Work Text:
Though winter be chill and days not long,
I am never stricken by absence of sun.
You are brighter than a star, dazzlingly bright
Just one look from your emerald eyes
“What rhymes with bright?”
Alanna sighed and shifted in her seat, turning to face the door that connected her room with Jonathan’s. He too was at his desk, one hand riffling through his dark hair, his back to her. “Um, might?” she suggested wearily. “Spite, blight, plight, fight—”
“Why,” Jonathan snapped, “are all of your words negative? How am I supposed to rhyme ‘blight’ into this poem? Or ‘fight?’ I’m not comparing the girl to a famine, and I’m certainly not trying to anger her.”
“If I had to keep graciously receiving your poetry, I’d be angry,” Alanna muttered, but she put down her quill and stared appraisingly at the back of Jonathan’s head. His hair really was a nice color, she decided, striking enough with his blue eyes to make him stand out in a crowd. Her own red hair was so conspicuous. Jonathan was noticeable because he was handsome, not because he looked like his head was on fire.
Not, Alanna thought hastily, firmly squashing the thought, that she herself thought Jonathan was handsome. There were other knights in the court who were much better-looking than the prince—and all, without reservation, fawned over Delia of Eldorne. Though Delia probably could care less if Jonathan was one-eyed and humpbacked, Alanna thought, smiling a little. He was the future king of Tortall, after all.
“Listen to this, Alan,” Jonathan said, leaning back in his chair and squinting at the poem. “Though winter be chill …”
“It is that,” Alanna agreed.
“… and days not long,” Jonathan continued, more loudly. “I am never—Mithros! How am I supposed to work in the rhyme here? I just want to compliment her eyes.”
“Did you call them emerald again?” Alanna asked, turning back to her work.
“Well, that’s what they are!” Jonathan said. “Emerald! And you know, every time I see her now, Caledon of Grimhold is staring into her eyes, telling her how beautiful she looks! And she keeps putting me off, like I don’t see her dancing with Caledon … there’s no one else to hold even a piece of my interest at the winter dances …”
Alanna went back to her bridges. After a few minutes, she heard Jonathan’s chair slide back, and then he was unceremoniously slapping the poem onto her desk, over her careful diagrams. “Alanna. You have to help me. Everyone knows you can do mathematics in your sleep.”
Her skin prickling—as it always did now when Jonathan was this close to her—Alanna picked up the piece of paper and read over the lines quickly. “This one is better than the last one,” she said, distracted, feeling Jon’s breath on her cheek, light as a whisper. “Tell her she’s dazzling. She dazzles you. Are you dazzled by her light?”
“Bright and light is the best you can come up with?”
“Who’s courting Delia, me or you?” Alanna retorted.
“Sometimes,” said Jonathan, his breath warm on her face but his tone icy, “I have no idea.”
Alanna whirled around in her seat, and Jonathan hastily backed up a few feet. She only had time to register how close their faces had been before she was saying, “What? What are you talking about, Jon? How could I be courting Delia?”
“Well, you never court anyone else!” Jonathan said, his face red. “People talk, you know that! Maybe you’re just trying to make it obvious that you are a boy, so your whole little charade doesn’t blow up in your face!”
“My whole little charade?” Alanna asked, outraged. She got to her feet, glaring up at Jonathan. All of the amusement she had felt upon reading the poem was gone; she waved it furiously at him. “My whole little charade? You call spending five years dressed as a boy and learning to be a knight my little charade? I could care less about Delia of Eldorne, and frankly I’m sick of hearing about her! I hate her! She’s leading you on and making you miserable and she probably gets these stupid poems and laughs—”
“You will address me,” Jonathan said, his voice quiet, “as Your Highness.”
Alanna gaped at him. She could feel her entire face blushing with rage, but her page training served her well. She merely nodded, stiffly held out the paper with the poem, and said, “Yes, Your Highness.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Jonathan might reach to touch her face, but he took the poem and disappeared into the connecting room, closing the door.
Alanna stood in the same spot for a minute, thinking about how much she wanted to reopen the door (only to slam it shut). Then, still far angrier with Jonathan than she had ever been in her life, she gave up on the mathematics assignment, changed, and climbed into bed. Faithful meowed at her from the window above the bed.
What did you expect? Did you expect him to take your side over Delia’s?
“Shut up,” said Alanna, but she lay awake a long time. Even when she heard Delia’s tinkling laugh from the next room, with an answering low-pitched chuckle she always knew was Jonathan’s, she did not let herself cry.