Post by Shhasow on Mar 19, 2011 9:13:08 GMT 10
Title: Voice Lessons (8)
Rating: G
Word Count: 497
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir finally gets confirmation that yes, he is the king’s squire. Not that it’s of much help. With apologies to Patrick Rothfuss and The Wise Man’s Fear, from which inspiration for the last few lines was lovingly swiped.
Previous Chapter - Chapter Seven
When Zahir realized that the king was not going to start his Voice training without being prompted, he decided to take the initiative and simply ask.
Surprisingly, his knight-master was not on the roof, which had been the first place Zahir checked. Nor was he on the curtain wall or in the throne room or the meeting rooms. Zahir finally broke down and asked the harried-looking Prime Minister, whose ill-fitting tunic looked hastily completed.
Zahir rolled his eyes when he set off for the king’s chambers - it just seemed too normal - but sure enough, when he knocked briskly, a few minutes later his new knight-master opened the door with bleary eyes.
“Yes, squire?” he grunted.
“Am I, your majesty?”
The king looked at him for a minute and sighed. “I can see this will take longer than I’d like, and you won’t be put off. Come in, if you must.”
Zahir followed, attempting not to lose his newfound pseudo-confidence, and sat in a chair by the fireplace - not lit, thankfully - after the king sat in the accompanying chair.
“You have something on your chest. Might as well speak and get it out.” The king nursed a hot cup of tea as he spoke.
“You say I’m your squire, but I haven’t done anything,” Zahir burst out. “You said I could train to be Voice, but so far all I’ve done is fall off the roof and help you burn the Prime Minister’s wardrobe.”
“That’s not entirely true. You didn’t fall, you stepped off the roof. Into thin air. What did you expect would happen?”
Zahir scowled. “I thought you wouldn’t let me do it. I thought you were testing me, my trust in you, my resolve, not trying to kill me.”
“Again with the dramatics.” He rolled his eyes, but set down his cup. “You want Voice training? Here.” The Voice grabbed a loose scrap of paper, a pen, and jotted down a list of titles. “Read one or all of these. I won’t test you on them, and I don’t expect you to find them all. Mithros,” he added, peering quizzically at the last title, “I’m not sure this one even exists. And that one is certainly not in Corus. Perhaps in the City of the Gods?”
Zahir looked doubtfully at the growing list. “Which is the most important?”
The king shrugged. “Why ask me? I haven’t read them.” With a last few jots, he yawned and stood up in with leisurely stretch. “I must go to fulfill my kingly duties. Since you are officially my squire, I suppose you may call me Jonathan. None of this ‘Voice’ or ‘majesty’ business. It gets quite old.”
Zahir watched the king’s - no, Jonathan’s - retreating back, then grabbed the paper.
His heart sank as he read the list.
Zahir had never heard of the titles, and three of them were underlined, two were starred, one had a question mark, another an exclamation point, and the last a sad face.
QC by: inthefire
Rating: G
Word Count: 497
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir finally gets confirmation that yes, he is the king’s squire. Not that it’s of much help. With apologies to Patrick Rothfuss and The Wise Man’s Fear, from which inspiration for the last few lines was lovingly swiped.
Previous Chapter - Chapter Seven
When Zahir realized that the king was not going to start his Voice training without being prompted, he decided to take the initiative and simply ask.
Surprisingly, his knight-master was not on the roof, which had been the first place Zahir checked. Nor was he on the curtain wall or in the throne room or the meeting rooms. Zahir finally broke down and asked the harried-looking Prime Minister, whose ill-fitting tunic looked hastily completed.
Zahir rolled his eyes when he set off for the king’s chambers - it just seemed too normal - but sure enough, when he knocked briskly, a few minutes later his new knight-master opened the door with bleary eyes.
“Yes, squire?” he grunted.
“Am I, your majesty?”
The king looked at him for a minute and sighed. “I can see this will take longer than I’d like, and you won’t be put off. Come in, if you must.”
Zahir followed, attempting not to lose his newfound pseudo-confidence, and sat in a chair by the fireplace - not lit, thankfully - after the king sat in the accompanying chair.
“You have something on your chest. Might as well speak and get it out.” The king nursed a hot cup of tea as he spoke.
“You say I’m your squire, but I haven’t done anything,” Zahir burst out. “You said I could train to be Voice, but so far all I’ve done is fall off the roof and help you burn the Prime Minister’s wardrobe.”
“That’s not entirely true. You didn’t fall, you stepped off the roof. Into thin air. What did you expect would happen?”
Zahir scowled. “I thought you wouldn’t let me do it. I thought you were testing me, my trust in you, my resolve, not trying to kill me.”
“Again with the dramatics.” He rolled his eyes, but set down his cup. “You want Voice training? Here.” The Voice grabbed a loose scrap of paper, a pen, and jotted down a list of titles. “Read one or all of these. I won’t test you on them, and I don’t expect you to find them all. Mithros,” he added, peering quizzically at the last title, “I’m not sure this one even exists. And that one is certainly not in Corus. Perhaps in the City of the Gods?”
Zahir looked doubtfully at the growing list. “Which is the most important?”
The king shrugged. “Why ask me? I haven’t read them.” With a last few jots, he yawned and stood up in with leisurely stretch. “I must go to fulfill my kingly duties. Since you are officially my squire, I suppose you may call me Jonathan. None of this ‘Voice’ or ‘majesty’ business. It gets quite old.”
Zahir watched the king’s - no, Jonathan’s - retreating back, then grabbed the paper.
His heart sank as he read the list.
Zahir had never heard of the titles, and three of them were underlined, two were starred, one had a question mark, another an exclamation point, and the last a sad face.
QC by: inthefire
