Post by Shhasow on Mar 20, 2011 8:10:25 GMT 10
JZ R1: Voice Lessons, PG, (20)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 957
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Life continues for Zahir and Jon.
Chapter Nineteen
After the Voice ceremony, Zahir found that he could not easily control his increased powers. They seemed oily, viscous, unnatural, and he felt uneasy carrying a divine power that set him above and apart from the other mortals. For years, he struggled to live a normal life, but he could not absorb himself in banalities as Jon had; he was too serious, yet if he had been stronger, he could have borne up against the struggle, could have forced himself to live.
Many times, Zahir wished he had never approached Jon, never begged or strove for what he could not understand until it was too late to turn away. If not for the fact that the Voice was an integral part of Bazhir culture, Zahir would have been very willing to let the unnatural powers die with him, to never burden another with the terrible price of knowledge.
As it was, though Zahir was the best choice for Voice, one that struck a solid compromise between the Northern Country and the Bazhir, becoming Voice was wrong for him.
Becoming Voice had changed him. Zahir knew this and accepted it, as there was no other alternative. However, he coped with the burden in ways different than Jon could.
Zahir had never been as gregarious as Jon. More prone to contemplation, he lived away from people. Though his rooms were at the palace, he mostly only slept in them, and only when the weather was disagreable. Most of the time, Zahir spent on the palace roof. He thought of Jon often, for he had plenty of time to do so.
He watched the sun and the moon, the stars in the sky, the minature people many feet below. Zahir cared not for his growing eccentric reputation. He communed with the Bazhir, became their spiritual leader and authority, and the rest of his time was spent as he wished. Jon understood, even though he was sad that Zahir distanced himself from humanity.
Zahir did not lack for company. Often, Jon joined him. The king was much calmer now that the majority of the power had passed on to Zahir, but the remnants still drove him to eccentricities that baffled and amused his friends.
But most of all, it was the soft breath of the wind on his face that was his companion, or the warmth emanating from the clay tiles, or the gentle touch of rain as the clouds emptied their tears on him.
Then, many years later, Zahir felt a different presence on the roof. At first he dismissed it for a page, as occasionally the noble boys might gather the courage to approach the ‘crazy Bazhir.’ Then the person came closer, slowly, tentatively, much as he had done twenty years prior on his first escapade on the rooftops when he sought out Jon.
Zahir closed his eyes, savoring the warm pressure of sunlight, filling his mind with it rather than the still figure beside him.
“Voice?”
It was only then that Zahir actually looked at the person. To his pleasant surprise - pleasant because he had few surprises these days, making the emotion rather novel - it was a tiny girl, her dark brown eyes intense and anxious. Zahir turned away before he knew too much, but the glance was enough to tell him that she was an adolescent, a byblow of a Bazhir and a careless laundry woman, and that she lived in the royal palace with her Tortallan mother and the man of the week.
“Don’t fall, Basilah,” he said softly. He smiled when she stiffened slightly, then relaxed.
“Yes, Voice.”
Basilah sat next to Zahir that day. When she returned the next day, he said nothing.
On the third day, she spoke again. “Voice?”
“Basilah.”
“Will you teach me?”
Zahir never moved a muscle. “No.”
The child said no more that day, or the next.
On the fifth day, she asked again. “Voice?”
“Basilah.”
“Will you teach me?’
Again, Zahir never moved, though his answer was different. “Why?”
The girl gave an eloquent answer, ranging from politics to practicality, one that could have come from the mouth of any Master at the Royal University. Zahir opened his mind a crack, and his suspicion proved correct. Basilah spied on the Masters as they taught, soaking up knowledge eagerly and greedily, despite the scorn of her mother.
Because he needed to stop the girl, he asked, “Does your mother know how you spend your days?”
Basilah closed her mouth with a snap. She muttered a soft, broken, “No,” and fled the roof.
She didn’t come back for the next two days, but on the third, the seventh since her initial appearance, the little Bazhir girl returned.
She asked her question, and Zahir asked his. “Why?”
This time, she did not recite a carefully rehearsed answer, one not her own for all that the words belonged to her. This time, she simply said, “Because I must learn.”
Zahir looked then at the grave little girl who fit her name. He opened his mind fully, and felt the truth. She was the next Voice, and her sharp little mind and calm acceptance would awaken her sleeping mind - that rare quality necessary to be Voice - if he did not.
She would be stronger than he, better than he, as Zahir had been a better Voice than Jon.
When Jon next visited Zahir on the rooftops, the silent figure of a small grave girl sat close, almost touching. He joined them, marveled at the brave child who did not fear the King, and was glad for his friend, who finally could pass on the burden. Not now, not for many years, but eventually, Zahir would be free.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG
Word Count: 957
Pairing: Jon/Zahir
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Life continues for Zahir and Jon.
