Post by devilinthedetails on Dec 17, 2017 3:24:11 GMT 10
Title: Skates like a Wild Horse
Rating: The nebulous area between PG and PG-13.
Word Count: 2271
Summary: Zahir has never been skating before and is reluctant to change that fact.
Warnings: Some internalized racism.
Notes: Inspired by the ice skating prompt.
Skates like a Wild Horse
Midwinter was only two weeks away, but Zahir was about as far removed from a jovial Midwinter spirit as the desert in which he was born and bred was from the verdant jungles shrouded in dew and mist that Sir Myles claimed covered the Copper Isles. His brooding mood was absolutely acceptable, because, after all, he was not a northerner, but a Bazhir, and the Bazhir did not celebrate Midwinter. In the sands of the desert eternally blistered by the blazing sun, the whole concept of winter was a foreign one.
What was unacceptable, he thought, was that he was stuck in his knightmaster’s study, writing in painstaking script Midwinter well-wishes for King Jonathan’s signature addressed to nobles throughout the realm. Being treated as a scribe more than a squire—his muscles were aching but not from training in the practice courts—would have put even the merriest knight-in-training, a distinction that probably went to the exceedingly annoying Owen of Jesslaw and his irksome obsession with the word jolly, in a foul temper.
It was even worse for him, since the Bazhir had no written language, which made Zahir very self-conscious every time he put quill to parchment. Every letter he wrote seemed to him deformed. He was vigilant about dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s but forever fearful that he hadn’t done so. He was terrified of spelling mistakes and would have confined himself to simple phrases if he didn’t think it would invite ridicule.
Writing always made him feel inadequate, as if he truly were the inferior, ignorant sand scut the northerners accused him of being. Whenever that degrading thought entered his mind, he thew it out like a dirty chamber pot as quickly as it came in, reminding himself sternly that the northerners were the ignorant ones for judging his people without bothering to understand them.
“My handwriting is a mess, sire.” Scowling down at his latest card, addressed to the lord and lady of Disart, Zahir told himself that he wasn’t complaining, just providing a logical critique. “I don’t know why you aren’t asking a scribe to write these notes for you.”
“Your handwriting isn’t a mess.” The king arched an eyebrow as he signed a letter with a flourish. “Even if it were, squire, the only way to improve your skill with a quill is through persistence, practice, and patience just like any other skill.”
Thinking that at least his knightmaster hadn’t subjected him to the ultimate cliche about practice making perfect, Zahir attempted a different angle of argument, pointing out, “The Bazhir don’t celebrate Midwinter, Your Majesty, so I shouldn’t have to wish people a happy holiday when I don’t observe it.”
“It’s considered polite to wish people a happy holiday even if you don’t celebrate it yourself.” King Jonathan didn’t even glance up from the next letter he was signing, and Zahir knew his knightmaster was unimpressed by his reasoning. “Besides, you aren’t wishing them a happy Midwinter, anyway. I am. You’re just helping me write my letters, Zahir.”
Zahir didn’t have an immediate response to this so he was grateful for the disruption when Princess Lianne and Princess Vania burst into the room, Lianne’s cinnamon dress that emphasized the same shade in her eyes billowing around her ankles, and Vania’s eyes shifting from blue to green and back again in a testament to her unbridled excitement. Zahir didn’t waste any energy wondering what had sparked Vania’s eagerness, since at eight, almost everything provoked such enthusiasm from her.
“The Olorun has been frozen over for a week, and we’re having a skating party, Papa.” Vania was breathless and bouncing on her heels.
“Who is, my dear?” King Jonathan smiled indulgently at his youngest child.
“Everyone.” Vania beamed back at him. “Everyone who is anyone.”
“Will you come, Papa?” The quieter question came from Lianne, who, after Roald—whose strictest rules of conversation appeared to be never saying anything offensive to anyone and never using two words where one would suffice—was the most soft-spoken Conte Zahir had ever met. “We’d love to have you.”
“And I’d love to come, Lianne, but I’ve got to finish these Midwinter cards today if possible.” The king shot Zahir a look that often meant he was planning to give Zahir what he thought was a gift but what Zahir might regard as more of a curse. “Zahir can escort you girls instead. He’s been cooped up in here too long. He needs to get outside and get his blood pumping.”
“I don’t have ice skates, Your Majesty.” Although he had been desperate to escape writing letters, Zahir wasn’t sorry to report his lack of skates, since the only thing worse than being trapped in a study with his hand hurting from writing endless Midwinter well-wishes was stumbling about on ice with the perpetual threat of twisting his ankle. The Bazhir did not attempt anything as foolish as walking on water even if it was frozen. That was a purely northern fantasy, and one that could lead to frostbite or drowning from skating on thin ice, as far as Zahir was concerned.
