Chapter 27: Back To Captivity.

Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Back To Captivity.

Fine, as it turned out, was a relative term, and probably not the first word Khobi would have chosen to describe how his current escape was panning out.

Sure, he didn’t expect this to be easy, not after his previous run-ins with the castle guard. Freedom was always hard-won, he knew that.

That was just a part of what would make it so sweet, and if there was nothing to overcome then there would be no way to grow stronger. But right then; as much as Khobi relished the burn in his blood, and as much as he was loath to admit weakness to himself...he didn’t exactly feel fine.

There wasn’t a bone in his body that hadn’t been battered, his windpipe stung from smoke, wine, and exhaustion, and there was wine dripping from his hair into his eyes and drying sticky on his skin.

Not to mention, what felt like half the soldiers in the kingdom were after him, as he tore through a crowd of strangers with cold eyes –eyes that glinted with a familiar, hateful kind of scorn that he’d done nothing to earn.

It was an ice that never failed to make one thought burn with utmost clarity.

He’d show them.

But the thing about running blindly through a crowd was that it was uncomfortably similar to being lost. And right now, he might as well have been treading uncharted waters amongst sharks.

Not very fast ones, apparently, or particularly solid, seeing as he’d already charged a few clean off their feet –but hunters, nonetheless. And if he didn’t watch where he was going, he was bound to run straight into their waiting hands –if he didn’t crash into the fucking décor or skid into a pile of food first.

It was a fucking nightmare –his bare feet, raw and burning from beating down upon stone, kept slipping in the slick swill of wine and meat and trodden-in vegetables that was spreading across the courtyard like creeping grime –and if he stepped wrong then he’d be bathing in the stuff.

Wildfire burned in his gaze as he searched frantically, for an exit –an opening, something. And so fixated was he on finding that path that might lead him to freedom, that he dropped his guard–just for the merest of moments.

But that moment of distraction was all it took for a black blur with a maroon cloak fanning out behind it to blindside him with an almighty tackle –one that bowled him clean off his feet and knocked the wind clean out of his lungs all over again.

Without ceremony, and little more than dead weight lurching through the air, the pair of them hurtled straight over the nearest table and, catching on the delicate table cloth, dragged it, and all it held, with them.

The crash was horrendous.

The crowd cringed back with tangible shock as they tumbled over one another; wood splintering and plates shattering and heavy candlesticks clanging in deep tolls on the stone. And, much like the crockery, fracturing as it landed, Khobi hit the ground hard and felt his lungs jar in his chest at the impact.

The open sky somewhere far above him swam, blurred stars dotting his vision as his head lolled uselessly and glazed red eyes fought to regain focus. A weight settled on his chest, and as a figure hazed into focus overhead, he tensed reflexively in anticipation of a crushing sensation that never came.

Instead, the weight just sat there, a firm but not unkind pressure, and he heard a voice.

"You just had to do it, didn’t you, kid?" the voice gritted out with weary heat that made Khobi blink blearily in recognition.

It took a moment, but the blur above him slowly began to sharpen against the backdrop of the sky, and he managed to make out the edges of a familiar face, positively bristling down at him.

But as irritated he looked, there was a kind of good-natured snicker in the way he snorted, almost as an afterthought, "You look fucking terrible, Khobi."

Well, didn’t he fucking know it?

Khobi groaned, letting his eyes roll again.

Of course it was Montrel who’d tackled him. Of course he was the one pinning him down now, kneeling on his chest with weight enough to keep him there but not so much as to hurt him. Small mercies, he supposed. He strained, trying to lurch back to his feet, but Montrel had at least had the foresight to pin his arms to the ground.

The jerking motion caused the guard’s knee to press against his aching ribs, and pain briefly flashed across Khobi’s red eyes. A flicker of sympathy crossed Montrel’s gaze, but he (wisely) didn’t ease back.

"Let me up," Khobi warned as viciously as he could while trying to regain his breath. It came out more slurred than he would’ve liked. Approaching guards flitted around the corners of his vision, their stances far too triumphant –or maybe simply relieved –and all-too close for his liking. Lips thinning, he glared up into Montrel’s face meaningfully. "...Or you’ll regret it."

Montrel just grimaced, as if to say ’you know I can’t do that’, and without letting his grip waver, gave a half-hearted attempt at a shrug.

So Khobi head-butted him.

Hard.

It sounded awful, and hurt like a bitch, and he must’ve gotten Montrel square on the nose because there was a sickening crunch that made the guard yowl like nothing else, and he was fairly sure that the blood that dripped down his brow and into one of his eyes wasn’t his.

But it worked a treat, and in an instant Khobi was back on his feet and scrambling away while the blond soldier cupped his nose and tried to blink away tears of pain that had Khobi feeling, surprisingly, kinda bad.

But there was no helping it, really. And the small shrug he graced the soldier with said just that. Not that Montrel saw it, or the fleeting flash of guilt that crossed Khobi’s red gaze –he was far too occupied with the new realms of pain dancing across his face.

No matter how many times he broke his nose, he never got used to it. It was a sharp, mind-numbing pain quite like no other, and it made his eyes sting and his head ring, and his entire face throbbed from cheek bone to cheek bone like his very skull wanted to cave in on itself.

His nose had never been his best feature, but at least it had used to sit straight.

With a colourful expletive, Montrel spat out a mouthful of blood and tried his best to stagger to his feet while the room spun around him. He stumbled, once, bright spots flickering across his blurry vision, and when he tried to blink away tears, it hurt.

His gauntlet was really doing nothing to stem the blood flow, merely collecting the torrent and smearing red across the leather, so he bunched up the corner of his cloak as best he could to staunch his nose before it could drip and add to the mess upon the stone. He pressed a little too hard, and flinched as bolts of pain flared along the cracks of his face.

Suddenly, a firm hand landed on his shoulder to steady him, and though he appreciated the gesture of support, Montrel couldn’t help flinging a filthy glare at his comrade as his vision began to clear.

For what it was worth, Yaka wasn’t laughing. But that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t amused.

"It’s not funny," Montrel spat, his voice muffled behind his cloak and his tongue tasting of the iron in his blood.

"I never said it was," Yaka replied, though his tone clearly indicated that he was saying it now.

"...The kid fucking head-butted me," he fumed, tugging his cloak aside briefly to spit out a wad of blood, and noting to his relief that none of his teeth felt loose, "Again." Blood continued to flow from his nose in a steady stream so he was forced to set his makeshift rag back in place. "...Still healing from last time...when I get my fucking hands on him..."

"Now, now, let’s not say things we don’t mean," Yaka placated, moving to face his fellow soldier and tugging his wadded up cloak from his face to see the damage. By the look he was wearing, it wasn’t pretty. "...Want me to put your nose back in place?"

"What’s the fucking po –gods, Yaka, fuck, give me some warning!!"

Yaka dusted off his hands in satisfaction as Montrel doubled over again, eyes misting over once more as he shielded his nose from any further injury –well-intended or otherwise.

His nose throbbed all over again and sent a heavy pulse of pain right back through his skull, as it did every time he got it moved back into place. A low groan left his mouth and he let his chest heave a few times before straightening up.

"Where’s the kid?" he inquired flatly, a grimace plastered across his face and bruising already beginning to butterfly out across his cheeks, dried blood collecting on his chin, "Did they catch him?"

When Yaka only grimaced back, he expected the worst. When he pointed, he figured he’d imagined it, and turned, expecting to see Bongo and Albi wearily emerging from the crowd with a protesting Khobi being manhandled between them, the way their chases usually ran.

But that was not the scene he found.