Post by sunshinerose4 on Dec 15, 2014 17:49:31 GMT 10
Title: Taste of Clouds
Rating: PG
For: Seek
Prompt: Zahir in King Jonathan’s Tortall
Summary: It’s Midwinter at the Royal Palace, and Zahir just wants to feel the wind and taste the snow.
Taste of Clouds
When he had left the blazing sands of the Southern Desert behind him to train to be a knight in service of his king and Voice, Zahir had imagined that he would find the stones of the northern castles cold, but instead he found them stuffy like an itchy woolen blanket. The stones and mortar trapped the heat worse than any canvas and poles could, and during the winter, the air inside the Royal Palace became even more stifling than during the dog days of August. At the peak of summer, windows could be flung open in the faint prayer of catching a whisper of a breeze, but, when the winds of winter howled, nobody would consent to crack a window and everybody, hacking up a lung as a result of their winter cold, wanted to crowd around a fire, coughing all over one another.
It was all so very gross and undignified, so Zahir couldn’t be faulted for slipping off like a shadow onto the balcony outside the king’s quarters, where a gaggle had gathered around the roaring hearth to sip mulled wine and sing traditional Tortallan carols with lyrics Zahir still didn’t know—but only because he hadn’t bothered to learn them, not because he was some ignorant sand scut.
Taking care to avoid pricking himself against the boughs of ivy that decked the ebony balustrade, Zahir leaned against the railing and exhaled, watching the puff of his departing breath rise into the night sky and picturing it joining the mist of clouds that encircled the pinpricks of stars like crowns.
The frigid night wind sliced into his lungs, making him feel alive and healthy in a way that swallowing air already sucked in and used by others never did. His skin tingled when snow melted upon his arms much as his tongue did when King Jonathan remembered that he was supposed to be a liberal knight-master and allowed Zahir to imbibe sparkling wine from Tyra’s finest vineyards. Snow landed on his parted lips, and he could taste cloud that made him soar far away from the sweltering confines of the Royal Palace that trapped them all for the long winter months like animals driven to the ground by hunting dogs.
“Zahir ibn Alhaz!” King Jonathan, who had the terrible trick of being able to pronounce Zahir’s name as if it were a death sentence, appeared behind him on the balcony. “Didn’t Lord Wyldon teach you any survival skills?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Zahir offered a bow that he intended to be more pert than polite. “He taught me that if I had something nasty to say about him—which I always did—I should wait until he was well out of earshot, a distance that was always far greater than I would initially assume, so I would have to err on the side of caution when estimating it.”
“That’s not what I meant.” King Jonathan plucked at his beard, and Zahir, since he had only been the man’s squire for a few months, couldn’t figure out whether the gesture was more rooted in amusement or exasperation. “You aren’t wearing a cloak.”
“Certainly not, sire.” Not willing to surrender his jokes yet since Midwinter was all about holiday cheer and pranks, Zahir let his gaze linger on the ermine cuffs that tapered out from the midnight blue sleeves of King Jonathan’s cloak. “Those went out of fashion along with ermine.”
“You don’t have on any gloves.” Seemingly oblivious to Zahir’s jibe, King Jonathan went on with his lecture only to be interrupted by his squire once more.
“No, Your Majesty.” Zahir wrinkled his nose as if he had just scented curdled milk. “Gloves are for delicate court ladies who don’t wish to invite scandal by showing a trace of their bare arms or hands.”
Continuing with his staunch policy of ignoring Zahir’s witty protests, King Jonathan concluded with a wave at Zahir’s damp hair, “To top it all off, you haven’t put on a hat, squire.”
“Naturally not.” Zahir rolled his eyes. “Hats are the worst article of clothing devised by any race of people, sire. They never fail to make whoever wears them look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and were in too much of a hurry to use a comb.”
“Come inside, Zahir.” King Jonathan grasped Zahir’s shoulders and steered him away from the balcony’s railing. “I don’t want you catching your death cold in this chill.”
“My tribe’s shaman says nobody actually gets sick from the cold.” Zahir lifted his nose in the air even as he allowed his knight-master to guide him back toward the choking heat of the palace. “It’s much more likely that I’ll fall ill from everyone coughing all over one another around the fire.”
