Chapter Text
457 CE, Summer
Alanna and her squire had just finished settling their things in the tent assigned to them by the harried-looking Chief Steward, when there was a polite rap on the tent flap. Alanna knew who she was expecting—and it must have been apparent on her face, if not in the tension rising in her reactions and the irritation always ready in her throat over the past few weeks of travel, for Neal, glancing at her, made himself scarce.
Alanna knew who she was expecting, although a knock was not really his style. Still, there was only one person who would insist on seeing her when she had just arrived—the Lioness’s temper when traveling was notorious, and even Raoul would give her a few hours to settle in before riling her up.
“Enter,” she called, and as a rustle of silks entered the tent, she amended her prior thought—there were two people who would bother attempting to see her upon arrival, but they were a unit, after all.
Thayet stopped just inside the tent entrance. The flaps closed behind her carefully, guided by unseen hands.
“Thayet,” Alanna said warmly. “It’s good to see you. I hope the Progress hasn’t been too challenging.”
“And you.” The queen’s smile had an edge to it—the sort it had often had, over the past few years, because of Jon and Alanna’s feud. Thayet knew, Alanna was sure, who she had been expecting to arrive at her tent, and had come to intercede in an attempt to smooth things over.
Because they both knew that time was running out—all of Tortall’s fighters did, from the upper advisory chambers of the palace to the greenest knight out on patrol. War was coming, and Alanna knew it better than most. She imagined the king and queen were already well-acquainted with the prospect looming before them once again, as Gary and so many of their friends had hinted over the weeks and months recently passed.
The time had come for petty battles to be put aside, and for minor hurts, however deeply etched their scars, to begin to heal. Alanna still felt the weight of this tension, and the horrified pain she had felt five years before. But she knew it was time to at least make her appearances, again—if she would not be close with the king, at least she could play her part and fulfill the obligations of legend for yet another war.
Still, she did not have to be thrilled about it.
“Don’t tell me you’re here because of Jon. I’m here, aren’t I? As ordered.” Alanna turned to the pile of clothes and linens nearest her, and began rummaging through it. It was easier to brush it off when Thayet’s knowing, tired eyes were not meeting hers.
From behind her, she heard the rush of silks. The queen followed Alanna to where she now stood, facing her again, and Alanna glanced up with a frown.
Thayet’s arms were folded in front of her, looking as ungainly as an elegant lady of the court could manage. “It’s been five years, Alanna,” she said softly. “You know he misses you. I miss you.”
Alanna scoffed at her. “Stop doing that,” she said tartly. “It’s not fair when both of you side against me. I’m still angry at him, and I have a right to be, I’d think. I will do my duty, but that should be enough, shouldn’t it?”
Thayet’s smile was rueful. “It should, and you do,” she admitted, as she had many times before. Both in person, and in writing, however many times Alanna had written her or spoken to her with more complaints about the same eternal problem. “Goddess knows I was angry enough at Jon when he pulled his stunt with Kally.”
Alanna smiled grimly at her. She knew all about the queen’s rage when Jonathan had used her absence to convince their eldest daughter not to become a knight herself. If anyone understood Alanna’s anger at Jon, it was Thayet.
“I won’t force you to make amends, and he won’t either, even with the war,” Thayet said, after a moment of hesitation. “Still, it’s been so long.” She was not one to beseech or beg, but Alanna could hear a tired note in her voice that was as good as pleading. “At least talk to him. You can throw things if you want this time, I won’t object. It’s good for him, honestly.”
Alanna still felt that same old rage and sorrow in her bones, at the idea of speaking with him again. So many conversations had ended in calamity, over the past five years of hurt. These days, there was little she feared, not genuinely. But this… talking to Jon was always exhausting. Because her anger—her hurt—was so often interpreted as unreasonable raging, as something to be dismissed instead of heard. Alanna did not mind her reputation or her temper, but it was tiring, so tiring, to have one of the people who knew her best react in the ways that he had.
