Tellings By Reaya
01 . The Original Alan, Part I
There is a kingdom that you might have heard of, above the Great Inland Sea, above Carthak. They had peaceful neighbors, like Tyra, and those wont-to-be troublemakers called Tusaine and Scanra. But maybe you haven't heard of any of these places, so far past the Roof of the World they are.
Whatever the case, the stories in Tortall are not those you would hear elsewhere. They have tales of knights and dragons and princesses, it's true, but they are rarely those you'd hear of in a more conventional country. Say, Galla. No, in Galla they just hunt girls for innocent acts, like talking to animals. Which is why those girls come to Tortall and give the Tortallans so much more interesting story. But my, are we are getting ahead of ourselves here.
Anyway, before the stories of lionesses and beasts and all manners of less than cuddly creatures of great intelligence, there was a story of a boy. His story wasn't exactly what you make fireworks out of, but necessary all the same.
Now, you'll tell me that there are always stories of boys. I'll concede your point, but you must admit that there are so many more tales of girls in this country. The country being Tortall…
Okay, you've had enough of my prattle, I'm sure. I'll leave you to the real story now. You might not enjoy it, since it's undoubtedly not a story of a warrior heroine, but it's a story all the same. In fact, I'd say most of the stories collected here are down right boring, this one which may or may not be included in the category.
But it's your choice to listen or not, so skim and browse all you want before settling or walking out the door. As I said before, there will be no stories of Greats in here. This is a book of the…more neglected.
In here, you'll find love stories and tear-jerkers, but for the most part, you'll find life stories. Tedious, but necessary A/N: I'm practicing my writing, you see—I'm sure you'd much rather be reading an Alanna spin-off, but I'm feeling quite tiresome at the moment.
So welcome my dearies, to the stories from The Book of Lesser Beings.
Once upon a time in a faraway land—Tortall, if you must (though you're really not supposed to say what country, but since it's already been discussed, it might as well be told)—there was a boy.
This boy used to lived up north, in one the border fiefs. He was called Alan, and as the heir and only son to the stronghold, he was looked upon to become a knight, as all spry young boys his age are to be. It was doubly—nay, triplely—so with young nobles in the border areas, where Alan came from. (I do believe I'm using what they call circumlocution…)
However, Alan hated it.
Hated what, you ask?
He hated it all, of course. Boys his age always hate it all.
But what is his age, and what would all cover?
The kingdom, the king, the prince, the other boys, the fighting, the aches, the falling, the giggling young women who insisted on watching the practice bouts—everything. Anything. You name it, and you can trust that Alan hated it. He probably would hate you, too, having named it all.
If you asked him at any time during his life after he turned ten, he would tell you that the worst thing about becoming a knight was the page years.
He almost wished that he was still nine and back in Trebond, for all that his father complained and cajoled him to go outside and mingle with nature, he had much more time to himself just to cuddle up with a dusty book and read the night away. To think he once resented being made to join one of the stable boys on a short ride across the country, or get angry at his father when he took a younger Alan hunting.
He knew now that being the underage son of a border Lord was infinite times better than being a page at the palace, where you were made to wake up before dawn, and made to practice falling of all things. He used to believe that his one consolation would be the morning lessons, but he knew better now; he hated them too.
Granted, the first few days were okay, when he believed that they were still assessing him for what he knew. After three weeks of going over similar subjects, however—it was etiquette this and poetry that—he'd begun to see that they were quite redundant. What use were lessons that you already knew? Besides, the priests spent more time catching the other boys sleeping than getting any actual teaching done.
The afternoons were even worse. Alan hated physical everything. It was in the exercise yards that he first learned to appreciate the father he had resented for ten years, and to curse the mother that had protected him from doing what he didn't want to do.
He began to love his father for forcing him to use the dagger, for spending long hours with tears running down his face, holding a bow in shooting position. That being the son of a border lord gave him enough leverage so that he was at least near par to the other boys when they first started; for once again, physical anything was not his forte.
But the other boys improved; Alan didn't.
For four years, he hurt and ached and hated like he'd never before.
He hated his body for bruising and breaking. He hated that his brain sent pain signals and that his muscles throbbed day in and day in. He hated the knights that watched him at the end of those long years, jeers permanently on their faces. He hated it all, absolutely reviled it.
The person he hated most, however, though, was Gareth, son of Naxen.
Gareth the perfect, Gareth the great. Gareth, he-who-could-charm-the-pants-off-the-King. The prince adored him, the knights clapped him on the back daily, and the ladies fell at his feet.
Alan couldn't remember the exact day when he first started hating Gareth. It wasn't always like that, though. At first, Alan respected Gareth, as he went out of his way to welcome Alan, where other boys brushed him aside. The charismatic boy helped the younger one learn how to how his staff, how to parry, how to stay on his horse for hours on end.
He tried at first, he really did. It was the sniggers of the other boys that did him in, though. Being smaller and sulkier than the other boys, he was the most obvious choice for hazing. Gareth couldn't protect him from everything, and when it was clear that Alan didn't want to try anymore, Gareth pulled back as well.
He shrank back to his books after that, shirking his morning lessons and too-easy assignments to spend time in the library. Soon, the priests were knocking at his doors, angry and insulted that someone dare skip classes. Unsatisfactory notes were sent to Lord Trebond and punishment piled on punishment.
Alan ignored it all—ignored the taunts hateful comments from the other boys. His books were is solace; they were better than any friend could ever be.
Of course, Gareth still talked to him, but it was obvious that something changed. Soon, where Alan once looked forward to the encouraging marks, he grew to resent them, and Gareth felt it. It didn't stop him, however.
