the_lioness | (no subject)

(no subject)

Late one night, after a state dinner and lengthy visit with Numair, Alanna returns to her (their) rooms and discovers she doesn't want to stay.

Oh, she's tired enough for sleep -- when isn't she these days? -- and is of an age when the chance to sleep in her own bed is greatly appreciated. Nor is she upset with Adam. The love she has for him is deep and abiding, though he's sure to wake up and ask the usual questions, and it's those she can't abide tonight.

She could sneak in to see (check on) the children, but lately their questions make her feel irritated AND guilty.

Crossing the room, she tugs on the sash and throws open the window, then takes a deep breath of spring. She wants to be in the desert. She wants to be on an adventure. She wants to be free from worry for a brief, blissful moment, free from the constant weight of everything that might happen to everyone and everything she loves if she's not strong enough, fast enough, brave enough, smart enough...

Alanna rubs an angry hand over her face and confronts the truth: she wants her brother.

Thom hasn't been there. He can't be here. He's somewhere, without her, and he doesn't seem to care.

They were still supposed to see each other, once in a while. Her fingers trace a fine line beside her eye; she squints, deepening it. Would he even recognize this face, older now than his by seven years?

She leaves the window open and sinks down to one of their more uncomfortable chairs. It'll do until she knows she can keep a civil tongue in her head.

~ ~ ~

It's dark. Alanna can't remember blowing out the candles.

There's music, soft and then sharp, drifting through the air. A scent teases her nose, something maddeningly familiar, but it's like the music: close enough to sense, too far to categorize.

She frowns and stretches the stiff muscles in her neck before trying to feel her way to the window. Someone must have shut it and drawn the heavy curtains. Another annoyance.

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Then there is another sound, the sound of silken slippers and heavy silk skirts brushing the carpet. The rustling continues until one of the candles comes on. One candle, and then another, and another; all being lit by a slender woman in green-and-white silk, with heavy unbound chestnut hair.

Perversely, the first lick of candlelight across the walls makes Alanna close her eyes, squeezing them tight lest she curse. She assumes it's Adam and doesn't feel much like explaining why she chose an uncomfortable chair over stretching out beside him.

"I was coming to bed," she whispers, biting her lip at her own defensive tone.

The noises don't fit, however. Even as she speaks she realizes the soft, feminine noises don't fit. The thought is heavy and slow, and so are her movements as she turns, and sees.

Delia. Delia-who-is-dead.

This can't be good.

"Hello, Alanna."

The voice is the same, low and throaty, and she looks not a day older than twenty-two, and the smile is, almost, the same. Almost. Even with her eyes bright and lips curved as if she is going to start giggling, there is a lingering peace around the edges of her expression.

"You do know that falling asleep while wearing linen only creases it? And such a pretty dress, too."

"I'm not wearing a dress."

The last word rises slightly, as if she's suddenly unsure of what she's saying and only just noticed her legs are missing the reassuring coverage of heavy cloth and leather.

Instantly suspicious, she scowls at Delia. "Is it yours?"

No, that doesn't make sense. Then again, nothing about this makes sense.

"No."

Alanna stares mulishly.

"No, I guess not. It's not your color."

Delia stares back.

"Not since I was six, no."

"Hmph."

"Goddess, I've finally gone truly mad," Alanna suddenly laughs, dropping back down to her chair. She sits like a man, with no regard for whatever fussy fabric Delia said she was wearing.

(Ignoring, for the moment, that most of her shirts are made out of linen.)

"Delia," she breathes, just to say her name out loud.

"Cafeful, Alanna," she says, spreading her skirts and taking a seat gracefully. "You might even admit that you've missed me next."

The unsteady laughter abruptly stops. Whatever insanity has seized her almost makes her agree.

Soberly: "It's been a long time."

"For you, maybe." The words might be flippant, shallow, but Delia's eyes are still as sharp as ever. "Times run different between the Realms."

Pause.

"And you have a problem."

"Just one?"

Alanna stands and walks to Delia in bare feet (where did her Gods-cursed boots go?), curling her fingers in to her palms.

The urge to reach out and touch that pretty face, to let yet another sense gather evidence to appease her mind, is nearly overwhelming. The smile, the eyes, the voice: they are all so real.

She nods, and then tilts her face up.

"Just the one. It's all connected, if you look in the right way."

Alanna's heart begins to beat faster. This close, it seems foolish to doubt the possibility that this is real and not just her mind playing tricks.

"Really."

She swallows hard.

"Well, you've definitely tweaked my curiosity."

Delia smiles at that.

"I thought I might. Of course, I might be wrong...I wasn't making it up when I said that time runs differently, and watching from all the way over there...sometimes it's hard to be sure what we are watching.

So, before I start telling you my theory...why don't you be a dear and summarize things for me?"

There's something distinctly disturbing about the idea that Delia has been watching her life unfold.

"Thom" pops out before she has a chance to censor herself. "And Immortals are spilling out of the Divine Realms to attack Tortall. All signs seem to implicate Carthak's hand. Furthermore my daughter not only doesn't want to be a knight, she can't stand what I do. Resents me for it." She paces the short distance to the hearth. "It's been seven years-"

She breaks off again, falling into a sullen silence.

Edited 2009-02-28 17:06 (UTC)

Delia looks at her, and there is something a little tired, a little disappointed about that look. Still being childish? is what the look seems to ask.

"I was going to bring up Grace myself," she says at last. "But politics first, and I do have to say, Alanna, if that's how you summarize things in meetings..."

Alanna sees the look for what it is and curls her lip in reaction. As far as she's concerned, caring isn't childish. Besides, she's talking to a dead woman. Obviously she's taken a turn for the insane. She's allowed to lose her temper.

Okay, that was a bit childish.

A deep breath brings her emotions, so carefully held in check around the others in Corus these days, under control.

"You know me, Delia. I've never been one for politics." Which is to say: not quite. "Why smile and dissemble when you can speak your mind?"

"Because the men who have delicate egos usually have access to power, of one kind or another."

Beat.

"Besides, without the dissembling you would see just how greedy, petty and lacking in honour the majority of people are."

"Amongst the nobles at court, I wouldn't disagree."

Her attempt to crouch before the fire is thwarted by her skirts. Brought up short, she frowns at the flames and settles for scrubbing her hands over her face again. She feels like everything is slightly blurred, as if she's aware but not sharp and focused. When she looks back at Delia, her own expression is tired and drawn. She can feel it.

"Would it surprise you to know I'm not unhappy to see you?" she asks quietly.

The young (dead) woman is silent for a moment.

"No," she says at last. "It would not. We grew out of our spite for one another, didn't we?"

"Aye, we did."

Alanna's sudden impish grin transforms her face, if only for a moment.

"I've thought of you," she tells Delia.

It's true.

Now Delia looks surprised.

"Did you, now."

Another silence.

"I don't know how to talk to my daughter," she says at last. "There have been times when your counsel would have been useful."

It's stiff, but it's also very hard for her to admit.

"Grace..."

She stops, presses a finger against her lips thoughtfully.

"Grace has grown into her name. She is a girl. A clever, pretty girl, who loves pretty things. And you were never that kind of girl, even when you were a girl, and not a boy."

Another moment's pause, and then her eyes flick up.

"You spoke before of her not wanting to be a knight, of her resenting what you do. I have to ask you, Alanna, given that she has seen your bruises and scars, and not to mention all that time when you aren't there...

She doesn't see the glory like I think you did. So, is that really so very surprising?"