Still—Thayet was right. They needed to talk, if they wanted the realm to believe them reconciled before the war, and the realm needed them to reconcile before the war.
Alanna met the queen’s eyes and sighed. “If you insist,” she said reluctantly, but she knew that Thayet would hear what she meant—that the semblance of an order was cover to give in—to have a conversation that she knew she needed to have, even if she did not want to have it.
Thayet smiled, relieved. “I do,” she said, and Alanna gave her a resigned, brittle smile in return. As the knight moved towards the entrance of the tent, Thayet stopped her with a hand.
“Alanna,” she said quietly. “Good luck.”
Gathering up her energy, Alanna’s expression hardened into a smirk. “I hope you told him that as well.” she said, before lifting a hand in farewell and vanishing into the colorful, chaos-filled shouts and crowds of the camp outside.
The progress was well underway, and the vast expanse of the valley in which they were currently stopped was full of tents. Tents in which were housed many of the knights and nobles of the realm, tents in which horses were supplied and food was prepared.
Near the heart of the encampment, at the well-protected center, was the tent that housed the king and queen, flying their banners proudly. Next to it, smaller, was a tent that served as their main meeting space. Alanna noted the number of guards outside each of the two tents, and, seeing more outside the meeting room, directed herself to that one.
She gave the guards a nod as they glanced at her, startled, but did not move to stop her. Steeling herself, she stepped inside.
“Well?” King Jonathan of Conté asked, not looking up from the maps laid out before him on a great table. His arms were crossed, a sign that he was tense, even if he may have claimed otherwise. “Did she—?”
Alanna cleared her throat. He looked up.
“You’re not Thayet,” he said, quietly.
Alanna swallowed. “No,” she agreed, matching his tone. She was not certain what it was she read in it—but it was not anger, not this time, unlike so many other times before. Perhaps this conversation would be different, then.
“You are Sir Alanna of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau,” the king said slowly. “The King’s Champion. Who is still very angry with me.”
Alanna was still. They watched each other for a long moment before Jonathan broke it. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice stiff. Their eyes were locked together, and Alanna could feel the same magnetism that had always drawn her to him, back when they were pages, as his squire, as his lover. It wasn’t the same now, not the same passionate pull of their youth, but still that steady flame of mutual care that could nearly make her feel guilty for keeping such distance between them for so long.
Even if she hated him sometimes. Especially if she hated him sometimes.
“I handled this poorly,” the king said hoarsely. “Handled you poorly. Treated you poorly,” he corrected, holding up his hands wryly, as if he expected her to attack him for his poor choice of words. “I won’t apologize for making the choice I did, Alanna. You know my options were limited. But I’m sorry that you feel I don’t value you and what you represent. That isn’t true, and I regret it. As I regret my inability to avoid picking on you ever since. I haven’t been fair, and I haven’t been kind to you, I know.”
Alanna’s throat was tight.
“And I shouldn’t have sent you away,” he added hastily. “That was too much, even for me.”
There was another silence. Then, Alanna said roughly: “That was a very nice apology, sire. I wonder who helped you write it.”
The king flinched. She had meant it as a joke, but clearly neither of them were in a joking mood.
She sighed. It had been a long time since she had seen him so uncertain of himself, after so many years of kingship. Jonathan was usually a pillar of the realm, confident and bold in shaping the changes he and Thayet sought to build. Perhaps that was why it had surprised her so much and wounded her so deeply when he had allowed Lord Wyldon to speak to her so rudely, and banned her from the presence of the one person who would benefit the most from her mentorship.
Jonathan was not afraid of making enemies. But sometimes Alanna forgot that he still preferred to make enemies into friends.
“I’m still mad at you,” she said bluntly. “Pretty words won’t mean much if I’m the only lady knight Tortall ever has.”
He nodded, solemn. “I know,” he said. Suddenly, he smiled at her, blue eyes twinkling. “Though, I have it on good authority that you won’t be for long. Squire Keladry makes excellent progress, from all Raoul tells me.”
