Title: A Little Respect
Author: smilingsoprano
Rating: T for politics and violence.
Pairings: None.
Summary: Zahir visits his favorite tavern, but something has changed.
A/N: The Eagle and Child is an actual pub in Oxford, where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis would meet and talk. So it's a weird sort of joke about the birth of modern fantasy . . . yeah. I'm a geek. Anyway, this was written for Goldenlake's most excellent SMACKDOWN competition.
Nearly every street in Corus could lay claim to a tavern. They were ubiquitous and varied, ranging from rat-infested gambling dens in the Lower City to the King's Head, the elegant establishment on Palace Hill. With such large numbers, specialization was inevitable, and so there were the sailors' favorites, the tradesmen's places, the nobles' clubs, the laborers' preferred, the squires' haunts, and many more besides.
Zahir had first investigated Corus with Joren and his crowd, and so he still frequented the Eagle and Child, where squires, a handful of pages, and the more blue-blooded members of the Riders and the Own congregated to drink and lament the progressive political regime.
He could remember clearly how it had started. He was seated at a corner table—almost his table by this point—quietly sipping his drink. The king had announced his reform of the laws regarding the protection of women and servants earlier in the day, and tensions were running high. Some boy, a firebrand with his name in the Book of Gold and just enough ale in his belly, commandeered a chair to stand on. Cheeks flushed and eyes glittering with fervor, he launched into a tirade.
It was eloquent enough, Zahir supposed, if rather unoriginal. He ran down the list of the king's crimes—favoritism, lack of respect for tradition and nobility, blind and detrimental open-mindedness, weakness in dealing with foreign nations, irresponsible spending, arrogance, lust, and so on—drawing cheers from the assembled crowd. Heartened by the positive response, he continued, his accusations growing steadily more passionate and extreme.
Where the tipping point lay exactly, Zahir could never say, but it came, and before his could think he was on his feet, his pewter mug louder than he intended as it slammed against the tabletop. Silence fell and all heads turned, but he was beyond caring. He stared defiantly out over the room full of his friends and acquaintances.
"You have no idea what you're talking about." The statement hung on the dead air, heavy with rage.
The speaker looked taken aback. "Zahir, what—"
"Do you know anything about the king?" he demanded. "Do you know how much he agonizes over his decisions, how many meetings he attends each day for the express purpose of hearing every opinion? Do you know how many reams of parchment go into the drafting of laws as he changes and rewrites and compromises to make them as fair and agreeable as possible? Do you see and hear all the suffering and misery in this country, and does it weigh on your shoulders? Do you know how many nights he works through to dawn to keep you safe? Do you have any comprehension in that empty head of how much he loves this country? How much he sacrifices for it?" Zahir squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He took in the expressions of the assembled men, the shock and hostility.
"I know the king. He is my knight-master, my monarch, the Voice of my tribes. You all can disagree with his politics as much as you like—Mithros knows I do—but he is a good man, and this hateful drivel only showcases your staggering ignorance. Have a little respect."
The reaction was inevitable; the stunned silence, the roar of anger, the fists that lashed toward him. Jon's lessons in hand-to-hand combat served Zahir well, but he was one against a tavern full of military men. He took serious blows to his chest and face as he defended himself, and the moment he saw the gleam of drawn steel he stumbled out into the street, nursing his new bruises.
The door slammed behind him, shouted insults still audible from inside. He glanced up at the tavern sign. It swayed slightly in the evening breeze, the emblem of a place that had long been his safe haven. His lips curling in scorn, Zahir turned his back on it, spitting a clot of blood to the ground as he walked away.
"Good riddance," he snarled.