Chapter 127 - 126: A Loss.

Chapter 127: Chapter 126: A Loss.

All in black atop his horse, Loac looks, and moves like a shadow passing across the moon.

That armour’s got to be as heavy as anyone else’s, but he holds himself like it’s weightless, and there’s not a measure of hesitation as his horse hurtles down the lane; his lance barely wavering in his grasp.

He makes for an imposing silhouette, and where usually the crowd would be roaring their encouragement, there sits an ominous silence, filled only by the beat of hooves and the light clinking of armour. It’s almost elegant.

​For a second, Khobi completely forgets that there’s even a second rider.

​And then comes the impact.

​The sound shocks the crowd back to life with a collective gasp, and Khobi is stunned to suddenly find himself on his feet.

​And it’s not just because it was Rogard who took the hit.

​It’s because Rogard missed . Completely. Cleanly. Khobi doesn’t even need to see the intact tip of Rogard’s lance to be sure of it.

Somehow, even with Rogard’s incredible aim, it had sailed harmlessly through the narrow space between Loac’s shield and chest and caught nothing but air. And Loac’s lance is in tatters.

​"...Did Rogard just...miss?" Montrel asks incredulously, channeling enough disbelief for the rest of them. For all the bouts he’s been through today, Rogard’s never once missed .

Sure, his aim has been off a couple of times --landed a blow on a shield when he was clearly aiming for a body --but he’s never missed .

​But he must have, because the other option is even more unbelievable. Even though Khobi had seen it with his own eyes, like it was playing out in slow motion, it’s easier to believe that Rogard just choked under the pressure, because it’s not possible to move like that.

To evade something travelling so fast; point blank. Not on a horse. Not off a horse, even.

​He sinks back down into his seat, eyes wide, as Loac trots on by, tossing his shattered lance aside and gesturing for a new one like he’s done nothing out of the ordinary.

Rogard, reeling in his saddle and trying to regain his balance, looks frustrated.

​His shield is dented.

​"What was that ?" Khobi demands, jabbing a finger down at the man that in a single pass has managed to make it look like Rogard’s never held a lance in his life.

Bongo just sighs, like this is exactly what he’d been worried about, and folds his arms across his chest.

​"That’s Prince Loac."

​The pair of riders reset, and charge without further ceremony, and Khobi watches in agonised fascination. He hates that he’s on the edge of his seat; hates that he can’t look away, but he has to watch him.

The whispers are starting again and gaining momentum --ones questioning Rogard’s skill, and his nerve, and what Khobi hears seriously pisses him off because they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. It wasn’t what Rogard did.

From what he’s seen today, Rogard’s strike should have been perfect.

​Would have been, if his opponent hadn’t fucking dodged him.

​It’s infuriating , how incredible that is. Too slow, or too late, or with any shred of hesitation, and not only would he have missed his own mark, but Rogard would have gotten a clean, devastating hit on him.

But he’d timed it flawlessly and executed it effortlessly . Over the course of the day Khobi’s come to understand the sport to a degree, and appreciate it and the skill it requires, and while it’s been obvious for some time that Rogard is pretty fucking good at it, he now knows, with utmost certainty, that what he’s just seen is as damn near close to perfection as it gets.

​Rogard might be pretty fucking good at it, but Loac is something else entirely.

​Khobi leans in, as the horses reach full gallop --faster than any of the other competitors dared ride, like they’re spurring each other on --and his breath catches in his throat at the moment of impact.

​Rogard’s not so lucky, a second time.

​On the first pass, he got his shield up in time. Or, maybe that had been Loac’s target the whole time.

But this time the blow that comes for him is decisive, and positively fearsome ; the lance shifting just so at the last possible moment, and Rogard’s entire body crumples like a paper doll as it crashes into his chest.

It’s ugly.

​...And at the same time, utterly captivating .

​The force of the blow completely uproots Rogard from his saddle, and the crowd cringes as one as he’s bodily flung from his horse on impact.