“Not to worry, Roald does.” Vania crushed Zahir’s excuse before her father could and dashed out of the study, presumably running off to fetch Roald’s ice skates.
“Roald’s skates should fit you.” King Jonathan appraised Zahir. “You’re within an inch of each other’s height.”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable in his skates, sire.” Zahir toyed with his quill, fraying the feather. Somehow it didn’t feel appropriate to don anything that belonged to the Crown Prince, as if he were playacting royalty, pretending to be a prince when he was only a savage from the south.
Sensitive Lianne must have understood what he meant for she said gently, “Roald won’t be upset if you use them, Zahir. If anything, he’ll be glad to know that they’re getting some exercise.”
“He can’t complain if you use them.” Vania inserted herself into the conversation as she reappeared in the room, bearing a pair of skates, which she handed to Zahir. “If he didn’t want anyone borrowing them, he should’ve brought them to Port Legann with him.”
Skates, Zahir thought as he bent over to remove his shoes and slip on the skates Vania had given him, would be useless as a poisoned well in Port Legann, since the ocean never iced over, and rain was more common than snow that far south even during winter.
Once he had put them on, the skates pinched at his toes, and, when he tied the laces, his shins suffocated. Roald’s feet must have been smaller than Zahir’s, after all.
“How is the fit, Zahir?” King Jonathan asked.
As always seeing no point in lying especially if it meant more squishing of his toes, Zahir answered, “A little tight, Your Majesty.”
“Then the fit is perfect.” The king gave a satisfied nod, and Zahir wondered what he had done that was so awful his knightmaster was pleased to hear that his toes were squashed. Noticing Zahir’s bewildered expression, King Jonathan explained, “Skates should be tight to provide more support for your ankles. You’re less likely to break an ankle skating if your skates are tight.”
“You’re even less likely to break an ankle if you don’t skate at all, sire,” muttered Zahir before he could bite his tongue. He thought that just walking along on icy pathways offered enough risk of broken bones during a northern winter without raising the stakes by skating on a frozen river, but Zahir’s father had taught him that northerners were all gamblers.
“You need to find your sense of fun, squire.” His knightmaster waved a hand in dismissal. “I suggest searching on the river for it. Begone and come back happy.”
Bundled in cloaks, hates, gloves, and scarves, Zahir, Lianne, and Vania made their way along palace paths diligently shoveled by servants to the Olorun. By the icy banks, they sat on a snow-blanketed bench to switch their boots for their skates.
Lianne was the first to finish tying her skates and streamed off—her scarf flying behind her—to join a knot of giggling girls, who seemed to be engaged in an elaborate leaping and spinning competition to see who could complete the more impressive stunts.
Vania was the second to tie her laces, but she didn’t skate off onto the wide, windy expanse of the frozen Olorun. Instead she remained beside him as he tightened his laces, grumbling, “My blood will be cut off, and I’ll end up losing a toe or an entire foot with my cursed bad luck.”
“You’re such a storm cloud, Zahir.” Vania tugged on his arm as he sat upright, done lacing his skates. “In case you’ve forgotten, you aren’t here to complain. You’re here to escort me.”
“It’d be an honor to escort you, Your Highness.” Zahir offered the traditional polite response, but it was Vania, though she dint come up to his shoulder even with a hat and bun atop her head, who guided him onto the ice. As his skates skidded beneath him and his knees shook, he was grateful for the solid support she provided through their entwined arms. She was the one keeping him on his feet, and only the pretext that he was escorting her—ignoring the reality that she was truly escorting him more than he was her—that permitted him to preserve a vestige of dignity.
“I’m afraid I’m not a very good escort,” he added, mentally blaming his sheepish flush on the wind whipping his cheeks, as they moved along the river, him hobbling along like a man with a broken ankle and her sliding slowly behind him.
“Would you save me if I fell into the water through a hole in the ice or something?” Vania arched an eyebrow in an expression she must have inherited from her father.
“I can’t swim.” Zahir was deadpan, but when she gaped at him like a fish out of water, he chuckled. “Just teasing you. Of course I can swim, not that it would do you much good with you wearing heavy skates and winter clothing. You’d drown before I could rescue you.”
“I’d kick out of as many of my winter clothes as I could.” Vania wrinkled her nose at him. “Of course I’d live long enough for you to save me.”
“Even if I did manage to save you, you’d lose an arm or leg to the chill if you didn’t end up dying of it,” muttered Zahir, eyeing the ice beneath his feet as if it might split at any second without warning.
