Post by Fenella on Mar 8, 2011 8:46:52 GMT 10
Title: Best Knight
Rating: G
Word Count: 498
Pairing: Team Bend-a-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The space between two people defines their relationship.
It starts when Jonathan finds his squire leaning over the boards of the practice arena, posture unassuming, strangely oblivious. The younger man’s forearms rest on the rough, uneven wood and he’s leaning forward, attention ensnared by events to which he is an unknown third party. Jonathan stops a few feet back and to the side, follows Zahir’s gaze; across six lanes, over knights and squires, horseflesh and stable hands kicking up dust in a frenzy of activity.
On the far side of the arena, Raoul - graceful despite his size - dismounts and sheepishly proffers a hand to his squire. Jonathan’s mind fills in the sound of the small moan that he can’t hear through the din of shouts and pounding hooves, as Keladry of Mindelan heaves herself off the arena floor. That vague and visceral memory, of having the wind knocked from his body, tenses Jon’s muscles for a brief moment.
Raoul hugs his squire quickly, one arm around her shoulders, and gives her a boost back into the saddle of her testily shifting mount. As Raoul stands, staring up at Keladry, he makes elaborate gestures, indicating the speed of her jousting pass, and the placement of her grip on the lance. Jonathan closes the distance with his own squire, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of Zahir’s back.
Zahir startles, his posture stiffening. With a barely perceptible glance from under his long, dark lashes, he notes the presence of his Knightmaster. Zahir’s stance shifts into a compromise. Attentive, a comfortable formality.
“You competed well, this morning,” says Jonathan. “I’m proud to have you as my Squire.”
Zahir smiles, pleasure curling his mouth. “Thank you, Sire.”
Neither of them mention the words third place.
Jonathan nods towards towards Raoul and Keladry. His next question startles Zahir, who has long since come to expect his Knightmaster’s unsettling, scatter-graph way of thinking, of keeping his company just to the left of easy.
“Do you regret not having that?”
Zahir knows the King well enough to fill the gaps. That, the traditional squire years. A knight who has the time - and capability - to hone his squire’s physical skills. A warrior who can beat him in the field, instead of passing his strength training to a chain of visiting knights errant, and arms masters of the Royal household.
Zahir licks his lips before responding, thinks of the hours of policy meetings. There’s a brief, wistful moment spared for the thought of the King joining him in the courtyard, for early morning sparring.
“No Sire,” he says, turning his head to meet Jonathan’s gaze. “In the next years to come, the success of a kingdom does not rest solely on the shoulders of the best knights. You’ve taught me that.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of the aging King’s mouth. “Perhaps,” he says, one hand proudly sitting on Zahir’s shoulder. “Or it could be that these words of yours, best knight, are coming to mean something else entirely.”
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word Count: 498
Pairing: Team Bend-a-Lot
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: The space between two people defines their relationship.
It starts when Jonathan finds his squire leaning over the boards of the practice arena, posture unassuming, strangely oblivious. The younger man’s forearms rest on the rough, uneven wood and he’s leaning forward, attention ensnared by events to which he is an unknown third party. Jonathan stops a few feet back and to the side, follows Zahir’s gaze; across six lanes, over knights and squires, horseflesh and stable hands kicking up dust in a frenzy of activity.
On the far side of the arena, Raoul - graceful despite his size - dismounts and sheepishly proffers a hand to his squire. Jonathan’s mind fills in the sound of the small moan that he can’t hear through the din of shouts and pounding hooves, as Keladry of Mindelan heaves herself off the arena floor. That vague and visceral memory, of having the wind knocked from his body, tenses Jon’s muscles for a brief moment.
Raoul hugs his squire quickly, one arm around her shoulders, and gives her a boost back into the saddle of her testily shifting mount. As Raoul stands, staring up at Keladry, he makes elaborate gestures, indicating the speed of her jousting pass, and the placement of her grip on the lance. Jonathan closes the distance with his own squire, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of Zahir’s back.
Zahir startles, his posture stiffening. With a barely perceptible glance from under his long, dark lashes, he notes the presence of his Knightmaster. Zahir’s stance shifts into a compromise. Attentive, a comfortable formality.
“You competed well, this morning,” says Jonathan. “I’m proud to have you as my Squire.”
Zahir smiles, pleasure curling his mouth. “Thank you, Sire.”
Neither of them mention the words third place.
Jonathan nods towards towards Raoul and Keladry. His next question startles Zahir, who has long since come to expect his Knightmaster’s unsettling, scatter-graph way of thinking, of keeping his company just to the left of easy.
“Do you regret not having that?”
Zahir knows the King well enough to fill the gaps. That, the traditional squire years. A knight who has the time - and capability - to hone his squire’s physical skills. A warrior who can beat him in the field, instead of passing his strength training to a chain of visiting knights errant, and arms masters of the Royal household.
Zahir licks his lips before responding, thinks of the hours of policy meetings. There’s a brief, wistful moment spared for the thought of the King joining him in the courtyard, for early morning sparring.
“No Sire,” he says, turning his head to meet Jonathan’s gaze. “In the next years to come, the success of a kingdom does not rest solely on the shoulders of the best knights. You’ve taught me that.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of the aging King’s mouth. “Perhaps,” he says, one hand proudly sitting on Zahir’s shoulder. “Or it could be that these words of yours, best knight, are coming to mean something else entirely.”
QC by: journeycat