Chapter 147 - 145: Tipping Over.

Chapter 147: Chapter 145: Tipping Over.

He doesn’t go right for his sword --no, that’s too obvious, and Loac could skewer or cripple him in an instant.

Instead, he takes a second to spit out a mouthful of blood, and then in a single motion, drops low and sweeps Loac’s feet right out from under him.

Not at the kind of angle that would break anything; just with enough force and surprise to knock him off balance for a second.

​Khobi gets more than a second, because Loac, put plain and simple, eats shit. It’s like he figures out what’s about to happen just as Khobi’s shin connects with his ankle, which is unfortunately for him, a moment too late to stop what comes next.

He falls hard and fast, and in dramatic fashion, and even though he has to twist himself in midair so he doesn’t land on his own sword he’s quick to recover, and is back on his feet almost like he’d never fallen.

​But that brief moment of distraction was all Khobi had needed to throw himself at his sword and take it up in both hands.

​(It’s not exactly a classy move, but he’s never been accused of being a classy kind of guy.)

There’s a sword coming for him almost before he’s back on his feet, but he makes sure that his own is right there to stop it. His arms burn and ache, but he refuses to let his strength fail now.

​They’re just getting started, after all. Body be damned. He’ll fight until his limbs give out.

​"Who said we’re done here?" Khobi growls, eyes blazing as he grips his sword in both hands and holds himself steady against the crushing force behind Loac’s blade. "It’s not over till I say it is, got that?"

​From the other side of their crossed blades --so close that Khobi had only to lean in and their foreheads would knock --Loac’s eyes lock with his, and the unbridled ferocity bubbling up from their depths knocks the wind right out of him.

​He looks positively ravenous .

​For all the men and women he’s caught Loac with, he’s never looked at any of them quite like that.

​It’s...mesmerising, in all the ways it shouldn’t be.

​"Okay," Loac states, voice husky, as they break apart, chests heaving. "So that’s how it’s gonna be."

​Khobi adjusts his grip and his stance, so he knows that it is. And perhaps it’s a trick of the light; a passing shadow, or his vision blurring from the sweat in his eyes, but he thinks --just for a second --that when Loac sends him a challenging smirk, it almost looks like he’s grinning.

​"...Let’s go then."

​Thus the storm breaks.

​And it rains red.

​Because that’s when Loac decides to chase him.

​He comes at him like a man possessed, blade hissing and darting through the air like a living thing, but in the brief glimpses Khobi catches of his face, the look in his eyes isn’t cold, or crazed.

​In fact, it’s just the opposite.

​He sees lightning . It’s blinding, and leaves patches of heat on his skin wherever it lands.

It shouldn’t, because Loac’s face has always been so cold, and it shouldn’t be bright, because his eyes have always been eerily dull, but today Khobi sees fire in his eyes, burning so clear and blue that he can’t look away.

​It’s been a long day, and though it may not seem like it, it’s been a long fight, and Khobi is all but shattered.

His heart is pounding in his chest so hard that if it had a voice it would be screaming, and each breath feels like he’s sucking fire and ash into his lungs, but his body keeps moving, and feels strangely light, even as it burns up.

He’s not even in control of it anymore, he thinks; it just moves all on its own, answering each of Loac’s strikes how it sees fit, and mirroring his every step like there are invisible strings between them, dragging him along and pulling them to and fro.

Wherever Loac goes, Khobi follows; no matter how fast, and no matter the strength he comes down upon him with, and they chase each other across the ring like stars across the sky, their blades flashing in the sunlight to the beat of their own drum.

It’s a different beat than before. That underbeat is still there --louder now --pulsing like a heartbeat, but somewhere along the line, the song has started to change; it’s disjointed, ugly sounds slowly taking shape.

​It finds a rhythm.

​They find a rhythm. One that works for them. And it has a magnetic, almost frantic tempo that has the crowd on its feet, their hearts racing to keep time --desperately awaiting for that lingering, final note.

​It doesn’t come. Not yet. It’s too soon.

They’re just getting started, after all. And in a rising crescendo, the notes, beat out between them, turn into sighs, and then into peals that ring bright and pure out into the afternoon sky.

​It sounds a lot like laughter.

​And some of it, Khobi realises, is coming from him.

​...

​Up upon her dais, away from the fray, Xena hears it, too.

​She’s watched each fight with keen interest, eager to observe, and learn, and understand the things that soldiers understand, but this is the only one that has had her absolutely spellbound .

​Khobi Frost is something else. Even her father has admitted that he’s talented, but her cousin is talented, too.

Possibly one of the most talented swordsman of their generation, if rumours were to be believed.

​(Xena believes them.)

​And Khobi Frost is keeping up.

​Not always, but enough. This fight has gone on for far longer than any of her cousin’s others, and she may not be any sort of expert on the subject, but this one feels different .

Watching the two of them dance back and forth, moving together like they’ve spent a lifetime learning each other’s shapes makes her think of stars crossing a night sky.

It’s something she’s always found quite beautiful; the way streaks of light dart through the darkness, so carefree and bright, and it feels strange to call a battle by such a word, when she hasn’t in so long, but suddenly, nothing else seems fitting.

​"Captain?" she finds herself asking. In her periphery, Bongo glances at her expectantly, though she’s sure he has one eye trained keenly on the fight at hand.

She’s the same, after all. Somehow, it’s impossible to look away. "...Do you think he’s having fun?"

​She already knows the answer, but she wants to hear it, out loud, from someone frank and whose eyes aren’t as desperately hopeful as hers.

And Bongo, sensing the gravity of her question, thinks long and hard about his answer.

​He doesn’t ask who she’s talking about.

​"...Yes, Your Highness," he replies, with the same steady, honest conviction her father so respects in him, and punctuates his observation with a short nod, "I believe he is."

​She likes that he sounds so certain.

​She believes he is, too.

Although she’s not quite close enough to see it with her own eyes, she can feel it, because joy is something that cannot be contained; that spills out from a person into the world around them and warms everything it touches.

​(It strikes her, that perhaps Khobi Frost possesses a fire that ignites the world around him.)

​And her heart lurches in her chest because she knows that she can’t be the only one in this crowd of thousands that feels that --because she knows that for the first time in a long time, the eyes of her people are looking on her cousin not with disgust, but in awe.

She can see it in their faces; can hear it in their voices as the excitement builds throughout the arena --that they can feel it, too.