Post by Seek on Sept 26, 2014 20:03:24 GMT 10
Title: Songbird
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Songbird, (#104)
Summary: It has been two generations since Barzunni ears last heard the songbirds sing in Meron.
Notes: Tentatively set in this long Bazhir AU I'm still working on.
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Zahir crosses the graceful arches and strides out onto the flagstones of the courtyard, still sticky with drying blood. There were fountains once, and leisure gardens, the fragrance of almonds and lemons gilding the air. But the fountains have long been filled in, and many of the almond trees have been cut down to make room for a Northern herb garden.
Vestiges remain, even now. The old hatred rises, threatens to choke him as he sees the traces of old Barzun, drowned for two generations now, still present in the arches and the stonework; things the Northerners neither desired to eradicate nor were they entirely capable of doing so. That and the feeling of betrayal: that with each death, each fief taken on the sharp steel of Bazhir and Barzunni swords, they teeter closer and closer to the unspeakable—turning on the Northern Voice, the Barzunni-appointed Voice, a thing that has not been done since the days of Sayeed ibn Al-Qassad.
He counts every body clothed in Meron burnt-orange and umber, does not turn his eyes from the faces he knows, that he knew, rather, from his days as Sir Geoffrey’s squire. And what has become of him, a quiet voice in Zahir’s mind demands to know. Has he fled? Sought and found refuge somewhere in the heart of Fief Meron? Has he fallen in defense of Fort Tarys, which those with longer memories knew as Tariz-of-the-Singing-Fountains, Tariz-of-the-Fragrant-Gardens?
Smoke. Someone has set fire to something—probably the pyre of gathered corpses. He has refused to leave them for the Stormwings—the last thing they need is worries of disease when the Stormwings have their way with the bodies. It is, he thinks, the only thing he can still do for them.
Necessity. A cruel god. He is driven by necessity and the history of two peoples rests on his shoulders, a weight he doesn’t quite know how to bear. The djinn stirs under his too-warm skin, a brightly-burning figure like an eagle, roused by the scent of smoke hanging in the air.
He counts, listens to the phantom murmuring of long-dead fountains until the djinn slips away, deep within, into slumber again. A dangerous thing, to carry a nameless god. If he had known, perhaps he would not have gone to the old city.
He carries regrets too, heavy like the relentless stench of smoke and spilled blood.
But for now, there is this:
In the old courtyard, now a Northern herb garden, where of old noblemen gathered and listened to the burble of the fountain, the birds gathered in the fruit-laden trees: a man—half a son of Barzun—stands amidst the blood and smoke and listens.
And for the first time in two generations, he, half a Barzunni, hears the sweet voices of the songbirds in the gardens of old Tariz.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Songbird, (#104)
Summary: It has been two generations since Barzunni ears last heard the songbirds sing in Meron.
Notes: Tentatively set in this long Bazhir AU I'm still working on.
-
Zahir crosses the graceful arches and strides out onto the flagstones of the courtyard, still sticky with drying blood. There were fountains once, and leisure gardens, the fragrance of almonds and lemons gilding the air. But the fountains have long been filled in, and many of the almond trees have been cut down to make room for a Northern herb garden.
Vestiges remain, even now. The old hatred rises, threatens to choke him as he sees the traces of old Barzun, drowned for two generations now, still present in the arches and the stonework; things the Northerners neither desired to eradicate nor were they entirely capable of doing so. That and the feeling of betrayal: that with each death, each fief taken on the sharp steel of Bazhir and Barzunni swords, they teeter closer and closer to the unspeakable—turning on the Northern Voice, the Barzunni-appointed Voice, a thing that has not been done since the days of Sayeed ibn Al-Qassad.
He counts every body clothed in Meron burnt-orange and umber, does not turn his eyes from the faces he knows, that he knew, rather, from his days as Sir Geoffrey’s squire. And what has become of him, a quiet voice in Zahir’s mind demands to know. Has he fled? Sought and found refuge somewhere in the heart of Fief Meron? Has he fallen in defense of Fort Tarys, which those with longer memories knew as Tariz-of-the-Singing-Fountains, Tariz-of-the-Fragrant-Gardens?
Smoke. Someone has set fire to something—probably the pyre of gathered corpses. He has refused to leave them for the Stormwings—the last thing they need is worries of disease when the Stormwings have their way with the bodies. It is, he thinks, the only thing he can still do for them.
Necessity. A cruel god. He is driven by necessity and the history of two peoples rests on his shoulders, a weight he doesn’t quite know how to bear. The djinn stirs under his too-warm skin, a brightly-burning figure like an eagle, roused by the scent of smoke hanging in the air.
He counts, listens to the phantom murmuring of long-dead fountains until the djinn slips away, deep within, into slumber again. A dangerous thing, to carry a nameless god. If he had known, perhaps he would not have gone to the old city.
He carries regrets too, heavy like the relentless stench of smoke and spilled blood.
But for now, there is this:
In the old courtyard, now a Northern herb garden, where of old noblemen gathered and listened to the burble of the fountain, the birds gathered in the fruit-laden trees: a man—half a son of Barzun—stands amidst the blood and smoke and listens.
And for the first time in two generations, he, half a Barzunni, hears the sweet voices of the songbirds in the gardens of old Tariz.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!