Post by Shhasow on Mar 19, 2011 6:35:41 GMT 10
Title: Voice Lessons (7)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 684
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir stumbles across the king in an odd situation. With apologies to Patrick Rothfuss and The Wise Man’s Fear, from which inspiration for the chapter was borrowed and altered.
Previous Chapter - Chapter Six
Even though Zahir knew he was technically the king’s squire, he hadn’t seen the man for days, not even at his high haunts on the curtain wall and the palace roof. The Bazhir didn’t exactly give up, but he was content to wait until his new knight-master calmed down and accepted that he was his squire.
So it was surprising when Zahir happened to be walking down the corridor that housed the royal family and other important personages that he found the king on his knees in front of his door. From the sight of the thin pieces of metal in his hands, it seemed that he was picking the lock on the door.
“Did you lose your key, sire?” he asked politely.
The Voice sent him a scornful look but otherwise ignored him, then let out a soft laugh as the door popped open. He rose and was half-way inside before he replied, “If you’re coming in, do so already. Close the door, too.”
Zahir blinked in surprise, but followed the instructions to find the king standing in front of the fireplace, frowning.
“Do you have flint on you, squire?” he demanded.
“Ah, no, sire.” When he rose that morning, Zahir had not been aware that he’d be going on a trip into the Royal Forest, or lighting fires inside the palace, so he hadn’t grabbed his fire-making materials.
“No matter. Use this and light the fire.”
Startled, the boy caught the negligently tossed flint, but went ahead and lit the fire with a few practiced motions, though he wondered why the Gifted king didn’t start his own fire. Still, it was best not to question, he decided, not when the king had only just accepted him.
When the fire was apparently sufficiently large, the king strode towards the nearest armoire,. He took out an armful of tunics, which were then fed one by one into the growing flames.
“Sire, why are you burning your clothes?” Zahir asked slowly.
“If you want to be the Voice, you must learn to ask the right questions,” said the king as he investigated a drawer and pulled out a red silk shirt. “This is from years ago,” he muttered. “Does it even still fit?” That went into the fire as well, and Zahir winced.
When his knight-master picked up a small comb and tossed it into the merry blaze, Zahir had a terrible thought. “Whose room is this?”
“About time,” he replied cheerfully. “That is the right question. This is Gary’s room.”
“Wait, the Prime Minister? Why are you burning his stuff?” Zahir was incredibly confused, and the growing smoke the drifted from the crackling inferno didn’t help the thinking process.
“Because I can’t burn Wyldon’s.” He looked around, found a bottle of hair lotion, and shoved it in. “I need the man, and he’d never tolerate this. But Gary has no choice.” He surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. “Wipe that distraught look off your face, squire, there are enough fire charms on the room to smother blazebalm, let alone a piddly flame or two.”
With that, he strode towards a window and shoved it open, and in less than a second, stood outside looking in. “Now, either stay there or leave. I suggest you go, and not by the door. Servants should be coming at any second now.” Then he was gone.
Standing in the increasingly smoky room, Zahir suddenly realized what it would look like if someone were to enter that moment. He swore, coughing on the smoke, and at the sound of running footsteps, he dove towards the window. Zahir just barely escaped in time, for he heard panicked voices as soon as he was out and over the window.
At the top of the roof perched the king. He saw his new squire, gave a cheery wave, and disappeared over the other side.
As Zahir carefully traversed the roof, he wondered if the king was really crazy, if he was that vindictive, or if he was trying to get him to quit. So far, his money was on the first option.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG
Word Count: 684
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir stumbles across the king in an odd situation. With apologies to Patrick Rothfuss and The Wise Man’s Fear, from which inspiration for the chapter was borrowed and altered.
Previous Chapter - Chapter Six
Even though Zahir knew he was technically the king’s squire, he hadn’t seen the man for days, not even at his high haunts on the curtain wall and the palace roof. The Bazhir didn’t exactly give up, but he was content to wait until his new knight-master calmed down and accepted that he was his squire.
So it was surprising when Zahir happened to be walking down the corridor that housed the royal family and other important personages that he found the king on his knees in front of his door. From the sight of the thin pieces of metal in his hands, it seemed that he was picking the lock on the door.
“Did you lose your key, sire?” he asked politely.
The Voice sent him a scornful look but otherwise ignored him, then let out a soft laugh as the door popped open. He rose and was half-way inside before he replied, “If you’re coming in, do so already. Close the door, too.”
Zahir blinked in surprise, but followed the instructions to find the king standing in front of the fireplace, frowning.
“Do you have flint on you, squire?” he demanded.
“Ah, no, sire.” When he rose that morning, Zahir had not been aware that he’d be going on a trip into the Royal Forest, or lighting fires inside the palace, so he hadn’t grabbed his fire-making materials.
“No matter. Use this and light the fire.”
Startled, the boy caught the negligently tossed flint, but went ahead and lit the fire with a few practiced motions, though he wondered why the Gifted king didn’t start his own fire. Still, it was best not to question, he decided, not when the king had only just accepted him.
When the fire was apparently sufficiently large, the king strode towards the nearest armoire,. He took out an armful of tunics, which were then fed one by one into the growing flames.
“Sire, why are you burning your clothes?” Zahir asked slowly.
“If you want to be the Voice, you must learn to ask the right questions,” said the king as he investigated a drawer and pulled out a red silk shirt. “This is from years ago,” he muttered. “Does it even still fit?” That went into the fire as well, and Zahir winced.
When his knight-master picked up a small comb and tossed it into the merry blaze, Zahir had a terrible thought. “Whose room is this?”
“About time,” he replied cheerfully. “That is the right question. This is Gary’s room.”
“Wait, the Prime Minister? Why are you burning his stuff?” Zahir was incredibly confused, and the growing smoke the drifted from the crackling inferno didn’t help the thinking process.
“Because I can’t burn Wyldon’s.” He looked around, found a bottle of hair lotion, and shoved it in. “I need the man, and he’d never tolerate this. But Gary has no choice.” He surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. “Wipe that distraught look off your face, squire, there are enough fire charms on the room to smother blazebalm, let alone a piddly flame or two.”
With that, he strode towards a window and shoved it open, and in less than a second, stood outside looking in. “Now, either stay there or leave. I suggest you go, and not by the door. Servants should be coming at any second now.” Then he was gone.
Standing in the increasingly smoky room, Zahir suddenly realized what it would look like if someone were to enter that moment. He swore, coughing on the smoke, and at the sound of running footsteps, he dove towards the window. Zahir just barely escaped in time, for he heard panicked voices as soon as he was out and over the window.
At the top of the roof perched the king. He saw his new squire, gave a cheery wave, and disappeared over the other side.
As Zahir carefully traversed the roof, he wondered if the king was really crazy, if he was that vindictive, or if he was trying to get him to quit. So far, his money was on the first option.
QC: by Cassandra