Fragile Desperation

By Treanz-Alyce

Rating: PG13

Summary: He never did pay enough attention to his younger daughter. It cost him his life. The final moments of Jonathan of Conté, and the forbidden affection that caused it, compliments of a shadow's legacy.

Author's Note : Much love to Rosie and Anya for betaing this .

...Fragile Desperation…

Chapter 1 – Playing Fate

"Papa?" Gently, she prised open the door to his study. Jonathan looked up, startled by the interruption.

"Lianne – come in," wearily, he beckoned her. She obeyed, calmly pressing the door shut. Her fingers flicked the lock, silently sealing the room.

Crossing the space, she set the wine goblet down and bent to kiss her father's cheek.

Jonathan was tired. His hair was dulled to charcoal, grey hairs amongst the black. His sapphire eyes were bloodshot, yet still framed by the long feminine lashes that now seemed so out of place. Wrinkles creased dry skin that appeared to sag over his cheekbones. Stress had thinned him and it showed in his gaunt face.

Ruling Tortall had come at a cost to Jonathan of Conté.

He glanced at the goblet she had brought. Seeing this, her laugh tinkled, cutting through the stagnant air. "I thought you might be thirsty," she explained. Jonathan nodded his thanks at his fourth child and quickly drained the goblet. Long devoid of any true emotion, Lianne stared at the wet ring the bottom of the glass had made on the oak desk.

Silence suffocated the room for several moments before Jonathan spoke. "Sir Zahir is a good man – he will treat you well, despite what you might think. I trust him to." He glanced out the window, reluctant to look at his daughter.

Lianne froze with anger. How dare he bring this up now? He knew she intensely disliked her betrothed. She refused to show her rage though, instead masking it with distress. "Father, I would rather not discuss it. Not now." Not ever, she added silently.

The pleading in her voice made him look at her. Of all the children, she was least like either parent, he decided. She had Thayet's hazel eyes and her strong nose, but had otherwise failed to inherit her mother's classic beauty, or even his charm. What puzzled him the most, though, was her personality. Lianne was quiet and reserved, hiding in the corners of rooms and sides of hallways. She was disinterested in anything political or physical, preferring the solitude provided by embroidery and needlework. Lianne's birth position (as fourth child of Their Majesties, and the younger daughter), combined with her detached demeanour had meant "her extroverted siblings often eclipsed her. Even her plain clothes and lack of jewellery made her appear to be a lesser noble, rather than a royal.

"Lianne, your mother and I know you don't particularly like the idea of marrying Sir Zahir, but we aim to permanently tie the Southern Bazhir to the throne of Tortall. This marriage is the best way to achieve that," Jonathan sighed before continuing, "But very well, we won't speak of it today."

The tone of his voice indicated that the issue was not resolved and that he planned to pursue it on a later date. Lianne reflected calmly that he would never have that chance.

She stood suddenly. Curtsying to her father, she picked up the goblet. Hesitating, she bent over and kissed his cheek. Lianne then turned and hurried from the room, refusing to look back at her aging father.

Watching the princess rush from the room, Jonathan was hit with a chilling thought. Unsure, how, or why, he knew that he had been here before. Straining his mind for a moment, the King realised when he had last visited this moment.

"…As if thousands of people were screaming inside my head, each wanting to be heard first. As if I were all of those people, only everything bad in our lives hurt more, because the feeling was multiplied. I lived all the lives of all the Voice; there have been four hundred and fifteen of us, Alanna. And I saw my own death..."

Jonathan sat in numb shock for a moment. He knew what would happen next; in less than half a bell, his body would swiftly shut itself down as the poison contaminated his blood. Reaching for his quill, Jonathan pulled a new sheet of parchment towards him and began to write.

I have been poisoned, by one I trusted. I regret that I am unable to say everything I wish, but rather leave only those messages most important.

He wrote swiftly, recording the most significant of his last thoughts on paper. There were messages for his Queen, his Heir, his Prime Minister, his Champion, and his Spymaster. He never dwelt on his daughter's betrayal, knowing bigger things were at stake.

They didn't know what they were doing. It's my fault, really. Just make sure you reach them in time, so that they don't harm themselves.

For the last time, he signed the letter as the King of Tortall. He was growing weak, shaking and sweating. His vision clouded over as he slumped back in his chair, twitching.

Jonathan of Conté, King of Tortall.

The last thing his eyes focused on was a small portrait above his desk, one of many. It was of a woman in her middle years. Her chain mail was gold, but the finer details could not be made out in his state; her banner, what Jon knew to be a lioness rampant, was caught flying in the breeze. Her violet eyes stared back at him, determined even in paint. His blue eyes widened, locking on the image that would haunt him for eternity, as he made a last feeble gasp for air.