Chapter 108 - 107: A Man .

Chapter 108: Chapter 107: A Man .

"You okay, Drogger?" Ynoro asks offhandedly, and if he hears Drogger sigh he takes no offense. "You seem quiet."

Drogger raises an eyebrow at the remark, wondering what he’s done recently to make Ynoro consider this abnormal.

" --Quieter than usual," he corrects himself, realising his mistake, "A different kind of quiet." Ynoro has a bit of a habit of talking about things like other people understand what he means. They usually don’t. Not that he’s aware of that.

"I’m fine," Ynoro assures him flatly, and must use slightly the wrong tone because now Ynoro looks curious. The opposite of what he’d been going for. But he knows how insufferable Ynoro can be when he senses mystery, and how mistaken his own conclusions can be, so he placates him with a partial truth. "...I just...never thought Rogard would be the one looking out for me."

" Ah, " his friend replies sagely, nodding like he’d suspected as much. Used to this sort of behaviour, Drogger doesn’t even bother with an eyeroll. "Times sure change, don’t they?" he muses with an air of nostalgia, "Children do grow up eventually, Drogger. Even Rogard’s not just a kid anymore."

Drogger is, in fact, well aware of this.

Uncomfortably so.

Unprofessionally so, one might even say.

The last time he’d had much to do with him, they’d been what, teenagers? Thought they were adults, of course, because doesn’t every teenager. Despite his best efforts to raise him into a good soldier, his last memory of Rogard Spidra, until recently, was as a brat --little more than a kid --with an attitude, a sense of entitlement and a father who nurtured it and little else.

But that was years ago.

Now, he’s a man.

And it’s getting hard not to notice what a man he’s grown into.

...

Montrel wants to die.

He’s pretty sure that Drogger is going to grant his wish, but not before making him suffer for it first.

Oh gods, the fair was a wonderful, and terrible thing.

He’s a little glad it only comes once a year. He’s not sure he’d survive if it was more often.

"Please, just kill me," he croaks as he crash lands down into the dirt. He makes a pathetic attempt at crawling his way towards the meagre shade that the sparring ring offers and then gives up when his body decides to fail him.

Mural’s the only one sympathetic enough to pass him some water, while the rest of the assholes he calls his friends just stand around like they haven’t made the exact same poor decisions a hundred times in their lives.

"...Are you hungover again?" Gandy inquires incredulously, and toes one of Montrel’s aching ribs with a toe.

"Shit, I think I’m still hungover from yesterday," Montrel complains bitterly, inhaling a mouthful of dust and thinking that well, his life can’t possibly get any worse than it feels right now.

He’s absolutely shattered, his head feels like a horse has kicked him in the head, and the rest of his body is making him pay for what he’s put it through, with interest.

"You didn’t have to go back," Jaga points out, and promptly ploughs Khobi head-first into the ground. Normally, Montrel would laugh, but he’s pretty sure if he does anything more than breathe he’ll throw up.

"You know I did, Jaga," he groans, managing to roll onto his back. He’s almost grateful that summer is over --the only thing that’s keeping him alive is the cool autumn air. Barely. "Not all of us have a pretty lady to court, you know."

"...And you’re going to find one down there?" Gandy snickers, and Montrel sends him as much of a glare he can manage right now with his eyes watering and his face numb. It doesn’t have the desired effect and the effort makes his head throb.

"I can try."

"It’s a lost cause, Montrel. They are who they are," he reminds him, unhelpfully. Like Montrel doesn’t already know that.

Everyone knows that, but a smile from one of those young women out on the plains; with bells in their laughs and the wilderness in their eyes, has a way of making a man forget.

"You can court one all you like, she’ll always leave. If you’re lucky she’ll come back the next year. Maybe with a son that may, or may not be yours."

Sometimes Gandy was a real asshole.

"Wow, shut the fuck up, Gandy?" he snaps, rubbing a line of sweat off his forehead and wondering if it was possible to sweat blood, because that’s what it feels like is happening to him right now.

He’s had too much to drink for too many nights in a row, and his body is turning against him.

"...Y’know, it’s gonna be no fun beating you if you’re like this during the tournament," Khobi says flatly, and honestly Montrel wants to strangle the kid sometimes.

The others all laugh, but Montrel knows he’s not trying to be funny. He just honest to god thinks he’s going to win.

Now, Montrel hates baseless confidence, but just privately, he reckons that Khobi’s got just as much a chance as anyone.

Not that he’d say that.

"Oh, you think you’re gonna beat me, huh?" he drawls, and by some miracle manages to actually haul himself upright again. Every joint in his body creaks, and his stomach lurches dangerously, but he makes it. Just. Whether he’s going to stay that way, however, is up for debate.

But it’s worth it to be able to return the glare Khobi sends him.

The kid looks a bit of a mess, actually, but what’s new? He’s got an ugly fat lip from where Jaga’s hit him with an elbow, and he’s still looking worse for wear after that nasty spat with his not-lover.

