Post by devilinthedetails on Jun 10, 2018 11:54:21 GMT 10
Title: Prophecy
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Magic
Summary: Jonathan, Zahir, and the prophecy that unites and divides them.
Author's Note: Somewhat of a companion piece to "Long Live the King" but can stand alone. Mild warning for internalized racism.
Prophecy
“You had us hunt down a nest of spidrens with only a squad of soldiers for support, Your Majesty.” Zahir glared accusingly at his knightmaster and king as he scrubbed dirt and blood out of the man’s once shining armor. He should have considered himself lucky to be able to draw breath because three of the soldiers who had fought alongside him against the spidrens couldn’t make the same claim. Instead he was irate at the king who had gotten restless on the royal progress and endangered them all in name of noble adventure or misguided heroism.
“I did.” King Jonathan’s arched eyebrow suggested that he didn’t appreciate Zahir’s insolent tone, but Zahir was seventeen—close enough to knighthood that he, never one particularly inclined to shyness, felt confident speaking with a bluntness that bordered on the impertinent and young enough that the hot blood burning in his veins fiercely resisted death—and that was prime age for rudeness.
“You could’ve been killed, sire.” Zahir’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. As much as he didn’t want to die, he recoiled even more instinctually from the disgraceful notion of being the squire who dishonored himself by standing ineffectually by while the king was devoured by spidrens. He could only imagine the scorn that he, a Bazhir, would receive from every wagging tongue in Torall if he failed in his most important duty to the realm: to protect King Jonathan’s life even at the expense of his own. He was determined not to be the hapless sand scut who got King Jonathan killed even if King Jonathan sometimes seemed equally resolved to court death and destruction.
“I knew I wasn’t going to die.” King Jonathan cupped Zahir’s chin. “The gods granted me a vision of my death long ago, and it didn’t come from spidrens, I assure you, squire.”
“The gods granted you a vision.” Zahir snorted. Conversations such as this maddening ones always made him grateful that he hadn’t been born with any Gift. The Gift seemed to curse all it touched with an arrogant, head-in-the-clouds aura that was as infuriating as it was indefinable. “That sounds as solid as rock and certainly something to place your complete faith in, Your Majesty.”
“I’m the Voice.” The king responded to Zahir’s sarcasm with an earnest, soft reminder that was more compelling that a shout. “Each Voice is granted a vision of his own death when he assumes the role.”
“You don’t need to remind me of my own culture, sire.” Zahir scowled as his eyes narrowed like a serpent’s poised to strike at the heels of an unwary traveller. “I suppose if you’ve received a vision of what you believe to be your death, you can fearlessly face everything else secure in the knowledge that it doesn’t kill you, but what about those of us who aren’t given the gift of prophecy?”
“You’re afraid to die?” King Jonathan’s voice and gaze were gentle but Zahir still felt himself flushing bright as a sunset.
“I’m not afraid to die.” Zahir parried with a pointed remark rather than acknowledging that his knightmaster’s words had hit a mark. “I’m afraid to die for no reason because my king issues thoughtless orders I have no choice but to obey.”
“You think the three soldiers died for no reason, Zahir?” King Jonathan was stroking his beard, his eyes piercing into Zahir as if to read his soul or divine his future.
“Of course not.” Zahir’s cynicism flared to block the painful memory of the staring, dead-fish eyes of the fallen soldiers whose gazes would haunt him until his final breath, his irony his last line of defense against an unfeeling world oblivious to his existence within it. “They died in glorious battle against monsters. What could be meaningless about that, Your Majesty?”
“You’ll live—and die—meaningfully, and you’ll outlive me, Zahir ibn Alhaz.” King Jonathan squeezed Zahir’s shoulder.
“Is that a prophecy, sire?” Zahir’s dubiousness was etched into his face like ink into a tattoo.
“The same one I had about my death.” King Jonathan’s smile was slight and sad, shattering Zahir’s heart like a rock thrown though a stained glass window in a northern temple. “When I die, I can feel your presence comforting me as I depart this life.”
“You mean I fail you, Your Majesty?” Zahir’s throat constricted as if there were suddenly too much dust in the tent. He thought that he would rather be ignorant of when he would die than live with the knowledge that he would disappoint his king, and it seemed inevitable that he would as he could envision no scenario where he would be by King Jonathan as he died without having been somehow deficient in his duties.
“No, you never fail me.” King Jonathan’s hand went from squeezing Zahir’s shoulder to patting the tension out of it. “That’s why you’re with me until the end, Mithros bless you.”
