Chapter 473 - 474: If Only.

Chapter 473: Chapter 474: If Only.

Lying on his back has only made his stomach worse, so Khobi rolls limply to one side so he can stare blankly into the embers smouldering away at the hearth. He wants to close his eyes, but when he does Khojin’s voice just gets louder and more earnest; asking him again, and again, like for all the times Khobi’s answered him in his mind, he hasn’t quite believed him.

Do you want to go home ?

The thing is that when Khojin had asked him, Khobi had answered without ever even having to think about it, because what was there to think about when in his mind there had never been a choice . There wasn’t even meant to be a question. Of course he wants to go home.

Khobi sighs, drawing his blanket tighter to himself; resigned to another terrible night’s sleep.

(It wasn’t meant to hurt, either.)

...

"Khobi, are you sure you’re okay?"

It doesn’t help that Khojin notices. But it’s really no surprise that he does; Khobi yawns the entire way through breakfast just like he did yesterday, and when he looks in the mirror the face staring back at him is surprisingly haggard for someone whose dreams have just become reality.

"Just...not sleeping well, is all," Khobi mutters, making a lame attempt to rub some life back into his bloodshot eyes. From the sympathetic look Khojin gives him he hasn’t been successful. Ah well, it can’t be helped; being tired has never been a good enough reason for not making it to training.

"The couch probably isn’t doing you any favors," Mozry scolds disapprovingly, giving his plate a yank so that he doesn’t faceplant right down into it, "...You should take better care of yourself."

"...What Mozry means –" Khojin prefaces, and gets a stern, unapologetic look from his wife.

" –No, that’s exactly what I meant."

" –Is that we’re happy for your company but a night in your own bed would...probably do you some good," Khojin supplies with a warm pat on the shoulder. "It’s...a long way back to Scargga, Khobi. When the time comes, you’ll need your strength."

When the time comes .

Those words should thrill him; should fill him with excitement and strike up the familiar burn of anticipation in his blood, but they don’t. Instead, they leave Khobi feeling surprisingly rotten . And while he hopes that the comment about needing his strength is just referring to the long ride home, there’s no discounting the possibility that they’ll need to force their way out. That doesn’t much help with the rotten feeling churning bile in his stomach.

Khobi’s already told them that they don’t have to –that he’d be able to find a way out without things getting violent with the castle guards, but whenever he says that Khojin and Mozry exchange this look over him that makes him feel like he’s a kid again; a kid who just doesn’t yet understand the ways of the world.

"...I’ve been meaning to ask," Khojin remarks, tone light but almost forcibly so, like he’s sensed he’s somehow misstepped, "...But where do you sleep?"

"I have a room," Khobi shrugs, glad for the change in subject for how it loosens the knot in his stomach enough for him to finish his breakfast, "Kind of."

"Ah, that’s a relief – wait , what do you mean kind of ?"

Oops.

"I...uh, I share it with someone," he mumbles somewhat sheepishly, feeling himself colour. He’s not sure exactly why he hasn’t explained his sleeping arrangements. Probably for the same reason he hadn’t explained the exact nature of his relationship with Loac. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Khojin about girls when he was young either, and then not about boys either, when he’d discovered that was where his preference lay. There are just some things that children prefer to keep from their parents, even when they’re grown.

"Oh, that must be nice," Khojin admits with a mild smile and a light chuckle. Mozry, however, levels him a sage look.

"...You share it with Trent, don’t you," she states, neither question nor accusation, and Khojin promptly drops his fork.

"...Before you’re even married??" he exclaims, aghast; eyes comically wide. Khobi isn’t even sure why this is so embarrassing; only that it really, really is.

Unaffected by her husband’s shock, and most certainly not sharing it, Mozry rolls her eyes. Hard.

"Oh, don’t be so old fashioned, old man," she scoffs, not so much as batting an eye in the face of Khojin’s scandalised expression.

"But our Khobi –" he tries to remind her, but Mozry is having absolutely none of it.

"Don’t our Khobi me," she huffs, and that’s the end of that. She’s probably intending for it to be a just a pat on the knee but sometimes his aunt doesn’t know her own strength and Khobi’s leg comes away smarting, "I’m sure if Trent had nefarious intentions Khobi’s more than capable of telling him what’s what."

Nefarious intentions, huh?

If only they knew.

And Khobi seriously, sincerely hopes that they don’t.

"...It seems like he misses you," she remarks with an offhanded shrug, finishing off her slice of bread as though she hasn’t just left both her husband and nephew utterly mortified.

"You reckon so?" Khobi finds himself asking, even though he gets the feeling that he’s right. Khobi misses him too, a little.

(A lot.)

...

It’s not his best day at training. Even though there’s something about just getting out there with a sword in hand that grants him strength even when his body is on the brink of collapse, there’s only so far he can ride on enthusiasm alone. He doesn’t block quite clean enough when sparring with Jaga and his head rings for it, and he spends half of the afternoon battling more against a bleeding nose that won’t quit than the other soldiers. Eventually, Drogger gets sick of him bleeding all over his training grounds and ships him off to the infirmary to stew. And it would’ve been the perfect opportunity to try sneak in a quick nap, but napping there is normally out of the question even under the best of circumstances, and today there are a bunch of soldiers bellowing their lungs out and generally kicking up so much of a fuss that the stern-faced matron looks like she has half a mind to kick them out, injured or not.