Chapter 148 - 146: Defeated.

Chapter 148: Chapter 146: Defeated.

Khobi feels it, too.

​And unlike the princess, perched far beyond the ring, he’s close enough that he can see it with his own eyes.

​How can he not?

​How had he not, sooner?

​Everything about the way Loac fights screams that at some point in his life, he had loved it.

At some point in his life --throughout it, maybe; Khobi couldn’t know --Loac Trent had poured his heart and his soul into learning the shapes soldiers were taught to make, and made them his own.

Natural born talent is one thing, and dedication is entirely another, but his ethereal kind of mastery betrays him.

It tells of long, endless nights sparring with shadows; of countless battles won and lost, and the years spent tirelessly honing his skills until the sword in his hand had taken on a life of its own, moving less like a tool and more like a part of him.

​In a way, he’s exactly like him.

​But right now, the important, defining thing is what differs between them. And that is how badly they want this win.

​Sure, the win doesn’t always go to the man who wants it more, but sometimes it does.

​This is one of those times.

​Maybe on a different day, it wouldn’t be. Maybe in a different time, or a different life, this fight belongs to Loac.

​But today, Khobi wants it more.

​And desire is a force to be reckoned with, and those who stand against a man with such fire burning within him, must burn hotter, or endure the flames and risk crumbling beneath its might.

​And today, Loac crumbles.

​It’s a beautiful, strange moment. One that captivates the crowd in an instant and holds them all spellbound.

They watch, eyes wide and hearts inexplicably hammering in their chests, as Khobi Frost takes up his sword in leaden hands, and leaps into the air, where for a second he seems to hang, suspended in time; a dark silhouette against a vivid blue sky. Men don’t fly; of course they don’t --but for a heart-stopping second, it feels, to the watching, waiting masses, that he does.

​And then time catches up with itself, and he falls, like a mythical beast descending to earth.

​Loac blocks him. They all see it. They all hear the crisp peal of wonder that rings out as the two swords embrace for the last time, and they all flinch like their meeting sends a shockwave rippling through the air.

And then comes the sharp gasp of a single blade being torn away from its master, as Loac crumbles.

​...

Silence follows. And in it, all Khobi can hear is the sound of his own haggard breathing. It’s harsh and dry and laboured, and sounds like a death rattle.

​He’s shaking.

​Bowed before him on one knee, so is Loac. His armour’s torn, his sword’s gone; all but vanished into the abyss, and his eyes are cast at the ground at his feet.

Khobi can’t see them, but he doesn’t need to, to know that they’ll be bitter and storming.

​Because although just barely, Khobi’s the one left standing, and he’s not.

​It takes a moment for that to really sink in, because it feels like a lifetime has passed since he last stood still; since anything existed in this world other than he and Loac.

​It’s over.

​It’s actually over.

​It’s a surreal moment. One that has him feeling oddly numb.

​But then sound returns to the world in a rush of tumultuous applause, and it is loud, and vibrant, and glorious.

And it hits him, all at once, that that is all for him. That all that cheering, and stomping, and the clapping of thousands, is all for him, in a way it’s never been for him before.

And suddenly he can’t tell if the beads coursing down his cheeks are sweat, blood, or something else entirely.

​He’s won .

​And the crowd is cheering.

​And so, when they roar for him, he throws his head back and finds his voice again. It’s hoarse, and his lungs burn and plead him to stop but he can’t.

Because even though his arms feel like lead in their sockets, and his legs feel like they’re about to collapse out from under him, he feels victorious and he wants the world to know it, and revel with him.

​Somehow, it feels like they are.

He can’t explain it, but the air positively hums with a kind of energy; bright, and vibrant, that he’s sure wasn’t quite there before, and it gives him strength.

A final, euphoric rush. Like the entire crowd feels what he is feeling, and is celebrating with him.

​The entire crowd, save one.

​Of course, there’s one person that doesn’t celebrate with him. All through the applause; while Khobi shouts out his victory to the heavens, Loac hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t even tried to retrieve his sword, like somehow, in losing to him, Khobi’s chained him to the spot, sentenced to rot his days away.

Khobi gets it, a little. Men who are unaccustomed to losing usually don’t know how to handle it when it happens.

And right now, Loac looks...

​Defeated.

​"...It’s your win," he eventually mutters, eyes cast low, and despite the vacant disinterest in his voice, Khobi finds that this time, he doesn’t quite buy it.

There’s real pain in his voice, no matter how hard he’s trying to disguise it, and perhaps it’s got something to do with the way he’s clutching at his abdomen; gloves stained red, but maybe it’s more than that, too.