"You really should put down those books sometimes and join us," Gareth told him once. "They wouldn't bully you if I—you—just told them to stop."
Alan had narrowed his eyes, griped his book tight, and walked away. He went out of his way to avoid the boy after that.
Then the squire years came. Prince Roald was picked by his father, and Gareth got the boisterous Lord of Meron, who'd neglected the training of his son to take on his new squire.
Alan got shuffled out to an old knight, past sixty, and settled in to a full-time routine of scouring libraries. His new master didn't press him for much, and he was left alone if he left others alone. And most people did—no one wanted to spend days in musty libraries. Idly sometimes, he'd wonder what would happen to him during the Ordeal, if he let himself get so out of shape. Would he be sent home in disgrace? He wondered how his parents would take that. But those thoughts didn't last long, and soon he'd be off traveling across the oceans, transcending time in the prints of the pages before him.
Which was really quite amazing when he met Marianne.
It was raining that day, he remembered, because her skirts were soaked. He couldn't tell at first if it was rain on her face or if she had been crying. He'd been browsing the back shelves for something interesting, since he'd gone through all the volumes worth looking at nearer to the front.
He didn't like the back much, since it was dusty enough to make him sneeze whenever he touch the shelves. He invented a game, then, where he'd choose a feature of a book at random, such as having gold lettering on its spine, and then a number—say, 43—and then go through the library following the books with the characteristic until he came to the 43rd one.
That day, he'd been particularly engrossed in searching, and didn't notice that he'd stepped on something of silky material until the offended lady gave a gawp and protest and a hiccup of surprise.
He almost tripped over her in his haste to step back.
"Who are you?" he demanded, hiding embarrassment behind anger.
The lady, who was a girl his age in actuality, wiped the water from her face angrily with an already soaking sleeve and scrambled to a more upright position. "I don't suppose you'd—hic—care to apologize for stepping on me before you—hic—went about being rude, would—hic—you now?"
She was not at all lady-like in manner, though perhaps that was a result of being completely wet, clearly cold, and upset about a most serious issue even before Alan (almost) tread on her.
"Well, I'm very sorry," Alan bantered back in a tone that was clearly not sorry and gave her a mocking bow. He was almost elegant about it, too, something that may have surprised a lot of his teachers. It certainly surprised himself. Still, he kept himself from dropping his mouth open because of it and turned his attentions back to the wet young lady. "What have you been doing on the floor of the library anyway?" He sniffed. "It must not have been something very proper, looking like that."
The girl hiccupped some more, but she was clearly angry now. "How—hic—dare you—hic—accuse—hic—me—hic—of—of…" She stopped in her rant and chose instead to burst into tears.
Tears are something most men freeze up at. Alan was not most men. Nay, he was not even most boys.
"Stop that now!" he ordered in the face of her wailing. "You'll get the books all wet with your theatrics, and then they won't be of use to anybody."
The girl glared at him through her hiccupping and sobbing, trying to work out words to show her indignity, but only came up short of breath instead. So she did the only thing she could manage to think of the show her fury at him.
She slapped him.
Hard, on the face.
It made the most surprisingly loud (though satisfying) sound and pulled the hiccups right out of her. "And that was for being rude to a lady."
He blinked, surprised. His cheeks stung quite a bit. "Are you one, now?" he asked, biting his bottom lip. It would not do to tear in front of a lady. "I never would have known. I'm Alan, by the way."
She frowned, thinking. Then her hand whipped up again and struck his other cheek in a backhand before he had time to react. "Lady Marianne," she relented through clenched teeth.
Alan stepped back, dazed. He brought up a hand to massage his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said, rather muffled. "But did you just strike me a second time?"
She nodded jerkily, head cocked to one side. "I believe so."
He nodded in kind. "What was that for?"
"A lot of things." She shrugged. "I think I like you. You're rather different from the other boys I've met around here."
He frowned at that. "Who have you met?"
She frowned right back, assessing his remark. Suspicion was written in her eyes, but she replied all the same. "Squire Gareth, of Naxen for one," she admitted.
"Oh. Is that why you were crying?"
Her eyes widened and she gave another one of her jerky nods.
Alan pulled his hands from his face and stared absently passed her. "I don't like him much."
It surprised him when halting peals of laughter escaped from her mouth. "I don't think I like him much anymore, either. We'll get along quite well, I think."
Not quite sure what to make of this strange Marianne, who made his conversation flow smooth and his actions less clumsy yes, despite the slaps, he turned away from her and did what he did best.
He pulled a book from the shelf, walked away to a table, pulled out a chair, sat in it, and started to read. It's doubtful that he actually took in any word other than the first (a the, by the way).
She, of course, followed him and sat down in the seat across from him. The interrogations began. "So…"
I do believe it was then that Alan fell in love.
Part II to come, because it's getting late and I'm becoming jaded. I swear this story sounded much more interesting to me when I first started writing it (I was taking a break from my novel-writing), but I started getting annoyed when I realized I'd written more of this than I had of the current chapter of the novel. Horrible, horrible me.
Lord Alan is a rather boring person, isn't he? I still think I'll finish this, though, because I think he deserves more attention. Then I'll do Thom next, because while he's a bit more mentioned and written about in fanfiction, he's a, not Alanna, and b, dies. I should tell you now that I can't resist writing about anyone who dies miserable, so there we go. Otherwise, I shall contrive to write all the boring characters in the book.
Love and Kisses,
Reaya / aka.
viitoria
P.S. Oh, did you like the new style? I'm trying out different tones to write with. Do review; it'll be muchly appreciated. Besides, review motivate me, and when I'm motivated, I write. And not just redundant tales of Lesser Beings either. wink