Chapter 75: Tears Of Loss.

Chapter 75: Chapter 75: Tears Of Loss.

Khobi, somewhat unbelievably, wins.

He’s not sure who’s more pleased,himself, or the nearby soldiers who’d been watching the sparring match with frankly concerning interest. He’s pretty sure he sees some money changing hands, and he’d be more invested in seeing who’d bet on him if he wasn’t so fucking exhausted.

Running against Rogard was one thing.

Duelling him was a whole fucking other .

The guards he usually sparred with are good. They’re great, even, but like he realised the last time he fought Rogard, they just don’t hold a candle to him when it comes to natural skill.

He’s still really fucking rusty --Drogger wasn’t joking when he’d said he’d forgotten half his basics --and it’s obvious that he’s still no match for Khobi when it comes to stamina, but fuck could he use a sword.

He’s got some scary reflexes, and he learns far too fast on the fly. Khobi’s pretty damn sure Rogard was absorbing the techniques he was using, and was firing them right back at him like he’d been doing it every day for his whole life.

You just couldn’t teach that.

And he was fucking wasting it. Doing whatever it was that the others said he did. Art, or dancing, or something like that that nobles did to pass the time.

It was pretty... annoying .

"You could be amazing, y’know?" Khobi remarks flatly, as Rogard cradles a bruised left arm, and although he probably means it as a compliment, it comes out incredibly rude.

"I am, " Rogard sniffs back irritably, before remembering that he’d just been utterly humiliated in front of dozens of witnesses, some of whom reported to his father. " Was , I guess."

He doesn’t feel too amazing right now. In fact, he feels like a real loser. It’s not a feeling he’s ever really been accustomed with, even in the days when he and Loac had been friends.

He’d always been ahead of Rogard, so far ahead, even that sometimes he’d been almost completely out of reach, until one day he was --but even so, Rogard had never felt like a loser . He’d just been that kind of kid.

And now this Khobi Frost from a no-name, broken kingdom, had come along and made him feel like a right loser .

What would his father say?

"So what happened?"

He knew what his father would say.

Unacceptable , would be the first word. Followed quickly by How Could You Do This To Me .

You’re Better Than This.

You’re Better Than Him.

I Really Thought You Were Becoming A Son I Could Be Proud Of.

"It’s none of your business," Rogard snaps sharply, because it’s not. Because there’s no way he’d understand. Talent Breeds Talent , was another thing his father liked to say.

He’d said it a lot, when he was young, probably because he approved of his son having a gifted young prince as a friend. And then he’d said it more, as he got older, it’s purpose to remind him of the opposite of its meaning.

What was the point in associating with those less talented, or those less skillful, or those less than you? He was Rogard Spidra, his father liked to remind him --emphasis on the Spidra --and Rogard Spidra didn’t associate with rabble.

One day, his father promised, he would be a Lord of immeasurable wealth. A prince, even, if he played his cards right. Maybe even a king.

His father had big plans for their house, and as such, he had certain expectations of his son. He was wealthy, and well-bred, and when you were wealthy and well-bred there were certain things that were beneath you.

Things like manual labour, drills, and commoners. Even the commoners with sharp tongues but good hearts, who believed, and had made him believe, that a man could make his own destiny.

In the end, he’d been wrong.

"Fine, have it your way," Khobi shrugs, and Rogard’s actually a little surprised that he doesn’t press him further. He just sighs, and picks himself up off the ground to go look for his sword.

He dropped it some time ago and tried to keep fighting without it, but if he’s out of practice with a sword, then he’s downright terrible without one. Fistfights are unbecoming of nobility, father always told him. That’s what he had guards for.

"Hey, you did well," one of the soldiers calls out to him as he passes him by. He’s tall, and stacked like a mountain, and when he claps a hand on Rogard’s shoulder he’s not certain nothing breaks. "It’s never easy trying to pick up where you left off."

"Like you’d know anything about that Jaga," Rogard snorts from somewhere across the way, "You haven’t missed a day of training in your life." Jaga ignores him.

"The hardest part is choosing to start again," he says instead, and gives Rogard a nod of encouragement.

"What, do you tell gypsy fortunes now, or somethin’?" Montrel growls with a roll of his eyes.

"You’ll do better next time."

Rogard frowns, gathering up his fallen sword. There’s some blood on it. He thinks it might be his.

"Next time?" he says aloud, "...But I already lost."

