Post by Seek on Mar 9, 2011 19:10:44 GMT 10
Title: Offer
Rating: G
Word Count: 1153 words
Pairing: Jon/Zahir - Team Bend-A-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Offer: in which an offer is made, and Zahir considers his options.
-
“Do you have a moment?”
An order was an order, however the Voice sought to wrap it in a question, and Zahir nodded, moving to keep in step with the Voice, just slightly behind. “Yes, sir.”
“You are aware,” said the man with the brilliant blue eyes, not paying attention to where they strode and instead, glancing at Zahir, expression unreadable, “That I requested your father to send you to us for training.”
Duty, Zahir thought. An order was an order, but he said nothing of that. “Yes, sir.” Sire was a far harder word to voice. His tribe had never been kingsmen, had never held any sort of fealty to the Crown, until things had changed with the new Voice of the Tribes. Zahir only dimly remembered the Voice riding to their tribe, conversing for hours with his father in their tent, before he departed again. Once, when Zahir was little, he had called Zahir over and looked at him, said nothing, and gave Zahir his blessing before departing.
It was one of those discussions with the Voice that had his father sending Zahir to the palace, under the sponsorship of the Northern King. All of that ran through Zahir’s mind now, and then disappeared, as he tried to guess what the Voice could possibly want. “I have spoken to your training master,” The Voice continued unperturbed, although he must be aware of the confused direction of Zahir’s thoughts. “He has said that your skills are more than satisfactory.”
“Yes – thank you, sir,” Zahir corrected himself. The Voice snorted with silent laughter and stopped abruptly, hands resting on Zahir’s shoulders, holding him in place. Already, Zahir noticed, the Voice was perhaps just a head taller than him, and Zahir could hope to close the distance even more with the passage of the years to come.
“Look at me, squire Zahir,” the Voice instructed, and Zahir glanced up, meeting the unsettlingly bright blue eyes of the Voice. He bore up with a little impatience under the silent scrutiny, resisting the urge to shift his weight or to stare back at the Voice. “I want you to be my squire. Do you accept?”
“No – sir,” Zahir said, cursing himself for the way the words stumbled out of his mouth. “I mean, it is customary for the crown prince to serve the king as his squire, sir.”
“Roald is squire to Imrah of Legann,” The Voice said dryly, “Doubtless as you have already heard from your fellow squires.”
Zahir had, but he’d dismissed them as nothing but rumours. He’d never been particularly close to the silent, dark-haired page, though Roald had made it a point to eat with him during some meals. It was part of this whole idea of fairness or something that Roald had gotten into his head.
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose that is what you want?” The Voice demanded, a little irritably. “A proper knight, one who will take you into the desert to fight the hillmen with all the skills that Wyldon has been drumming into you for all these years? Or perhaps – a little patrol on the Scanran border?”
Zahir would have lied, if he could. There was the reply demanded by the peculiar Tortallan honour which never quite made sense: I fell down, made to the training master after a fight. It did not sit well with him. Always speak the truth, boy, Amir had commanded him. You are a Bazhir and the son of a headman, not one of the honourless hillmen.
“Yes, sir,” Zahir said. “I know you have sent for me, and I came to your palace to learn the ways of your warriors. I came to be a warrior, and I assumed I would serve in combat to use what your training masters have given me.”
It was suicidal, part of Zahir thought. But he did not flinch or cringe. Whatever came, he would take it as his due.
The Voice snorted. “Well,” he said, eyes bright with amusement, “You do speak your mind. Understand this then, Zahir ibn Alhaz. There are more forces at work here than you can come to think of. I do not speak of a warrior’s truth. I speak of a king’s truth. And a kingdom.”
“Sir?”
“Your people,” The Voice said, “Are scattered. It is time that Ali Mukhtab has bought us, and nothing more. He saw the future, a little of the future, and what must be done. He saw that the Bazhir, one way or another, are doomed.”
“Not as long as I live,” Zahir threw back at him, irritated.
A smile worked the edges of the Voice’s lips. “Ah. Then you see, you do indeed have what I need.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Time,” The Voice said simply. “Time to bind the Bazhir more tightly to the kingdom.”
“Kingsmen,” Zahir said, voicing the hated word aloud. The last remnants of defeated Barzun had never sworn to the Northern King, never until the Voice had become the Northern King.
“I would have your people survive,” The Voice hissed, “And you must know that my son will not be the Voice.”
Zahir narrowed his eyes. He already saw what that would mean. “Politics, then,” he said, with a contemptous twist of his lip.
“Your training master attests to your combat skills,” The Voice said. “But you know nothing of politics and governance. You know nothing about how to deal with the northerners in their cities and nothing about how a king must act.”
“But I am not a king,” Zahir said, “And I will not be headsman.”
“Then after my passing,” The Voice said, quietly, “There will be none who can unite the Bazhir and Tortall, who can weave them into the kingdom, and yet allow them to practice their ways. I do not seek to enslave the Bazhir, squire. You know that. But change will come upon us, heedless of what we want, and I can only do what I must. This is a king’s truth. I can tell you this: it is absolutely necessary that you learn governance, politics, that you see Tortall, for the next four years, from the eyes of her king, her ministers, and her generals. It will not be an easy task, and I will require every bit of the dedication, intelligence, and spirit that you have shown in your training.”
Zahir bit back on the question, why. It led him to places he did not quite feel comfortable contemplating. But the urgency in the king’s voice was no lie.
The Voice cleared his throat impatiently. “Well? Will you take my hand? What is it to be, Zahir ibn Alhaz? What will you make of yourself?”
Will you be my squire?
