Forgotten Dream
by Senbazuru

«
It had been dragged back to the whole matter of choice. Chocolate or vanilla? Live like a coward or die like a hero? Not that I was much of a hero…but you'll learn more about that later on.

The point is that I made a choice. Big or small, I decided where my life was going to go – and where it ended. The gods only knew why I was alive.
«

It was the stillness that aroused Alanna from her sleep. That, and the terrible ache that had settled in her body. She cracked one eye open, and simply lay there, gathering in her surroundings.

The sunny brightness of the morning revealed things that had formerly been hidden by the previous night's fog. Numerous tents, cleverly disguised to blend in with the vegetation, dotted the landscape beyond the encircling trees. There must have been at least twenty of the tents. Somewhere to the far right of the clearing, the gentle waft of cook fire smoke trailed thinly into the air. Alanna pulled herself upright, pausing when her hands met the coarse fabric of a cloak.

Someone had, during the night, covered her.

Why would her enemies do that? What did they want with her anyway?

She shook her head briskly. Forget about it. They obviously only wanted her alive so that they could…

"He wants to talk to you."

Her head snapped up. For the first time, she noticed the dark skinned man. He was leaning against a tree across the clearing, his arms folded; watching her. The man had a surprisingly booming voice and commanding air, but she didn't like the look in his eyes. His eyes were a deep, coal black; and were focused on her intently – almost malevolently.

Well, what else did you expect from a murderer?

"Isn't that nice," Alanna mused out loud. "He wants to talk to me. How thoughtful. How generous. Would you be so kind as to tell whoever he is to go to hell?"

The man's expression remained stoic, his voice flat. "He's waiting by the fire. If you want to eat, go."

She felt strongly like gesturing obscenely at the man in reply, but decided against it. She felt famished. Any food that was available – even if it came from the hand of her captors – would be better than none at all. Unless, of course, it was poisoned…

Alanna barely had time to shove these thoughts to the back of head before the dark-skinned man strode across the clearing and grabbed her hair with one fist, hauling her upright. His formerly passive expression was tainted with malice.

"I'm sick of watching you, witch," he growled, his eyes dark with fury. "Get out of my sight before I disobey his orders and slay you where you stand!"

He shoved her away. Alanna's feet caught on the tattered hem of her skirts as she stumbled forward, trying to regain her balance. She tugged the borrowed cloak closer to herself, glancing back at the man as she headed towards the smoke.

Witch. That was the first time anyone had ever called her that. Ever. It was strange to hear such a word used to describe her. And an odd choice of a word at that. Witch. A witch was an illegitimate source of magic – someone who used their Gift for darker sorceries.

As far as Alanna knew, it was only by the grace of the gods that she was alive. As for the Gift…well, she wasn't too sure what she had seen and felt previously really happened. Maybe she had just been delirious. A flash of purple, a tingling sensation…was that really supposed to be magic?

There were too many damn questions, Alanna decided, shaking her head briskly to clear her tangled thoughts. She limped through the trees, giving only the quickest of sidelong glances at the men who appeared at the doorway of their tents as she passed by. None looked too friendly.

The campfire had dwindled to glowing embers, giving off only the barest threads of filmy smoke. The noble, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the Scanran from last night was sprawled comfortably against a tree and snoring uproariously. A flask and a half eaten loaf of bread lay at his side. And a basket, prettily woven of dry river reeds.

Alanna's eyes narrowed.

Maude's basket.

A purple flame fluttered fiercely, burning brighter in the depths of Alanna's unusual eyes. Her temper soared. All her physical pain was forgotten…and all the memories of her capture and the brutal slaying of her friends flooded her mind. Her knife being stolen from her, her bow and quiver being burned, the noble's mocking smile, Maurel leering in her face and striking her across her head with the hilt of the stolen blade…

And now, to add insult to injury, the filthy beast had eaten her picnic.

Now that was just going a bit too far above the acceptable mark of nastiness. Okay, maybe her stomach was speaking for her – but still, the Scanran clearly needed a lesson in manners taught to him. And Alanna was only too willing to be the teacher.

She crept silently across and knelt a safe distance of three metres from the sleeping man. It took a moment of careful scrutiny, but she finally saw it. A glint of silver – her throwing knife – tucked into the Scanran's belt.

Her stomach grumbled loudly. She punched it angrily, forcing the grumbles to cease. Oh, the bread was tempting…no, not now. Her knife was the priority.

Alanna was beside the Scanran in a moment. She leaned forward, breathing a prayer to the Goddess as she carefully pinched the hilt of the knife between her fingers.

For a moment, all was well. The knife was slowly sliding from its place and falling into her waiting hand – and then Alanna lost her balance.

Spinning her arms wildly, she flung herself backwards; the knife clutched tightly in one hand. The sudden snapping of twigs beneath her feet reverberated loudly.

Maurel awakened with a start. His reaction timing was good – he jumped to his feet, his hand grasping for the knife that was no longer tucked in the belt. Then he saw the blade in Alanna's hand…and without a sound, he threw himself at her.