​After all, no one fights like that if they don’t care.

​"What are you doin’ acting like we’re done here," Khobi growls irritably, elbowing him as he stalks past. Not hard, mind; just enough to snap him out of whatever gloom it is he’s trapped himself in.

It knocks Loac off balance just enough that he sends a sour glare his way. It looks a little wounded, like he’s mad that Khobi’s had the nerve to kick him while he’s down.

​"Like I said," Khobi reiterates with heat, "It’s not over until I say it’s over." And if he recalls correctly, he’s said no such thing. Won’t ever, if he has his way.

There’s no fucking way he lets Loac off that easy. If he thinks he can fight like that and get away with never having a rematch, he’s dreaming.

Loac might piss him off to no end, but Khobi has spent his whole life dreaming of fighting men like him.

How could he be satisfied with fighting him just once? In beating him just once? If Loac had given him his everything from the start then well, Khobi can’t help but wonder if the outcome would have been different; if he might’ve been the one to end up on his knees.

​And if Loac is anything like him, he’ll wonder too, and won’t be satisfied with how this ended.

And Khobi is beginning to suspect, with a degree of irritation, that Loac may be a little more like him than he realised.

​"Tsk," he scoffs, so Loac knows exactly what he thinks of his attitude, and tells him, open and quite plainly, as he turns his back on him, "I’ll take you on anytime."

​It comes out sounding almost like a promise. One that, if Khobi had cared to look, has Loac peering up at him from under sweaty, dark bangs, blue eyes wide, and glimmering infinitesimally.

​But he doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see.

​The walk from the centre of the arena is a blur; little more than flashes of colour and faces, and a wall of sound. And although every step is agony; his legs iron and his arms like stone, Khobi carries himself proudly, and the grin stretched out across his bloodstained face is bright and victorious.

​He makes it to the edge of the ring on sheer willpower alone before his body finally gives out.

One of his legs just collapses out from under him, and he falls. Exhausted, he doesn’t even try to catch himself.

​So someone else catches him instead.

​Even as he staggers, there are hands reaching for him, and they take him up and hold him fast.

They gather him up like he’s weightless, and make sure he doesn’t stumble.

​"It’s okay, kid," Khobi hears, beyond the deafening wails of the crowd. He knows that voice. "We got you."

​"M’fine," he manages to slur out, voice husky and breathless, and gets jostled for his nerve.

​"Like fuck you do," Montrel growls irritably, manhandling him over the railing and shooing away the crowd that immediately floods forwards to greet them.

He’s right. Khobi’s not really that fine. He’s shattered.

Damn near defeated, even. And now he’s bleeding all over Montrel and Jaga, and isn’t even entirely sure what parts of him the blood is coming from.

Dimly, he’s aware of bodies swarming around him --the soldiers let the medics in but bark at the rest to keep away or suffer the consequences.

​Someone gives him water, and Khobi drinks like he’s just been rescued from the desert. It helps clear his mind somewhat, and the hazy images and flurries of sound flashing around him start to take form.

He starts to make out the faces of soldiers he’s fought with, and ones he’s fought against. Some of them are grinning helplessly, like part of them can’t believe what he’s done, and another part is proud that he has.

A couple even manage to clap him on the back before Montrel snarls at them to back the fuck off.

​Khobi tries to tell him it’s fine, but his tongue suddenly feels thick in his throat and he can’t quite make out the words.

​It feels like a small lifetime before they reach the dais steps, and in that lifetime Khobi feels like he’s walked the length of the world.

But although he’s on the brink of collapse, Montrel and Jaga are strong, and bear his weight without complaint until he can stand on his own two feet again.

​About halfway up the steps, Khobi notices Bongo and the king staring down at him; Bongo with an expression of quiet pride, and the king with interest that Khobi, had he been in his right mind, should have found worrying. But he’s not, so he doesn’t.

​And then there’s the princess. She’s on her feet, but unlike the rest of them, she’s staring not at him, but out at the ring, hands clenched on the railing so tight that her knuckles are turning white.

​Khobi knows what she’s looking at, but he turns anyways.

From where he is, he can still see Loac’s figure set against the sky, kneeling in the ring where he’d fallen.

His shadow is stretching long against the dirt, filling the empty space that lies between him and the celebrating crowd.

No one goes to him.

Khobi vividly remembers slicing through his armour and breaking skin, so he’s probably bleeding just as badly as him, but no one goes to him.

It’s strange, and kind of sad.