Chapter 110 - 109: wavering Steps.

Chapter 110: Chapter 109: wavering Steps.

He doesn’t even make them pace out their sequences, which is almost a little upsetting since Rogard usually likes to spend his supposed focusing time focusing on things he probably shouldn’t.

On the other hand, it means hands on training, which Rogard finds he can’t get enough of these days.

He conveniently forgets, every time, that hands on training --with anyone --means hurting.

He’s reminded, for what’s probably the hundredth time, when Drogger throws him to the ground, and pins him there with one hand, and Rogard pretends that the wind that goes whooshing out his lungs is from the blow, and no other reason.

But then his reflexes kick in --the ones he’s been trying so hard to rebuild after letting them languish --and he’s able to knock the captain clean off his feet before he can pin him down for good.

It’s a good feeling, and Rogard feels an overwhelming sense of accomplishment at the vaguely startled expression Drogger lets slip as he falls.

"Nice shot, Rogard," Khobi hollers from the edge of the ring where he’s been sidelined since his face had met the wrong end of his own shield.

There’s a ragged strip from his shirt balled up and pressed tight against a bleeding lip, and Rogard really hopes it’s one of Montrel’s.

"Pity he got you first, huh?"

Rogard’s just about to holler back something he’s sure would have been utterly decimating, when he feels the blunt edge of a knife nudge all-too meaningfully into the soft space under his chin.

Which, unfortunately, means it’s his loss.

"Dammit!" he curses irritably, slamming a hand into the ground and sinking back into the dirt to wallow in his defeat. He’d been so close this time, too.

He’s not upset that he’s lost. It’s not like he never beats Drogger.

But beating him isn’t the point.

"Concentrate," Drogger reminds him sternly, brushing a line of sweat off his brow as he withdraws. "But that was better." He sounds like he approves, despite the obvious lapse of concentration, so it’s not a complete loss after all.

He offers him a hand up and Rogard takes it; staggering a little as the blood rushing to his head, and has to lean into Drogger’s chest for a moment to catch his balance.

For someone his size he’s surprisingly solid, and takes Rogard’s weight with ease.

Drogger waits until he’s managed to regain his balance before letting Rogard have his personal space to himself again.

It’s a shame,he doesn’t think he would have minded too much if he’d stayed as he was.

"Are you still bleeding, Khobi?" Drogger asks, directing his attention to the ugly cut on Khobi’s mouth.

Khobi obligingly pulls away the wad of fabric he’s stubbornly been using instead of taking a trip to the infirmary, and makes a face when he sees that it’s still staining fresh red.

"Kind of?"

"Last I checked, you don’t kind of bleed," the captain says firmly, graciously offering Khobi the opportunity to amend his answer before chewing him out.

"...Yes, it’s still bleeding," he reluctantly admits, and Drogger nods like he’d known the whole time.

"Go get it checked," he orders with a frown, "And your ribs, too." Rogard sneaks a glance at Khobi, who looks a little alarmed at having been caught out.

He thought he was being so sneaky, too, hiding the bruising Loac had gone and left on him. "Oh, and Khobi?" he adds as an afterthought as Khobi hauls himself to his feet, resigning himself to a trip to the infirmary.

"...Sir?"

"Make sure you get plenty of rest before you fight," Drogger advises sternly, and Khobi doesn’t seem to know quite what to make of being given advice phrased as an order.

It’s like no one’s ever told him to actually take care of himself before, or at least in a while.

Oh, wait.

"Yes, sir," he replies slowly, "Uh, see you tomorrow, Rogard? Before the feast, yeah?"

"Yeah," Rogard assures him, and makes sure he’s not too eager for him to leave.

"Someone’s got to dress you after all," he adds as a smug, parting quip, and he has the feeling Khobi might have had a rude gesture for him if there hadn’t been an authority figure present.

Since there is, he settles with a glare and a mutter that he’s sure isn’t very polite.

"Let’s finish here for the day," Drogger advises, as Rogard starts getting ready to start up their drill again, and he must look as disappointed as he feels because Drogger looks almost amused.

Pleased, but amused nonetheless.

"I wish you’d been this into your training when you were a kid," he comments offhandedly, shaking his head helplessly as he loosens off the straps of his armour and lets out a relieved breath.