Alanna twisted to the side and slashed downwards, but the Scanran had the advantage. He was already on his feet and stomping downwards on the hand that was holding the knife. Alanna grunted in pain as something in her wrist crunched. The knife slid from her grip. In a flash, Maurel had the knife and was pressing it against her throat, pinning her to a tree.

"Scum," Alanna snarled.

"Witch," he growled back, grinning. "Now where's your precious protector? Not 'ere, is he? Well," he pressed the knife harder. "That's just too bad, ain't it? You're finally gonna die."

"I think not."

There was a clash of steel upon steel as a sword slashed between the two, sending the knife flying from the Scanran's grip. The sword whirred with white-hot speed to intercept the Scanran's attempt to go after the fallen knife. Maurel stopped with a jerk, his face whitening at the nearness of the deathly blade.

"The pitiable thing about you, Maurel, is that you never listen. Which means, eventually, I will have to kill you. However, since we, as humans, are creatures of choice, you can choose the time. Now –" the sword tip was leveled at the base of the Scanran's neck, " – or later?"

Maurel sputtered, his face deathly pale. "L-later..."

The noble's dark eyes held only disgust as he turned away and sheathed his blade. "Very well. Until then, I must ask you to leave our prisoner alone. Like…now."

The Scanran hastily snatched up the throwing knife and left.

The noble sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Scanrans," he muttered, almost too quiet to be heard. Alanna stared at him.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.

The noble smirked. He seated himself on a folding contraption and stretched out his legs, staring at the dying embers of the fire. "I think I will use your reply to that question and say: 'wouldn't you like to know?'"

"I would."

"You're about to be disappointed, then. You see, knowing names gives one advantage over others. I know your name, Trebond. Purple eyes are not that common. But as for giving my name to you…hm…I see no special reason to do so." He gestured to another seat like his own. "Have a seat."

She lifted her chin. "No."

He studied her briefly, then shrugged. "Suit yourself." He stretched out his legs and began speaking again.

"We are going to travel a distance, and even though we have been unexpectedly burdened with you, our pacing shall remain the same. No little powder-puffed lady is going to slow us down, and if that does begin to happen, I shall have to kill you. Keep your eyes to yourself, keep your hands to yourself, and I daresay if another attempt at stealing occurs, I will be forced to tie your hands and feet together in a most undignified way. Am I understood?"

She couldn't believe how cold he was. The noble spoke of her capture with such indifference! People had died…his own men had died…and he acted as if their lives were worth nothing.

"No," Alanna said forcefully. "You are not understood. Why did you attack us in the first place? We carried nothing important; no riches or anything. We weren't even as many as you – and you slaughtered us!"

"Them," he corrected in a bored tone. "We slaughtered them. The attempt made on your life apparently failed. Anyway, your countrymen were doing their job. They were told to protect you. The one way they could have done so, considering the circumstances, was to create a distraction by sacrificing themselves. Clearly, their plan would have served its purpose – had you actually played your part as they asked."

"Are you saying that their deaths are my fault?" Alanna whispered, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"You said it," the young man countered. "Not I. You have to admit that, had you done what they asked, their deaths would not have been so senseless." He turned in his seat to stir the dying embers of the campfire to life again. "I wonder," he remarked softly, "what exactly you were thought to prove by defying loyalty and common sense."

She lunged to strike at him, a sob ripping from her throat. "Bastard!"

He caught her wrist, easily deflecting her pitiful blow and swiftly catching her chin with his other hand. For a moment, he simply held her, smiling slightly. "You will die the next time you try that," he murmured.

She was motionless, the feel of his vice-like grip as clear a warning as anything. "If I live, it's only to kill you later."

A curious expression crossed his face, and he smiled crookedly as he released her. "Then may the gods be with you, milady."

Alanna stood there, stunned. The noble rose from his seat and stretched luxuriously. He turned his back on her and began to rummage in a bulging sack.

"As you may have noticed, you have managed to attract the enmity of almost everyone in camp. That," he threw her a glance over his shoulder, "is probably due to the fact that when you slew the mage, the magical backlash that was meant to kill you was repelled and ended up killing quite a number of their own comrades."

She was silent, simply glaring at the noble as he spun around and tossed a bundle of something at her. Alanna caught it and shook out the folds to reveal a pair of breeches and a coarse shirt. Patched, but serviceable.

"There are some ways that I cannot protect you," the noble said calmly. "I believe you would be somewhat safer if you wore those."

Alanna was struck by the irony of the situation. All her life, she had played and trained in her brother's castoffs – against the better judgment of her superiors. Now she had a chance to wear them freely, and this time, the breeches served as added protection.

She hated to admit it, but the noble's offer was a practical one.

"Well?"

Alanna looked up at the noble's annoyed face. "What?"

"Put the damned clothes on!"

Alanna's temper flashed and she threw the clothing to the ground. "I will not be treated like some imbecile! I am not your slave and I refuse to put these on!"

The noble turned his back and rubbed his forehead wearily. "Mithros… Don't make me force you."

