Post by infinite on Mar 19, 2011 22:32:45 GMT 10
Title: Resentment
Rating: G
Word Count: 294
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir is sick of being used.
The tent swayed in the breeze, the canvas flapping between its moorings. It comforted Zahir; he missed his home without solid walls. Here, when he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back there. He wasn’t, though. This tent was filled with the gaudy paraphernalia that followed a king around his realms. Outside were the equally useless hangers-on who accompanied this so-called “Grand Progress.” Back home his tent was bare, except for the beds and a few small comforts, but he preferred its clean hominess. He hadn’t been bothered by promiscuous or loud-mouthed courtiers who could be overheard for a mile and didn’t seem to realise it yet. It was true the Progress was “grand,” any idiot could see that, but at its core it was just a political show.
Jon strode in through the tent flaps, confident and in control, as he always appeared in public. Even when it was just the two of them, Jon considered it “public.” He surveyed the tent, beaming. “It’s so good to get out of the palace every once in a while. These tents really are more comfortable than one would have supposed.”
“Yes, sire,” said Zahir, unsmiling.
“Of course you knew that already, didn’t you, Zahir? How does it feel being back in a tent? I hope it won’t make you homesick!” Jon smiled.
“There’s more to the Bazhir than just tents,” Zahir snapped. Jon stared at him, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean…of course, I know that.”
“Excuse me,” Zahir stalked from the tent. He’d have to apologise later, he knew that. But for now he had to get out of here. He’d gallop through the countryside alone. Away from the Progress he hated because it, like he himself, was just the King's political show.
QC: by Cassandra
Rating: G
Word Count: 294
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Zahir is sick of being used.
The tent swayed in the breeze, the canvas flapping between its moorings. It comforted Zahir; he missed his home without solid walls. Here, when he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back there. He wasn’t, though. This tent was filled with the gaudy paraphernalia that followed a king around his realms. Outside were the equally useless hangers-on who accompanied this so-called “Grand Progress.” Back home his tent was bare, except for the beds and a few small comforts, but he preferred its clean hominess. He hadn’t been bothered by promiscuous or loud-mouthed courtiers who could be overheard for a mile and didn’t seem to realise it yet. It was true the Progress was “grand,” any idiot could see that, but at its core it was just a political show.
Jon strode in through the tent flaps, confident and in control, as he always appeared in public. Even when it was just the two of them, Jon considered it “public.” He surveyed the tent, beaming. “It’s so good to get out of the palace every once in a while. These tents really are more comfortable than one would have supposed.”
“Yes, sire,” said Zahir, unsmiling.
“Of course you knew that already, didn’t you, Zahir? How does it feel being back in a tent? I hope it won’t make you homesick!” Jon smiled.
“There’s more to the Bazhir than just tents,” Zahir snapped. Jon stared at him, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean…of course, I know that.”
“Excuse me,” Zahir stalked from the tent. He’d have to apologise later, he knew that. But for now he had to get out of here. He’d gallop through the countryside alone. Away from the Progress he hated because it, like he himself, was just the King's political show.
QC: by Cassandra