Post by Shhasow on Mar 20, 2011 4:34:20 GMT 10
Title: Pyruvate
Rating: PG
Word Count: 209
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Pyruvate is the three-carbon molecule at the end of glycolysis. It is a crossroads of sort, as it can go on to make lactic acid, can go into the Kreb’s Cycle, or can be converted back to glucose through a series of steps in the process called gluconeogenesis.
Zahir’s dark eyes watch the tall northern man as he greets members of the Bloody Hawk tribe. The broad-shouldered man wears a starch white burnoose, tied so expertly that the boy scornfully wonders if he’d requested help from a woman of the tribe.
This man who possesses pale skin that is sure to turn red and burn under the harsh desert sun, this man is the Voice of the Tribes. Zahir can’t imagine how a northern noble, especially a king, can know their people well enough to commune with them.
This whole business seems like a manipulation to ensure that the Bazhir stay where they are, underfoot, downtrodden, for no Bazhir may make war against the Voice.
But this king can’t be the Voice forever. Sooner or later, the mantle must fall to someone else, someone close to the Crown, someone trusted.
Zahir knows this. He knows that it would be satisfying to throw a stone at the man, to curse him, jeer at him, to disregard the disapproval of the tribe elders. But it might be ultimately more useful to stay at his side, to become indispensable, ‘loyal.’
Zahir ponders the rock clutched between rough fingers. Then they loosen, and the jagged stone falls to the ground.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: PG
Word Count: 209
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Pyruvate is the three-carbon molecule at the end of glycolysis. It is a crossroads of sort, as it can go on to make lactic acid, can go into the Kreb’s Cycle, or can be converted back to glucose through a series of steps in the process called gluconeogenesis.
Zahir’s dark eyes watch the tall northern man as he greets members of the Bloody Hawk tribe. The broad-shouldered man wears a starch white burnoose, tied so expertly that the boy scornfully wonders if he’d requested help from a woman of the tribe.
This man who possesses pale skin that is sure to turn red and burn under the harsh desert sun, this man is the Voice of the Tribes. Zahir can’t imagine how a northern noble, especially a king, can know their people well enough to commune with them.
This whole business seems like a manipulation to ensure that the Bazhir stay where they are, underfoot, downtrodden, for no Bazhir may make war against the Voice.
But this king can’t be the Voice forever. Sooner or later, the mantle must fall to someone else, someone close to the Crown, someone trusted.
Zahir knows this. He knows that it would be satisfying to throw a stone at the man, to curse him, jeer at him, to disregard the disapproval of the tribe elders. But it might be ultimately more useful to stay at his side, to become indispensable, ‘loyal.’
Zahir ponders the rock clutched between rough fingers. Then they loosen, and the jagged stone falls to the ground.
QC: by Cassandra