A/N: This is a collection of my best one-shots from Goldenlake's SMACKDOWN fiction competition. All of these are Jonathan/Zahir, but not slash. Everything will be a mentor-student relationship, and everything will be unrelated unless specifically indicated. I hope you enjoy them! (and I own nothing of Tortall - everything is TP's)
A King and his Squire: A Collection
Ameliorate, PG
Summary: Jon has a sinking feeling.
Jon hates seeing his squire in pain.
The king would have thought that he'd be long over it, seeing as he reigned over three different wars in his time. The sight of young men in agony, whether physical from a blow or emotional from loss, was an old sight, yet seeing the pain in Zahir's eyes as they rode away from his old tribe struck Jon like a blow to the chest.
He finally sighed and attempted to ameliorate the thick tension between them. "I'm sorry, Zahir."
"They won't accept me," said Zahir, dully.
"They will, one day," Jon responded firmly.
"One day, they will have no choice." Zahir's eyes flashed. "One day, I will be the Voice, and they will regret their actions this day."
Jon simply nodded, his heart pounding with a new emotion. Worry.
Silence, G
Summary: Joren's words spike an understanding.
Joren is physically incapable of shutting up.
He yammers on about Mindelan this, Queenscove that, and he always returns to the monarchs and how the king is ruining the country. It was much better in the days of King Roald, Joren swears. Zahir wonders if the blonde squire realizes that he never lived during those days. Certainly not from the way he talked.
Joren also forgets who is Zahir's knight-master, and it boils the Bazhir's blood when Joren speaks on matters he knows nothing of. He is a speaking piece for his father, and while that does annoy Zahir, it isn't the entire story.
It surprises even him that he dislikes hearing his old friend slur the king of Tortall. Zahir forces himself to clamp his mouth shut and nod every few minutes. He can't bring himself to listen to Joren's bile, and for once he empathizes with the Mindelan girl. Still, nothing gives Zahir greater pleasure than when he can finish his meal and return to his knight-master. The Bazhir cannot wait until they are all knights and he can finally tell Joren what he really thinks of the king, and of Joren.
Quell, G
Summary: The reason Jon chooses Zahir.
"If you won't teach me, then why did you choose me as your squire?" shouted the dark-skinned squire, fists clenched at his side.
Jon sighed in exasperation. "There is more to this than learning how best to thrash another man in armor, Zahir."
"Like what?" Zahir sneered and crossed his arms. "So far in three months, all I've learned is your schedule of duties and all I've received is a closet full of court clothes because that's all I do. I'm your courtier, nothing more."
"Of course not," said Jon scornfully. "I chose you for a reason."
"And I'm eagerly awaiting what exactly it is. I have no idea."
Jon finally quelled the fierce, prideful anger with the truth. "I want you to be the next Voice, Zahir."
The look of utter shock and bewilderment was too much for Jon to handle. He threw his head back and laughed.
Sunrise, G
Summary: Jon and his squire bond.
It was the morning, and once again Jon had no idea where his squire was. He was never in his bed at this time, nor did he wait upon his knight-master as he did every other moment of the day. Everyother moment. Zahir certainly took his duties seriously, but for mornings.
Jon had decided a week ago to find his recalcitrant squire. As of yet, no luck, and every morning as the breakfast bell tolled, Zahir appeared, immaculate as always, to inquire after his daily tasks.
Today, Jon finally had a stroke of luck. As he stepped into a courtyard, he squinted against the early morning sun and spied a lone black figure on the curtain wall.
When he arrived, panting slightly, his squire was leaning against the wall, looking straight into the sun.
"You know that's rather bad for your eyes."
Zahir nodded slightly. "I'm aware, your majesty."
Jon waited a beat, then stood next to Zahir. He squinted into the sun, then shook his head.
The Bazhir took pity on his knight-master. "The sunrise reminds me of home. In the desert, the sun rises early, rises hot as it chases away the chill of the night. As a boy, I would stand outside my father's tent to feel the first morning rays."
"I remember that," Jon said slowly. "I spent a few months with the Bloody Hawk tribe in my youth. It was comforting to watch the sun rise."
"You can see it from miles away, not like this." Zahir gestured towards the mountains far in the distance. "There is nothing to obscure the sun's rising."
Jon watched his squire with fascination as the young man closed his eyes and leaned imperceptibly towards the sun, a slight smile growing on his face. For one moment, the Bazhir was home.
Coffee, G
Summary: Zahir loves coffee. Unfortunately, so does Jon.
If there's one thing that the northerners do right, it's coffee.
Zahir savors the bitter fumes as they drift alluringly to his long nose. He lifts the cup to his thin lips, but before he can take the smallest sip, his knight-master enters and he is obliged to rise.
"Your majesty." Zahir bows.
Jon grumbles. He rubs his tired eyes with one hand as he props his head up with the other. "Blasted long night," he mutters. "Zahir. Be a good lad and fetch a cup for me."
Zahir bites his tongue and quickly pours a fresh cup of coffee from the pot. He peers inside. There's only enough left for one decent-sized drink. If he hurries, it might be his. The king is a notorious coffee-thief, after all. Hurriedly, Zahir adds a pinch of sugar and a dollop of milk and hands it to the king.
By the time Zahir grasps his warm mug, Jon has already drained half of his. "Wonderful. Zahir, if you could grab my folder of reports about the grain harvest in the north, that'd be excellent."
Zahir sketches a quick bow and races to retrieve the folder. When he returns, he's dismayed to see the king already standing with the last of the coffee in a fresh cup.
"Wonderful. Go train or something while I finish these up."
The king slowly exits the room. Zahir stands mournfully by his cold cup of coffee, now utterly worthless.
