Post by Ankhiale on Dec 10, 2013 19:30:01 GMT 10
Title: At the Edge of the Desert, At Night
Rating: G
For: Seek
Prompt: #4 - Zahir-centric fic.
Summary: Zahir heads home with a guest in tow. Along the way, they have a conversation.
Notes and Warnings: Kind of a moody, oblique piece, I guess. Not much background on the Bazhir, except by implication. I hope you like it, Seek.
*******
Zahir ibn Alhaz stood at the exact spot where sand finally overwhelmed grass and looked out at the desert. A few silver stars sparkled across the indigo sky. Twisting shadows played along every dip and ripple in the sand. A night breeze sprang up, turning the cooling air chill.
Zahir tugged his northern cloak around him, just a bit.
Footsteps behind him made him turn. "It is beautiful at night," Prince Roald murmured.
This was the exact kind of oblique conversational gambit that drove Zahir up the wall. Unfortunately, it was also the exact kind of oblique gambit that the prince was fond of.
Zahir shifted, knowing the prince would notice and wishing he wouldn't, and unable to stop himself. "I have missed it," he admitted finally, still looking out over the sand.
"This is the northern edge of your tribe's land."
It was a question, but not the obvious one. "Yes," Zahir said.
The shadows lengthened into full night. More stars winked into existence as the last color leeched from the sky.
Zahir couldn't stand it anymore. He turned sharply on his heel to face the prince, who was standing at ease, staring calmly out at the empty desert. Zahir opened his mouth, about to be too direct, more direct than any good Bazhir should be to a northerner, when Roald spoke.
"He makes a great deal out of the fact that he was adopted into the Bloody Hawk," the prince said. There was only one "he". Roald never used names or titles when criticizing his father.
"Blood doesn't make a Bazhir," Zahir snapped, unable to bite his tongue in time.
Blue eyes turned fathomless by nighttime slid his way, then away again. "Of course," Roald murmured, and damn the man, he sounded ever-so-faintly amused. "Which is why I am grateful you have permitted me to accompany you."
As if Zahir had had a choice. Even if he weren't a knight of Tortall now and sworn to the northern king and his royal family, the man standing next to him was the son of the Voice.
"Her Highness doesn't mind you being gone so long?" Zahir inquired. This was also impolitic, but that strange sort of impolitic that is acceptable to say.
Roald smiled, a quick glint of teeth in the darkness, and said nothing. He didn't need to; Zahir had seen enough of the princess to know she understood duty, and understood what it took to try and belong to a new people.
Zahir knew what it took, too. He also knew that there was no such thing as belonging.
"Sometimes trying matters," Roald murmured to the night air. A beat, then Roald turned and walked back towards their camp.
Sometimes trying mattered. Zahir fingered the badge embroidered onto the front of his tunic: a northern-style sigil, hastily made for a Bazhir tribe. Dancing cranes, at dusk.
He had never wanted to be a knight, but sometimes duty and tradition were different things.
Rating: G
For: Seek
Prompt: #4 - Zahir-centric fic.
Summary: Zahir heads home with a guest in tow. Along the way, they have a conversation.
Notes and Warnings: Kind of a moody, oblique piece, I guess. Not much background on the Bazhir, except by implication. I hope you like it, Seek.
*******
Zahir ibn Alhaz stood at the exact spot where sand finally overwhelmed grass and looked out at the desert. A few silver stars sparkled across the indigo sky. Twisting shadows played along every dip and ripple in the sand. A night breeze sprang up, turning the cooling air chill.
Zahir tugged his northern cloak around him, just a bit.
Footsteps behind him made him turn. "It is beautiful at night," Prince Roald murmured.
This was the exact kind of oblique conversational gambit that drove Zahir up the wall. Unfortunately, it was also the exact kind of oblique gambit that the prince was fond of.
Zahir shifted, knowing the prince would notice and wishing he wouldn't, and unable to stop himself. "I have missed it," he admitted finally, still looking out over the sand.
"This is the northern edge of your tribe's land."
It was a question, but not the obvious one. "Yes," Zahir said.
The shadows lengthened into full night. More stars winked into existence as the last color leeched from the sky.
Zahir couldn't stand it anymore. He turned sharply on his heel to face the prince, who was standing at ease, staring calmly out at the empty desert. Zahir opened his mouth, about to be too direct, more direct than any good Bazhir should be to a northerner, when Roald spoke.
"He makes a great deal out of the fact that he was adopted into the Bloody Hawk," the prince said. There was only one "he". Roald never used names or titles when criticizing his father.
"Blood doesn't make a Bazhir," Zahir snapped, unable to bite his tongue in time.
Blue eyes turned fathomless by nighttime slid his way, then away again. "Of course," Roald murmured, and damn the man, he sounded ever-so-faintly amused. "Which is why I am grateful you have permitted me to accompany you."
As if Zahir had had a choice. Even if he weren't a knight of Tortall now and sworn to the northern king and his royal family, the man standing next to him was the son of the Voice.
"Her Highness doesn't mind you being gone so long?" Zahir inquired. This was also impolitic, but that strange sort of impolitic that is acceptable to say.
Roald smiled, a quick glint of teeth in the darkness, and said nothing. He didn't need to; Zahir had seen enough of the princess to know she understood duty, and understood what it took to try and belong to a new people.
Zahir knew what it took, too. He also knew that there was no such thing as belonging.
"Sometimes trying matters," Roald murmured to the night air. A beat, then Roald turned and walked back towards their camp.
Sometimes trying mattered. Zahir fingered the badge embroidered onto the front of his tunic: a northern-style sigil, hastily made for a Bazhir tribe. Dancing cranes, at dusk.
He had never wanted to be a knight, but sometimes duty and tradition were different things.