Um. Second bit of Phases, though it'll be a bit jumpy, chronology-wise. Once they're all done I'll maybe go back and rearrange them, but for now I figure I may as well just post.

So in Legacy (Pt. One) we met Tor, son of Nasuada and Murtagh, and his angst. Shortly there will be Tor's sister, Selena, daughter of Nasuada and Orrin, but for now? Meet Lan, prince of Alagaesia.

Disclaimer: ...A lot of these people are OC's, but the ones you recognize belong to Chris Paolini. The title's from Paul Simon.

Also, I feel I should warn for slashy vibes. And stuff. ...Yeah. Review, please?

and we said these songs are true:

Lan is the second son, the latter half of 'an heir and a spare'. His father is the king of Alagaesia, Roran Garrowson, originally of Carvahall; his mother is Queen Katrina. You may have heard of her; lady of the bright-copper hair and the summer-smile ring any bells?

Lan's full name is Prince Palancar III, Duke of Therinsford and Teirm, and a lot more tagging after that, but if he listed all the titles he'd be here for a month. Lan's brother, of course, is obligated to list all his; Prince Garrow of Alagaesia, heir-apparent to the throne of Alagaesia, husband of Princess Selena of Surda, can't appear ever to not want his responsibilities. Which leaves Lan with an interesting opportunity; he slots nicely into the role of brat. With Garrow playing responsible heir, there's not much else for him to do.

He flops back on his bed, arms folded behind his head, floppy dark copper hair fanning out on his pillow, and stares at his ceiling. There are moths nesting in-between the rafters. He occupies himself watching dusky wings flutter, and resolutely doesn't mope.

There's a knock on his door, suddenly, and he perks up, jumping off his bed. "Come in," he says, happily.

The door creaks open and the man pushing it is bowled over by a lump of excited seventeen-year-old princeling. "Tor!"

"Shadeslayer, Lan," swears the man in question, currently flat on his back on hard stone floor with a couple hundred pounds of Alagaesian prince on his chest. "It's nice to see you, too, but at this rate? My back's going to break before I'm thirty."

Lan rolls his eyes and gets off his friend, holding out a slim-fingered pianist's hand. "C'mon," he says. "I'm not allowed out today cos they're afraid I'll disappear from whatever Confirmation's on, but I have dice? And you can tell me all about Surda, lately."

Tor, heir to Surda's throne, takes the proffered hand and pulls himself up. He says, "All right, then. Lead the way." There is a line nestled between his eyebrows; it says worry but Lan doesn't read it, which is perhaps for the best.

--

After that ceremony's over—the Confirmation of some minor Duke, and Tor can't imagine a time when Roran was not every inch a King, playing politics with a deft silver-quick hand—Lan and Tor go back to Lan's rooms. Tor knows what kind of rumours he's spreading, being such good friends with the younger prince, but he and Lan have something special, something rare and he'll be damned before he lets gossip come between them.

Lan breezes into his room like a summer wind, light and impermanent, leaving no trance of his being there when he heads to his bathroom, dropping words over his shoulder-- "Be back in a heartbeat; just need to get out of these clothes--"

Tor grins and drops into an armchair; he's here in a purely unofficial capacity, so he's not wearing any especial finery—unlike Lan, who's in full princely regalia. Lan's purple cloak hits him in the chest. He coughs, and laughs; folds the thing and puts it on an oak table.

The sound of running water fills the air; Lan taking advantage of palace plumbing to get clean. Tor gets up and wanders to Lan's balcony, shedding outer-robes as he goes. He leans out into the cool night air, thinking. He doesn't miss home, not like 'Lena does; not at all. He's not cut out to be a King, and after twenty-one years of Tor being a wreck at anything involving Royal Duty, he'd think his parents would have realized and skipped him over for his sister, already.

A bird chirps, out in the gardens, and the scent of the spring flowers rises up to Tor. He rests his elbows on the railing and closes his eyes. There's a hand on his shoulder, then; he turns around and something in his back clicks. He winces.

So does Lan, padding to his side, copper hair damp, loose cotton shirt half-sliding off his shoulder. "Er," he says. "Maybe I won't tackle you quite so often?"

Tor says, "That might be good." His eyes drift over Lan's face (so maybe there's some element of truth to the rumours; it's not like they're not both consenting adults—or, you know, that there's anything to be consented to) and he runs a hand through his own dark hair. "Sleep now, maybe?"

Lan grins. "Wandering, tomorrow?"

Tor says, "Saphira, yes." This is a little of what Tor loves about Lan; both of them are stuck, trapped in royal lines they don't belong in; Lan with his music and his fire, smothered like that by the simple matter of his blood; Tor himself—mage and dreamer, and neither of those kinglike traits. 'Lena and Garrow would never dream of doing this; slipping out of their royal names and just being, drifting for a day or so, and they wouldn't understand; Lan does.

They curl up in bed, Lan using Tor for a pillow and Tor falls asleep to the rhythm of Lan's heart beating, thinking of songbirds in gilded cages.