Chapter 172 - 170: Winter Begins.

Chapter 172: Chapter 170: Winter Begins.

On any other night, Binny’s not sure which of them would have won.

Watching them together is truly something else --more elegant and beautiful than any mere crossing of blades.

It’s something rare and spectacular. He gets the feeling that Khobi senses that and relishes it, and is dissatisfied with having been denied it to its fullest.

And Binny can’t guarantee it, but as the pair of them limp off into the night to sulk and lick their wounds, he gets the distinct feeling that Khobi isn’t the only one who feels cheated.

...

It’s mornings like this that Bongo lets himself savour.

​It is his experience that the celebrations that carry on long into the night often yield the quietest, and most peaceful of mornings.

And the higher the spirits and the greater the excess, the longer and the later the castle tends to sleep.

​From the levels of indulgence of the night before, and the late hour by which the candles had finally burned themselves out, Bongo estimates that the sun will already be climbing high by the time sound returns to the halls.

And what a sorry bunch they will be when they finally rise, soldiers and noblemen alike; queasy from too much food and too much wine, and from what they’ve done with who they shouldn’t.

Because for some reason, they never learn.

​His Majesty is going to be overjoyed.

​It’s going to be quite exhausting.

​But even the King sleeps in on mornings like this, so Bongo takes the rare opportunity of a castle at rest to take some time to himself.

He treats himself to breakfast in the mess hall, as if he’s once again just another soldier.

He could have had something brought up to his room, but it makes a nice change to return to the halls of his youth.

There are only a handful of souls down at breakfast, few of them looking anywhere near as fresh as himself, and most of them avoid his gaze as he settles in with his food, as if pretending he’s not there will hide the state they’ve been caught in.

They needn’t worry; he’s not there to judge. Bongo’s had his fair share of shamefully hungover mornings in his life; he’s just glad they’re largely behind him.

​He certainly does not miss it.

​Of the few faces he does catch a good glimpse of, he’s a little surprised to find that Drogger isn’t one of them.

He’d never been the type to party himself into a stupor, and had a reputation for being less than sympathetic towards those who did.

It’s one of the enduring reasons that the mess hall is so empty on mornings like this –even the men most desperate to line their bellies with something live in fear of the Second catching them in such a state.

It said a lot about the state of the men here that they were willing to risk that.

​He supposes that even Drogger Noog takes a day off here and there.

​Stranger things had happened, he supposes, particularly in days of late.

And he was injured, after all.

​People had set their expectations of that man far too high. And somehow, at the same time, far too low.

​Drogger, diligent as he was, exceeded them constantly, of course, but that sort of pressure couldn’t be healthy for a man.

​Ah, well. Drogger knows what he’s doing. Always has.

​Bongo takes his time with his breakfast, taking seconds and three cups of tea.

The soldiers at the tables around him slowly start to change, staggering in one by one or two by two, and eventually taking their leave in the same manner.

From what Bongo hears, they sound quite sorry for themselves, commiserating over the worst and best mistakes of the evenings before.

​But clearly not sorry enough to stop them from making plans to do it all over again.

​Because they know what everyone in the city knows –that even though the tournament itself is over, the revelries live on amongst the tents in the plains beyond.

​For now, at least.

​In only a matter of days, those tents will come down.

The fires will burn out, the music will fade, and the markets and all its fascinating, fanciful people will disappear into the wild, ever on the run from winter.

Every year they come, as if from nowhere, and vanish just as quickly.

They are all that remains of the autumn colours, and when the cold winds off the far off mountains finally blow them from the city, snow or not, it will most certainly feel like winter.

No matter how tired the castle seems today, no matter how loud or vehemently they swear themselves off drinking and dancing, the inhabitants of the castle –those of Crade and of foreign kingdoms alike –will make one last pilgrimage out to the travelling fires beyond the city walls, and drink, and dance, and empty their pockets for silks, food, and pretty things from far off places.

At the table closest to him, even as they lament their aching heads, a cluster of peaky looking young soldiers are already making plans for how best to spend their evening.

It’s hard not to admire their dedication. His soldiers probably wouldn’t believe it, but even Bongo had partaken in such revelry in his youth.

He and his fellows, even after spending the wee hours of the morning feeling sick to their bones, would, as the sun set on a day spent languishing in bed and trying not to puke all over their uniforms, pull themselves up by their boots, steel their stomachs, and take to the streets once again.

A few drinks and the company of a pretty face, and any unsavoury tastes and memories of the night before would wash away, ready for new ones to take their place.

In a way, it’s almost an unwritten Crade rite of passage at this point, getting blind drunk with your friends on the cusp of winter.

So he probably should’ve foreseen the request coming.