By the River Drell

[the_lioness]

~A new home~

Alanna stretches one arm over her head and listens to the clink and swish and rumble of the camp waking up outside their tent. Her finger touches the canvas near her cot and she looks back to see it billow out in the just before dawn breeze, changing the faint sound of the Falls for a moment.

As a rule, she prefers stronger, safer walls between herself, Jon and the outside world.

Jon grumbles something in his sleep. Glancing over, Alanna sees his brow furrow and smooth, furrow and smooth. Not for the first time, she wonders what, exactly, was happening at the Fort. Each day Jon rode off with the knights for their War Council with Duke Roger. They stay until late in the evening after patrols or, in Myles's case, earlier in the afternoon for Alanna's history lesson. It seems silly to be worried about reading history when it was happening all around them, but it had been part of their deal.

Here she is responsible for looking after both the Prince and her mentor, her friend, Sir Myles. It's hardly a burden, as long as she doesn't let her temper loose on the men, like Jem Tanner, who hiss at her behind her back and call her a 'royal spy.' At first eating her meals with the soldiers had felt like her first few days in the palace, Alanna on guard and wary, until they had learned that she cared not a whit for her noble blood, just their willingness and readiness to fight for Tortall. It helped that she stood up to Jem's attitude and was eager to learn spear and axe tricks from Big Thor and his friends. Her friends now, too. She could knife fight better than most, thanks to George, and she didn't hesitate to teach them how to handle a sword like a knight. They got along just fine.

Indeed, there isn't much to the order and routine of camp that is all that different from life in Corus. There is less pageantry, perhaps, fewer reasons to adhere to a strict code of conduct in anything except military matters. No one expects her to dance with them or play a lap harp for their amusement.

Alanna doesn't mind the absence of courtly manners.

Jon snorts and kicks a leg out from under his blanket. Biting back a laugh, Alanna moves silently across the tent and plops a still sleeping Faithful in the crook of his arm. It is time for their day to begin.


~A fair exchange of friendship~


Evening is Alanna's favorite time in the camp. The possibility that the enemy, camped across the river and quiet since Tortall's reinforcements had arrived, would swarm forward in a bid for more territory is slim. Jon would be safe for a while.

Duke Roger would also be occupied.

One assures the other, in Alanna's mind.

She hasn't seen Roger since they arrived. Sometimes she wonders if she is purposely avoiding him, and sometimes Myles gives her a penetrating look when she asks question after question about what happens at the fort while she is helping Aram groom the horses.

No matter. Her suspicions remain unspoken, at least.

Evenings are her own. Big Thor is a constant, possessed of laughing blue eyes and such a good nature she doesn't even mind it when he calls her 'tyke.' Together they play dice around the fire, sing ribald songs (a few of which would make even the King of Thieves blush), and discuss weapons and tactics for wielding them. It is pleasant and comforting, having him around, his presence filling the Coram shaped hole in her life. Whenever he is on riverbank guard duty, Alanna tags along, watching the enemy's fires as Big Thor tells her of being a blacksmith in the south and his days in the King's army.

He also keeps her from slicing Jem Tanner's sly, menacing tongue from his head, which ought to earn him a commendation. It is no easy feat.

Big Thor chases the worry from her eyes for a small time. It drifts up and away in the smoke of campfires, Tortallan and Tusaine, until the valley feels small and isolated from the rest of Alanna's world.


~Heal all you can, child~


The false calm doesn't last.

Duke Hilam of Tusaine is far too ambitious to end this conflict in a stand-off. He has his own reinforcements. A few weeks after Alanna and the others arrive, the skirmishes begin anew. Up and down the river, with no apparent rhyme or reason, Tortallan and Tusaine forces clash, jockeying for position. It is, as Alanna has insisted from the start, a stupid place to fight a war. Not much is gained or lost.

That does not keep Alanna from being terrified for her friends. She is stuck in camp, unable, forbidden from getting involved by Jon, Myles and the rules of engagement, no matter that she once beat a full-blooded Tusaine knight before the whole court. No matter that she stood beside Jonathan and defeated the Ysandir. No matter what.

(Useless, useless)

She knows she can't leave her post, shouldn't, because that isn't what a soldier does. Alanna, constantly aware she has everything to prove, knows that even if she could reach Jon in time it would leave everyone at a disadvantage.

Jon fights twice, beside Earl Hamrath and Lord Imrah, not her. It feels wrong.

(It should be me)

Alanna's nails are ragged from biting when she presents herself at Duke Baird's tent behind the fort. Worrying about whether or not she would see Jon or Gary or Raoul again is making her crazy. "I'm useless upriver," she declares. "There's only Jon's or Myles's armor to clean, and I can't clean it while they're wearing it. If I don't do something, I'll scream."

"You like to be busy, don't you, Squire Alan?"

"I don't like to waste my time. Is that the same thing?"

He tosses her a white robe. "Come. I certainly won't turn you away."


~The Dark God's mercy~


There's so much pain. It swamps her senses like a heavy fog, the scent and feel of death and decay clogging her lungs. From bed to bed she follows Duke Baird, watching him until her confidence grows and necessity demands she strike out on her own. The latest battle had produced a high number of casualties, and as some of the men died, pleading with the Dark God to deliver them, they didn't seem to care about the glory of Tortall.

Something fundamental shifts inside Alanna. They don't prepare anyone for this at the palace.