Alanna jutted her chin forward challengingly. "If I make the decision to not wear them, then whatever ill befalls me is my own problem, not yours."

"Lady."

Alanna gazed at the shining steel that hovered a few inches from her nose.

"Put the clothes on. Now."

«

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, my liege."

King Roald's eyes darkened understandingly. "Not at all, Trebond."

Thom of Trebond tried to relax, but found that he could not. Not while the knowledge that his twin had been kidnapped lingered in his mind. His violet eyes flashed with controlled anger as he stared at the king before him. This was not the first time Thom had approached the King of Tortall, and it certainly would not be the last. "They have not yet found my sister?"

The king shook his head. "I'm sorry, Thom, but it appears that they have vanished. Not even his Grace, Duke Roger of Conté, could trace them."

Thom's lip curled derisively. Roger of Conté trying to track down the Scanrans that had kidnapped his sister? Now that was a joke. He ran a hand through his tumbled red hair, vexed. It was bad enough to have his father turn into some sort of stone when hearing the news of his sister's "death". Now the king had given up hope.

The news of Alanna's death had sent Trebond into a chaotic mass of quivering nerves and tears. However, when the news reached Thom, he did not accept it. If Alanna had died, Thom would have known. They had a connection, the way most twins do, and it was still intact. He could feel her and knew that somewhere, his sister was alive and kicking. Literally.

Still, he could not let the Court settle back into a comfortable sense of routine while murderers held his sister captive. And leaving Alanna's fate in the hands of Duke Roger was definitely not on his list of priorities. Finally, the king was speaking again.

"Trebond? If that is all…"

"No, my liege," Thom interrupted calmly, meeting the king's eyes with an unsettling amount of force. "I request permission to track down the murderers and free my sister."

King Roald stared at the slender teenager in front of him. Thom of Trebond was no fighter – that much was obvious. To send this…boy…into the wild forests of Tortall would be close to committing murder himself. Roald smiled inwardly. Well, it would rid him of the daily interrogations.

He shook his head suddenly, shocked by the barbaric thought.

"Trebond," he said with exasperation. "You have the duty to your knight master to fulfill. I leave this decision in the hands of Sir Geoffrey. Until then, I must ask you to restrain from taking up the time other people might need for requests."

Thom nearly rolled his eyes, but caught himself in time. "Yes, your Majesty. Thank you."

With a slight bow, he turned and left; smiling wryly to himself. If everything were left in Sir Geoffrey's hands, the world would be a better place.

Sir Geoffrey was a solemn knight with sandy hair. Typically, he was a desk knight; and preferred to do his paperwork alone. However, when one of his friends bet one hundred nobles that he would never take a squire, it was too much to resist. Therefore, Thom of Trebond was squire to someone who never gave him orders, aside from the usual studies. All he had to do was ask and Sir Geoffrey would send him…and gladly.

Thom of Trebond was not the most genial of squires.

«

"Hurry up, witch."

The fire-haired young woman raised threatening eyes to the face of the speaker, a member of the Tusaine horseback division. He shut his mouth quickly and turned in the saddle, feeling the venomous glare of the girl pierce his back.

He hadn't asked to be the caretaker of the wench. It was an assignment. He had been randomly chosen…

Actually, he had gotten the short straw.

Damn.

He should have given the straw to Jarek. Jarek was the one who wanted to kill the girl. Personally, he didn't want anything to do with her. Especially since she had apparently already been killed by Jarek. If he had darted her as he said, then the girl really ought to be six feet under by now.

"Hey, you! I need to stop."

The Tusaine man stiffened, but kept his eyes forward. "No dice, witch. You had your chance four hours ago. We're not stopping now." He nudged his mount, urging it to a faster pace.

The girl's low growl of annoyance should have warned him.

The next thing he knew, the rope around his waist – the one that secured the witch on the other end – tightened…then sharply yanked back.

The girl watched with satisfaction as the man tumbled from the saddle. She walked back around the tree that she had used to loop the rope and jogged to the man's side. Her bound hands smarted, but not too badly. Leaning close, she swept her hair from her eyes and grinned dangerously at the Tusaine.

"Might we stop now?"

He scrabbled backwards. "P-per-perhaps…"

The sound of hoofs interrupted further play. Both the Tusaine and the girl looked up to see the silhouette of the noble gazing down at them. The noble simply smiled quietly.

"Jem?"

A man further up the moving cavalcade turned his horse back. "Yes?"

"Tie her up."

The man's craggy features split into a grin. "It'd be a pleasure, Tirragen."

So.

How's this? Better? Perhaps? I don't know. Tell me now, seriously, what do you think of Alex? Exactly what feeling is he giving you? I need to know how well his character is developing.

(And ha, acbworm, I did get it done by Friday. So you can stop glaring suspiciously at me now. )

Soundtrack (yes, I know you all lay awake all night, wondering what I listen to while writing my blather…)

· Valley Song – Jars of Clay

· In the End – Linkin Park

· Meant to Live – Switchfoot

--Senbazuru--