my heart will carry me back and away
Author: bookwormofmassiveproportions
Fandom: Tigana
Claim: Alessan
Author's Note: Okay this fic is for the novel Tigana, which I have never written before (eep!) The character is Alessan, and this is him as a child, which is unusual as throughout the novel he's an adult. Cheers!
Alessan wasn't waiting when the summons came, nor was he practicing fiercely in his room. He might have been, but he could not go, and so he was staring down from the window tallying up the troops, quietly realizing that they were too few too few too few to the rhythm of the march, when Emile called him to bid his father goodbye.
He was silent, walking through the light corridors and high vaulted halls of the Palace, feeling a dull weight in his chest meeting the dull sound of his sword thumping against his leg. Brandin of Ygrath had lost his son, he thought distantly, and now he was to lose his father.
Who entered the throne room shortly after Alessan, with Corsin and Loredan behind him. His mother was already there, staring out the window, perhaps at the same task as he had been. She must have sent the message for him. Loredan looked firm, and shone silver in his armour. He looked nearly as calm as his mother. Corsin was nearly as impressive, but his armour was older, less-used. He had his lips pursed as tightly as his elder brother, but Alessan, who knew him best, saw how pale he was. They both looked to the courtyard where the army waited.
His father had the fierce wrinkle between his eyes which spoke clearly of his unfamiliar grimness, a look Alessan associated with piles of paperwork and hearings. Only with war, though, today. Long ago, when he was much younger, Alessan remembered, he would try to mimic that face back at his father, invariably making him laugh. It was his one trick, and he was too old for it now.
"Ah." His father said, finally noticing his third son. He smiled briefly. "I see you've been keeping busy." He said, gesturing to the sword at his side.
"Yes." Alessan said, glancing down at it.
"Valentin." His mother said, half-greeting, half-prompting her husband. Her eyes, as always, were stony and unreadable.
His father nodded, brow furrowed again, "You'll be pleased to know, both of you, we're sending you to Quileia. The traders' caravan is here, they're leaving shortly, are you ready?" It was hurried, but his father had more important business than their evacuation.
"Yes." Alessan's mother said. A lie. Later that night, only Alessan would be hurried onto the first wagon, watching his mothers' proud figure fade into the distance. Only Alessan.
His father nodded again, sharply, "Very well, then. Be prepared, be fast, and Pasithea," he looked up at her, "Please don't hold them back. You know you must leave."
Alessan nearly felt his mother, in all her injured pride across the room, stiffen further. "I am Princess of Tigana." She said, "No more and no less."
His father frowned, and would have, Alessan knew, sought a firmer promise, had not the trumpets blared at that very moment. He looked up sharply, the light throwing his face into a relief sculpture. The three of them proceeded to the door. As they walked by him, his father's face softened and he smiled again for his third son. Another father might have hugged him, laid a hand on his shoulder, sought to give him comfort as he left. But his father was Prince of Tigana, and his comfort was owed elsewhere.
And, so, it was Corsin, who had taught him how to shoot, with whom he fenced day in and day out, who rode with him and laughed with him, Corsin, only two years older than him, and old enough to go, who laid a hand on his shoulder and said "Alessan." before he was gone.