Chapter 130: Watchfull Eyes.

Chapter 130: Chapter 130: Watchfull Eyes.

The barracks are a hive of activity.

If Khobi had thought there were a lot of soldiers already milling out in the arena, there are dozens more impatiently waiting in the wings; all chomping at the bit to get out there, and pissed off that the servants aren’t moving fast enough.

​It’s not their fault , Khobi hears a familiar voice scolding a soldier who had been rude enough to complain too long and too loudly.

In the dim lighting, he locates the familiar crop of blonde hair without too much difficulty, and is pleased to see that despite the unkind whispers that had started running rampant through the castle following the events of the previous day, Rogard’s reputation still precedes him.

The soldier apparently wants no trouble with him, or his father.

​"Khobi!" he chimes, when he spots Khobi making his way towards him, "I was wondering when you were going to turn up"

​He looks as chipper as ever, but it’s clear that Rogard has certainly seen better days.

​"Hey," Khobi greets, and decides not to point out how gruesome the bruise on the side of his face looks.

Considering the fall he’d taken, and how horrific it had looked from the sidelines, he seems alright. "How you doin’ today?"

​It’s as close as he’s going to get to admitting that when Rogard had hit the ground he had felt a flash of panic that he wasn’t going to get up again, and they both know it.

​"Perfect," Rogard assures him with a grin, and even though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he still thanks the servant that has just finished lacing up his jerkin and gives the poor thing a heart attack at being spoken to.

"A bit sore, but nothing that’s going to hold me back today." He says it distinctly louder than necessary, as if for the benefit of those around him; the ones who are poorly hiding their surprise that he’s even competing today at all, after such a decimating defeat the day before.

​Clearly, they’re idiots.

​Anyone who knows Rogard at all would know that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

​"Good," Khobi replies, relieved. Rogard had been completely swamped at the feast the night before, and he hadn’t had the chance to make sure that he was okay.

His had probably been the most dramatic fall of the day, and when they’d scraped him off the ground he’d looked the most defeated Khobi had ever seen him, but it’s reassuring to see that today he doesn’t look quite so crushed. "In that case," he adds with a challenging smirk, "I look forward to beating you today."

​The smile that Rogard sends back at him is practically menacing.

​"Funny," he trills, and the hairs on the back of Khobi’s neck flare up the way they did the first time he realised that Rogard was the kind of dangerous he found most thrilling, "I was about to say the same thing to you."

​"...Of course," Khobi smirks, because even though he has every intention of beating Rogard out there today, should their paths cross, he’s glad he’s come to win.

​It’d be no fun otherwise.

​"...And Rogard?" he hollers, after a moment’s hesitation.

Rogard doesn’t turn, but Khobi can tell he’s listening. And he finds he really, honestly means it when he adds, "...Good luck out there."

​Some of the steel in Rogard’s face softens.

​"...You too, Khobi," he says, just as honestly, and waves, as he makes his way towards the door.

​"Can you stop with the nickname?" Khobi calls after him, aggrieved, because seriously, what kind of grown-ass man gives other grown-ass men nicknames.

​"Nope~"

​Rogard, apparently.

​He can’t see Rogard’s face but he gets the feeling he’s grinning.

​"And don’t let these guys beat you!" Rogard shouts emphatically from the doorway, over the mayhem of the barracks, "I won’t stand for you losing to anyone except me!" And just like that, he’s washed away by the steady crowd as more soldiers pour on in.

Khobi just shakes his head at Rogard’s nonsense, but he honestly can’t say he doesn’t feel the same.

​But first, he needs some armour. The gear he’s been borrowing thus far has treated him well enough during training, but he’s not all that confident it’ll fare the same in a real fight.

Once, Jaga had actually managed to rend through his jerkin entirely, and that was with a blunted blade.

He doesn’t want anything heavy, or fancy, or special --just something more than the clothes on his back --and honest, he’d get it himself if he knew where to look.

​Unfortunately, he doesn’t.

