[Magi] for Myung
Favourite
SinJa, rated D for Dumb
Diplomats incite war. Of course, the King of Sindria has known about the true role of these crafty delegates long before he set the plan of his empire into motion. He has, along with acquiring the power and politics of building a strong nation, sought to learn about the hidden intricacies and woven secrets that, more often than not, support the shiny marbled floors of the court.
"And that," he explains to a drowsy Sharrkan one night, "is why I will never marry."
Sharrkan hiccups and stares in the dark, foreboding bottom of yet another bottle of wine. "But don't you want security?"
"Hmmmm," Sinbad hums and rubs his cheek against his current half-empty bottle. Better cherish it now before his main asswiper breaks down the walls. "I don't want her to be bothered."
"Huh?"
"Diplomats target favourites, and who's the most favourite other than a new wife?" The floor rumbles. Sharrkan's eyes bulge. The general tumbles off his seat and under a table for safety. The quaking intensifies and as Sinbad drowns the rest of the bottle, the ceiling caves in and Ja'far kicks his king into the wall.
It begins with the diplomat from the northern kingdom of L--. In his effort to establish privileged trading routes with the L-- court, Sinbad agrees to receive the diplomat for a week. His generals watch as the diplomat bows before their lord, and then turn to each other to furiously debate how someone can survive while shaped like an engorged potato.
"But don't you think he's really suspicious looking?" Ja'far hisses as, in the background, the diplomat begins to present gift after gift.
"You can't just call someone a potato," Yamuraiha protests.
"He even has knotty little eyes."
"It adds to his potato-ness," Sharrkan confirms.
"Don't encourage him," the sorceress snaps.
Ja'far frowns and sinks into the shadows. "He definitely has a hidden agenda."
Less than twenty-four hours later, the diplomat confesses, "I have a hidden agenda."
Ja'far, who has been counting the wine bottles in one of the basements, practically crashes into the wall. Just how has this potato-shaped man managed to sneak up on him? Is he really that engrossed in counting? How many times have--
"Can you deliver a message to your King for me?"
Ja'far straightens his robe and plasters on a smile. "Yes?"
"The Kingdom of L-- is prepared to offer an exclusive trading route through the Northern Sea ... with a 40% tax on all perishable goods."
The smile goes wooden. He considers stringing this stupid potato up by his pudgy little toes, but human rot spoils the flavour of well-aged wine. "This ... is something that you should be telling my King."
"He would never agree to it."
"... no, he wouldn't."
"So I would like you to tell him ... when he is more agreeable."
Ja'far pauses. "... I'm sorry?"
"You know ..." The diplomat shifts his weight from foot to foot. "... when you two are .. . more ... agreeable."
Ja'far smiles. He smiles. He smiles some more.
And then a pin drops.
In retrospect, Sharrkan contemplates, he should not have lied to the diplomat that Ja'far were the weakest of the Eight Generals. It is just that, at the time, he was so hungry and the diplomat was so potato-y and did you know that potatoes could be distilled into whiskey ... And of course Ja'far is not weak, but have you seen Ja'far's reaction to sunlight? The dark-skinned general has never seen a pasty white kid burn so bad.
Sharrkan sighs as he knocks on the doors of his King's dressing room, where Sinbad has been preparing for that night's feast. The door opens to a puzzled, half-dressed Sinbad with only one hoop in, but before Sharrkan can warn his dear Lord of impending doom, a small shadow sails over his head and tackles Sinbad to the ground. Sharrkan promptly bids his screaming King farewell, and closes the door.
"I'm your favourite?" Ja'far demands at Sinbad, who hangs from the ceiling. "Your favourite? W-what am I, your toy--"
"What, no!" Sinbad protests and swings about. "No, Ja'far, this is silly! Let me down!"
"How does the diplomat know?!"
"Know what?"
Ja'far blushes crimson.
"Oh ..." Sinbad attempts to crack a smile. "You know ... It's not exactly a secret."
Crimson immediately deepens to a sinister black.
"Oh what .. Hey, c'mon Ja'far, let me down..."
"You deserve to hang up there," Ja'far sniffs.
"But you love me, don't you?"
"No."
"Yeah? That's not what you said when I was-- put that vase down Ja'far, put it down."
And eventually, under certain conditions, Sinbad is allowed to divorce the ceiling. At the feast, the King arrives with a rather distressingly cheerful expression and with a merry general trailing his footsteps. Sharrkan takes one look at Ja'far's smile and wonders if they should be worrying about him rather than this potato-shaped diplomat.
Sinbad takes his place at the head of the long table, and, as the others take their seats, raises his goblet. The generals mimic their King, and Ja'far smiles the most graciously of all.
"Gentlemen. Ladies--" the King offers a charming nod towards Yamuraiha-- "We are gathered here to celebrate what I hope to be a peaceful and prosperous trade alliance between Sindria and the Kingdom of L--."
The generals move their goblets to their respective lips, but their King's arm remains steady. Sinbad clears his throat.
"Er... I have one more additional announcement." He clears his throat again, and moves his gaze towards a certain white-haired general. "I ... There have been some rumours floating around that I have a favourite."
Sharrkan resists the urge to roll under the table.
"Well, let me clear that up right now," Sinbad continues and now turns to the diplomat. He takes a deep breath. "Ja'far is my favourite."
fin
epilogue
"So," Yamuraiha warily says as she attempts to summarize what her poor King has just explained, "let me get this straight. Ja'far is boycotting your penis?"
"Help me," Sinbad sobs into his alcohol. "Only wine loves me now."
The sorceress rubs the bridge of her nose. For crissakes, why couldn't she have worked for a normal kingdom?
AN: .... I'm really sorry. I thought of this in the shower and then wrote it in twenty minutes. I'm ... lol, jk, I'm not sorry.