“Zahir, you’re a laugh a minute.” In a movement that Zahir understood was meant to be an expression of mingled affection and reproach, King Jonathan mussed Zahir’s hair.
His cheeks flushing the color of the poinsettias the maids had assembled in the corners of the royal quarters in honor of the holiday, Zahir reminded himself for what already felt like the hundredth time since he had become the king’s squire that His Majesty wasn’t aware that touching someone else’s head was a taboo among the Bazhir—either an intimate gesture between a married couple that bordered on the crass or else a demeaning one between superior and inferior intended to shove an underling back into a subordinate place—because the head was the most sensitive, the most vulnerable, part of the human body, so to touch somebody else there was to leave them totally exposed. The king couldn’t know that since nobody had thought to explain that to him—because to the Bazhir it was as clear as the fact that an oasis was wet and sand was dry—before he had become the Voice, and no one had the guts to do so after he became the Voice.
Pretending adolescent affront at outright displays of affection, since he didn’t really want to hurt the Voice when the Voice meant well, Zahir squirmed out of his knight-master’s reach and grumbled as the king opened the door so that too much warmth enveloped them both like a too-tight cape, “You’re messing up my hair worse than a hat, Your Majesty.”
“To prove I’m not, I’ll buy you a snug hat for a Midwinter gift, squire.” King Jonathan chuckled as they returned to the royal quarters where a carol praising the rise of Mithros after the longest night of the year echoed to the rafters.
“That’s funny. I thought it was traditional in Tortall for Midwinter presents to be a surprise.” Zahir felt his face straying dangerously close to a smirk. “I’ll never understand all your bizarre northern customs at this rate, not that I want to, because none of them make any sense.”
“It is customary for Midwinter gifts to be a surprise.” King Joanthan’s chuckle deepened into a full-fledged laugh. “My present for you will be a surprise, too, because, you see, you don’t what color the hat will be.”
“Probably a lurid pink with purple flowers.” Zahir gave an affected shudder. “Just for the shock value.”
Rating: PG
For: Seek
Prompt: Zahir in King Jonathan’s Tortall
Summary: It’s Midwinter at the Royal Palace, and Zahir just wants to feel the wind and taste the snow.
Taste of Clouds
When he had left the blazing sands of the Southern Desert behind him to train to be a knight in service of his king and Voice, Zahir had imagined that he would find the stones of the northern castles cold, but instead he found them stuffy like an itchy woolen blanket. The stones and mortar trapped the heat worse than any canvas and poles could, and during the winter, the air inside the Royal Palace became even more stifling than during the dog days of August. At the peak of summer, windows could be flung open in the faint prayer of catching a whisper of a breeze, but, when the winds of winter howled, nobody would consent to crack a window and everybody, hacking up a lung as a result of their winter cold, wanted to crowd around a fire, coughing all over one another.
It was all so very gross and undignified, so Zahir couldn’t be faulted for slipping off like a shadow onto the balcony outside the king’s quarters, where a gaggle had gathered around the roaring hearth to sip mulled wine and sing traditional Tortallan carols with lyrics Zahir still didn’t know—but only because he hadn’t bothered to learn them, not because he was some ignorant sand scut.
Taking care to avoid pricking himself against the boughs of ivy that decked the ebony balustrade, Zahir leaned against the railing and exhaled, watching the puff of his departing breath rise into the night sky and picturing it joining the mist of clouds that encircled the pinpricks of stars like crowns.
The frigid night wind sliced into his lungs, making him feel alive and healthy in a way that swallowing air already sucked in and used by others never did. His skin tingled when snow melted upon his arms much as his tongue did when King Jonathan remembered that he was supposed to be a liberal knight-master and allowed Zahir to imbibe sparkling wine from Tyra’s finest vineyards. Snow landed on his parted lips, and he could taste cloud that made him soar far away from the sweltering confines of the Royal Palace that trapped them all for the long winter months like animals driven to the ground by hunting dogs.
