Chapter 30: Pretty Hostage.

Chapter 30: Chapter 30: Pretty Hostage.

It wasn’t as if he’d planned for things to end up like this.

Not that any of them out there would know, or care, but plans had never been Khobi’s strong point.

And even if they had been, they certainly would have never culminated in him standing for all intents and purposes, alone, and trapped amidst a cold silence, battered and bleeding, and drenched in sticky wine like some kind of wretched castle fool.

But he wasn’t quite alone, and maybe that was what made it worse. Mobs were made for jeering and scorn –they were loud, obnoxious things that lived and breathed and grew on anger and hatred.

But now they sat in an icy silence that hung heavy and sharp in the air, with a seething kind of tension that Khobi could feel on every breath.

He was shaking –his shoulders heaving and his dry lips trembling with every shuddered breath. His legs too, had long since passed burning and were nearly numb with pain, and his dirty, bare feet were oozing from new wounds.

But no matter what ice they had in their eyes to mask their fear and their repulsion, his eyes remained steady, and so did his right hand –the hand that gripped his stolen blade and held it pressed tightly against the pale throat of a nobleman.

And for a moment there, he remembered the Pit. How many times had he stood in its cold depths like this, black, rocky walls stretching up above him like a cage --a man’s life in his hands.

And above him, a faceless crowd would leer down, shouting and throwing stones and betting like they were animals in a ring --because to them, that’s all he was. And they always brayed for blood.

And he had to give it to them, one way or another. Whether he wanted to, or not.

(He never did.)

This wasn’t the Trash Pit, this was a different world entirely, and this mob was silent but it felt the same.

The rim of the Pit had always been high above, but he’d always been able to feel their jeers. And now he felt just as watched, alone and caged, surrounded by strangers all waiting with bated breath for when he’d finally fall.

"Back off!" he spat into the silence, his gaze meaningfully sweeping the ranks of the guards in warning.

"Let me leave," he demanded, yanking his hostage none too kindly to set him firmly between him and the soldiers, "...And no one else needs to get hurt. You hear me?"

When he received no answer, he gritted his teeth and pressed his knife a little firmer against his captive’s throat. The man flinched with a light hiss, and the crowd recoiled with him.

Khobi wrinkled his nose in distaste, grimacing at his own actions. It hadn’t been his proudest moment –hiding behind a human shield like a coward wasn’t his style, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Beating those soldiers off for good would involve racking up a body count –and that was the surest way for him to wind up flogged and executed, something he’d rather like to avoid. So he needed them to back off.

And he knew from bitter experience that nothing makes a man throw down his weapons quite like one of his own being threatened.

It wasn’t as if he’d targeted this man specifically –he’d simply been there in his haphazard path, stooping to help a young woman bowled off her feet by the swirling of the crowd. He was there, caught unawares, and looked every bit the little lordling Khobi needed to keep the soldiers at bay.

And as soon as he’d caged him against his chest, knife set neatly at his throat, they’d hurriedly obliged, faltering in their stride as that shocked, unsettled silence had descended upon the courtyard like winter come early.

"Khobi," a firm voice called out sternly into the chilly night air, and when Khobi chanced a quick scan of the crowd he caught sight of Bongo standing in the foremost ranks of the guards; weapon put up warily. "Let him go," he said, voice even until, with a light shake of his head, he added thickly, "...You do not want to do this."

In all their chases, Khobi hadn’t seen Susa’s eyes grow as sharp as they did in that moment. But it didn’t feel like a threat so much as it felt like a warning.

Be that as it may...

"I’ll do what I have to do," he gritted back as though it were just that simple. And it was, just like it always had been.

At his words, the expressions of the soldiers around him began to darken, and Khobi’s hackles began to rise on the back of his neck as he sensed the atmosphere grow ever more hostile.

The soldiers were on edge –even more so than they’d been when he’d first drawn a blade against them –but it seemed that they weren’t about to risk striking.

Good.

Finally, something was going just a little bit right.

Swallowing thickly around his premature celebrations, he wrenched his captive back a few paces, keeping him as a human barrier between himself and the soldiers in case any of them tried something stupid.

The tension in the air was palpable, heightening with every step Khobi took backwards,his bare feet slapping on the ground and leaving fresh footprints –in blood, or in wine, he didn’t quite know. Didn’t quite care.

Whatever it was though, was staining his hostage’s fine boots a dirty red and making him slip. Once or twice his feet nearly skidded out from under him and Khobi had to roughly manhandle him back into place to keep him standing.

And each time the knife pressed intimately to his neck nicked dangerously against his pale skin –and maybe Khobi didn’t even feel all that bad. It would probably do the guy some good to be on the edge of a blade, anyhow –for all their vanity and bluster, most nobles were weak.

On that note, he was actually a little surprised the guy hadn’t tried to run yet, or pleaded for his life –or something like that that captured men tended to do. He was probably thinking about it. Either that or he was a little too busy crapping himself.

But when Khobi chanced a look at him, pale, fair, and dripping in gold from the very locks of his hair to the trimmings of his clothes, there was no panic –no trace of fear –in the man’s face. Molten amber eyes met his red gaze unflinchingly, lidded and far too unaffected by the situation for Khobi’s liking. And it struck him that not once had he called out for help.

He didn’t look afraid. A little caught off guard, maybe, but not afraid.

In fact, there was a flicker of irritation dancing behind those golden irises and a light pout gracing his lips –as though more indignant about his rough treatment than anything. And Khobi didn’t know what the fuck to make of it.

And, so caught up was he in the strange expression this pretty-boy nobleman was wearing –that Khobi didn’t even see the knife.

To his credit, no one did. But those who were closest to the situation at hand bore witness to the way his eyes widened in shock, and saw a thin line rise up red against his cheek –the kind of mark left by the barely-there kiss of a blade. And, with what might have been confusion, the redheaded young prince raised a hand to his cheek and was struck dumb when his dirty fingers came away smeared with blood.

A dangerous sharpness lit up in his eyes and the soldiers ringing him tensed automatically. But they needn’t have worried, his wariness wasn’t for them but for the second blade that came hurtling out of nowhere after the first. Even as Khobi froze around a choked breath, it carved through the night on glints of torchlight and perfectly –impossibly –halved the air between him and the man shielding him.

Khobi felt this knife in a way he hadn’t felt the first. The first had smarted, broken his skin and left it stinging. But not this one –no –this one he felt as nothing more than a soft caress on the wind –the weapon singing effortlessly through the night and ghosting with horrifying, terrifying accuracy past him. Even once it had passed, the breath of air it had left upon his skin lingered, settling a coldness into his bones in its wake.

And as his heart thrummed just a beat faster, a foreboding voice broke the thick silence that had made the courtyard its home, stony, humourless and offering no room for argument.