Chapter 33: Will Stronger Than Chains.

Chapter 33: Chapter 33: Will Stronger Than Chains.

Gurdet watched as all the crowd watched –watched the pair of them move time and time again, dancing to and fro like sparks chasing each other on the wind. It was mesmerising, in a way, and he wondered with burning curiosity just how long Khobi might last.

It was obvious that his strength was failing him –too many of Vogrid’s attacks were landing, and he’d seen enough of his fleetness this evening to know that he was moving too heavy on his feet.

The tenacity in his face though, despite the steady breaking of his body, that was truly marvellous –something that must have irked Silas to no end, no doubt.

He was the only one who didn’t seem to realise that the end was coming. Or maybe he just refused to admit it.

It was obvious even from where Gurdet was sitting that his body could no longer keep up with his spirit. He was limping something terrible, his right leg threatening to give way at any moment, and whenever they broke apart his right hand –the one gripping his stolen blade, was wracked with shakes.

No wonder, really. The entire courtyard was an exhibit of his obstinacy, with his body as proof of it all.

There were bruises rising up on his skin and darkening the patches still caked with wine, and wherever he stepped he left a print in blood –it seemed like he was still standing on will alone.

But when Vogrid caught a clumsy blow on his blade and landed a swift, decisive kick to the backs of his knees, that was when Khobi’s body finally gave out on him.

Unable to hold him any longer, his stiff, aching legs folded out from beneath him and he crumpled to the ground, landing hard upon the stone.

His knife clattered uselessly beyond reach.

Exhausted beyond reckoning, he didn’t get up.

He couldn’t. He wanted to, gods he wanted to –coz there was still a wealth of fight in him, but his body, his stupid fucking body just wouldn’t co-operate.

The pain was coming, his torn muscles seizing and all his broken flesh screaming out as it stung. And all around him he could feel eyes watching him, mean, cruel eyes watching him just writhe upon the filthy ground as his limbs spasmed and twitched no matter how much he willed them not to.

It was all he could do to just lie there, staring blankly up at the stars with his body turning cold despite the heat in his heart.

A strangled gasp rose up from his exhaused lungs and his chest shuddered pathetically,abdomen clenching taut.

Cursing, and gritting back a cry of pain –because what good did that do –he forced himself to stir with what little strength he could work into his limbs, and managed to roll onto his belly.

The cold stone felt icy against his throbbing ribs as his nails feebly scrabbled away at it for purchase.

This was probably what a worm felt like.

A low, dry sob broke through his lips as he squirmed, bracing himself against the ground as best he could –desperate to make it to his knees at least, to look his opponent and all the crowd that backed him, in the eye and tell them to look until their heart’s content, because it would be the last time that they saw this.

He didn’t even make it that far; his own body betraying him and refusing to hold steady.

His arm caved and he slumped into the floor all over again, for a moment prostrate and unmoving but for the unbidden shaking of his form.

He tried again, commanding his legs to move, and then begging, only to clench his trembling hands into weak fists when nothing would sway them.

I’m not weak. I’m not.

So immersed was he in his mission, that he didn’t hear the thud of heavy boots until they were right upon him, a gloved hand coming down to rest against his shoulder. Flinching away from the touch with a low hiss of pain, he struck out at whoever dared to touch him.

The swat was embarrassingly weak, and the soldier caught it easily in one hand.

"Hey, Hey," he soothed, voice familiar and low and lacking bite, even when Khobi struggled against his grip as best he could.

When it held firm, almost reproachfully, he glared up from under all the dirt and sweat and whatever else coated his face until Montrel –ugly purple still blossoming across his cheeks –let him wrench his hand away with a sigh.

"That’s enough of that, kid," he chided, kneeling down slowly, "It’s over."

This time, Khobi didn’t shrug off his touch --which was as close to a concession as Montrel was ever going to get -- and allowed him and Bongo to haul him to his feet.

The jostling made him groan in pain and huff out a laboured breath, and his legs shook something terrible, threatening to skitter out from under him –but the pair of them held him firm and didn’t let him fall again.

After a moment of unsteadiness he managed to hobble a step, and then another, dragging one of his feet a little and his head lolling like it was too heavy for his neck to hold.

His tanned skin was littered with bruises and cuts, some crusted over and some still oozing, and not all the purple staining peeking out from under his tattered clothes was from wine.

Montrel grimaced, watching the whispers strike up around the room, telling of how he was a menace, how this was another royal embarrassment for the kingdom, how he deserved what he got.

He adjusted Khobi’s large frame over his shoulder as best he could and couldn’t help the way his hand curled into the back of his shirt.

Bongo seemed to share his distaste, because a curt nod and a moment later his soldiers were pressing the crowd back to let them pass without incident.

"To his room?" Montrel inquired of his captain, before glancing down at the young prince’s sorry state and reconsidering, "...Or the infirmary?"

"Neither," Bongo replied sternly, flinging a glance up to the table where their King and their princess sat –the former looking ever-so-pleased with himself, and the latter wearing a quite unreadable expression.

"The Princess has special orders for us. Lord Vogrid is making the necessary arrangements."

At the mention of the king’s attendant, Khobi tensed, and would have stumbled in his stride if Bongo hadn’t tightened his grip on him, wincing apologetically when the action seemed to cause him pain.

Montrel couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy –their fight had been an entrancing one to watch, sure, but by no real means fair. And even after he’d exploited that, Vogrid had just disappeared off like it was no big deal??

Gods, the strong ones were always the worst.

"You know, you sure are something," Montrel muttered, with something like awe, and when he realised how unguarded he’d accidentally sounded, he added, more upbeat and even slightly jovial, "Maybe next time?"

His tone was a little long-suffering, because there always seemed to be a next time, but he let it stay light because it definitely didn’t feel as good as he thought it would to see their young guest hanging his head and dragging his feet and so utterly, completely defeated. So maybe, so sue him, maybe Montrel figured that it couldn’t hurt to try cheering him up.

Losing was something that was hard to stomach. Losing so wholly, to someone like that, after struggling so hard, was worse. And from what he’d seen, Khobi didn’t take defeat all that well.

Tears wouldn’t have been out of place. He’d seen better men weep over less.

Despair wouldn’t have surprised him. Realising one’s own weakness and inability to alter fate was never a kind experience.

But when Montrel looked at Khobi’s face, his eyes were dry, and there were still flames smouldering in his eyes, storming with the intensity of a wild tiger.

He could safely say that he had never seen him look more furious.