the_lioness | (no subject)

We are not friends, are we, Alan?

No, Your Grace, we're not.

Might it be possible we are enemies?

I don't know. Perhaps you should tell me.

I could be a very good friend, Alan

I have no desire to make you my enemy, sir. I'd like to live to a ripe old age and die in my sleep.

I can sympathize. Such an ending could be yours... if we were friends. Many things could be yours.

I would have to be assured that my other friends have the same chance, Your Grace. Frankly, I doubt that's your aim.

I see. Thus, as long as you feel this way, we will be...

Less than friends.

~ Evening Watch, the Falls, Camp Drell ~

The lack of subtlety bothers Alanna the most. If one is plotting to harm one's royal cousin so as to steal his throne, shouldn't one be more sneaky about it?

Then again, no one else had witnessed her exchange with Duke Roger and past experience suggests no one would believe her should she raise an alarm. Furthermore, she hasn't trusted Roger from the day they met, something he had clearly deduced by now, possibly even before he tried to kill Jon in the Black City. He knew the answer to his question well before he asked it. So why attempt to sway her opinion at all? Did he intend to scare her into betraying her Prince, her knight master, her best friend?

Alanna snorts. As if she could be so easily persuaded to abandon everything -- and everyone -- she holds dear. Perhaps they have all been crediting Roger with more intelligence than he can actually claim.

Scratching her arms, she gets to her feet and eyes her sleepy cat. He'd been yawning ever since Roger melted back into the shadows. Alanna shudders, uncomfortable and more disconcerted than she would ever admit aloud. Sentry duty is all about spotting a well-hidden enemy, but she hadn't been prepared to find the Duke standing over her, his charming smile no mask for the coldness in his eyes. He'd made a light with his Gift, a sharp orange, and launched into his chilling sales pitch as smoothly as any merchant at market. He'd almost taken a spear through his gut for the effort.

I could be a very good friend, Alan.

To yourself, she should have said. No one else seems to matter to Roger of Conte.

Her head is fuzzy, her skin itches, her mind is racing.

"Faithful," she whispers. "Get up. We're going."

Where? he asks sleepily. When I suggested he'd give you something to crush him with, I didn't mean we should look for it tonight. I know it's hard for you, young hothead, but more patience is required.

Alanna scowls. "No. We're going." She makes a sweeping gesture toward the sky with her hand and grunts, widening her eyes when he still doesn't understand; it's a good thing no one else can see her acting so insane. "Bar," she grinds out, slowly.

Go. I'll nap here and cover for you, he offers at last. I am rather tired. You might have noticed.

Was that an accusation? Alanna can't seem to focus in the thick, fast rising fog. Scratching again, she hurries through the trees away from her watch point and away from that snake, Roger.

"No time will pass," she mutters to herself, stumbling a bit. "I'll be back in moments. I've got things to think about. Letters to write Thom."

Worse, she has to decide whether or not to tell Jonathan about his cousin's most generous offer and what it means now that she has openly refused.

Trouble.

It means trouble.

[OOC: Opening dialogue taken from In the Hand of the Goddess, by Tamora Pierce.]