"Yeah, one fight ," Montrel drawls obnoxiously, and the eye roll is even more dramatic this time. "How many do you think I’ve lost against Khobi --don’t fuckin’ answer that Khobi, I know exactly how many it is --"

"Yeah, what are you talkin’ about?" Khobi snorts, "So I beat you. So what? You ran all those laps, just to fight me once? What a weird guy."

Rogard doesn’t want to hear that from him. He won fair and square, and that already hurts enough, he doesn’t get to go calling him names, too.

"What! I’m not weird! You’re weird!"

So he’s petty. Show him a man who isn’t, even a little.

And because he’s petty, he leaves. And maybe it’s also because he’s frustrated, and upset, and furious at himself and at Khobi Frost, and at the captain.

No one tries to stop him, which is some small mercy. His eyes feel wet, and he can’t swear with absolute certainty that it’s because of the dirt.

It’s not fair. After everything he did just to be able to fight this guy. He ached for this. He worked for it. He put his body, and his father’s good name on the line for this. And for what? To lose. To spend hours running and looking like an idiot for it.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d won. All those hours slogging away under the sun, all those eyes on him while he sweated and bled his way around the training ground like some sort of common soldier --they wouldn’t have mattered.

Because he would have been able to stand tall and proud, and remind them all --in case they’d forgotten --the difference, between him, and them.

But he hadn’t won.

He’d been completely outclassed. In strength, in stamina, and --and it really pained him to admit it -- skill . Their first fight, and even all the hours they’d spent running together hadn’t prepared him. Maybe it was just that he was out of practice. Or maybe it was more than that.

He’d been pushed around. Beaten back. Disarmed, and then kicked down into the dirt. He hasn’t lost so badly since he was a kid.

And after all the pain and humiliation he endured just to get here, well...

...It’s so deeply unsatisfying.

His eyes are dripping now. It’s the dirt, he tells himself, there’s so much on his face now, of course there’s some in his eyes.

He drops behind a pillar and wipes at his face. It comes away smeared with mud and tears, and he feels even more pathetic.

Only kids cry when they lose.

"Hey," a voice says, and Rogard hangs his head so whoever it is won’t see how red his eyes are. "I thought I might find you here."

Tsk, Rogard thinks to himself, as a gloved hand appears in his line of sight a moment later, holding out a pale blue square of fabric, what’s that supposed to mean.

"It’s good to see that you haven’t forgotten everything I taught you," the voice says, and he looks up to find that he’s been offered a handkerchief by none other than Crade’s nightmare of a drillmaster, Captain Drogger Noog. "Here, take it."

It doesn’t exactly sound like an order, but Rogard obeys nonetheless. It won’t do anything for his red eyes but at least he’ll look like less of a mess.

"You lost," Drogger states, and Rogard glares up at him through his puffy eyes because as if he needed to be reminded . But there’s no malice in Drogger’s face, if anything, he looks more serious than ever. He’s already starting to get wrinkles. "That’s not what matters, Rogard."

"Again with the lectures, Master?" it doesn’t come out quite as scathing as he was hoping.

" That’s not what matters, Rogard ," Drogger repeats, more expectantly, this time, like he’s said something terribly important --something that Rogard should remember.

And oddly enough, he finds he does.

" What matters is what you do next. "

He crumples the handkerchief in his fist. He’s long since outgrown Drogger’s lectures. Why won’t he just accept that??

"If you’re not happy with how things are, Rogard, then it’s simple," he says, voice steady, and eyes full of the kind of conviction Rogard had always admired and been envious of. " Change them ."

The dangerous thing about Drogger Noog, was not that he honestly, earnestly believed that that was possible, but that something about him made other people believe that, too.

Rogard had been fooled before, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

"Like that’s possible," he scoffs, pushing past him and trying to push down that ache of wanting to believe.

He’s not fourteen anymore. It’s none of Drogger’s business how he lives his life. "What do you want from me, Drogger ? Even you thought I’d quit, didn’t you?"

The look Drogger gives him is quietly fierce, and so deadly serious that Rogard feels almost ashamed. Like somehow, all over again, he’s let him down.

"Not even for a moment, Rogard."

He can’t remember the last time someone really, honestly, believed in him.

(That’s a lie.)

(He remembers.)

It was Rogard, then, too.

...

"See, I knew he’d be back."

"Yeah, Khobi’s gonna be thrilled."

"Montrel, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not..."

"What are you talkin’ about? I’m serious, here. Didn’t you see how pissed he was when Rogard left yesterday?"

"...You’re actually quite good friends with him, aren’t you?"

"Quit talkin’ out your ass, Gandy . "