SinJa, rated D for Dumb
Diplomats incite war. Of course, the King of Sindria has known about the true role of these crafty delegates long before he set the plan of his empire into motion. He has, along with acquiring the power and politics of building a strong nation, sought to learn about the hidden intricacies and woven secrets that, more often than not, support the shiny marbled floors of the court.
"And that," he explains to a drowsy Sharrkan one night, "is why I will never marry."
Sharrkan hiccups and stares in the dark, foreboding bottom of yet another bottle of wine. "But don't you want security?"
"Hmmmm," Sinbad hums and rubs his cheek against his current half-empty bottle. Better cherish it now before his main asswiper breaks down the walls. "I don't want her to be bothered."
"Huh?"
"Diplomats target favourites, and who's the most favourite other than a new wife?" The floor rumbles. Sharrkan's eyes bulge. The general tumbles off his seat and under a table for safety. The quaking intensifies and as Sinbad drowns the rest of the bottle, the ceiling caves in and Ja'far kicks his king into the wall.
It begins with the diplomat from the northern kingdom of L--. In his effort to establish privileged trading routes with the L-- court, Sinbad agrees to receive the diplomat for a week. His generals watch as the diplomat bows before their lord, and then turn to each other to furiously debate how someone can survive while shaped like an engorged potato.
"But don't you think he's really suspicious looking?" Ja'far hisses as, in the background, the diplomat begins to present gift after gift.
"You can't just call someone a potato," Yamuraiha protests.
"He even has knotty little eyes."
"It adds to his potato-ness," Sharrkan confirms.
"Don't encourage him," the sorceress snaps.
Ja'far frowns and sinks into the shadows. "He definitely has a hidden agenda."
Less than twenty-four hours later, the diplomat confesses, "I have a hidden agenda."
Ja'far, who has been counting the wine bottles in one of the basements, practically crashes into the wall. Just how has this potato-shaped man managed to sneak up on him? Is he really that engrossed in counting? How many times have--
"Can you deliver a message to your King for me?"
Ja'far straightens his robe and plasters on a smile. "Yes?"
"The Kingdom of L-- is prepared to offer an exclusive trading route through the Northern Sea ... with a 40% tax on all perishable goods."
The smile goes wooden. He considers stringing this stupid potato up by his pudgy little toes, but human rot spoils the flavour of well-aged wine. "This ... is something that you should be telling my King."
"He would never agree to it."
"... no, he wouldn't."
"So I would like you to tell him ... when he is more agreeable."
Ja'far pauses. "... I'm sorry?"
"You know ..." The diplomat shifts his weight from foot to foot. "... when you two are .. . more ... agreeable."
Ja'far smiles. He smiles. He smiles some more.
And then a pin drops.
In retrospect, Sharrkan contemplates, he should not have lied to the diplomat that Ja'far were the weakest of the Eight Generals. It is just that, at the time, he was so hungry and the diplomat was so potato-y and did you know that potatoes could be distilled into whiskey ... And of course Ja'far is not weak, but have you seen Ja'far's reaction to sunlight? The dark-skinned general has never seen a pasty white kid burn so bad.
Sharrkan sighs as he knocks on the doors of his King's dressing room, where Sinbad has been preparing for that night's feast. The door opens to a puzzled, half-dressed Sinbad with only one hoop in, but before Sharrkan can warn his dear Lord of impending doom, a small shadow sails over his head and tackles Sinbad to the ground. Sharrkan promptly bids his screaming King farewell, and closes the door.
"I'm your favourite?" Ja'far demands at Sinbad, who hangs from the ceiling. "Your favourite? W-what am I, your toy--"
"What, no!" Sinbad protests and swings about. "No, Ja'far, this is silly! Let me down!"
"How does the diplomat know?!"
"Know what?"
Ja'far blushes crimson.
"Oh ..." Sinbad attempts to crack a smile. "You know ... It's not exactly a secret."
Crimson immediately deepens to a sinister black.
"Oh what .. Hey, c'mon Ja'far, let me down..."
"You deserve to hang up there," Ja'far sniffs.
"But you love me, don't you?"
"No."
"Yeah? That's not what you said when I was-- put that vase down Ja'far, put it down."
And eventually, under certain conditions, Sinbad is allowed to divorce the ceiling. At the feast, the King arrives with a rather distressingly cheerful expression and with a merry general trailing his footsteps. Sharrkan takes one look at Ja'far's smile and wonders if they should be worrying about him rather than this potato-shaped diplomat.
Sinbad takes his place at the head of the long table, and, as the others take their seats, raises his goblet. The generals mimic their King, and Ja'far smiles the most graciously of all.
"Gentlemen. Ladies--" the King offers a charming nod towards Yamuraiha-- "We are gathered here to celebrate what I hope to be a peaceful and prosperous trade alliance between Sindria and the Kingdom of L--."
The generals move their goblets to their respective lips, but their King's arm remains steady. Sinbad clears his throat.
"Er... I have one more additional announcement." He clears his throat again, and moves his gaze towards a certain white-haired general. "I ... There have been some rumours floating around that I have a favourite."
Sharrkan resists the urge to roll under the table.
"Well, let me clear that up right now," Sinbad continues and now turns to the diplomat. He takes a deep breath. "Ja'far is my favourite."
fin
epilogue
"So," Yamuraiha warily says as she attempts to summarize what her poor King has just explained, "let me get this straight. Ja'far is boycotting your penis?"
"Help me," Sinbad sobs into his alcohol. "Only wine loves me now."
The sorceress rubs the bridge of her nose. For crissakes, why couldn't she have worked for a normal kingdom?
AN: .... I'm really sorry. I thought of this in the shower and then wrote it in twenty minutes. I'm ... lol, jk, I'm not sorry.