“Don’t be a grouch. Cheer up. Look at my sister skating.” Vania pointed at Lianne, who was doing a triple tail on one leg while the other was lifted delicately behind her head, and her black plait swirled around her like a horse’s tail. “She’s spectacular at spinning, isn’t she?”
“It makes me dizzy just watching her twist like that,” murmured Zahir, but he was admiring Lianne’s technique, not grousing, and Vania must have heard that in his tone for she flashed him a smile that showed all of her white as snow teeth.
“You’re improving as a skater with every step.” She squeezed his arm in encouragement. “All you need to do is relax because tension makes you wobbly, and you don’t want to be wobbly, do you?”
“No, I don’t want to be wobbly,” Zahir agreed, and something about the wording combined with the ice slipping beneath his skates made him laugh. As he laughed, the tension uncoiled from his muscles, and he no longer hobbled along the ice but propelled himself across it.
“You’re making progress.” Vania increased her speed as he did. “Now try not to push yourself against the ice but glide over it. Remember that you’re on a river, Zahir, even if it’s a frozen one, so go with the flow, and don’t fight it.”
Zahir took her advice, surrendering to the river, which pulled him along far faster and smoother than he could have pushed himself. He felt out of control, but in a way that exhilarated rather than terrified him. He wished that all Bazhir could feel the wild abandon of skating away on a frozen river of freedom.
“Let’s race.” Vania’s face shone crimson with the cold as she gazed up at him with eyes as wide as the Olorun. “The first one to that next cluster of evergreens wins.”
“I can’t race you.” Zahir snorted. “I’d beat you, Your Highness, and it’s not chivalrous to beat a little girl especially if she’s a princess.”
“Just because I’ve got shorter legs than you doesn’t mean you can call me little.” Vania elbowed him in the ribs and then disentangled her arms from his. Speeding away from him, she tossed over her shoulder, “Whether you race me or not, you’ll still be slower than me, Zahir.”
Determined to prove her wrong now that she had openly taunted him, he sped after her. The child air cut into his lungs strong enough to hurt and his muscles ached as he glided along the ice, but the pain faded into the speed and the freedom. He felt the wild joy that he had never experienced
anywhere except on the back of a galloping horse, and he didn’t care whether he beat Vania to the grove of evergreens. Winning the competition didn’t matter to him. It was enough to race against the wind on skates as he did on a horse.
Rating: The nebulous area between PG and PG-13.
Word Count: 2271
Summary: Zahir has never been skating before and is reluctant to change that fact.
Warnings: Some internalized racism.
Notes: Inspired by the ice skating prompt.
Skates like a Wild Horse
Midwinter was only two weeks away, but Zahir was about as far removed from a jovial Midwinter spirit as the desert in which he was born and bred was from the verdant jungles shrouded in dew and mist that Sir Myles claimed covered the Copper Isles. His brooding mood was absolutely acceptable, because, after all, he was not a northerner, but a Bazhir, and the Bazhir did not celebrate Midwinter. In the sands of the desert eternally blistered by the blazing sun, the whole concept of winter was a foreign one.
What was unacceptable, he thought, was that he was stuck in his knightmaster’s study, writing in painstaking script Midwinter well-wishes for King Jonathan’s signature addressed to nobles throughout the realm. Being treated as a scribe more than a squire—his muscles were aching but not from training in the practice courts—would have put even the merriest knight-in-training, a distinction that probably went to the exceedingly annoying Owen of Jesslaw and his irksome obsession with the word jolly, in a foul temper.
It was even worse for him, since the Bazhir had no written language, which made Zahir very self-conscious every time he put quill to parchment. Every letter he wrote seemed to him deformed. He was vigilant about dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s but forever fearful that he hadn’t done so. He was terrified of spelling mistakes and would have confined himself to simple phrases if he didn’t think it would invite ridicule.
Writing always made him feel inadequate, as if he truly were the inferior, ignorant sand scut the northerners accused him of being. Whenever that degrading thought entered his mind, he thew it out like a dirty chamber pot as quickly as it came in, reminding himself sternly that the northerners were the ignorant ones for judging his people without bothering to understand them.
“My handwriting is a mess, sire.” Scowling down at his latest card, addressed to the lord and lady of Disart, Zahir told himself that he wasn’t complaining, just providing a logical critique. “I don’t know why you aren’t asking a scribe to write these notes for you.”
“Your handwriting isn’t a mess.” The king arched an eyebrow as he signed a letter with a flourish. “Even if it were, squire, the only way to improve your skill with a quill is through persistence, practice, and patience just like any other skill.”