Death is on her like a thick coating of mud. Senses dulled, she does what she can to ease pain and comfort, her Gift for healing coming so easily to her now that she feels her failure with Francis driving her on, and soon it is all she knows, all she is, until Jonathan is blinking at her across the body of a man whose soul had just slipped through her fingers.

No. That was the last one. This one just needs an arm bandage. Goddess, she's tired.

"A fellow called Big Thor told me you were here. What are you doing?"

"What? Oh, Jon." Her smile feels bleary on her face, but she's happy to see him. "I'm keeping busy."

She wipes a bloody streak on her forehead.

"Faithful is going crazy. Myles says Faithful's afraid you'll kill yourself." He looks to Duke Baird. "Your Grace? How long has Alan been here?"

Duke Baird blinks at her. "Great Mithros, lad. I should have sent you away hours ago. You don't have the training to work so long. Prince Jonathan, get him out of here."

"Nonsense," she grumbles. Her own voice sounds distant in her ears. "I'm as fit as..."

Jonathan catches her as she stumbles. "You certainly are. He's been here all day?"

Duke Baird nods. "And he's saved more men than I can count. Go to bed, lad."

Alanna feels her forehead wrinkle. She had? Maybe so, but the weight of those she couldn't help remains. "No," she starts, giving a token struggle when Jon sets her in front of him astride Darkness.

"My, you're a quarrelsome little fellow. You're dead on your feet. Why didn't you stop?" he whispers right behind her ear, his breath stirring her hair.

It sends shivers down her spine. Just tired, she tells herself, even as she refuses to listen and leans against his warmth. "They needed help."

"Why did you go there in the first place?"

Sentries nod to them as they pass. "I wasn't useful where I was." Jon's arm is warm and strong around her waist, holding her up, stealing her focus. "Hmmm?"

"I said must you always be useful?"

"Yes."

How else will she make her point?


~This is what war means~


"Perhaps I could make myself useful there, too, instead of attending a lot of meetings where Roger makes the decisions and never asks how I feel. Think it's worth a try?" Jon remarks after a time.

Alanna glances at him over her shoulder. Darkness plods on, his hoof beats nearly silent on the damp earth. "Anything's worth a try." She yawns, gaze falling to his chin just before she tucks her head under it. If she could get any closer, she would. She's too tired to feel nervous about why.

A sharp yowl splits the silence. Healing is all very well, but not if you kill yourself in the process. And do you enjoy snuggling up to Jonathan like a lovesick girl?

Jolting up and away from Jon, Alanna snaps, "Now, you listen to me, you prissy animal..."

"Your Highness. You're back late." Jem Tanner coalesces from the shadows, spear in hand. "And Squire Alan. Gadding about all day?" He sneers at her, contempt twisting his thin mouth.

That was stupid.

"You've got guard duty, Jem Tanner? Then guard," she orders him, chin high, feeling Jonathan's muscles bunch in annoyance and Faithful land heavily in her lap.

"Who was that?" asks the Prince once they pass.

"One of the men from camp. Being nasty is his hobby. You were warning me about him, weren't you, Faithful?"

If you're going to fall in love with the Prince, don't show it. Unless you want the whole camp talking about you both.

"I'm not fa..." Alanna cuts herself off, all too aware of Jonathan behind her, listening.

"Are you two talking?"

"Ask Faithful! I just answer his questions."

Before anything else can be said, they are dismounting and giving Darkness over to another soldier's care. Myles and Jon disappear to discuss a dispatch and Alanna is alone for the first time all day, standing still in the middle of their tent but somehow feeling as if she is still in motion, spinning, uneasy in her own company. Her hands shake at her sides, speckled with the dried blood of the dead and the living.

Disappearing into the last few hours, she sees each broken bone, each gash, each severed limb. She hears every cry and whimper, every plea. One man's face stays with her, his mouth held tight against his agony as he thanked her for doing what she could to ease it. He had been so brave, surviving when death might have been the greater kindness. She remembers the still living now.

Suddenly Alanna's stomach heaves and drives her forward, away from the back of the tent. She tries to keep it quiet, tries to stop the tears rolling down her face at the violent shudders, but Jon finds her anyway. Hands that had been so warm as they rode now feel blessedly cool against the back of her neck. Eventually he passes her water to rinse out her mouth and splash on her face.

"If Faithful told you, I'll skin him," she manages.

"No. I was coming back, and I heard you." His voice is quiet, kind.

"You must think I'm an awful sissy." It is ripped from her throat in her shame.

Jon says nothing at first, as if he is considering his answer carefully. "I threw up after my first skirmish," he admits at last.

"You never," Alanna insists, surprise snapping her gaze up to meet his.

"I did. I just didn't have anyone to hold my head for me," he tells her, smiling a bit. They blink at each other, then his large hand ruffles her hair in an old, familiar gesture. "Don't tell my men, will you?"

"I won't if you won't," she promises fervently.

"Done. It wouldn't do for them to think we're sissies, would it?" He disappears into the tent ahead of her.

Alanna waits a beat, frowning to herself. It's not just her dislike of the word, or the bad taste in her mouth. Something had changed -- between them, in her, around the camp.

There's a buzz in her blood that hadn't been there this morning. An awareness.

Swallowing hard, she takes another dipper of water, dumps it over her head and follows him inside.




[OOC: Dialogue/situations from In the Hand of the Goddess, by Tamora Pierce.]