“Zahir ibn Alhaz!” King Jonathan, who had the terrible trick of being able to pronounce Zahir’s name as if it were a death sentence, appeared behind him on the balcony. “Didn’t Lord Wyldon teach you any survival skills?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Zahir offered a bow that he intended to be more pert than polite. “He taught me that if I had something nasty to say about him—which I always did—I should wait until he was well out of earshot, a distance that was always far greater than I would initially assume, so I would have to err on the side of caution when estimating it.”
“That’s not what I meant.” King Jonathan plucked at his beard, and Zahir, since he had only been the man’s squire for a few months, couldn’t figure out whether the gesture was more rooted in amusement or exasperation. “You aren’t wearing a cloak.”
“Certainly not, sire.” Not willing to surrender his jokes yet since Midwinter was all about holiday cheer and pranks, Zahir let his gaze linger on the ermine cuffs that tapered out from the midnight blue sleeves of King Jonathan’s cloak. “Those went out of fashion along with ermine.”
“You don’t have on any gloves.” Seemingly oblivious to Zahir’s jibe, King Jonathan went on with his lecture only to be interrupted by his squire once more.
“No, Your Majesty.” Zahir wrinkled his nose as if he had just scented curdled milk. “Gloves are for delicate court ladies who don’t wish to invite scandal by showing a trace of their bare arms or hands.”
Continuing with his staunch policy of ignoring Zahir’s witty protests, King Jonathan concluded with a wave at Zahir’s damp hair, “To top it all off, you haven’t put on a hat, squire.”
“Naturally not.” Zahir rolled his eyes. “Hats are the worst article of clothing devised by any race of people, sire. They never fail to make whoever wears them look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and were in too much of a hurry to use a comb.”
“Come inside, Zahir.” King Jonathan grasped Zahir’s shoulders and steered him away from the balcony’s railing. “I don’t want you catching your death cold in this chill.”
“My tribe’s shaman says nobody actually gets sick from the cold.” Zahir lifted his nose in the air even as he allowed his knight-master to guide him back toward the choking heat of the palace. “It’s much more likely that I’ll fall ill from everyone coughing all over one another around the fire.”
“Zahir, you’re a laugh a minute.” In a movement that Zahir understood was meant to be an expression of mingled affection and reproach, King Jonathan mussed Zahir’s hair.
His cheeks flushing the color of the poinsettias the maids had assembled in the corners of the royal quarters in honor of the holiday, Zahir reminded himself for what already felt like the hundredth time since he had become the king’s squire that His Majesty wasn’t aware that touching someone else’s head was a taboo among the Bazhir—either an intimate gesture between a married couple that bordered on the crass or else a demeaning one between superior and inferior intended to shove an underling back into a subordinate place—because the head was the most sensitive, the most vulnerable, part of the human body, so to touch somebody else there was to leave them totally exposed. The king couldn’t know that since nobody had thought to explain that to him—because to the Bazhir it was as clear as the fact that an oasis was wet and sand was dry—before he had become the Voice, and no one had the guts to do so after he became the Voice.
Pretending adolescent affront at outright displays of affection, since he didn’t really want to hurt the Voice when the Voice meant well, Zahir squirmed out of his knight-master’s reach and grumbled as the king opened the door so that too much warmth enveloped them both like a too-tight cape, “You’re messing up my hair worse than a hat, Your Majesty.”
“To prove I’m not, I’ll buy you a snug hat for a Midwinter gift, squire.” King Jonathan chuckled as they returned to the royal quarters where a carol praising the rise of Mithros after the longest night of the year echoed to the rafters.
“That’s funny. I thought it was traditional in Tortall for Midwinter presents to be a surprise.” Zahir felt his face straying dangerously close to a smirk. “I’ll never understand all your bizarre northern customs at this rate, not that I want to, because none of them make any sense.”
“It is customary for Midwinter gifts to be a surprise.” King Joanthan’s chuckle deepened into a full-fledged laugh. “My present for you will be a surprise, too, because, you see, you don’t what color the hat will be.”
“Probably a lurid pink with purple flowers.” Zahir gave an affected shudder. “Just for the shock value.”