the_lioness | (no subject)

Ever since his Ordeal of Knighthood, Prince Jonathan has been having nightmares. Alanna never asks and Jon never explains, cleaving to the oath taken before entering the Chamber, the traditional reticence to share experiences on the other side of the heavy iron door. It is enough that they both know, sleeping one room apart as they do, and sometimes in the morning a supportive squeeze of the prince's shoulder or hand is all he needs to realize she cares, she supports him, she will make sure his worst fears are never realized.

His secrets are ever and always safe in her hands.

However, her own secrets weigh heavily on Alanna as the long, cold winter drags on. They pile on until one night she is the one to gasp and sit straight up in bed, heart racing, breath caught in her throat. She can't move at first, until all of a sudden her leg flails out, dislodging Faithful, the hot brick at her feet and the multitude of blankets piled on top of her bed. Scrambling sideways, Alanna makes it to the middle of her chamber and collapses on the floor, one hand at her chest.

Breathe. Why can't I breathe. It's so cold.

"Alan?" A low murmur at her chamber door, followed by a cautious knock.

I can't breathe.

Frantic now, Alanna fights to stand. Faithful, watching her with his purple eyes glowing like they had in the snow, when the snuffling, the grunting, had jolted her awake from a pleasant dream of a hot desert afternoon.

Last night. That was last night. They are safe now.

Just breathe.

Mrrrrrrrow, Faithful rumbles at the door, even though it is already opening. Jon pads in, eyes searching the dark room. "Are you all right?" he whispers.

Alanna lets out a shaky groan. "Yes. Everything is fine. Go back to sleep, your Highness."

"Your Highness is it? At this time of night? It must be serious."

You're just happy it wasn't you this time. The thought is uncharitable but she's far too keyed up to care. "It's fine," she insists aloud, ignoring her raspy, uneven voice.

Jon crouches down beside her, slowly building the fire with his Gift; the flames turn amethyst, casting an otherworldly light on their faces. "I know last night was more rough on you than the others," he says, pitching his voice low. As inconceivable as it is that anyone could overhear them now, Alanna appreciates the caution. "This winter has been colder than most." She can feel the smile coming. "It hasn't been good for your temper."

Alanna scowls down at her trembling fingers and curls them into her palms. Using her Gift to keep warm every night had made her more grumpy than usual, but she wasn't about to agree. "Your horrible attempts at love poetry are to blame for that," she grumbles.

Jon clears his throat and looks away.

Suddenly Alanna is reminded of all the nights she considered crawling into bed with him, both to keep warm and to try and lessen his suffering at whatever memories assailed him in his sleep, and finds she is quite capable of standing and moving across the room now, which she does with all possible haste.

"It could have been worse," she offers at last. "The camping trip, not your poetry."

A sigh is his only response to the latter half of her statement. "It has long been a requirement of training, I'm afraid, spending a January night alone in the Royal Forest. You survived well enough."

It annoys her for a moment that he assumes the cold is what woke her up in a sweaty, terrified mess. She runs fingers through her hair, mussing it further, and clenches her jaw when Faithful rubs up against Jonathan's side. She wishes the cat would tell him.

Someone tried to kill her! Alanna wants him to shout in Jonathan's ear. Someone with magic!

She and Faithful had spent most of last night in lively conversation about a variety of topics before and after the attack, but it figures the blasted cat won't say a word now.

Alanna leans against a wall, watching her prince as her temper snaps the silence. "I did grow up in the North, after all. I may not like it, but I know how to burrow into a snow bank, how to ice fish, how to keep from suffocating in the snow. I know how to stay alive!"

"Don't be so prickly. I know that." He looks right at her in the low light, a frown wrinkling his forehead. It makes him look younger than he is, a fact that would make him frown harder if he knew. Eventually he stands and walks over, holding out his hand.

She takes it.

She wants to move into his arms and tell him everything. How cold it had been when the blizzard rolled in. How she had fallen asleep thinking of the early frosts wrecking the fall harvests at home, and how she fretted over getting more food and clothing to Coram in these snows. Most of all, Alanna wants to explain how she'd stabbed the wild boar digging at her burrow, blood-lust and sorcery turning his eyes red right up until they glazed over in death.

Someone with magic tried to kill me.

Yet she had no proof. None. How could she whisper her suspicions into the night and expect anyone to take her seriously? Especially Jon, who loved his uncle and didn't like it when Alanna urged caution. He'd assume she meant Roger.

And doesn't she? Isn't that where her mind went even as snow began to bury the boar's corpse?

Her fingers lace through and tighten on his, then let go.

"It was really cold," she mumbles, as if ashamed at the admission, "and I was worrying about Trebond."

"You should have said," Jon admonishes. "I'm aware that Myles and Duke Gareth have been giving you advice, but you know you can talk to me, too."

"I know. If I can get a word in between stanzas dedicated to the lady fair," she snorts, relieved to be back on familiar ground.

Jon sighs again, his expression distinctly lovesick. Or maybe just nauseous. It is usually hard to tell. "I'm going back to bed. You should do the same, Alanna."

"I will. Thanks, Jon."

She swallows hard as he pauses by the door. Don't leave. "The last one wasn't so bad, you know. I think Lady Delia will like the way you compared her skin to a newborn calf's."

"Good night, Squire Alan," Jon replies, but she can see his smile in the last flicker of blue firelight.

"Good night," she whispers. "Have good dreams."

Alanna remains standing for a long time, watching the perfectly ordinary flames eat away at a log, considering her options. All that matters is the burden of proof. Find the proof, show Jon that Duke Roger does not have his best interests at heart. Simple enough.

But how can she best a man like Duke Roger?

Staying alive is a good first step.