Queen's Own: Siri has finally gotten her wish. I am writing her 'Alanna and Jon get married' fic. What she didn't expect was that my new muse took said plotline and turned it into a much less fluffy –and I think more realistic and unique- fic. Everyone, say hello to Vira. She's a little winged horse and very shy.
Vira: Hello.
Siri: I would like to put in a few words, as well as a disclaimer. First off, we don't own any of these characters, with the exception of a few, which will be very obvious once you start reading. Second-
Queen's Own: Siri, we know what you think regarding Alanna and Jon. Now let's get on with the fic.
Siri: sulks
Shouts echoed down the richly decorated corridor, bouncing off the wooden paneling and barely muffled by the expensive carpets underfoot. The few people who hadn't had the good fortune to be able to avoid this part of the palace hurried about their business, heads ducked, trying to ignore the obvious sounds of fighting. There was only one little girl, a spitting image of her mother and richly dressed, huddled in the gleaming doorway of the room where the shouting issued from.
A red-haired man ducked suddenly around the corner. Spotting the little girl, he beckoned urgently. "Highness!" he called, in hushed tones, darting worried glances at the door. "Princess Lianne." The four year old looked up, before running down the hall to him and flinging herself into his arms. He knelt to pick her up, cradling her in his arms.
"Uncle Thom," she sobbed. "Uncle Thom- they're fighting again." He stroked her red hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. Casting a sad glance back at the closed door, he carried her away.
Amethyst eyes blazed as her husband spoke again. "I will not tolerate such behavior from my queen."
"So," she challenged, mantling. "That's what I am, what I've earned? The title of being yours? After all I've done, all I've given up for you? I am no one's, Jonathan of Conte, especially not yours."
"So being Queen of Tortall has bored you?" he taunted. "What more could you want- though I suppose being Queen of the Rogue would be more to your taste-"
"Don't you dare bring him into this," she screamed. "This has nothing at all to do with him. This is all your fault, so don't even try to blame anyone else. You selfish-"
"I can do whatever I want!" He smiled, cold and arrogant. "I'm king, aren't I?"
"Yes," she snarled. "A selfish, arrogant, lying bastard of one. And before you say so, yes he would make a better king than you. Roger would make a better king than you. Thom would make better king than you. I would make a better ruler than you. Any other man in this whole damned kingdom would make a better king than you, you-" She shrieked in rage as he slapped her hard across the face.
"Bitch," he snarled. Her eyes glittered dangerously, emphasized by the red spreading over one cheek.
"You're just jealous," she said coldly. "Jealous and afraid that your queen might not think you manly, might offend your kingliness. You're no king," she spat. "You don't deserve your throne. You can't even defend yourself against your wife." This time, she gave no sign of recognizing the slap that cracked across her other cheek. She punched him coldly in the jaw.
"You are no king," she repeated coldly. "Your father would be ashamed." His eyes met hers, cold and angry. When they'd first married, such a look would have made her anger fall away, forgotten. Now, after five years of marriage, she ignored it. His hand lashed out, and she fell to the floor. She struggled to her feet as he advanced menacingly. His hand lashed out again. This time, she caught his slap and managed to get in a punch or two before he took advantage of his superior strength and size to slap her across the room, hitting her head on the bedpost and falling senseless to the floor. He stalked out of the room, with nary a backward glance at his wife, Alanna of Conte.
The world swam and her head ached as she opened her eyes. Actually, her entire body ached, her head throbbed with pain. A careful prod caused her to wince as she encountered dried blood mixing with the red of her hair. Calling her purple Gift, she healed the head wound as best she could, before moving to several of the more obvious bruises. She didn't dare go to Duke Baird- it wouldn't do for people to know the king beat his wife. Silently, she bathed the blood from her hair before slipping on a robe and climbing into bed. She curled up in her cold, empty bed unworried. Jon wouldn't return tonight, she knew that with a cold certainty. She quickly slipped off into sleep. And if the pillow was wet with tears, well, who would know.
