Chapter 126 - 125: Unexpected Opponent.

Chapter 126: Chapter 125: Unexpected Opponent.

Rogard Spidra is in serious trouble.

Probably worse trouble than he’s ever been in, in his life, and that’s saying something.

He’s gone too far this time, and he knows it the second the words leave his mouth. He’s disobeyed Rogard’s Father before, but never like this; so brazenly --never so openly defied his wishes.

​The worst part is, Rogard Spidra doesn’t know why he’s done it.

​Marrying Princess Xena wouldn’t be such a bad thing; he’s sure of it.

They were friends, once, after all --she used to call him Roggy, and he’d pretended to hate it --so he knew that she was kind and she was sweet, and that she would make a beautiful wife, and mother someday, when the time came.

They’d make a handsome couple, and their children would be beautiful, and charming, and most importantly, royal.

​Just like Rogard’s Father had always wanted.

​But when he’d opened his mouth to ask for her like he was supposed to, the words had stuck in his throat. He’d looked at her, and she’d looked so beautiful, and so sad , and for some reason he just couldn’t do it.

Everyone in the kingdom --maybe even every kingdom --knew she was waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet and steal her heart; knowing that, and having once called himself her friend, how could he demand she marry him?

​(And maybe, deep down, he was the same. Rogard’s Father had always made it clear that he would marry who he wanted him to marry, and because he wanted to be a good son Rogard Spidra had nodded like a good son would, and pretended that that was okay.)

​It’s only at that moment that he realises just how not okay it is. That he doesn’t want to marry someone he doesn’t love. Couldn’t, even.

​He doesn’t need to look at Rogard’s Father to know that the expression he’s wearing is one of betrayal.

​He can hear him already; voice full of anger, and spite, and bitter, bitter disappointment that he’s raised such a failure of a son.

It’s sad, because only a few minutes ago he’d told him how proud of him he was, and he doesn’t want to believe that that might have just been a lie.

​But Rogard Spidra puts it from his mind; that’s a problem for not right now, because right now, there’s Prince Loac.

​Because who else could it be.

​He swings his horse to face him as he approaches, and regards him coolly as he flicks up the visor on his helmet and proves his suspicions correct.

Those close enough to see his face start to mutter --some even gasp --and like a well-oiled machine the whispers start to circle, like the soft, cryptic rustling of leaves in a forest.

​"Yo, Rogard."

​In the helmet, Prince Loac’s voice sounds a little tinny, and the casual familiarity of the greeting rankles him a little.

He doesn’t remember exactly when they stopped being friends, but they did. He doesn’t get to greet him like they still are.

​"Loac," Rogard Spidra greets back somewhat sourly, as his horse starts to dance in place; clearly unnerved by the horse it’s being confronted with.

He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to say.

​"Your Highness," one of the guards greets, to save him the trouble; ushering the grooms and servants away from the lane lest their prince’s horse turn volatile as he’s known to.

"We...we weren’t expecting you."

​The man actually flinches when his prince sets his gaze on him.

​"...It’s my party, isn’t it?" he states coolly.

​"...Yes, Your Highness," the guard replies slowly, the but we weren’t expecting you unspoken but still somehow excruciatingly loud.

​"The competition’s over, Loac," Drogger’s voice calls in rescue, and Rogard Spidra notes that the guards stand to the crispest attention they’ve been at all day as the captain steps up to address his prince.

He even bows in greeting --something Rogard Spidra’s fairly certain soldiers stopped doing a long time ago.

Prince Loac clucks his teeth,annoyed, and his horse whickers loud enough to make anyone who’s not Drogger shy back nervously.

​"Huh. Already?" he drawls, and sighs heavily like he’s been inconvenienced.

"Figures."

​"Already," Rogard Spidra supplies, irritated by the dismissal. It’s been a long-ass day , and he’s well since lost count of how many opponents he’s faced.

A lot of whom were stronger than he initially gave them credit for. And he finds that Prince Loac’s flagrant disregard for that really pisses him off. "I won, actually."

​"Huh," Prince Loac repeats indifferently, like Rogard Spidra’s just pointed out a fly sitting on his plate and he’s actually not all that hungry, "...First time for everything, I guess."

​"...I guess so," Rogard Spidra chirps out through bared teeth, playing nice even though he wants to point out that he wins a lot thank you very much, just not against him. If Prince Loac notices the thinly-veiled hostility, he’s not in the least bit bothered by it.

​"That’d make you the best here then, right?" he infers, and for some reason it feels like an insult.

​"It would." Rogard Spidra makes sure to punctuate his answer with another wide smile; one that he hopes conveys how much he still despises being underestimated.

Prince Loac considers his answer, and must make up his mind about something because a second later he’s wheeling his horse around, and extending a hand towards a servant carrying a lance in a silent order for him to offer it up to him.