"...Might’ve made my job a bit easier." Rogard wouldn’t be surprised if he harboured some hard feelings about how he’d acted as a kid, but if there is he can’t hear it in his words.

"Better late than never, right master?" he chirps brightly, and offers him a drink from his canteen.

"Better late than never," Drogger reluctantly agrees, and gestures discreetly with one hand after he’s taken a deep swig of water. Rogard almost misses the question he’s too busy watching the way his throat bobs as he swallows. "...Do I want to know how he got those injuries?"

"What? Oh," Rogard stutters, remembering himself and all his broken vows to stop ogling his captain so openly, and with such untoward interest.

Clearly he just can’t help himself. He’s sure no one’s noticed, but there’s an ominous yet hanging around that statement that he’s wary of. "That. Well, there have been some rumours..."

"Rogard."

"No, master," he concedes, since Drogger likes his answers delivered to him straight, and well, does he really want to know about his troublesome prince and equally troublesome fiancé beating the living daylights out of each other? "You probably don’t want to know."

"Right." He probably already knows. Rumours have a way of getting around the castle. One only had to wander in all the right places --and sometimes the wrong ones --to find out all sorts of things best kept secret. Khobi’s beat up, Loac’s missing, and their door’s broken clean off its hinges; people talk.

"You should get some rest too," Drogger advises, and a small smile comes to his lips unbidden at a sudden, uncharacteristic softness of his voice. It sounds almost kind. Kinder than Rogard probably deserves, after all these years.

"...Do you think I can beat Khobi?" he asks suddenly. Quietly, because he doesn’t trust himself not to sound unsure himself. Drogger’s answer is immediate. Confused, but without hesitation.

"I do."

The fierce honesty in his voice takes Rogard by surprise, and when he looks back at him, he finds himself rooted in place --the air in his chest captured by the serious, earnest expression he’s wearing.

He wonders if Drogger knows what it does to him, when he looks at him like that; like he truly believes in him.

He still asks, because he’s hungry, and hearing it makes it true.

"You really do?"

"I do, Rogard," Drogger says firmly, and the hand that lands on his shoulder is accompanied by a smile.

Not one of his scary, grim ones, and nothing at all like the wide, endlessly bright ones Rogard flashes left and right for anyone who will look. It’s small, but filled with real warmth, like he’s bursting with pride and can’t keep it all to himself.

The fingers squeeze into his shoulder, and suddenly Rogard feels a little bit invincible. "You’ve worked hard. So hold your head high out there, you hear me?"

"...Even if I lose?" His words don’t come out choked. They don’t. Drogger lets him pretend, but doesn’t move away, for which Rogard is grateful; the hand on his shoulder is probably the only thing keeping him standing right now and he’s not entirely sure why.

"...Especially if you lose," he says stoically, and Rogard wonders distantly how there are people in this castle who don’t believe that this man is worthy of bearing the title of captain; how there are people incapable of being moved by him.

It’s got to be dangerous, how he can look a man dead in the eyes and make him believe that he’s important.

"Go on, get yourself home," he advises sagely, finally drawing back and brushing away some dust his glove has left on Rogard’s shoulder.

The tips of his fingers graze against Rogard’s collarbone and as acutely aware of it as he is, does his best not to shiver. He’s fairly unsuccessful, but Drogger has thankfully averted his gaze.

And if he noticed, he can blame it on the night air. "It’s getting late."

It is, actually. It’s already dark, and the evening air is starting to take on its signature autumn chill.

And he’d been hoping to have a few hours free to agonise over his outfit tonight so that he didn’t have to worry about it in the morning.

There were feasts, and there were feasts, and the one the following night fell under the latter --anyone who was anyone was going to be there to drink and make merry and play at friends until they met in the days that followed as rivals.

His father will want him to make a lasting impression.

"Right," Rogard says, and tries not to sound disappointed with how quickly the night’s ended again.

He’s been enjoying his evenings spent in the training grounds --probably a little more than he ought to --and sometimes, he thinks it even seems like Drogger does too.

These short hours in the evening are a window through which he’s allowed a glimpse of what the Second Captain is like when he’s not being a captain.

His shoulder feels warm, like the ghost of Drogger’s hand is still resting there; steady, and unwavering, and proud.

"I’ll see you tomorrow night, master."