“Me too,” Alanna said, refusing to let him charm his way out of it. Jon’s smile flickered, and he glanced down to the table like he would rather hide in any of the territories on the maps before him than face the conversation.
Then, he looked up, his face set mulishly. “Please, Alanna,” he said wearily. “I missed you. I know you’re only here because I—” he hesitated.
“Ordered it,” Alanna finished for him smoothly, quirking her eyebrows. “Yes, that’s right.”
She met his gaze steadily, and he winced again. “Can’t we be friends again?” he asked, his voice low. “I’m tired of fighting with you.” There were other arguments he could make—about the fast-approaching war and the demands it would make of them, about the progress and the need for a united front. But this was a personal plea, for it was personal, this thing between them. Unlike his queen, he was all too willing to beg when it suited him, even if it took him a long while to get there. Alanna sniffed, fully prepared to keep up her shield of anger.
But—she looked at him, and noted the new wrinkles around his eyes—more even than the year before—the graying hairs on his head and face. It had been a long five years, and they were getting older, even she could admit. Time did not slow for the anger of friends.
“I have always been your friend,” she said, instead, suddenly tired of it all. “Even when you don’t deserve me. Even when you’re a stubborn fool, Jonathan of Conté.” Her voice came out a little more wobbly than she wanted it to, and she willed it steady again.
The king’s lips pressed together, holding back a smile, before he ducked his head.
“That must be most of the time, then,” he said solemnly, before glancing at her, his eyes dancing.
She jerked her head in a nod, holding his blue eyes with her purple ones. “Practically always,” she agreed. He didn’t speak, watching her as he had not in a long time—seeing her , instead of her shield of anger and frustration and pain.
She cleared her throat again, and looked down to straighten her tunic. “Right,” she muttered. “Well. I’ve training to do and a squire to beat some sense into, so…”
She could feel Jonathan’s eyes still on her, and she felt it in the air when he smiled. The tension in the room dissipated. “I’m sure you do, Lioness,” he said, his voice back to his usual baritone.
Alanna glanced up at him, briefly, before starting to turn. “Sire,” she said abruptly, nodding to him as she turned to go. She could feel Jonathan’s smile widen.
“Alanna,” he called out.
“What?” she asked brusquely. For all she was used to being angry, now all she felt was drained—as if someone had sapped her Gift from her again, as well as her fury. She was ready for the quiet of her tent, and to pick on someone who wouldn’t take her seriously. Nealan of Queenscove was an excellent squire, if only because he took her irritation as lightly as George, and, for all his complaints, would happily practice swordsmanship—or, really, the art of losing gracefully—whenever she insisted on it.
“Come to dine with us tonight,” Jonathan said, or, rather, requested. For there was a note of tension in his voice that implied he didn’t expect her to agree.
Alanna would, but she had not lied about being angry still. She would make him work for it, while she could. The knight turned back, holding up the tent flap, raising a brow. “It’s not enough that you drag me on this blasted progress to disrupt our training but now you’re disrupting us again? We have work to do, damn it. Training and healing too, remember? Thanks to your intervention?”
He didn’t answer her, and, seeing the fading hope in his eyes, she relented. She was rough around the edges and happy to be; her temper was always ready to flare, whether for the great battles they had just put behind them or for the petty little things that she and her king had always bickered about. But this time—
“Fine,” she said quietly, and Jonathan’s expression relaxed.
“Thank you, Alanna,” the king said, matching her tone. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but at least they were on even footing once more. They would have to learn to know each other, again, after all this time separated by fury—bad tempers and bad jokes and all.
Still, she thought she could read gratitude for more than dinner in his tone. Perhaps he had not expected to be forgiven, when he had made the choices he did. Sometimes Jonathan hid his insecurities in anger, rather than face them—that was something George had pointed out to her, long ago when she was just a young knight who had turned down a queendom.
Well, Jonathan wasn’t forgiven yet, but at least—this time — after all this time —finally —he’d apologized.
“See you then, Jon,” the Lioness said.
And she gave her king the faintest of smiles.