​"Get him one, too," he orders, jerking his head at Rogard Spidra, but the servant freezes at a halting gesture from Drogger.

The Captain just turns, and gives Rogard Spidra a look; one that reminds him that the competition is over; that he’s proved himself.

And he knows that, really he does, but unfortunately for him, Prince Loac had always had a talent for goading Rogard Spidra into doing things he shouldn’t, and it turns out he’s still weak to it.

​Thanks, master, he thinks to himself, as his horse dances in place. But this is something I have to do.

​"What you say, Rogard?" Prince Loac asks, words casual but tone taunting, like he’d be a coward if he didn’t accept. "Up for another round?"

​There’s only one answer.

​Rogard Spidra flings a glance up at the royal booth out of reflex and finds Khobi Frost and Montrel practically hanging over the railings trying to figure out what’s going on.

He thinks they’d understand.

​"Obviously."

​Prince Loac smirks at him as Drogger nods for the servant to ready another lance; eyes a narrow slit of blue that feel like ice on Rogard Spidra’s skin.

Even once his visor slams down he can feel them, staring right through him as if he isn’t even there. He’s sure they weren’t always that cold.

​"Don’t cry if I make you look bad, kay?"

Prince Loac hollers out to him as his horse trots away, and Rogard Spidra slams his helmet back on so hard it makes his ears ring.

​"Tch, this isn’t like before, Loac Trent," he vows, because it’s not .

He’s earned this; he’s been training for this, and he even can’t remember the last time Prince Loac set foot in a jousting lane.

And he’s not going to cry. He won’t. He’s not a kid anymore.

​"We’ll see." It’s infuriating, how little faith he has in him. He’s not the same as he was when they were kids. "Show me what you’ve got."

​It’s petty, but if nothing else, Rogard Spidra has to get the last word in before he whirls his horse away, wrenching a lance from a servant as he goes.

​"Oh, I will."

​The reactions from the royal booth are, to put it one way, mixed.

​"Gods, he’s the worst ," Khobi Frost complains, as the two riders settle at their respective ends of the lane.

Loac must have said something because Rogard Spidra’s wound tighter than he’s been all day, and his horse is starting to play up again.

​"I don’t know which one you’re talking about, kid, but you’re right," Montrel agrees dryly, shaking his head incredulously,

"Bit rich, coming from you, but you’re right."

​Khobi Frost elbows him.

​"What’s happening?" Princess Xena inquires, concerned, eyes jumping from one end of the lane to the other in an effort to gauge the interaction they’ve just witnessed.

​"I uhh...I don’t mean to alarm you, Princess Xena," Montrel informs her with a heavy grimace, "...But I think Prince Loac just challenged Rogard."

​There’s no other explanation for it, but Princess Xena looks baffled. As does her father, for that matter.

​"He...But Loac...what’s he doing here?" she asks, settling her gaze on her cousin’s armoured form and clenching her gentle hands into tight fists.

Unlike all the other soldiers who have competed today, he’s not wearing any particular colour, or carrying any kind of sigil. His shield’s plain, his armour’s almost black, and his horse might as well be naked.

It’s a violent contrast against Rogard Spidra’s striking blue and gold ensemble, and while it’s practical, and understated, it somehow makes him feel almost... villainous .

​"It’s certainly unprecedented," her father replies, and she’s so busy wondering what on earth is going through her cousin’s head that she doesn’t even get to enjoy how genuinely surprised he is that his nephew has resurfaced. Now, of all times.

​"Rogard can beat him though, right?" Khobi Frost asks, because in his mind that’s the most important thing right now.

Rogard Spidra’s dominated the competition today --anyone who said otherwise was blind, or a right idiot.

Khobi Frost’s never jousted, but he’s fought the guy -- a lot --and he’s strong. And if he can take down the best of his own kingdom and every other, then he’s sure as anything got to be able to knock Loac down a peg or thousand.

Or at least off his horse.

​But no one’s answering him.

​"Right?" he repeats, concerned by the silence and Montrel’s sudden loss of voice.

"Bongo?"

​"I...I don’t know," Bongo replies, unusually grim, and that is not the answer Khobi Frost was looking for.

Worst of all, he doesn’t elaborate.

"Prince Loac is... well, was..." It’s got to be a bad sign that he can’t find the words and resigns himself to an weary, "...You’ll see."

​Khobi watches.

​And he sees. He sees exactly what Bongo meant.

He doesn’t even mean to --one moment he’s watching Rogard Spidra the way he’s been watching him all day; sees him lower his lance, and kick his horse into a gallop, tension melting away from his frame, and then the next...

​The next, he finds his eyes inexplicably drawn to his opponent.

​And what he sees is haunting .