Post by Shhasow on Mar 20, 2011 8:01:23 GMT 10
Title: Voice Lessons (15)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 782
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The shadows of the Voice - and Jon - are finally revealed. Rating for a bit of angst.
Chapter Fourteen
Zahir and Jon were at the palace in the rooms that had become a type of sanctuary, a shield from prodding questions and expressions of disbelief that a lowly squire could single-handedly save an entire Rider group.
Inside Jon’s chambers, all was quiet but for the soft clinks of tea cups against platters and the quiet sound of two men contemplating deep thoughts.
Finally, Zahir set aside his self-imposed silence, and the words tumbled forth as a dammed river overflowing.
“I felt it. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I felt a warning; I heard a soundless cry and I somehow knew they were there. Then, something else happened. My mind, it split, it cracked, something gave. I saw shadows of what would be, of what should be, but there was more, too.
“It was as If I could look at a man and know him. Not name, age, or anything foolish like that. I knew him, who he was, his aspirations, his lost dreams. His failures. His motivations. The first man I killed? All he wanted was to feed his little girl, barely six years old. He left her in a village with his parents and told her he was going to Corus to find work. He didn’t want her to know.
“Then the man who was about to kill Evin Larse? Larse’s blonde hair reminded him of a lover he had who had framed him for less money than I have in my purse.” He touched the nearly-empty coin-sack at his belt. “How can I be glad about killing them?”
Jon shook his head. “You can’t, Zahir. That is the secret burden the Voice must carry his entire life. Taking a life will never get easy.”
“No.” Zahir’s voice rang out like a deep bell. “There was one man there. He just liked blood. He liked to see it run in rivers down lifeless faces, into mouths, pooling on the skin. I’m glad I killed him.” Then he shrunk again. “And I feel terrible for not regretting that I stole his life.”
“Knowledge is a terrible sword, Zahir, for it cuts both ways.”
“Does this mean I will be the Voice?” Zahir sounded both hopeful and reluctant, filled with trepidation.
Jon was silent for a long minute, and when he spoke, he sounded haunted as if by ghosts. “You might escape it, even though you’ve awoken your sleeping mind. You could fill your days with endless toil and your nights with never-ending distractions. You could never let down your guard, never cease moving or thinking, and you might live again without ever feeling like this.”
Zahir shuddered. “This, every day?”
“It creeps at the corner of your mind. You can’t control it, but it flashes at the worst moments, when you’re looking at a friend and see him lie, when you think of your wife and suddenly realize that she no longer loves you.”
“If, if I become Voice, does it go away for you?”
“Oh Zahir, weren’t you listening?” Jon said sadly. “I said it never goes away. What you experienced is but a shadow of my every day, my every hour.”
“But, how do you live?” breathed Zahir. “I’m going mad over a few minutes of it, but you... I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want to pass it on to someone else? Why did you fight against training me?”
Jon bowed his head. “No one should have this power, and I wouldn’t damn a child with it, not even if he begged.”
Which I did.
The two men were silent, one lost in dreams of what was, the other in what could have been. Finally, Jon stood up and touched Zahir on the shoulder. “Whatever you decide,” he said quietly, “tell me in the morning. If you want to leave Tortall and ride until you don’t feel so numb, I will accept it.”
Zahir nodded and touched Jon’s hand in return. “Thank you.”
“One more thing, Zahir.” The squire looked up to the king as he stood before the door. “That first man you killed, do you remember in what village he used to live?”
“Yes,” said Zahir, slowly. “Why?”
Jon shrugged. “No reason, but I heard that Thayet’s seamstress is looking for an apprentice. A very young apprentice.” With that last remark, the king strolled away, thumb shoved through belt loops, a rising tune whistling from his lips.
When Zahir didn’t show up the next morning at his doors, Jon said nothing.
When Zahir appeared after a week’s absence, Jon said nothing, not even when Thayet informed him in passing that her seamstress had picked up a lovely little girl as a stray.
