Post by Seek on Mar 9, 2011 19:40:01 GMT 10
Title: Ordeal II
Rating: PG
Word Count: 693 words
Pairing: Jon/Zahir - Team Bend-A-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Ordeal II: the Ordeal, from the squire’s perspective. Four possible roads at Zahir’s Ordeal, and perhaps all of them happen. Perhaps none of them do.
-
There is nothing in the desert. Zahir has lived most of his life in the desert, and he has ridden with the Voice when he journeys to the desert to speak with most of the tribes. He knows of the plants, the oases that can be found, and the markers that indicate how to survive. But there is nothing here, nothing in this desert.
His tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, caked in dust. It is well then, even though he might very well perish of thirst. Try as he might, he cannot call moisture to his mouth and then he cannot scream. He cannot cry out.
He must be silent in the Chamber of the Ordeal.
You will need all your courage to face what comes next, the Voice had whispered before he left Zahir to his vigil, pressing a hand to Zahir’s shoulder for a moment. Perhaps he had paused, taken by the temptation all knight-masters faced, to say something more, something that might help his squire against the horrors the squire would face in the infernal device.
In the end, he said nothing. He was not allowed to speak.
There is nothing in the desert. No shade, no water. Zahir does not know how long he has been trudging, how long he has walked. His steps leave no tracks behind. The wind and the sand obscure most of them, sliding to cover any traces he has left.
You are nothing, Zahir ibn Alhaz, the empty immensity whispers. You are nothing but a tiny speck of sand in a large desert.
I know that, Zahir thinks, irritably. And then he steps on something hard, with a sickening crunch, and he frowns. He glances down. A skeleton hand, half-crushed by his passage. He swallows, hard. He has seen men taken by the sand before, seen the remains carried out by search parties after the sandstorms have safely passed. It is not a pleasant sight.
Was this what happened?
He takes another step forward. There is nothing he can do now. And another. More crunches. His feet grind on bones. It isn’t a single man. It is a whole mountain of skeletons, empty skulls grinning mirthlessly, flesh stripped by the sands and perhaps the scavengers. He sees the faded white of a burnoose and his breath catches in his throat.
Not a mountain. A whole nation of skeletons. Bazhir skeletons.
A whole nation. All the tribes.
This is what you stand against, the wind whispers, stirring the sand. Your people are scattered, doomed to be ground into dust or men of the Northern King. Your ways are at an end.
Never, Zahir thought furiously. His dry tongue saved him now, he could not summon up the moisture to speak, and it was a force of will to think the words at this gods-cursed room. The Voice will never stand for it.
His foot comes to rest before another skeleton, a complete one. A signet ring gleams on its fingers.
Anger burns, a slow fierce heat at the back of his mind. Zahir throws whatever he has at the Chamber, Bazhir pride, his honour, fierce spirit, determination – all that and more. When he runs out of things, he starts throwing figures, and the knowledge of governance that his knight-master has been discussing with him. How the Bazhir will be brought safely into Tortall (but isn’t that another form of slavery, servant of the Northern King?), and finally, he throws the image of King Jonathan, blue eyes brilliant and compelling.
The Chamber grinds them all to dust, dismisses them with a dry whisper of everything dies, son of Barzun.
Everything dies then, even the faint hope in Zahir. He locks his knees so he doesn’t tremble, doesn’t fall forward before the skeleton of his knight-master, bleached white by the sand.
And then the Chamber door swings open, and light leaks into the room. There is no more desert, nothing, except a stone room with the same flagstones as the chapel. Zahir swallows, hard, and steels himself, and then walks out of the Chamber.
He does not know why, but somehow, he has passed.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG
Word Count: 693 words
Pairing: Jon/Zahir - Team Bend-A-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Ordeal II: the Ordeal, from the squire’s perspective. Four possible roads at Zahir’s Ordeal, and perhaps all of them happen. Perhaps none of them do.
-
There is nothing in the desert. Zahir has lived most of his life in the desert, and he has ridden with the Voice when he journeys to the desert to speak with most of the tribes. He knows of the plants, the oases that can be found, and the markers that indicate how to survive. But there is nothing here, nothing in this desert.
His tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, caked in dust. It is well then, even though he might very well perish of thirst. Try as he might, he cannot call moisture to his mouth and then he cannot scream. He cannot cry out.
He must be silent in the Chamber of the Ordeal.
You will need all your courage to face what comes next, the Voice had whispered before he left Zahir to his vigil, pressing a hand to Zahir’s shoulder for a moment. Perhaps he had paused, taken by the temptation all knight-masters faced, to say something more, something that might help his squire against the horrors the squire would face in the infernal device.
In the end, he said nothing. He was not allowed to speak.
There is nothing in the desert. No shade, no water. Zahir does not know how long he has been trudging, how long he has walked. His steps leave no tracks behind. The wind and the sand obscure most of them, sliding to cover any traces he has left.
You are nothing, Zahir ibn Alhaz, the empty immensity whispers. You are nothing but a tiny speck of sand in a large desert.
I know that, Zahir thinks, irritably. And then he steps on something hard, with a sickening crunch, and he frowns. He glances down. A skeleton hand, half-crushed by his passage. He swallows, hard. He has seen men taken by the sand before, seen the remains carried out by search parties after the sandstorms have safely passed. It is not a pleasant sight.
Was this what happened?
He takes another step forward. There is nothing he can do now. And another. More crunches. His feet grind on bones. It isn’t a single man. It is a whole mountain of skeletons, empty skulls grinning mirthlessly, flesh stripped by the sands and perhaps the scavengers. He sees the faded white of a burnoose and his breath catches in his throat.
Not a mountain. A whole nation of skeletons. Bazhir skeletons.
A whole nation. All the tribes.
This is what you stand against, the wind whispers, stirring the sand. Your people are scattered, doomed to be ground into dust or men of the Northern King. Your ways are at an end.
Never, Zahir thought furiously. His dry tongue saved him now, he could not summon up the moisture to speak, and it was a force of will to think the words at this gods-cursed room. The Voice will never stand for it.
His foot comes to rest before another skeleton, a complete one. A signet ring gleams on its fingers.
Anger burns, a slow fierce heat at the back of his mind. Zahir throws whatever he has at the Chamber, Bazhir pride, his honour, fierce spirit, determination – all that and more. When he runs out of things, he starts throwing figures, and the knowledge of governance that his knight-master has been discussing with him. How the Bazhir will be brought safely into Tortall (but isn’t that another form of slavery, servant of the Northern King?), and finally, he throws the image of King Jonathan, blue eyes brilliant and compelling.
The Chamber grinds them all to dust, dismisses them with a dry whisper of everything dies, son of Barzun.
Everything dies then, even the faint hope in Zahir. He locks his knees so he doesn’t tremble, doesn’t fall forward before the skeleton of his knight-master, bleached white by the sand.
And then the Chamber door swings open, and light leaks into the room. There is no more desert, nothing, except a stone room with the same flagstones as the chapel. Zahir swallows, hard, and steels himself, and then walks out of the Chamber.
He does not know why, but somehow, he has passed.
QC by: journeycat