Post by Shhasow on Mar 20, 2011 8:08:58 GMT 10
JZ R1: Voice Lessons, PG, (19)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 664
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The Voice ceremony.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time Zahir was ready to become the Voice, Jon was ready to give it up. He’d carried the double burden of kingship and Voice for other three decades, and though they helped each other, the stress of them both pulled at Jon, causing him to resort to more eccentric and bizarre measures to keep control.
Jon kept his sanity and held back the power that always sought to escape by distracting himself, so Zahir humored the man as he came up withe new schemes and ideas.
Once Jon ordered Zahir to drink a pint of brandy, run the curtain wall and back, and then read from the Book of Gold. This happened after they received the first report about the terrible killing machines in Scanra. For a brief hour, Jon did not look so pale and drawn when he guffawed and chortled as Zahir fumbled his way through the names.
Another time, after word came about the massacre of Commander Glaisdan and others of the First Company, Jon had Zahir see how long he could remain awake. For those five days, Zahir made sure to be nearby so that when the king needed a distraction by his sleep-deprived friend, he was easily found.
So when the two men faced each other over the smoldering coals of a ritualistic fire, Jon was eager to hand over his burden, and Zahir was willing to take it, if only to ease Jon’s pain.
It was without ceremony that each slashed a long cut down the length of their forearms. Unlike at Jon’s investiture, there were no watching tribesmen or anxious lovers. It was only a Bazhir and a King, two knights, two friends, two Voices.
“Two as One,” intoned Jon. The fire spurted, just once.
“Two as One,” Zahir repeated. The sky above gave a single ominous rumble.
“Two as One, and Many.” There was a hint of power in the air that rose steadily, almost audible, like a high-pitched whistle.
“Two as One, and Many.” The words felt heavy. They weighed down his tongue and made it reluctant to move.
Jon began to sweat, the power rising, becoming tangible in the air. “One as Many.” Clouds rolled in, as if summoned.
“One as Many,” Zahir breathed, feeling a great pressure on his mind that grew and grew until something shifted.
The crack of a lightning bolt filled the clearing, and two figures staggered away from each other.
One fell to the ground in the shock of something gained.
The other looked into the obscured sun as if seeing it for the first time. The sky wept, and Jon with it, tears of a relieved burden long carried, and tears of loss of something intimately lost.
“Jon, it hurts,” moaned Zahir as he curled up on the ground, clutching his head as it throbbed from the mental anguish of suddenly hearing a thousand thousand voices crying out in joy.
Jon shoved away his own bewildering emotions and fell to his friend’s side. “You’re alright, Zahir,” he said soothingly. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Remember our first thunderstorm years ago? This is just like that. Accept them, accept their intrusion into your mind, feel their elation as you feel the raindrops on your skin.”
The rain began falling more heavily, plastering hair to their heads. Zahir barely felt it. Jon ignored the cold that began to seep into his bones. “Absorb them, feel them, but let them roll off you, Zahir. Like raindrops. You recognize them, welcome them, but you are unaffected. Don’t fight them, Zahir. Relax.”
Slowly slowly, Zahir heard Jon’s stream of words. He felt the steady hand that grounded him, reminded him of who he was, brought him safely from the chaos of a cacophony of jubilance. The pain began to die away, and Zahir remembered who he was.
“They, they are happy,” he said with wonder, finally meeting Jon’s eyes. “The Bazhir.”
“So am I,” Jon choked out.
“Thank you, Zahir, for releasing me.”
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG
Word Count: 664
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The Voice ceremony.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time Zahir was ready to become the Voice, Jon was ready to give it up. He’d carried the double burden of kingship and Voice for other three decades, and though they helped each other, the stress of them both pulled at Jon, causing him to resort to more eccentric and bizarre measures to keep control.
Jon kept his sanity and held back the power that always sought to escape by distracting himself, so Zahir humored the man as he came up withe new schemes and ideas.
Once Jon ordered Zahir to drink a pint of brandy, run the curtain wall and back, and then read from the Book of Gold. This happened after they received the first report about the terrible killing machines in Scanra. For a brief hour, Jon did not look so pale and drawn when he guffawed and chortled as Zahir fumbled his way through the names.
Another time, after word came about the massacre of Commander Glaisdan and others of the First Company, Jon had Zahir see how long he could remain awake. For those five days, Zahir made sure to be nearby so that when the king needed a distraction by his sleep-deprived friend, he was easily found.
So when the two men faced each other over the smoldering coals of a ritualistic fire, Jon was eager to hand over his burden, and Zahir was willing to take it, if only to ease Jon’s pain.
It was without ceremony that each slashed a long cut down the length of their forearms. Unlike at Jon’s investiture, there were no watching tribesmen or anxious lovers. It was only a Bazhir and a King, two knights, two friends, two Voices.
“Two as One,” intoned Jon. The fire spurted, just once.
“Two as One,” Zahir repeated. The sky above gave a single ominous rumble.
“Two as One, and Many.” There was a hint of power in the air that rose steadily, almost audible, like a high-pitched whistle.
“Two as One, and Many.” The words felt heavy. They weighed down his tongue and made it reluctant to move.
Jon began to sweat, the power rising, becoming tangible in the air. “One as Many.” Clouds rolled in, as if summoned.
“One as Many,” Zahir breathed, feeling a great pressure on his mind that grew and grew until something shifted.
The crack of a lightning bolt filled the clearing, and two figures staggered away from each other.
One fell to the ground in the shock of something gained.
The other looked into the obscured sun as if seeing it for the first time. The sky wept, and Jon with it, tears of a relieved burden long carried, and tears of loss of something intimately lost.
“Jon, it hurts,” moaned Zahir as he curled up on the ground, clutching his head as it throbbed from the mental anguish of suddenly hearing a thousand thousand voices crying out in joy.
Jon shoved away his own bewildering emotions and fell to his friend’s side. “You’re alright, Zahir,” he said soothingly. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Remember our first thunderstorm years ago? This is just like that. Accept them, accept their intrusion into your mind, feel their elation as you feel the raindrops on your skin.”
The rain began falling more heavily, plastering hair to their heads. Zahir barely felt it. Jon ignored the cold that began to seep into his bones. “Absorb them, feel them, but let them roll off you, Zahir. Like raindrops. You recognize them, welcome them, but you are unaffected. Don’t fight them, Zahir. Relax.”
Slowly slowly, Zahir heard Jon’s stream of words. He felt the steady hand that grounded him, reminded him of who he was, brought him safely from the chaos of a cacophony of jubilance. The pain began to die away, and Zahir remembered who he was.
“They, they are happy,” he said with wonder, finally meeting Jon’s eyes. “The Bazhir.”
“So am I,” Jon choked out.
“Thank you, Zahir, for releasing me.”
QC by: journeycat
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!