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Magic
Summary: Jonathan, Zahir, and the prophecy that unites and divides them.
Author's Note: Somewhat of a companion piece to "Long Live the King" but can stand alone. Mild warning for internalized racism.
Prophecy
“You had us hunt down a nest of spidrens with only a squad of soldiers for support, Your Majesty.” Zahir glared accusingly at his knightmaster and king as he scrubbed dirt and blood out of the man’s once shining armor. He should have considered himself lucky to be able to draw breath because three of the soldiers who had fought alongside him against the spidrens couldn’t make the same claim. Instead he was irate at the king who had gotten restless on the royal progress and endangered them all in name of noble adventure or misguided heroism.
“I did.” King Jonathan’s arched eyebrow suggested that he didn’t appreciate Zahir’s insolent tone, but Zahir was seventeen—close enough to knighthood that he, never one particularly inclined to shyness, felt confident speaking with a bluntness that bordered on the impertinent and young enough that the hot blood burning in his veins fiercely resisted death—and that was prime age for rudeness.
“You could’ve been killed, sire.” Zahir’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. As much as he didn’t want to die, he recoiled even more instinctually from the disgraceful notion of being the squire who dishonored himself by standing ineffectually by while the king was devoured by spidrens. He could only imagine the scorn that he, a Bazhir, would receive from every wagging tongue in Torall if he failed in his most important duty to the realm: to protect King Jonathan’s life even at the expense of his own. He was determined not to be the hapless sand scut who got King Jonathan killed even if King Jonathan sometimes seemed equally resolved to court death and destruction.
“I knew I wasn’t going to die.” King Jonathan cupped Zahir’s chin. “The gods granted me a vision of my death long ago, and it didn’t come from spidrens, I assure you, squire.”
“The gods granted you a vision.” Zahir snorted. Conversations such as this maddening ones always made him grateful that he hadn’t been born with any Gift. The Gift seemed to curse all it touched with an arrogant, head-in-the-clouds aura that was as infuriating as it was indefinable. “That sounds as solid as rock and certainly something to place your complete faith in, Your Majesty.”
“I’m the Voice.” The king responded to Zahir’s sarcasm with an earnest, soft reminder that was more compelling that a shout. “Each Voice is granted a vision of his own death when he assumes the role.”
“You don’t need to remind me of my own culture, sire.” Zahir scowled as his eyes narrowed like a serpent’s poised to strike at the heels of an unwary traveller. “I suppose if you’ve received a vision of what you believe to be your death, you can fearlessly face everything else secure in the knowledge that it doesn’t kill you, but what about those of us who aren’t given the gift of prophecy?”
“You’re afraid to die?” King Jonathan’s voice and gaze were gentle but Zahir still felt himself flushing bright as a sunset.
“I’m not afraid to die.” Zahir parried with a pointed remark rather than acknowledging that his knightmaster’s words had hit a mark. “I’m afraid to die for no reason because my king issues thoughtless orders I have no choice but to obey.”
“You think the three soldiers died for no reason, Zahir?” King Jonathan was stroking his beard, his eyes piercing into Zahir as if to read his soul or divine his future.
“Of course not.” Zahir’s cynicism flared to block the painful memory of the staring, dead-fish eyes of the fallen soldiers whose gazes would haunt him until his final breath, his irony his last line of defense against an unfeeling world oblivious to his existence within it. “They died in glorious battle against monsters. What could be meaningless about that, Your Majesty?”
“You’ll live—and die—meaningfully, and you’ll outlive me, Zahir ibn Alhaz.” King Jonathan squeezed Zahir’s shoulder.
“Is that a prophecy, sire?” Zahir’s dubiousness was etched into his face like ink into a tattoo.
“The same one I had about my death.” King Jonathan’s smile was slight and sad, shattering Zahir’s heart like a rock thrown though a stained glass window in a northern temple. “When I die, I can feel your presence comforting me as I depart this life.”
“You mean I fail you, Your Majesty?” Zahir’s throat constricted as if there were suddenly too much dust in the tent. He thought that he would rather be ignorant of when he would die than live with the knowledge that he would disappoint his king, and it seemed inevitable that he would as he could envision no scenario where he would be by King Jonathan as he died without having been somehow deficient in his duties.
“No, you never fail me.” King Jonathan’s hand went from squeezing Zahir’s shoulder to patting the tension out of it. “That’s why you’re with me until the end, Mithros bless you.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!