Chapter 28: Non-guard Encounter.

Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Non-guard Encounter.

In reality, the one that opened up before him was far different, and set a chill in his blood unbidden.

Because as much as he wanted Khobi apprehended, as much as he wanted him back under guard and tucked away somewhere where he couldn’t cause trouble or threaten his future as a guard, as much as he wanted to give the kid a right hiding for the right nuisance he’d made of himself tonight...

...He didn’t want to see this.

No one should want to see this.

And yet, everyone was staring. The crowd, ringed as it was with two figures at their centre, couldn’t seem to look away like they were watching a scene from a particularly fucked up kind of play. The kind of play where a lowly runaway –far from home –tries to flee a crime, only to wind up with the hand of his pursuer locked tight around his throat. If there was such a play, he wouldn’t care to watch, because where some men took pleasure in seeing the strong turn helpless, Montrel had never been one of them.

So he didn’t want to see thick fingers tighten around Khobi’s throat. He didn’t want to watch them force a sick red up into his cheeks –didn’t want to see the desperate way that Khobi’s fingers strained with all their might to pry away the gauntleted fist curling around his windpipe, didn’t want to see the wild panic dangerously crawling up behind his eyes as he realised that the hand that held him was gloved and firm, and no amount of nail gouging or clawing was making any kind of difference, because that was the kind of thing that led even the best men to helplessness.

Because what else are you supposed to do, when you can’t breathe, and your own strength isn’t enough to break you free?

Khobi scrabbled away nonetheless, his chest heaving as he strained to take in what little air he still could with a choking windpipe. And maybe Montrel stared with the crowd, a chill settling in his blood as Khobi’s body shook, as his head began to loll, because despite the air being crushed from his chest, he still clutched at his attacker’s wrist with all the frenzy of a man clinging to life, and his red eyes still bored deep with all of his usual fire –even now, asking for a fight.

But even fires can’t burn when they’re smothered.

It’s not as if he meant to, but in that moment, all anger about his broken face fled Montrel’s mind. Instead, he was struck by the memory of the sternness in the redhead’s face whenever they fought, whenever he ran –the look in his eyes even as he dangled in mid-air with death waiting below, and the soft, almost childish wistfulness that had touched his voice when he spoke of a home he barely even knew anymore.

Fury rose up in Montrel’s throat like bile, so bitter it made him grimace. Because Khobi didn’t deserve this. Gods knew the kid was a mouthy, violent brat, and reckless to the point of idiocy, and certainly he was making a right mess of the evening, but he did not deserve this. So, before he knew what he was doing, before he could even register that the soldier with his hand so firmly squeezed around Khobi’s windpipe was dressed not in the black of a guard, but in vibrant blue, his legs were carrying him forwards with the winds of a storm.

"Hey!" he snarled, the words clawing their way up his throat before he could stop himself and his voice coming out hoarse with anger and laced with pain, "Ease up, you bastard!"

Chilly eyes turned to appraise him, full of contempt and the kind of disdain that grows from privilege, and it was only then that Montrel noted the man’s garb, deep blue, with a doublet embroidered in gold –the colours all-too familiar, and the haughty arrogance of the soldier that wore them as iconic and telling as the black and maroon of the soldiers of Crade.

The man stared at him coolly –with a sharpness that made Montrel want to bite his tongue, but he stood his ground and refused to take back his words nor his insult. And maybe it was complacency, or contempt, or irritation at being questioned –and maybe Montrel was imagining it –but he was fairly certain that the soldier’s grip eased its pressure infinitesimally.

" –What?" the soldier in blue sneered mockingly, turning his nose up at Montrel, "And let him escape again, like you did?" A few of the nobles standing in the crowd had the gall to snicker at such a jibe, and Montrel bristled, but softened almost imperceptibly as Khobi’s eyes rolled to meet his and widened in recognition. Glaring at him a little, Montrel set his jaw with all the irritation of a teacher with a particularly troublesome student.

"Well just bloody tie him up, then!!" he snapped irritably, and gods his instinct for self-preservation must have withered and died when Khobi had whacked him, because he was a Good Soldier, and Good Soldiers did not so boldly order around the kinds of men who served powerful men. Bongo being the exception. "There’s no need to fu –" He was lucky enough to remember himself in time – "...There’s no need to fu –" He was lucky enough to remember himself in time – "...There’s no need to kill him!"

The soldier seemed to consider this for a moment, flinging a stale glance at Khobi through cold, stony eyes –as if the life he held in his hands was inconsequential. And his voice was equally haughty and tainted with disgust, when he reasoned,

"...Roaches don’t die that easily."

The words fell from the man’s lips too easily, making disgust coil up in Montrel’s throat --and even Yaka, still silent but at least still at his side, tensed angrily at his words. And, in hindsight, they both –they all –should have known that if such blatant revulsion had made anger boil up inside them...

...What kind of wrath it might incur from Khobi.

And this soldier –he’d never chased him before, never fought him –had no idea what kind of chaos the redhead was capable of. Well, considering the circumstances it was safe to say he might have an inkling, but that didn’t mean that he was in the least bit prepared for the vicious, gut-busting kick to the sternum that came out of nowhere with the flashing of blazing eyes.

Khobi’s foot connected square centre of the man’s chest and knocked the air clean out of his lungs. Horror flashed across the man’s face as he lurched, losing his grip on Khobi’s throat as his eyes almost escaped from his face from the force of the blow. He could do little more than croak as Khobi slipped his grasp and, with a sharp and none-too-kind twist on the soldier’s arm, sent him tumbling into a winded, ungainly mess on the ground.

Feet unsteady, Khobi backpedalled away from the stuttering man on the ground, rubbing at his freed throat as he gulped in deep, welcome lungfuls of air. He staggered; flinching with every step, and every breath coming out laboured, but as usual, he showed no sign that his most recent brushes with death could daunt him.

It almost made Montrel want to laugh helplessly.

But then, in an instant –with an almighty, shrieking crash, the kind of earth-shattering peal that might sound when lightning cracks upon stone, the very air of the night changed, and suddenly, laughing was the last thing on earth that Montrel felt like doing.