QC by: greenie
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 782
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The shadows of the Voice - and Jon - are finally revealed. Rating for a bit of angst.
Chapter Fourteen
Zahir and Jon were at the palace in the rooms that had become a type of sanctuary, a shield from prodding questions and expressions of disbelief that a lowly squire could single-handedly save an entire Rider group.
Inside Jon’s chambers, all was quiet but for the soft clinks of tea cups against platters and the quiet sound of two men contemplating deep thoughts.
Finally, Zahir set aside his self-imposed silence, and the words tumbled forth as a dammed river overflowing.
“I felt it. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I felt a warning; I heard a soundless cry and I somehow knew they were there. Then, something else happened. My mind, it split, it cracked, something gave. I saw shadows of what would be, of what should be, but there was more, too.
“It was as If I could look at a man and know him. Not name, age, or anything foolish like that. I knew him, who he was, his aspirations, his lost dreams. His failures. His motivations. The first man I killed? All he wanted was to feed his little girl, barely six years old. He left her in a village with his parents and told her he was going to Corus to find work. He didn’t want her to know.
“Then the man who was about to kill Evin Larse? Larse’s blonde hair reminded him of a lover he had who had framed him for less money than I have in my purse.” He touched the nearly-empty coin-sack at his belt. “How can I be glad about killing them?”
Jon shook his head. “You can’t, Zahir. That is the secret burden the Voice must carry his entire life. Taking a life will never get easy.”
“No.” Zahir’s voice rang out like a deep bell. “There was one man there. He just liked blood. He liked to see it run in rivers down lifeless faces, into mouths, pooling on the skin. I’m glad I killed him.” Then he shrunk again. “And I feel terrible for not regretting that I stole his life.”
“Knowledge is a terrible sword, Zahir, for it cuts both ways.”
“Does this mean I will be the Voice?” Zahir sounded both hopeful and reluctant, filled with trepidation.
Jon was silent for a long minute, and when he spoke, he sounded haunted as if by ghosts. “You might escape it, even though you’ve awoken your sleeping mind. You could fill your days with endless toil and your nights with never-ending distractions. You could never let down your guard, never cease moving or thinking, and you might live again without ever feeling like this.”
Zahir shuddered. “This, every day?”
“It creeps at the corner of your mind. You can’t control it, but it flashes at the worst moments, when you’re looking at a friend and see him lie, when you think of your wife and suddenly realize that she no longer loves you.”
“If, if I become Voice, does it go away for you?”
“Oh Zahir, weren’t you listening?” Jon said sadly. “I said it never goes away. What you experienced is but a shadow of my every day, my every hour.”
“But, how do you live?” breathed Zahir. “I’m going mad over a few minutes of it, but you... I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want to pass it on to someone else? Why did you fight against training me?”
Jon bowed his head. “No one should have this power, and I wouldn’t damn a child with it, not even if he begged.”
Which I did.
The two men were silent, one lost in dreams of what was, the other in what could have been. Finally, Jon stood up and touched Zahir on the shoulder. “Whatever you decide,” he said quietly, “tell me in the morning. If you want to leave Tortall and ride until you don’t feel so numb, I will accept it.”
Zahir nodded and touched Jon’s hand in return. “Thank you.”
“One more thing, Zahir.” The squire looked up to the king as he stood before the door. “That first man you killed, do you remember in what village he used to live?”
“Yes,” said Zahir, slowly. “Why?”
Jon shrugged. “No reason, but I heard that Thayet’s seamstress is looking for an apprentice. A very young apprentice.” With that last remark, the king strolled away, thumb shoved through belt loops, a rising tune whistling from his lips.
When Zahir didn’t show up the next morning at his doors, Jon said nothing.
When Zahir appeared after a week’s absence, Jon said nothing, not even when Thayet informed him in passing that her seamstress had picked up a lovely little girl as a stray.
QC by: greenie
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!