Thinking that at least his knightmaster hadn’t subjected him to the ultimate cliche about practice making perfect, Zahir attempted a different angle of argument, pointing out, “The Bazhir don’t celebrate Midwinter, Your Majesty, so I shouldn’t have to wish people a happy holiday when I don’t observe it.”
“It’s considered polite to wish people a happy holiday even if you don’t celebrate it yourself.” King Jonathan didn’t even glance up from the next letter he was signing, and Zahir knew his knightmaster was unimpressed by his reasoning. “Besides, you aren’t wishing them a happy Midwinter, anyway. I am. You’re just helping me write my letters, Zahir.”
Zahir didn’t have an immediate response to this so he was grateful for the disruption when Princess Lianne and Princess Vania burst into the room, Lianne’s cinnamon dress that emphasized the same shade in her eyes billowing around her ankles, and Vania’s eyes shifting from blue to green and back again in a testament to her unbridled excitement. Zahir didn’t waste any energy wondering what had sparked Vania’s eagerness, since at eight, almost everything provoked such enthusiasm from her.
“The Olorun has been frozen over for a week, and we’re having a skating party, Papa.” Vania was breathless and bouncing on her heels.
“Who is, my dear?” King Jonathan smiled indulgently at his youngest child.
“Everyone.” Vania beamed back at him. “Everyone who is anyone.”
“Will you come, Papa?” The quieter question came from Lianne, who, after Roald—whose strictest rules of conversation appeared to be never saying anything offensive to anyone and never using two words where one would suffice—was the most soft-spoken Conte Zahir had ever met. “We’d love to have you.”
“And I’d love to come, Lianne, but I’ve got to finish these Midwinter cards today if possible.” The king shot Zahir a look that often meant he was planning to give Zahir what he thought was a gift but what Zahir might regard as more of a curse. “Zahir can escort you girls instead. He’s been cooped up in here too long. He needs to get outside and get his blood pumping.”
“I don’t have ice skates, Your Majesty.” Although he had been desperate to escape writing letters, Zahir wasn’t sorry to report his lack of skates, since the only thing worse than being trapped in a study with his hand hurting from writing endless Midwinter well-wishes was stumbling about on ice with the perpetual threat of twisting his ankle. The Bazhir did not attempt anything as foolish as walking on water even if it was frozen. That was a purely northern fantasy, and one that could lead to frostbite or drowning from skating on thin ice, as far as Zahir was concerned.
“Not to worry, Roald does.” Vania crushed Zahir’s excuse before her father could and dashed out of the study, presumably running off to fetch Roald’s ice skates.
“Roald’s skates should fit you.” King Jonathan appraised Zahir. “You’re within an inch of each other’s height.”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable in his skates, sire.” Zahir toyed with his quill, fraying the feather. Somehow it didn’t feel appropriate to don anything that belonged to the Crown Prince, as if he were playacting royalty, pretending to be a prince when he was only a savage from the south.
Sensitive Lianne must have understood what he meant for she said gently, “Roald won’t be upset if you use them, Zahir. If anything, he’ll be glad to know that they’re getting some exercise.”
“He can’t complain if you use them.” Vania inserted herself into the conversation as she reappeared in the room, bearing a pair of skates, which she handed to Zahir. “If he didn’t want anyone borrowing them, he should’ve brought them to Port Legann with him.”
Skates, Zahir thought as he bent over to remove his shoes and slip on the skates Vania had given him, would be useless as a poisoned well in Port Legann, since the ocean never iced over, and rain was more common than snow that far south even during winter.
Once he had put them on, the skates pinched at his toes, and, when he tied the laces, his shins suffocated. Roald’s feet must have been smaller than Zahir’s, after all.
“How is the fit, Zahir?” King Jonathan asked.
As always seeing no point in lying especially if it meant more squishing of his toes, Zahir answered, “A little tight, Your Majesty.”
“Then the fit is perfect.” The king gave a satisfied nod, and Zahir wondered what he had done that was so awful his knightmaster was pleased to hear that his toes were squashed. Noticing Zahir’s bewildered expression, King Jonathan explained, “Skates should be tight to provide more support for your ankles. You’re less likely to break an ankle skating if your skates are tight.”
“You’re even less likely to break an ankle if you don’t skate at all, sire,” muttered Zahir before he could bite his tongue. He thought that just walking along on icy pathways offered enough risk of broken bones during a northern winter without raising the stakes by skating on a frozen river, but Zahir’s father had taught him that northerners were all gamblers.
“You need to find your sense of fun, squire.” His knightmaster waved a hand in dismissal. “I suggest searching on the river for it. Begone and come back happy.”