So of course, he asks for Binny. What with the ongoing festivities and ridiculous amount of guests the castle is catering for, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Binny wasn’t part of the chaos in the barracks right now, but for some reason, he gets the feeling that he is.

​His instinct proves correct when the servant he’s accosted just nods mutely, and points.

​" --Nice sword," Binny remarks even before Khobi gets to greet him; like he’s seen him coming from a mile away.

For a second Khobi has no idea what he’s talking about; the sword hanging at his waist feels like it’s always been there.

​"It’s Montrel’s," he feels the need to supply, and Binny snickers as he brushes some loose dirt off the front of his tunic. It’s really quite the futile gesture; he’s got dirt up to his elbows, and quite a bit on his face, somehow.

​"That makes it not a nice sword?" he teases back with a cheeky grin, and then continues without giving Khobi the satisfaction of responding, "You’re here for some armour, right? The stuff we’ve got here is second hand and isn’t pretty, but it’s clean, at least."

​That explains some of the dirt.

​"What are you after?" Binny inquires curiously, wiping a layer of sweat off his forehead and smearing mud in its wake.

Khobi had never really stopped to wonder at how all the equipment he and the castle soldiers dirtied, bloodied, and ripped on a daily basis stayed in such good condition. Some of the soldiers --Montrel included --kept their own gear and tended to it with respect and a surprising amount of care, but for the most part it was the servants who painstakingly stripped away the dried blood, and sweat stains from their clothes and their armour, and made sure everything was in working order.

​"Uh." What a good question. Truthfully, Khobi doesn’t exactly know. This is kind of his first tournament, after all. Binny takes mercy on him, and tries again.

​"What are you used to fighting in?" he asks, doing a spectacular job of flitting around Khobi from soldier to soldier, doling out various items as he goes.

"Not training, mind," he adds, meaningfully, " Fighting ." Khobi frowns deeply, because most of his fighting days were spent in Briyagi, and all he ever had was...

​"...This?" he offers, glancing down at what he’s wearing. It’s not entirely accurate, because sometimes Silas hadn’t even let him have this much, but he doesn’t want to do that again.

​He could. But that doesn’t mean he wants to.

​Binny just looks him up and down, and then up again.

​"... Right ," he states heavily, and then seems to reconsider, "....Actually, I think I’ve got just the thing."

​The thing turns out to be a leather jerkin not unlike the ones he’s been wearing, but thicker, darker in colour, and decidedly less worn.

It’s sturdy, but surprisingly light, and more malleable than it looks, and when he slips it on over his shirt and buckles the straps, it fits like it was made for him.

​(Khobi actually kind of likes how it looks, too.)

​Without a mirror, he can’t be quite sure, but he thinks he looks quite like a proper soldier.

​(He certainly feels like it.)

​Binny looks pleased with himself, but a couple of the servants nearby don’t look quite so thrilled and as he finishes adjusting the sword at his hip, Khobi hears them scolding him in hushed whispers.

​" Binny , should you really be giving that --" one says, shooting Khobi a nervous glance.

​" Binny, we’re not meant to touch -- " another whispers, sounding alarmed.

​"Binny, that’s not --"

​But their concerns don’t seem to trouble Binny in the least, and he waves them all away like nothing they say will sway him.

​"Ignore them," he tells Khobi lightly, and states, like he’d always known it would, "...It suits you."

​Khobi doesn’t miss the wistfulness in his tone, and feels a pang of sympathy for him. He knows what that feels like. To want something more.

​"...You should have entered," he states bluntly, because it’s the truth, and Binny laughs, bright and hollow.

​" Servant , Khobi," he reminds him, gesturing at himself from head to toe; probably to drive home his point. It’s lost on Khobi. He just sees a guy covered in dirt.

That’s him --and every other soldier --every single day. "Kinda not allowed."

​"That’s a dumb rule," Khobi snorts.

​"Still a rule," Binny shrugs helplessly, and claps him on the back for good luck, "Don’t worry, I’ll be watching. Show em somethin’ incredible, you hear?"

​Somehow, Khobi gets the feeling that Binny’s spent an awful lot of time just watching.

​It’s a real shame, that.