Post by devilinthedetails on May 29, 2018 22:23:22 GMT 10
Title: Crossroads of History
Rating: PG
Prompt: Crossroads
Summary: Jon and Zahir at a crossroads.
Crossroads of History
King Jasson’s statue dominated the crossroads between Palace Way and Gold Street the way he had loomed over battlefields in life. Mounted on a marble horse larger than any breathing one Jon had ever seen with a finger imperiously pointed forever toward the next conquest, Jasson, hewn from stone, appeared more a monarch than Jon did.
Of course, on this venture to Corus, Jon had made every effort to be as nondescript as possible. He wore a plain shirt and breeches—simple in fabric and unobtrusive in color—under a glamor that granted him the seeming of an ambitious but ultimately inconsequential merchant. Nobody would recognize him as the king, he thought. Too often, appearance made a king. Change some clothes and work some magic, and he was no longer a king in many people’s eyes.
Sometimes he could learn more about the state of his country in an hour walking among his subjects, dressed as one of them, then he could reading a hundred reports on commerce or crops. The people—in their gossip and their conversation—told him what they thought and how they felt. They just were blissfully ignorant of it.
The squad of guards that protected him had donned street clothes and were speckled throughout the crowded square, strategically positioned so they could watch him without drawing attention to themselves. Only his squire stood beside him. Zahir had turned up his nose at Jon’s offer to magic him into a different appearance, but Bazhir were common enough in Corus that he didn’t attract many stares. Those who did stare were encouraged to avert their eyes when Zahir glowered at them. Zahir had a glower almost as intimidating as the one carved into King Jasson’s hard face on the statue above them.
“Did he truly look like that in life, sire?” Zahir was gazing up into King Jasson’s severe face, and it occurred to Jon that perhaps he had selected the wrong square to mingle among his people with his squire. King Jasson was no hero to the Bazhir. He was a despised conquerer. A revulsion to him was bred into their bones.
“I doubt he was ten feet tall and made of marble splattered with pigeon droppings, Zahir.” Jon kept his tone deliberately light, as if history were a triviality that had no power over them even at a crossroads where it seemed to overshadow them.
“They say you take after him, Your Majesty.” Zahir shifted his appraising stare to Jon.
“Only because I had little in common with my father, and there was no other recent king to compare me to.” Jon smiled slightly although, in the shade of King Jasson’s statue, he felt as if he cast two shadows. “Memories are short.”
“Not in the desert.” Zahir’s lips thinned. “We remember how he conquered the desert even if he didn’t build any monuments to himself there.”
People pressed around King Jasson’s statue, clamoring to brush their fingers across his feet in their stirrups, because Corus legend maintained that any who touched King Jasson’s feet would be victorious in their next conquest—whether it was a fight, a trade, or a romance. From Zahir’s words, Jon had the distinct impression than any monument erected for King Jasson in the desert would have been torn down as soon as it was built.
“You wish you could knock this monument down, don’t you?” Jon tilted his chin at King Jasson, who hovered above them, unknowing and unfeeling.
“What good would it do, sire?” Zahir shrugged. “It wouldn’t rewrite history.”
“History is still being written, squire.” Jon squeezed Zahir’s shoulder. He hated when the Bazhir spoke as if they had been defeated and destroyed, the fire of their culture extinguished by northern oppression.
“By you.” Zahir’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a cleverer conqueror than he was. He only stole our land, while you took our minds and hearts.”
“Do you see a conqueror when you look at me, Zahir?” Jon could have scolded his squire for insolence, but he was the Voice, and most of the time that meant just listening and trying to understand the Bazhir.
“I see my king,” replied Zahir after a moment’s hesitation, “but Bazhir don’t have kings, do they?”
“Bazhir are Tortallan.” When his squire opened his mouth to protest this statement, Jon held up a hand to forestall debate and went on firmly, “I said Tortallan, not northerner, and Tortallans have kings.”
“Bazhir weren’t always Tortallan.” Zahir’s forehead knotted.
“We’re at a crossroads, squire.” Jon rested a palm on Zahir’s back. “What do people do at crossroads?”
“Fumble at the feet of statues.” Zahir was all contempt as he jerked his head at the people rubbing at King Jasson’s stirrups. “At least that seems to be the northern custom, Your Majesty.”
“People use crossroads to change directions and to go forward in their journey.” Jon was as patient as Zahir was scornful. “Everyone in Tortall—Bazhir and northerner alike—is at a crossroads. We must figure out how we will move forward together to get to where we need to be.”
“Where do we need to be, sire?” Zahir’s forehead tied again.
“We will discover that as we move along together.” Jon ruffled Zahir’s hair until Zahir’s forehead relaxed.
“Would you want a statue of you built at some desert crossroads?” Zahir’s question was as keen as his sword-sharp eyes.
“No.” Jon grinned wryly. “The desert would reclaim it within years.”
“Nothing lasts forever in the desert but the sand and sky.” Zahir recited an ancient Bazhir aphorism that Jon hoped would one day be true of a violent conquest before adding, chin lifting staunchly, “If you wanted one, I’d ensure it got built in your honor, Your Majesty.”
“Time isn’t kind to marble statues.” Jon was touched by Zahir’s unexpected and unforced devotion, but expressing that would only embarrass the boy. “Living monuments are more enduring. If my people, Bazhir and northern, believe that I’ve created a better future for them, that is a stronger legacy than any marble statue.”
