitted, not meeting his eyes. “It told me I had to be here, had to make a stand with you against the evil that was in the Black City.” She looked at him. “I think I’m glad I listened.”
“So am I,” Jon murmured, fiercely. “You were incredible, you know that?”
Alanna’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I hope so, your Highness—”
“Jon.”
“Jon,” she amended. “After all, I’ve been practising—and I’m a lot better than Thom at this sort of thing.”
Rating: PG-13
For: Weiryn
Prompt: 4. Alanna goes to the Convent AU - angsty or total fluff
Summary: Five paths branching out from when Alanna went to the convent.
Notes: I used a standard Five Things format. Unfortunately, instead of going full-on angst, it got somewhat...quirky at points. Still, hope you enjoy it! Happy Wishing Tree!
-
I. Unbound
The First Daughter of the convent called Alanna to her study the night after she’d been punished for climbing a tree to hide from etiquette class by being made to kneel all night on the cold flagstones of the Goddess’s chapel.
“Alanna of Trebond,” the First Daughter said. They hadn’t spoken; Alanna had only seen the woman from a distance. Up close, she could see grey in the woman’s copper hair, and her cool, pale eyes looked as though they’d measured her up and found her seriously wanting. “This is not the first time your name has been brought up in my study. It is, however, the first time we’ve spoken.”
Alanna tried her best to conceal a yawn. She was stiff, and exhausted—probably what the Daughter in charge of discipline had in mind. “First Daughter,” she mumbled, bleary-eyed.
Fingers steepled, the First Daughter took a long look at her and said, “Explain it to me.”
Alanna blinked. “I…don’t understand,” she ventured, into the silence. “Explain what?”
“Everything,” the woman said. “You frequently talk back to the etiquette teachers or hide from classes, you refused to learn to ride side-saddle and simply mounted up everytime the riding instructor tried to correct you, you spend most of the social talk class making direct and barbed comments about exactly how inane you find everything…and I understand that you stuck Delia of Eldorne repeatedly with a sewing needle and then hit her in the mouth because she wouldn’t leave you alone. I could go on, couldn’t I?”
Alanna flushed.
“But,” continued the First Daughter, “Your teachers also report that you apply yourself—grudgingly—in the classes teaching you the mathematics of running a fief. That you pay attention when they talk about a noble lady’s duties in defending her fief, though I suppose you must know that already, coming from a fief this close to the Scanran border. So. I believe an explanation is forthcoming.”
Alanna looked at her clasped hands. Tiredly, she grated out, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.”
“Is that all?” She looked up to see the First Daughter raise a sardonic eyebrow. “Truly, I would have thought that any of us could tell that by now, girl.”
“My father forced me,” Alanna said. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to learn to be a lady and go to Court and meet some knight and raise children and run a fief. I want…I want to become a knight, to ride off and to have adventures.”
“That decision was not your father’s to make,” the First Daughter said briskly. “Close your mouth, girl, you’re gawking. I’m not a market sideshow. Didn’t anyone tell you? A woman has rights in this land, under the Goddess. You could have fought his decision for you; no one could have enforced it then, especially not here, when we are servants of the Goddess ourselves. But a knight…there were lady knights once, a long time ago. Unfortunately, this is a path closed to you today.”
“I know,” Alanna replied. She rubbed at her eyes, hoping she would last the rest of…whatever this conversation was turning out to be. She’d expected to be reprimanded—just the latest in a chain of disciplinary incidents since the day Maude had escorted her to the convent and left her there. She hadn’t expected to be told…this.
The First Daughter sighed. “Look,” she said, bluntly, “I have a lot of reports to read today. And you’re tired—anyone can see that. Whyever I insisted on seeing you right after Daughter Mira kept you up all night…Mother preserve me, I don’t know. Get some sleep. Take the rest of the day off, and think very hard about what you want. And tomorrow, we will talk about that—and about how you’re going to get what you want.”
Alanna blinked again. She said, haltingly, “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not here to break you, girl,” the First Daughter informed her. “I’m here to make women, and to serve the Goddess. And I’d have to be both blind and stupid to force a woman into a mould she isn’t going to want to fit. You can’t be a knight, but your magic teachers tell me you have the Gift, and a lot of it too, even if you don’t want to use it. Your fool father’s putting you in a corner you don’t have to be in, but all I’m saying is, you have options, girl. And we’re going to talk about what they are. Understand?”
Alanna scrubbed at her blurring eyes, and said—her throat choked up, the first time—“Thank you.”
II. Broken
Francis of Nond watched the figures dismount in the palace courtyard and said, casually, “That your sister?”
Thom grunted in acknowledgement.