Bundled in cloaks, hates, gloves, and scarves, Zahir, Lianne, and Vania made their way along palace paths diligently shoveled by servants to the Olorun. By the icy banks, they sat on a snow-blanketed bench to switch their boots for their skates.
Lianne was the first to finish tying her skates and streamed off—her scarf flying behind her—to join a knot of giggling girls, who seemed to be engaged in an elaborate leaping and spinning competition to see who could complete the more impressive stunts.
Vania was the second to tie her laces, but she didn’t skate off onto the wide, windy expanse of the frozen Olorun. Instead she remained beside him as he tightened his laces, grumbling, “My blood will be cut off, and I’ll end up losing a toe or an entire foot with my cursed bad luck.”
“You’re such a storm cloud, Zahir.” Vania tugged on his arm as he sat upright, done lacing his skates. “In case you’ve forgotten, you aren’t here to complain. You’re here to escort me.”
“It’d be an honor to escort you, Your Highness.” Zahir offered the traditional polite response, but it was Vania, though she dint come up to his shoulder even with a hat and bun atop her head, who guided him onto the ice. As his skates skidded beneath him and his knees shook, he was grateful for the solid support she provided through their entwined arms. She was the one keeping him on his feet, and only the pretext that he was escorting her—ignoring the reality that she was truly escorting him more than he was her—that permitted him to preserve a vestige of dignity.
“I’m afraid I’m not a very good escort,” he added, mentally blaming his sheepish flush on the wind whipping his cheeks, as they moved along the river, him hobbling along like a man with a broken ankle and her sliding slowly behind him.
“Would you save me if I fell into the water through a hole in the ice or something?” Vania arched an eyebrow in an expression she must have inherited from her father.
“I can’t swim.” Zahir was deadpan, but when she gaped at him like a fish out of water, he chuckled. “Just teasing you. Of course I can swim, not that it would do you much good with you wearing heavy skates and winter clothing. You’d drown before I could rescue you.”
“I’d kick out of as many of my winter clothes as I could.” Vania wrinkled her nose at him. “Of course I’d live long enough for you to save me.”
“Even if I did manage to save you, you’d lose an arm or leg to the chill if you didn’t end up dying of it,” muttered Zahir, eyeing the ice beneath his feet as if it might split at any second without warning.
“Don’t be a grouch. Cheer up. Look at my sister skating.” Vania pointed at Lianne, who was doing a triple tail on one leg while the other was lifted delicately behind her head, and her black plait swirled around her like a horse’s tail. “She’s spectacular at spinning, isn’t she?”
“It makes me dizzy just watching her twist like that,” murmured Zahir, but he was admiring Lianne’s technique, not grousing, and Vania must have heard that in his tone for she flashed him a smile that showed all of her white as snow teeth.
“You’re improving as a skater with every step.” She squeezed his arm in encouragement. “All you need to do is relax because tension makes you wobbly, and you don’t want to be wobbly, do you?”
“No, I don’t want to be wobbly,” Zahir agreed, and something about the wording combined with the ice slipping beneath his skates made him laugh. As he laughed, the tension uncoiled from his muscles, and he no longer hobbled along the ice but propelled himself across it.
“You’re making progress.” Vania increased her speed as he did. “Now try not to push yourself against the ice but glide over it. Remember that you’re on a river, Zahir, even if it’s a frozen one, so go with the flow, and don’t fight it.”
Zahir took her advice, surrendering to the river, which pulled him along far faster and smoother than he could have pushed himself. He felt out of control, but in a way that exhilarated rather than terrified him. He wished that all Bazhir could feel the wild abandon of skating away on a frozen river of freedom.
“Let’s race.” Vania’s face shone crimson with the cold as she gazed up at him with eyes as wide as the Olorun. “The first one to that next cluster of evergreens wins.”
“I can’t race you.” Zahir snorted. “I’d beat you, Your Highness, and it’s not chivalrous to beat a little girl especially if she’s a princess.”
“Just because I’ve got shorter legs than you doesn’t mean you can call me little.” Vania elbowed him in the ribs and then disentangled her arms from his. Speeding away from him, she tossed over her shoulder, “Whether you race me or not, you’ll still be slower than me, Zahir.”
Determined to prove her wrong now that she had openly taunted him, he sped after her. The child air cut into his lungs strong enough to hurt and his muscles ached as he glided along the ice, but the pain faded into the speed and the freedom. He felt the wild joy that he had never experienced
anywhere except on the back of a galloping horse, and he didn’t care whether he beat Vania to the grove of evergreens. Winning the competition didn’t matter to him. It was enough to race against the wind on skates as he did on a horse.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!