Which, honestly, Montrel finds pretty weird. Not the fact that they’d argued, because neither of them was easy company, but that, for all the times Loac’s broken his nose, he’s never done anything to him on this sort of scale.

To anyone, even. And if Khobi was to be believed --which, funnily enough, Montrel did, in fact --Loac had started it.

Even weirder.

"...You okay?" Khobi asks, instead of answering, brow creasing into a small frown, "You don’t look so good."

"Thanks," Montrel manages to get out, holding back a dry-retch with some degree of difficulty. Gandy grimaces and takes a notable pace backwards, the bastard.

"Well that’s super attractive," he remarks snarkily, and Montrel would have given him a good shake if he wasn’t so occupied with trying not to hurl up his stomach lining.

Which he seems to know. "No wonder you’ve been striking out. They like their men strong, and ideally sober enough to...y’know..."

"Oh fuck you." It doesn’t come out nearly as scathing as he would’ve liked. He does just fine in that department. It’s the keeping them around that he’s not so good at.

Gandy’s got a point though, as much as he hates to admit it --people born to wander don’t settle down. Not even for their perfect match. Everyone knows that.

"But hey, Montrel, maybe if you win a few rounds some nice girl will take pity on you --"

"Shut up Gandy, you’re not married either!" he bristles hotly, and glares at Rogard when he snickers along with him. "And neither are you, Rogard!"

"-- Hey, don’t drag me into this!"

"...Huh," Khobi remarks suddenly, glancing Rogard’s way as though struck by a thought. What a rare sight. "Why aren’t you married, Rogard?"

"Are you saying I’m a catch, Khobi? I’m flattered," Rogard deflects smoothly, and Montrel hates him just a little because he knows for a fact that he’s been down at the fair just as many nights as him this week, yet somehow he’s faring a whole lot better.

Doing well enough to stay late at training every night, at least, according to Khobi. Montrel doesn’t know how they do it. The thought of having to stay late --even to spend time with his beautiful horse --is starting to make him nauseous.

"No, asshole. I was just wondering is all!" Khobi shoots back, and elbows him.

"Khobi makes a good point," Mural hums thoughtfully, because he has.

Sure, Rogard’s still young, but he’s the breed of nobleman who has his pick of the ladies of castle. Mothers were probably queuing up to offer him their daughters. Or possibly even themselves.

"How have you not got a woman yet?"

"Hmm, it’s not like I haven’t had the opportunity, I just haven’t found the right girl I guess~" Rogard chirps after a long moment of deliberation, and flings out a bright smile as the soldiers around him bristle with jealousy.

"You know how it is."

No, Montrel can’t say he does.

"What, you mean one that could actually tolerate you for more than ten minutes?" Khobi jibes with a small smirk, and Rogard looks outright offended that he’s been called out. And that everyone laughs and hoots their support.

"Wow, Khobi, just because you’re already having marital drama doesn’t mean you have to take it out on all of us," he sniffs, and seems pleased with the thunderous expression that crosses Khobi’s face.

"Hey, say that again, I dare you." Montrel winces when the volume of his voice raises just above excruciatingly painful for his pounding head.

"I think you heard me perfectly fine." The pitch of Rogard’s voice is no better, and he suddenly regrets saying anything. Among other things.

If only Gandy had let him die in a gutter the night before, his suffering would already be over.

"Gods, you two are too loud," he groans, and hears his stomach make a noise he’s never heard it make before.

The drinks they serve are strong, and made to make a man forget himself, and he forgets every year that the sweetness they bring to a night can have some decidedly sour after-effects the following day if a man’s not careful.

Which, once the fair comes, they rarely are.

He’s certain he’s not the only man feeling sorry for himself this morning. Some even look worse, bless their dying souls.

What he’s also certain of, is that Drogger knows exactly why.

"Coming from you??" Khobi and Rogard both squawk incredulously, and Montrel while accepts the point that they’re to make, he’s sure they didn’t need to make it so damn loud.

"Ow, ssssshhhh," he groans, and feels his head pulse like his brain is trying to break free of his skull. Maybe there’s a storm in his head; it feels like there’s lightning trying to force its way out his eyes.

He made it through his laps this morning without throwing up blood or crumpling like a straw house, but he’s pretty sure if he takes a direct hit from Jaga his body will shatter into a thousand pieces.

"You better sober up quick," Gandy points out, like he doesn’t already fucking know that, "We have our orders."

"I know. I know," Montrel complains, waving away his concern with a weak hand.

His sword’s still laying uselessly where he dropped it, and he’s dreading the moment he has to pick it up again. Khobi will definitely laugh at him if he drops it. Which at this point is pretty likely.

Just holding himself up is taking all of his strength, and even that is rapidly declining. "Don’t worry, I’ll be fine by tomorrow." They don’t look like they believe him.

"I swear, okay?"

He’s been hungover before. He can do this.

He can totally do this.