“She looks like you,” Francis observed. “Same eyes, too.”
“We’re twins,” Thom said, irritably. “What did you expect?”
“Point,” Francis acknowledged. “Well, what’re you doing?” He gestured—remembering that Thom didn’t like contact very much. “Go talk to her.”
Thom chewed at his lip. “Not with everyone…gawking,” he mumbled. It was true; all their fellow pages and squires were watching this year’s arrivals from the convent—some had even struck up the courage to talk to some of them. And Alanna had…changed.
The letters had stopped coming from the convent more than two years ago; he’d stopped bothering ever since. He’d even snuck into the kitchens to use the fire to try to scry his sister, and gotten himself punished for his trouble. There was no sign of her; it was as though Alanna had been shielded from his scry by forces beyond his power league.
Once again, Thom cursed the limitations of the palace library. If only he’d been the one to study magic at the City of the Gods…
Instead, he took one step forward to greet his sister and hesitated as a familiar dark-haired figure crossed the courtyard. “My lady,” Prince Jonathan of Conté said; white teeth flashed in a smile that—Thom thought sourly, the prince had practised on most of the ladies at Court by now. “Permit me?”
His sister smiled and said something—low, soft laughter, and she permitted herself to be helped down from a pony she probably could have mounted and dismounted from in her sleep.
They were still speaking; she offered the prince her hand then—he held it for a moment, kissed it lightly, and then carefully guided her off, into the reception prepared for the ladies at the palace.
Their eyes hadn’t met at all in that entire period of time—but somehow, Thom had the feeling that he’d made a big mistake, all those years ago, when he’d watched his sister ride off to the convent and went to Corus to face his own future.
III. Guardswoman
Talia swore. “He’s on his land,” she said. “You know the law. Untouchable, now.”
Alanna said, chin thrust out stubbornly, “I’m from Trebond. My family is in the Book of Gold. Where’s Malven, the Book of Silver? Copper? I’m going in and I’m dragging him out by his ear if I have to.”
“It’s not about nobility,” Talia said, finally. “You should know that.”
“It’s about justice,” Alanna retorted. “That’s three palace servants he’s touched, and a fourth doesn’t ever want to see him again, much less testify in the Court of the Goddess.” Almost reflexively, her hand moved to the ember stone at her neck.
Talia’s gaze followed the movement, and she said, hesitantly, “Are you being told to—”
Alanna shook her head. “Mother save us, I’ve told you enough times. I hardly hear from her. It’s not as though she’s looking over my shoulder all the time to tell me how to do things.” The cat with the purple eyes, she saw, was still following them. She bent down and stroked him, idly. He purred and butted gently against her boot.
“You could just keep him, you know,” Talia said.
“I can’t,” Alanna replied. “You know how the temple gets about pets.” She could’ve probably broken the rules, and no one would’ve blinked an eye, but she stood out enough as it was. Most of the priestesses and temple guards had some story or other, but none of them had been rescued from a convent by the most senior priestess of the Goddess’s temple in Corus. Add that the Goddess had ostensibly sent Priestess Hilde the same dream, night after night, asking her to retrieve a girl from the convent and whispers inevitably followed Alanna wherever she went.
She’d asked the Goddess, once, about that. The Goddess had simply smiled and neither confirmed nor denied it, merely replied that there were a great many paths she could have taken, and even the gods couldn’t tell what was to happen.
So, an evasion, then.
“I don’t think it looks like you have a choice,” Talia replied, amused. “He seems to have kept you.”
Exactly, purred the cat. Alanna wondered if she should name him, and then pushed that thought away. She wasn’t getting a pet—she didn’t need more people talking about her in the Goddess’s temple! She checked her sword, and her back-up knife. She rather thought that Ralon of Malven might be inclined to put up a fight.
At this point, Alanna thought darkly, she was more than happy to oblige him, if he was planning on being stupid. “Wait here,” she told Talia. “I’ll be back in a few moments.” Loosening her sword in its scabbard, she strode confidently onto Malven soil and kept walking.
IV. Lioness
“Who’s that?”
Liam Ironarm glanced across the table. Had he set foot in Tortall in the past few years, he might have vaguely recognised the figure being indicated as the missing Alanna of Trebond, a matter talked about over the kingdom because Duke Roger of Conté had eventually been implicated in her disappearance—and, it was assumed, death. The lass had been snatched from a convent. That was another thing that’d have set tongues wagging all over. And by now, word of the young Lord Trebond unmasking the Duke’s foul deeds had spread all over the Eastern Lands.