It’s a direct hit, and a decimating one at that; he’s dead weight before he even hits the ground.

​Rogard doesn’t even see it coming.

​One second, he’s staring down the lane, shield raised to defend himself, and the next, he can’t breathe.

​It’s like his world shrinks in on itself, crushing his chest, and stealing all of the air right from his lungs.

He gasps, weakly, but nothing happens, and then comes the pain.

​At first it’s just his chest. At point of impact, maybe, he’s not too sure, because he didn’t even see what hit him.

And then everything feels blue, and somehow wrong, and it’s only when his head smacks viciously into the dirt, and bounces that he even realises he’s fallen.

​It hurts .

​Distantly, he thinks he hears yelling. Maybe it’s crying. It could even be bells, for all he knows, because his ears are ringing something awful and it’s making his head spin.

His body tries to breathe again, and he fights a moment of panic when he just can’t . It’s like the wind’s just gone from his lungs and he doesn’t know how to bring it back.

​It’s a terrifying, helpless feeling.

​All he can do is lie there and stare at the swirling, hazy sky, aching chest heaving as he struggles for breath.

His helmet must be gone, if he can see the sky like this. He thinks he might be shaking.

​" Breathe , Rogard."

​He knows that voice. It’s closer than all the others. And suddenly, there are fingers on his face --not cold gauntlets, or gloves, but actual, human hands; warm, and calloused, and by some small miracle, he manages to choke in a breath.

​"Good, Rogard, good," the voice says again, and Rogard hazily blinks away some of the blackness forming behind his eyes, trying to make out a face.

There’s a smear of red there, too, and he thinks it might be from him. "Hey, look at me. You’ve just had a bad fall."

​Obediently, Rogard looks at him.

​He’s a little blurrier than usual, but there’s no doubt that the concerned face peering down at him belongs to Drogger.

Dangerously, and perhaps a little hysterically, Rogard thinks of how much he’d like to reach out and touch his face; to smooth away some of those worry lines with the pad of his thumb.

​He does just that. Except he misses, and winds up just poking his master in the cheek. And Drogger just lets him.

​"Okay, he can move," Drogger tells the nearest servants, who are starting to look more like people to Rogard and less like a four-headed monster. "That’s a good sign.

Get a medic, will you?"

​"M’ fine," Rogard manages to choke out, and nearly manages to sit up unassisted. Nearly, because he crumples halfway and would have fallen again if not for Drogger catching him.

​" Breathe ," Drogger commands again, stern, and Rogard finds himself compelled to obey. It helps, some, and the next time he tries to sit up he only needs to lean on him a little.

​A shadow passes over him as a pair of medics run in with towels and bandages and start fussing over him despite him insisting that he’s fine when he really doesn’t feel fine.

​"Nice shot, Loac," Rogard says, wobbling to his feet. He’s proud to say that even though he sounds out of breath, his voice doesn’t quiver.

When he looks up, light prickling behind his eyes, he finds that Loac has taken off his helmet. And his hair looks fucking perfect .

Combined with the armour, he looks like a fucking mythical prince --the kind that bards wax epics about and that young maidens swoon over --and Rogard hates it. Hates it more than he should.

It’s just not fair how cool he looks sometimes. Him, he’s a sweaty mess, he’s bleeding, and on top of that, his hair is definitely inexcusable.

​ Loac just shrugs, like Rogard’s praise means little to him.

​"What did you expect?" he says, and doesn’t seem annoyed --or surprised --when Rogard doesn’t have an answer for him.

That’s all he has to say, for which Rogard is grateful. They both know he’s lost. Again.

​He staggers again, as Loac wheels his horse away, and Drogger immediately hooks an arm around him to keep him upright.

He probably could’ve caught himself just fine but he’s certainly not complaining. Drogger has strong arms, and Rogard finds he doesn’t mind being held by them.

​(Wouldn’t mind being held in them.)