Chapter 139 - 138: Feelings Unfold.

Chapter 139: Chapter 138: Feelings Unfold.

It’s been bothering Rogard for some time now, the way the castle talks about Khobi. Not even in whispers, either, and the ones that are wise enough to hold their tongues give away their feelings with their eyes.

​They hate him.

Plain and simple. To them he’s common, and dirty; entirely unfit to be called a prince, and from the moment he set foot inside the castle gates, his father and all those like him had pegged him as a monster.

A savage. A beast. A common street thug raised in the shadow of Silas Luminus, that their king had welcomed not only into his home, but into his own family; a royal family of a kingdom widely held in high regard and of rather distinguished lineage, no less.

​To the kinds of people who cared about such things, it was an utter disgrace.

​Rogard can’t remember the last time a day went by that he hadn’t overheard some snippet of conversation about how what a mistake His Majesty had made in having dealings with Silas Luminus.

Or how appalling it was for such a dangerous criminal to be allowed to roam free through the castle.

​Sometimes they called him an animal. Sometimes worse.

​Rogard’s ashamed that he used to be one of them.

​But he knows better now.

​Sure, Khobi can be rude, and definitely mean and ungrateful when it comes to constructive criticism on his choice of wardrobe, and he might not act much like a prince and doesn’t have any respect for castle decorum, and sure he makes a terrible first impression, but he doesn’t deserve the way the people Rogard had once called his friends look at him.

​In the lead up to the tournament it had only gotten worse.

Word had gotten around --mostly because Khobi had had no intention of keeping it quiet --that he was competing, and of course, everyone who was anyone had something to say about it.

And none of it kind. Or new. He was too common. Too poor. Too unrefined . How could their king allow such a mockery of such an honorable sport? It was an insult to the other competitors, they said, letting a prisoner fight against them like he was their equal.

​They’re not talking now.

​Not after having actually seen him fight.

​Khobi might be common, and poor, and unrefined, but he sure can fight.

The crowd had been sceptical, when he’d taken the stage --some even outraged --but by the end of the fight there wasn’t a doubt in Rogard’s mind that even his harshest critic would be hard pressed to argue that he didn’t deserve to be out there.

​As he walks off, a couple of them even clap, completely dumbfounded by what they’ve just witnessed. Because to them, this is not the same wretch of a prisoner that once wreaked havoc upon their castle.

​It is though; he’s just dressed a bit better.

​If anything, he’s even more dangerous now than he ever was back then. Namely because some idiot’s gone and given him a proper sword.

​(Rogard would bet his father’s entire fortune that it was Montrel.)

​It’s fine though. Rogard’s more dangerous now, too. And Khobi may have won their last fight, but Rogard has absolutely no intention of letting him with another.

​Unfortunately, their long-awaited rematch will have to wait for another day.

​Because long before he and Khobi face each other in the ring, Rogard loses.

​It’s underwhelming, really. His opponent was nothing particularly special; no one of particular note.

He just happened to trip him, and Rogard just happened to stumble, and when he stumbled his ankle just gave way out from under him.

Nothing major --just a sprain, the medics told him, clearly relieved that he hadn’t wrecked himself again --but it was painful, and it was on an enormous stage, in front of an unforgiving audience, and it was enough to lose him his fight.

​And so, alone, in the barracks, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, Rogard tries to walk on the ankle that’s gone and ruined his life.

He doesn’t manage a single step before his leg gives out and he has to collapse against the nearest wall, and when a cry of pain escapes his throat he doesn’t choke it down.

There’s no one to hear, after all. The crowd outside is too loud.

​(Maybe his father really was right all along.)

​He was an idiot to think he’d ever be able to beat Loac.

​He couldn’t win yesterday, and he couldn’t win today.

Gods, he barely even got close. Khobi had looked so heartbroken too, when he had had to be escorted off. Carried off.

He hadn’t even been able to walk himself out of the ring. Rogard wishes he hadn’t looked, because when he’d seen how soul-shatteringly disappointed he looked, shame had flooded through him like poison.

They’ve been waiting for this day for so long, and now it can’t happen, and it’s all his fault . He lost his footing, and with it, his chance to fight Khobi the way they promised each other they would.

​It tastes bitter, but through his tears, Rogard chokes out a sharp laugh.

If someone had told him, only months ago, that one day he would be aching over breaking a promise to Khobi Frost, he would have looked at them with such vicious scorn they probably never would have dared speak to him again.

But he is aching. He’s been talking about this for so long. They have been talking about this for so long. It was one of the training grounds’ worst kept secrets that some of the soldiers had even placed bets.