“Sellsword,” he said, casually, noticing the round targe the warrior carried, scarred from various blades. Not the proper shield of a knight in the Eastern Lands, and it was painted with sellsword red, always a telling sign in Maren. He saw the longsword, and what might’ve been a knife or two. The horse with the bow attached to the saddle must’ve been his, then. It was one of the many weapons a sellsword was proficient in, or they’d be hard up for work. This sellsword wore a padded jacket, with chainmail and the occasional steel plate, dull but well cared for. His posture was bored, as he looked around the inn and sipped at his drink.
“Look at those eyes,” Marek Swiftknife breathed. “Ain’t natural, I’m tellin’ you.”
Startled, Liam blinked, and saw what Marek meant. They were a bright purple he’d seldom seen in all his travels.
“Huh,” he said, finally. He called over the serving lady and asked her if she knew who that fellow over on the other side of the room was.
“That fellow?” Rysthia asked, raising an eyebrow. “You mean the Lioness?”
Marek almost choked. “Crooked God strike me,” he managed. “That’s the Lioness? The one that fought like a demon to put that Queen of Sarain on her throne? The one who beat the warlords of Sarain into submission in single combat, one by one?”
“Like a lioness over her children,” Liam said, thoughtfully, a hand on his ale glass. That line was from a popular tavern song about one of the many battles the Lioness had fought in Sarain—the same war that had given her the name she now went by.
“Thought she’d have been bigger, is all,” Marek said, defensively. “You know them stories.”
“Yes,” Liam acknowledged that, grinning. “Of course I do. And of course, if your errand’s important enough that you’d like some company on the road…”
Marek’s eyes darted from him to the Lioness, still nursing her drink in that corner, her gaze watchful. Finally he said, “Couldn’t hurt.”
He watched as Liam got up, and crossed the room, intent on the small lone figure that was the Lioness. He was interested in her—there was no mistaking that. Marek was observant enough to tell. The Shang Dragon and the Lioness, he thought, draining his wineglass. What did you know—it looked like this errand of George’s was giving him encounters with all sorts of legends.
V. Knight-Errant
She shouldn’t have been here, Jon thought. And they shouldn’t have managed to kill the Ysandir, somehow. The enormity of what they’d done came crashing down on him as they found their way out, towards the nearby oasis. It was all he seemed to be able to think, as they staggered out, and then collapsed onto the sand.
“Who are you?” he demanded. There was something familiar about the scornful way she’d glanced at him, back in the chamber with the Ysandir, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen that look before. The sword of purple fire had vanished, now that she wasn’t wielding it. He reminded himself to ask her to teach him that spell—he’d raided the palace library for spells that his cousin had forbidden them to touch, but there was nothing he’d seen that covered making weapons from the Gift. “Why did you come here, and where did you learn to fight?”
She said, “You shouldn’t have been here, your Highness.”
Jon said, “I had to see the city. My cousin was telling us about it, and so did the Bazhir, but…” he couldn’t place the feeling. He’d wanted to see it, so badly; an itch in his mind that had to be scratched, and now it seemed as though he’d made a terrible mistake. “But you know who I am, then.”
A faint smile. “You’re Prince Jonathan of Conté.”
“My friends call me Jon.”
“Are we friends, your Highness?”
He grinned; felt reckless, young, and just glad to be alive. “Why not?” he wanted to know. “You fight as well as any of the squires at the palace and you saved my life. Anyone who saves my life gets to call me Jon.”
She was quiet, for a few moments. “No,” she admitted, quietly. “You saved mine too. I’m Alanna. Alanna of Trebond.”
Jon blinked. “You’re Thom’s sister?” he demanded, incredulously. “He never talked about you.”
“I’m surprised you even got him to talk at all,” Alanna replied. “Thom…well. He’s Thom,” she finished, lamely. He had the faint impression he’d stirred something she didn’t feel comfortable about discussing with him.
“So, where did you learn to fight?” he prodded. “And why did you come here?”
“I learned to fight from the armsmen at the convent,” Alanna said, quietly. “The Daughters didn’t like it. We…fought about it, at first. But then the First Daughter told them they had no business telling me what I wanted to spend my spare time doing, and that it was my affair if I preferred whacking at things with swords to practising my needlework. And so they stopped.” She hesitated, now. Her hand, he noticed, clasped something that hung on a fine silver chain around her neck. “I…saw something in the fire,” she admitted, not meeting his eyes. “It told me I had to be here, had to make a stand with you against the evil that was in the Black City.” She looked at him. “I think I’m glad I listened.”
“So am I,” Jon murmured, fiercely. “You were incredible, you know that?”
Alanna’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I hope so, your Highness—”
“Jon.”
“Jon,” she amended. “After all, I’ve been practising—and I’m a lot better than Thom at this sort of thing.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!