A flurry of nobles followed the woman in green. A catlike man walked beside her, followed by a nurse. She carried a small child, blessed with black hair and blue eyes like his father. No one says, but everyone knows who the baby is. Born within a few weeks of Prince Jasson, the queen's youngest, he is the king's fourth child, his bastard. Roger.
Yet Delia flaunts him, proud. The nobles forming her train are flaunted too, in the face of the woman who approached, alone, from the other end of the hall. They are all tools to her, steps on the ladder to power.
Every one of the nobles fell silent at the sight of the woman in purple. Delia smirked slightly as her eyes coldly examined her rival, the only woman who has something she doesn't: the title of queen and the position of being the mother of Jonathan's heir. She smiled coldly at what her eyes observed. The queen's red hair was dull beneath the gold circlet around her brow. Her dress hung limp and unflattering on her too thin figure. Though she has borne three children, she doesn't eat enough. Her eyes didn't sparkle anymore either. They are cold and lifeless, almost tired. And everyone knew why, including her. Especially her.
Delia curtsied to the Queen. But it mocked her, rather than honoring her. She didn't dip nearly low enough, and her eyes twinkled coldly as she said, "Your Majesty," as though it was a joke to be shared and laughed at. The Queen nodded coldly.
"Lady Delia," she acknowledged. "Lord Alexander." The catlike man, once her friend, bowed, silent. The slightly stressed titles made it very clear that she didn't think either were much of a noble at all. The arrogance in her tone, made Delia's smile flicker slightly. The Queen was not quite as dead as she looked.
Delia's smile became cruel. "Have you met my son, your Majesty?" Alanna looked at the infant, and nodded.
"Indeed I have," she said coldly. "And I say that for your sake it is a good thing little Roger looks so much like his father; otherwise, no one would know for sure whose son he is. Or is he named for his father after all, Delia?"
"Are you calling me a whore?" Delia asked coldly.
"Why else would you have a son and not be married?" She boldly locked amethyst eyes with emerald. Delia glared back, angrily. Neither the king's wife, nor his mistress would look away. Finally, Roger began crying, and the mistress was forced to look away to tend to her son, leading the away with only a single backward glance at the queen. The queen stood defiantly until the party turned a corner, before turning and fleeing back to her suite, to cry over Jonathan yet again.
She only cries when no one is looking. It's almost surprising how often that is. To most of the court, she is nothing. Her friends belong either to Jonathan or Delia or are beyond her reach. And maybe it's all her fault. Maybe she is as worthless as Jon thinks her. Purple eyes blur with tears as memories haunt her.
"Alanna?" Raoul, looking relieved to have found her, stepped into her tent. She looked up in surprise.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Jonathan sent me," he replied. "Listen, Alanna- he wants you back in Corus. The king- their Majesties- they're dead." The ground seemed to fall out from under her, and she packed and mounted Moonlight in almost a daze. Raoul and a squad of the Own escorted her at their quickest pace back to Corus. The king needed her, causing them to spur their horses on all the more quickly.
"Alanna?!" Jonathan rose from his desk, to greet her, surprised. Suddenly, he pulled her into a rough embrace, burying his face in her hair. "I need you," he whispered. "You have no idea- he killed himself, Alanna. He killed himself, and now- I'm the- King. There's an entire country depending on me, and- Gods!" He straightened and pulled away. "I'm so sorry for what happened in the desert, Alanna. That was- a mistake. I still love you, and I need you, Alanna." He cupped her chin in his hands. "Marry me, please," he begged. "Please- I need you so much, Alanna. I need you as my queen." She stood there, shocked.
"I-" she stammered. "I-" The raw pleading in his eyes struck her as much as it scared her. Tortall needs him- and he needs me. "Yes," she whispered. He kissed her fiercely.
"Thank you," he murmured. "My queen." At that moment she loved those words, convinced she had done the right thing for her country. How much in later days she would rue saying what she had. And how much she would hate those words.
