Chapter 142 - 141: Blue Eyes Warrior.

Chapter 142: Chapter 141: Blue Eyes Warrior.

Transfixed as he is by the display before them, Khobi barely even realises that the fight is over practically as soon as it’s begun.

Both men are moving so swiftly; blades coming down on each other at such a fervid pace that he doesn’t realise just how little time has passed by the time Montrel falls to his knees, drenched in sweat, with a blade pressed right up against his throat.

​It’s another quick, decisive victory. And a bloody one at that --crimson patches are blossoming up all around Montrel, and when Loac releases him and sends him on his way, he’s limping and holding his side like it pains him.

It can’t be fatal because he makes it all the way back to the crowd unaided, but Khobi catches sight of his face as he gets rushed to a medic by his comrades, and the expression behind the blood smears is bitter, and positively thunderous.

​It’s the face of a man who never even stood a chance, and knows it.

And as Montrel gets swallowed up by the crowd, without really meaning to Khobi’s gaze drifts back to Loac’s tall figure, traipsing back to his seat alone, and wonders, with a kind of feverish thrill, what kind of a terrifying fighter he must be, to make Montrel wear a face like that.

​He must zone out for a moment there, because he jumps when a steaming cup of tea suddenly materialises right under his nose.

The king has some surprisingly sharp reflexes and manages to yank it back from harm’s way before Khobi accidentally sends it flying.

​"...Sorry," Khobi mumbles sheepishly, but the king just smiles at him in that unsettling way he does; that kind of smile that makes him want to draw his clothes tighter around him to try and keep his eyes away.

Like he knows something. Or thinks he does.

​"Tea?" he offers pleasantly, like Khobi had done nothing odd. Like he didn’t know exactly where Khobi’s eyes had wandered. And on whom they’d lingered. "You look a little thirsty. Doesn’t he, Vogrid?"

​"I’d say parched, Your Majesty," Vogrid replies stonily, without missing a beat. He’s not exactly wrong , because his throat is suddenly quite unnaturally dry, but Khobi could honestly hit him.

The king nods, approving of the assessment.

​"Hmm. I’m inclined to agree."

​" Thanks, but I’m fine," Khobi lies snarkily, and hates how husky his voice comes out.

He’s not sure what exactly they’re getting at --if they’re getting at anything at all --but there’s a lilt to the king’s voice he doesn’t much care for.

​"It’s a lovely tea, Khobi," the princess chimes in, daintily resting her cup in her lap; none of her father’s vague insinuations in her voice, "I think you’ll find it quite refreshing."

​In the end, he takes the cup offered out to him --politely refrains from snatching it, even --and does his best to ignore the irritating way the king’s smile turns smug.

​So what if he’s thirsty? He’s got a fight coming up soon, and he needs to stay hydrated.

​The princess is true to her word. Khobi’s honestly not much for tea, but it is pretty nice.

Not too sweet and not too bitter. Refreshing too, actually, and after burning his mouth a handful of times for trying to drink it like he’d drink ale, he finds himself kind of enjoying it.

​But then Loac walks up those steps and it suddenly tastes like ash in his mouth.

The storm is completely gone. Left down in the arena; or maybe shut away somewhere, Khobi doesn’t know exactly what’s just happened, but it’s all just gone and Loac feels cold .

Colder than before, even, like the fight has sucked the life clean out of the air around him.

​Wordlessly, he dumps himself back down into his chair; the atmosphere changing around them into something heavy, and dull, and that feels a little too much like despair.

​Despite the warmth of the sun overhead, the princess shivers, like a frosty evening draft has blown in around them, and suddenly, Khobi’s not sure if he was to look into Loac’s eyes right now, that he would see anything staring back.

​"Careful, Loac," Gurdet remarks lightly, either immune to the sour feel to the air or oblivious to it, "You’re making your own men look bad."

Loac snorts, throws his feet up on the railing and tugs at the front laces of his jerkin to reveal a scandalous few inches of dark skin, glossy with sweat.

​(Khobi doesn’t look. He doesn’t .)

​"S’not my fault if they’re weak," he drawls flatly, like it can’t be helped, and the casual way he says it really pisses Khobi off.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not this time. Not yet. Instead, he just hoists himself out of his seat and rolls the kinks out of his shoulders.

He’s got a fight coming up, and he wants to be ready for it. And in any case, anything he wants to say will be meaningless if he doesn’t say it out there .

​If Loac thinks he’s untouchable, he’s dead wrong. And Khobi intends to prove that to him.

...

There was once a boy with bright blue eyes. Quick to cry, and quick to laugh, he was a troublemaker with a mischievous heart from the moment he could walk.

And he dreamed of being a swordsman. Not just any swordsman, he’d always told her, but the best swordsman in the world. A legend.

And no one would ever dare attack their kingdom, because they would know that they’d have to get through him first.

And Xena had taken him ever so seriously, because although it was the kind of fantastical dream children have, it was one that was important to him, so that made it important to her, too.

He truly loved to fight. Not because he was inherently violent --the truth was that he was a kind child, with an open heart and good intentions --but because he had been born with his mother’s spirited heart and the same wilderness that had run in his father’s blood.

He loved the challenge of a worthy adversary, the thrill of the fight; the pressure of his strength against another’s and the heart pounding excitement of not knowing which one of them will prevail.

For him, it was never about bloodlust and carnage, but about having fun , and the liberating rush that came with a victory hard won, and earned.