Zahir thought about it, and reached out, and kissed the king’s outstretched hand. Duty demanded as much, and duty was far more powerful than any order.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word Count: 1153 words
Pairing: Jon/Zahir - Team Bend-A-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Offer: in which an offer is made, and Zahir considers his options.
-
“Do you have a moment?”
An order was an order, however the Voice sought to wrap it in a question, and Zahir nodded, moving to keep in step with the Voice, just slightly behind. “Yes, sir.”
“You are aware,” said the man with the brilliant blue eyes, not paying attention to where they strode and instead, glancing at Zahir, expression unreadable, “That I requested your father to send you to us for training.”
Duty, Zahir thought. An order was an order, but he said nothing of that. “Yes, sir.” Sire was a far harder word to voice. His tribe had never been kingsmen, had never held any sort of fealty to the Crown, until things had changed with the new Voice of the Tribes. Zahir only dimly remembered the Voice riding to their tribe, conversing for hours with his father in their tent, before he departed again. Once, when Zahir was little, he had called Zahir over and looked at him, said nothing, and gave Zahir his blessing before departing.
It was one of those discussions with the Voice that had his father sending Zahir to the palace, under the sponsorship of the Northern King. All of that ran through Zahir’s mind now, and then disappeared, as he tried to guess what the Voice could possibly want. “I have spoken to your training master,” The Voice continued unperturbed, although he must be aware of the confused direction of Zahir’s thoughts. “He has said that your skills are more than satisfactory.”
“Yes – thank you, sir,” Zahir corrected himself. The Voice snorted with silent laughter and stopped abruptly, hands resting on Zahir’s shoulders, holding him in place. Already, Zahir noticed, the Voice was perhaps just a head taller than him, and Zahir could hope to close the distance even more with the passage of the years to come.
“Look at me, squire Zahir,” the Voice instructed, and Zahir glanced up, meeting the unsettlingly bright blue eyes of the Voice. He bore up with a little impatience under the silent scrutiny, resisting the urge to shift his weight or to stare back at the Voice. “I want you to be my squire. Do you accept?”
“No – sir,” Zahir said, cursing himself for the way the words stumbled out of his mouth. “I mean, it is customary for the crown prince to serve the king as his squire, sir.”
“Roald is squire to Imrah of Legann,” The Voice said dryly, “Doubtless as you have already heard from your fellow squires.”
Zahir had, but he’d dismissed them as nothing but rumours. He’d never been particularly close to the silent, dark-haired page, though Roald had made it a point to eat with him during some meals. It was part of this whole idea of fairness or something that Roald had gotten into his head.
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose that is what you want?” The Voice demanded, a little irritably. “A proper knight, one who will take you into the desert to fight the hillmen with all the skills that Wyldon has been drumming into you for all these years? Or perhaps – a little patrol on the Scanran border?”
Zahir would have lied, if he could. There was the reply demanded by the peculiar Tortallan honour which never quite made sense: I fell down, made to the training master after a fight. It did not sit well with him. Always speak the truth, boy, Amir had commanded him. You are a Bazhir and the son of a headman, not one of the honourless hillmen.
“Yes, sir,” Zahir said. “I know you have sent for me, and I came to your palace to learn the ways of your warriors. I came to be a warrior, and I assumed I would serve in combat to use what your training masters have given me.”
It was suicidal, part of Zahir thought. But he did not flinch or cringe. Whatever came, he would take it as his due.
The Voice snorted. “Well,” he said, eyes bright with amusement, “You do speak your mind. Understand this then, Zahir ibn Alhaz. There are more forces at work here than you can come to think of. I do not speak of a warrior’s truth. I speak of a king’s truth. And a kingdom.”
“Sir?”
“Your people,” The Voice said, “Are scattered. It is time that Ali Mukhtab has bought us, and nothing more. He saw the future, a little of the future, and what must be done. He saw that the Bazhir, one way or another, are doomed.”
“Not as long as I live,” Zahir threw back at him, irritated.
A smile worked the edges of the Voice’s lips. “Ah. Then you see, you do indeed have what I need.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Time,” The Voice said simply. “Time to bind the Bazhir more tightly to the kingdom.”
“Kingsmen,” Zahir said, voicing the hated word aloud. The last remnants of defeated Barzun had never sworn to the Northern King, never until the Voice had become the Northern King.
“I would have your people survive,” The Voice hissed, “And you must know that my son will not be the Voice.”
Zahir narrowed his eyes. He already saw what that would mean. “Politics, then,” he said, with a contemptous twist of his lip.
“Your training master attests to your combat skills,” The Voice said. “But you know nothing of politics and governance. You know nothing about how to deal with the northerners in their cities and nothing about how a king must act.”
“But I am not a king,” Zahir said, “And I will not be headsman.”
“Then after my passing,” The Voice said, quietly, “There will be none who can unite the Bazhir and Tortall, who can weave them into the kingdom, and yet allow them to practice their ways. I do not seek to enslave the Bazhir, squire. You know that. But change will come upon us, heedless of what we want, and I can only do what I must. This is a king’s truth. I can tell you this: it is absolutely necessary that you learn governance, politics, that you see Tortall, for the next four years, from the eyes of her king, her ministers, and her generals. It will not be an easy task, and I will require every bit of the dedication, intelligence, and spirit that you have shown in your training.”
Zahir bit back on the question, why. It led him to places he did not quite feel comfortable contemplating. But the urgency in the king’s voice was no lie.
The Voice cleared his throat impatiently. “Well? Will you take my hand? What is it to be, Zahir ibn Alhaz? What will you make of yourself?”
Will you be my squire?
Zahir thought about it, and reached out, and kissed the king’s outstretched hand. Duty demanded as much, and duty was far more powerful than any order.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
QC by: journeycat