"So." His hazel eyes were guarded. "You're marryin' Jon. You're- goin' t' be his queen."
"Yes," she said, for the first time feeling slightly reluctant to say those words. "But- that doesn't change anything." But it did, and she realized that as she uttered those words. "You will come to the wedding, won't you?" He shrugged.
"I may be here," he said. "But business is callin' me to Port Caynn- an' I'm goin' t' be leavin' Corus soon."
"George-" she pleaded. "Please don't leave! I'll miss-" But she faltered.
"Alanna!" It was Gary. "Alanna- Jon needs you- something about gown fittings. Oh, hello George." George nodded a greeting.
"I'll be goin' then," he said. Then, he bowed. "Your Majesty." Pressing something into her hand, he turned and left. Feeling as though she'd been struck, Alanna followed Gary, slipping the packet into her dress. Later, she opened it, to find a signet ring and a note. The ring bore her crest of a Lioness Rampant. The note read- Alanna- You and I both know why I cannot stay in Corus. I'm going to Port Caynn. You can always find me there. Stay my beautiful Lioness Rampant. Don't ever let Jon –or anyone else- change you. All my love, George. He hadn't been at her wedding.
"Jon?" She slipped into his study late one night, dressed in a robe. He turned to look at her.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.
She smiled, in spite of herself. "Nothing. In fact- Jon, we're- I mean, I- I'm pregnant." He stood, grinning and spun her around, kissing her fiercely.
"I'm going to be a father," he murmured, awed. Her smile widened.
"Jon?" It was soon after Roald's birth and she still wasn't feeling quite herself. Unsure, due to their recent and ever more frequent fights, she felt she had to ask, and yet was afraid of the answer. "Jon, why is Delia of Eldorne back at court?"
"Her?" He gestured dismissively. "Why do you notice?" She shook her head a little.
"It's nothing," she lied. But she still felt a faint chill of foreboding as she gazed at the beautiful green-clad woman.
It was not three weeks later, that Jon was first missing from their bed, late one night around Midwinter. The next night, he was back, all apologies about work that had to be completed. But he continued to be absent sometimes in the month when Jasson was conceived. First once a week, then every few days, then every day he didn't come. He always pleaded overwork, and she believed him- until she saw the triumphant smile sported by Delia of Eldorne and the way Jon's eyes lingered on her figure. And when the other woman began showing signs of pregnancy at the same time as the queen, she knew what all their fights had come to. And after Jasson was born, he started hitting her. And she was alone, all alone, so, so, unbelievably alone.
The Queen of Tortall sobs, safe in her own bed, the one place where her husband will never be again.
Shouts echoed down the richly paneled corridor. This time, it's a boy that huddles in the door. He looks exactly like his father, until you meet his eyes. They speak of his mother. His sister looks around the corner this time. Purple eyes recognize purple and the four year old takes the three year old in her arms. "'Anne," he sobs. "'Anne, they're fighting again!"
"I know, Roald." Her tears soak into his black hair. "I know." They sit there, listening to their father's roars of fury, their mother's shrieks of rage. After a time, their uncle and their nurse come and pick them up, carrying them back to the nursery. "They're fighting again, Uncle Thom," Lianne whispers.
"I know," he says soothingly. "I know, Lianne." Again, he casts a sad look at the door between himself and his sister. And they're not ever going to stop.
King and Queen live in a golden cage, trapped by bad decisions and promises they won't break, tormented by memories that they can't return to and dreams that will never be. And miles away in Port Caynn, a hazel eyed man will wait for his queen to find the key. And wait, and wait, and wait, for the rest of his life. For the key was lost to them, a long time ago.
Queen's Own: Well I did succeed thoroughly in depressing myself. Isn't that just sad? Poor Alanna, poor Jon, poor Alanna and Jon's kids. Anyways, please review! I would really like some feedback on this (actually Vira just wants to laugh in Siri's face). Any questions that you have, I will try to answer if you give me an email address. Thank you for reading my fic! Wind to thy Wings! -Queen's Own