It was going to be a real show. Close, of course, but in the end Rogard was going to win.

​And gods, he had wanted that win so badly. Over Khobi. Over the rest of them. So, so badly.

He can hear what they’re saying, after his crushing defeat at Loac’s hands the day before; that maybe he isn’t any good --that maybe he never was --after all, how could he be, if he lost so easily .

And he had wanted to go out there today and prove them all wrong; to prove his father wrong. That he’s good enough, just as he is.

​He doesn’t know how Khobi does it. How he acts like he doesn’t hear.

​That’s how Drogger finds him; a frustrated wretch crumpled against the wall, tear-stained face contorted in pain.

​Somehow, it makes Rogard feel even more pathetic. Because for some reason, it’s always him who sees him cry.

​And he’s such an ugly crier.

​But it never seems to bother Drogger. He just scoops him up, tears and all; taking all his weight without complaint, since Rogard no longer can, as he guides him back to the bed he’s so stubbornly tried to leave.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

He just holds him steady; the warmth of his body pressing into him and chasing away the icy whispers of doubt and despair so deeply ingrained in him by his father.

And the arm around him, propping him up when he doesn’t have the strength to stand, serves as a reminder that there is someone in his life who believes in him even when he doesn’t believe in himself.

​As he sinks back down onto the mattress, Rogard wonders, with a choked sob, what he did to deserve such faith.

​"It’s okay," is the first thing Drogger says to him, and even though he’s probably just trying to make him feel better, it’s what Rogard needed to hear.

"Hey," he interjects firmly, when tears threaten to start pooling in the corners of Rogard’s eyes again, and then softer, when Rogard hurriedly scrubs at his face with the edge of his sleeve, "You’re going to be okay."

​Rogard breathes. Meets Drogger’s eyes, and promptly stops breathing again.

​It’s not your fault, his face says, so fierce and earnest and insistent that Rogard know it.

And the hand clenched into his shoulder, gripping him tight as if to remind him that he is not alone, feels a lot like I’m proud of you.

​The shame melts out of his blood; receding like an outgoing tide.

​He has nothing to be ashamed of.

​It takes a long moment but Drogger waits through every agonising second of it until finally, Rogard nods.

Because even though it hurts right now --so badly he thinks he might break --he’s strong, and he thinks he really is going to be okay. Maybe not today; maybe not tonight.

Maybe not even tomorrow. But one day. His ankle will heal, given time, and eventually, so will his pride.

​The tears don’t stop, no matter how hard he wills them to, but he stops trying to hide them because suddenly they’re not tears of pain, but gratitude.

​So he didn’t beat Loac this time.

​Next time, then.

​And if not, then, like Drogger had told him only yesterday, the time after that. Until he does.

​It’s funny. Rogard’s spent most of his life feeling inadequate in the eyes of his father, yet somehow, even despite his failings and his losses, when Drogger looks at him, he doesn’t feel at all like a failure.

Rather, he feels like there’s nothing he can’t do.

​He wonders if he looks at his other soldiers like this. If he ever looked at his wife, like this.

And, most dangerously of all, he wonders why he’s here.

​Drogger is the Second Captain. The Second Captain, charged by His Majesty himself with overseeing the proceedings; to protect the peace and ensure that no danger comes to his king, his kingdom or its people while the castle is full of strangers.

He’s been out there all day, and the days before that; his very presence enough to deter any potential troublemakers.

​But he’s not out there right now.

​He’s in here, with him.

​Why .

​When it comes down to it, it’s a simple question.

​Why, on such an important day, would one of the most powerful men in the kingdom --a man known for his dedication to his work and for his unwavering sense of duty --leave his post to find him?

​Rogard wonders, too, if the answer is just as simple.

​But surely not .

​Surely what’s between them is just training. Surely, Drogger just sees him as his pupil --as an equal, even; as just another soldier he trains with. Perhaps even a friend.

​Surely the occasional lingering look that Rogard swears he catches every now and then --the kind that has his heart dropping out from under him --is nothing more than wishful thinking.

​...But what if it’s not?

​It’s a question that plagues him long after Drogger has left. Burns him, even.

What if it’s not his imagination? What if all the soft looks and even softer words, and the casual brushes that set Rogard’s skin on fire aren’t nearly as innocent as he’s tried to convince himself they must be.

​What if they mean exactly what he’s been secretly hoping they mean.

​What if there’s a chance that in all their late nights training together, Drogger has come to see him the same way Rogard sees him?