Chapter Nineteen
After the Voice ceremony, Zahir found that he could not easily control his increased powers. They seemed oily, viscous, unnatural, and he felt uneasy carrying a divine power that set him above and apart from the other mortals. For years, he struggled to live a normal life, but he could not absorb himself in banalities as Jon had; he was too serious, yet if he had been stronger, he could have borne up against the struggle, could have forced himself to live.
Many times, Zahir wished he had never approached Jon, never begged or strove for what he could not understand until it was too late to turn away. If not for the fact that the Voice was an integral part of Bazhir culture, Zahir would have been very willing to let the unnatural powers die with him, to never burden another with the terrible price of knowledge.
As it was, though Zahir was the best choice for Voice, one that struck a solid compromise between the Northern Country and the Bazhir, becoming Voice was wrong for him.
Becoming Voice had changed him. Zahir knew this and accepted it, as there was no other alternative. However, he coped with the burden in ways different than Jon could.
Zahir had never been as gregarious as Jon. More prone to contemplation, he lived away from people. Though his rooms were at the palace, he mostly only slept in them, and only when the weather was disagreable. Most of the time, Zahir spent on the palace roof. He thought of Jon often, for he had plenty of time to do so.
He watched the sun and the moon, the stars in the sky, the minature people many feet below. Zahir cared not for his growing eccentric reputation. He communed with the Bazhir, became their spiritual leader and authority, and the rest of his time was spent as he wished. Jon understood, even though he was sad that Zahir distanced himself from humanity.
Zahir did not lack for company. Often, Jon joined him. The king was much calmer now that the majority of the power had passed on to Zahir, but the remnants still drove him to eccentricities that baffled and amused his friends.
But most of all, it was the soft breath of the wind on his face that was his companion, or the warmth emanating from the clay tiles, or the gentle touch of rain as the clouds emptied their tears on him.
Then, many years later, Zahir felt a different presence on the roof. At first he dismissed it for a page, as occasionally the noble boys might gather the courage to approach the ‘crazy Bazhir.’ Then the person came closer, slowly, tentatively, much as he had done twenty years prior on his first escapade on the rooftops when he sought out Jon.
Zahir closed his eyes, savoring the warm pressure of sunlight, filling his mind with it rather than the still figure beside him.
“Voice?”
It was only then that Zahir actually looked at the person. To his pleasant surprise - pleasant because he had few surprises these days, making the emotion rather novel - it was a tiny girl, her dark brown eyes intense and anxious. Zahir turned away before he knew too much, but the glance was enough to tell him that she was an adolescent, a byblow of a Bazhir and a careless laundry woman, and that she lived in the royal palace with her Tortallan mother and the man of the week.
“Don’t fall, Basilah,” he said softly. He smiled when she stiffened slightly, then relaxed.
“Yes, Voice.”
Basilah sat next to Zahir that day. When she returned the next day, he said nothing.
On the third day, she spoke again. “Voice?”
“Basilah.”
“Will you teach me?”
Zahir never moved a muscle. “No.”
The child said no more that day, or the next.
On the fifth day, she asked again. “Voice?”
“Basilah.”
“Will you teach me?’
Again, Zahir never moved, though his answer was different. “Why?”
The girl gave an eloquent answer, ranging from politics to practicality, one that could have come from the mouth of any Master at the Royal University. Zahir opened his mind a crack, and his suspicion proved correct. Basilah spied on the Masters as they taught, soaking up knowledge eagerly and greedily, despite the scorn of her mother.
Because he needed to stop the girl, he asked, “Does your mother know how you spend your days?”
Basilah closed her mouth with a snap. She muttered a soft, broken, “No,” and fled the roof.
She didn’t come back for the next two days, but on the third, the seventh since her initial appearance, the little Bazhir girl returned.
She asked her question, and Zahir asked his. “Why?”
This time, she did not recite a carefully rehearsed answer, one not her own for all that the words belonged to her. This time, she simply said, “Because I must learn.”
Zahir looked then at the grave little girl who fit her name. He opened his mind fully, and felt the truth. She was the next Voice, and her sharp little mind and calm acceptance would awaken her sleeping mind - that rare quality necessary to be Voice - if he did not.
She would be stronger than he, better than he, as Zahir had been a better Voice than Jon.
When Jon next visited Zahir on the rooftops, the silent figure of a small grave girl sat close, almost touching. He joined them, marveled at the brave child who did not fear the King, and was glad for his friend, who finally could pass on the burden. Not now, not for many years, but eventually, Zahir would be free.
QC by: journeycat
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!