Title: Hasten Down the Wind
Lead: Jon
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer; Jonathan of Conté, Alanna the Lioness, George the sexy King of Thieves, Princess Thayet of Sarain, Tortall, etc., all belong to Tamora Pierce. Seriously, I'm not her. I used quotes directly out of WWRLaM and LR--they're the ones in italics.
A/N: Let me put this simply: I hate Jon. He annoys me. He sucks, he's horrible. He's not even *fascinating*!
Yet, somehow, I wrote him.
*is mind-boggled*
***
He's hanging on to half her heart
He can't have the restless part
So he tells her to hasten down the wind
--Warren Zevon, "Hasten Down the Wind"
You knew something is wrong when she entered the tent.
You were foolish; you assumed that she would want to go with you back to Corus, back to the palace, back to the life you left when you went to visit her. You should have remembered that she is a free soul, independent, lively, needful of action, while you are confined to your birth right.
You should have known better.
She scowled, and ordered everyone to leave in that bossy voice of hers, and you should have known better. The smile on your face that you had been wearing at the thought of the two of you alone faltered.
"Being married to you is a great responsibility. I need more time to think about it."
Of course, you understand her side now that you look back on it--you had just decided for her that she was going to be the next Queen of Tortall--but your temper has always been a deadly weakness, just as it has been hers.
"Maidenly shyness! Since when have I shown maidenly shyness!"
"I said I wanted more time to think!"
"How dare you take my acceptance for granted?"
"You know what your problem is, Jonathan? You've been spoiled by all those fine Court ladies. It never entered your mind that I might say no!"
And you knew, in your heart of hearts, that she was right.
You were the perfect man--tall, muscular, with sapphire blue eyes and black hair, and, most of all, you are the heir to the throne of Tortall. Why, you had thought. Why doesn't she want me?
You returned to Corus, the place of your birth, and vowed to never think of her again. You avoided her twin Thom like the plague. You courted many women, the most memorable being--
"Prince Jonathan. It is an honor to meet the man who fought so bravely in the Tusiane war."
--Princess Josiane of the Copper Isles. She was acceptable--more so than her. She was the exact opposite of her, and when you were with Josiane, you were able to forget about her--but never entirely.
It wasn't like you actually cared for the Princess, but she would do. At least, until she came to her senses.
But you began to think that that, maybe, she never would.
The months passed, and life at Court became life in hell. Your mother--your dear, dear mother, she would never hurt a fly--died from the illness set upon her by your cousin Roger years ago, the man that she had risked her life to prove guilty. Your heart was broken. Even Josiane's constant flirtings didn't amuse him anymore--how could they?
And just as you thought it couldn't get any worse, it happened.
"The Conté duke looks like a king; against him, Prince Jonathan's a boy."
Your parents had always loved each other, much, much more than any of those other couples that lived at Court. Their love for each other was famous--the commoners thought it made their rulers more human, and the people who lived at the palace just thought it extremely cute, those longing glances that they gave each other during dinner. You should have known that your father was going to do something drastic.
But you never thought suicide.
"I feel so helpless. I should have done something to keep them alive."
For that's what it was, your father's death, not a mistake in jumping the the gorge while out hunting with his hunting party, as the herald in the city proclaimed. You didn't even have a chance to think about King Roald's death--the same day that you received the news, you were approached by a grim Duke Gareth the Elder asking when you planned to be crowned.
You dreamed about this moment when you were younger. It had been your private fantasy; now it was a public nightmare.
It was then, in those weeks following your father's suicide, that you really became Jonathan. You had been Prince Jonathan, Jon to friends, careless, easy to anger, and incredibly stupid. Now, you were Jonathan, the King-To-Be, the orphan, the lonely, the stressed, the one that Tortallans now thought as the bearer of bad tidings.
And you realized: she doesn't belong here.
"Find yourself someone more feminine, Jonathan of Conté!"
You were born to take this place in life, to become King of your people, and she was born to fight. You can love each other, but no matter what, one of you will have to give up your place in life, and, since there is no apparent heir to the throne, it would have been her. She couldn't survive like this, cooped up in a palace with annoying courtiers who would bicker endlessly over whether red or blue stockings were in style these days.
You let go.
Myles knew right off when you had given up hope--that old man knows everything. He gave you a smile, and tried to comfort you, to no avail. You were alone.
Then she came back. And she was in the company of not one, but two men.
You knew.
"And who would you take instead of me, O Woman Who Rides Like a Man? I suppose George Cooper's more to your taste--"
Thinking on it, there wouldn't be a better couple than her and George: her faults are over-rided by his strengths, and vice versa. For once, you don't feel that pang of longing when you are around her--you feel happy for George and her.
When you meet up with them in Myles' house for tea--such an odd pairing though, a lady knight and the King of Thieves--you talk for ages. She has forgiven you, of course she has; she can't stay mad for that long. The three of you laugh together.
Then she enters.
You stare at her in awe. Green eyes, full red lips, unblemished skin, long black curls--this was what Mithros had meant by beautiful.
This--this angel takes the seat next to you, blushing while trying to cover up her bare feet with the hem of her nightgown. Calmly, though still a bit red, she says, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
Alanna smirks, George grins. "Thayet jain Wilima, may I present Jonathan of Conté? Are you..."
You do not hear George's last sentence; your attention is fixed on this girl, this princess from afar, this... Thayet. Repeating her name over and over in your head, you memorize her face, every feature fixated in your memory. You compose yourself quickly. "Does the introduction meet your standards, Highness?"
She curtsies, curls falling into her face, but she still keeps her brilliant green eyes locked with yours. Suddenly, you are alone together in this room--George and Alanna are now figments of your imagination.
Perhaps she can replace that hole in your heart.
Perhaps...
~fin~