Rating: PG
Prompt: Crossroads
Summary: Jon and Zahir at a crossroads.
Crossroads of History
King Jasson’s statue dominated the crossroads between Palace Way and Gold Street the way he had loomed over battlefields in life. Mounted on a marble horse larger than any breathing one Jon had ever seen with a finger imperiously pointed forever toward the next conquest, Jasson, hewn from stone, appeared more a monarch than Jon did.
Of course, on this venture to Corus, Jon had made every effort to be as nondescript as possible. He wore a plain shirt and breeches—simple in fabric and unobtrusive in color—under a glamor that granted him the seeming of an ambitious but ultimately inconsequential merchant. Nobody would recognize him as the king, he thought. Too often, appearance made a king. Change some clothes and work some magic, and he was no longer a king in many people’s eyes.
Sometimes he could learn more about the state of his country in an hour walking among his subjects, dressed as one of them, then he could reading a hundred reports on commerce or crops. The people—in their gossip and their conversation—told him what they thought and how they felt. They just were blissfully ignorant of it.
The squad of guards that protected him had donned street clothes and were speckled throughout the crowded square, strategically positioned so they could watch him without drawing attention to themselves. Only his squire stood beside him. Zahir had turned up his nose at Jon’s offer to magic him into a different appearance, but Bazhir were common enough in Corus that he didn’t attract many stares. Those who did stare were encouraged to avert their eyes when Zahir glowered at them. Zahir had a glower almost as intimidating as the one carved into King Jasson’s hard face on the statue above them.
“Did he truly look like that in life, sire?” Zahir was gazing up into King Jasson’s severe face, and it occurred to Jon that perhaps he had selected the wrong square to mingle among his people with his squire. King Jasson was no hero to the Bazhir. He was a despised conquerer. A revulsion to him was bred into their bones.
“I doubt he was ten feet tall and made of marble splattered with pigeon droppings, Zahir.” Jon kept his tone deliberately light, as if history were a triviality that had no power over them even at a crossroads where it seemed to overshadow them.
“They say you take after him, Your Majesty.” Zahir shifted his appraising stare to Jon.
“Only because I had little in common with my father, and there was no other recent king to compare me to.” Jon smiled slightly although, in the shade of King Jasson’s statue, he felt as if he cast two shadows. “Memories are short.”
“Not in the desert.” Zahir’s lips thinned. “We remember how he conquered the desert even if he didn’t build any monuments to himself there.”
People pressed around King Jasson’s statue, clamoring to brush their fingers across his feet in their stirrups, because Corus legend maintained that any who touched King Jasson’s feet would be victorious in their next conquest—whether it was a fight, a trade, or a romance. From Zahir’s words, Jon had the distinct impression than any monument erected for King Jasson in the desert would have been torn down as soon as it was built.
“You wish you could knock this monument down, don’t you?” Jon tilted his chin at King Jasson, who hovered above them, unknowing and unfeeling.
“What good would it do, sire?” Zahir shrugged. “It wouldn’t rewrite history.”
“History is still being written, squire.” Jon squeezed Zahir’s shoulder. He hated when the Bazhir spoke as if they had been defeated and destroyed, the fire of their culture extinguished by northern oppression.
“By you.” Zahir’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a cleverer conqueror than he was. He only stole our land, while you took our minds and hearts.”
“Do you see a conqueror when you look at me, Zahir?” Jon could have scolded his squire for insolence, but he was the Voice, and most of the time that meant just listening and trying to understand the Bazhir.
“I see my king,” replied Zahir after a moment’s hesitation, “but Bazhir don’t have kings, do they?”
“Bazhir are Tortallan.” When his squire opened his mouth to protest this statement, Jon held up a hand to forestall debate and went on firmly, “I said Tortallan, not northerner, and Tortallans have kings.”
“Bazhir weren’t always Tortallan.” Zahir’s forehead knotted.
“We’re at a crossroads, squire.” Jon rested a palm on Zahir’s back. “What do people do at crossroads?”
“Fumble at the feet of statues.” Zahir was all contempt as he jerked his head at the people rubbing at King Jasson’s stirrups. “At least that seems to be the northern custom, Your Majesty.”
“People use crossroads to change directions and to go forward in their journey.” Jon was as patient as Zahir was scornful. “Everyone in Tortall—Bazhir and northerner alike—is at a crossroads. We must figure out how we will move forward together to get to where we need to be.”
“Where do we need to be, sire?” Zahir’s forehead tied again.
“We will discover that as we move along together.” Jon ruffled Zahir’s hair until Zahir’s forehead relaxed.
“Would you want a statue of you built at some desert crossroads?” Zahir’s question was as keen as his sword-sharp eyes.
“No.” Jon grinned wryly. “The desert would reclaim it within years.”
“Nothing lasts forever in the desert but the sand and sky.” Zahir recited an ancient Bazhir aphorism that Jon hoped would one day be true of a violent conquest before adding, chin lifting staunchly, “If you wanted one, I’d ensure it got built in your honor, Your Majesty.”
“Time isn’t kind to marble statues.” Jon was touched by Zahir’s unexpected and unforced devotion, but expressing that would only embarrass the boy. “Living monuments are more enduring. If my people, Bazhir and northern, believe that I’ve created a better future for them, that is a stronger legacy than any marble statue.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!