Chapter 39: Breakfast With The King.

Chapter 39: Chapter 39: Breakfast With The King.

Declining an invitation from a king was never a good idea.

Khobi had learned a long time ago that they were just orders in disguise, daring the foolish to disobey and be punished for it. So when one of the guards –not Montrel or his fellows, but their captain himself –knocked on his door in the early hours of the morning and announced that he’d been extended an invitation to join the king for breakfast, he’d almost laughed at the irony.

And then he’d refused.

Which was why Bongo was now standing in the doorway.

"...Khobi..." came his weary sigh –an appropriate level of exasperated considering the time of morning and how long he’d already been waiting outside Khobi’s door. Because of course it would be too much to ask for him to just do as he was bid, for a change.

"What do you want?" Khobi muttered darkly, turning his nose up at the clothes that had been laid out for him at the end of the bed. Binny --he assumed it was Binny, not many servants came up here --must have snuck them in during the night.

They were fine things, black, and heavy with silver embroidery, and hadn’t made any sense until Bongo had come knocking.

His open hostility had never really fazed Bongo before, and it didn’t seem to bother him now.

"His Majesty is expecting us."

"And?" Khobi snorted flatly. Briefly, his gaze darted to the bowl sitting so innocently upon the chest nearby where a servant had laid it while he slept. The water in it was still warm and the razor accompanying it bright and sharp, and glinted in the dim morning light.

Unconsciously, he scrubbed the back of his hand across his chin and grimaced as the uneven stubble –the trademark of a caged man –grated across his knuckles.

When was the last time he shaved?

Bongo’s voice was more insistent this time.

"It won’t do to keep him waiting."

Khobi acted as if he hadn’t heard.

His uncle had had clothes like these ones, fine-looking things with intricate silver veins of embroidery that only years of experience could perfect. These were even richer, heavier and thicker, and adorned with gleaming silver buttons and little polished beads woven into the designs.

Too impractical and too bright for a man like him, but of course, they weren’t made for a man like him. They were meant to be beautiful, clothes fit for a prince.

"Khobi," Bongo repeated sternly, this time with the kind of authority that comes from years of keeping belligerent underlings in check. "You will meet with His Majesty and the Princess today, one way or the other. For your sake, I would prefer that it wasn’t in chains."

Suddenly the fabric looks ugly, clenched in his fist.

The razor looked much better, fit much better. Because that was the kind of man he was –at least now. He hadn’t been a prince for a long time.

It couldn’t have taken more than a moment to snatch up the razor –but it was still enough time for a lesser man to flinch, and a better man to reach for his sword.

And although it only took Khobi a few long strides to reach the door from where he stood, it should have been plenty of time for a veteran fighter to prepare himself for an attack.

But even as the razor blade carved through the air, Bongo made no move to retaliate. And even when daylight flashed upon steel and the blade halted in its path no more than a hair’s breadth from the soft skin of his throat, he didn’t even flinch, like he’d known that Khobi would pull his strike before even Khobi did.

And his tempered expression didn’t wither in the face of eyes alight with wildfire, even when the edge of the blade nicked against his stubble and a droplet of red beaded on his skin.

Susa didn’t fear Khobi, in the way that it was misguided to fear a kicked dog, but even he had to admit that when he captured Khobi’s wrist in his hand, it was terrifying and sad how steady his hand was, how rhythmic his pulse beat under his fingers, like this was a scene he’d played out a thousand times over. Like killing him would be only so easy. Effortless.

Unfortunately for him, Bongo had seen enough real monsters to know the façade of a man masquerading as one.

"...Enough, Khobi," he murmured, testing the sudden silence with soft eyes and the slightest shake of his head. "This is not Briyagi.... You don’t have to be what it made you."

And maybe Khobi didn’t understand –or maybe he did and didn’t care to hear it, because his hand jerked violently in his grip and Bongo’s fingers tightened around his wrist before he could wrench away.

Yes, I do , the bitter curl of his lip screamed, jaw set and hand shaking as he strained against Bongo’s grip.

No , the patience in Bongo’s face said, ever-unwavering, you don’t .

"...But if you insist," he offered evenly, glancing pointedly down at the blade between them before returning his gaze to Khobi’s face, "I can call for the Lord Vogrid, and we can drag you like the beast the rest of the castle seems to think you are."

He hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, and it showed on his face.

Some of the castle’s inhabitants –no doubt a few of his own men, and possibly his king included –might delight in seeing the barbarian prince of Scargga bound and gagged like a common criminal.

But that was something that Bongo neither understood nor wished to play further part in. He’d never say it, because Khobi seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t care to hear it, no matter how well it was intended, but he pitied him.

No one his age should have suffered, been punished as he had for a crime so small as being loved by his uncle.

That being said, orders were orders, and his orders were quite clear. And if the way Khobi’s gaze flickered all-too tellingly to the sword strapped to Bongo’s waist was anything to go by, he had no intentions of making this easy.

Bongo let out a heavy sigh.

He was not getting paid enough for this.

"Don’t even think about it," he warned wearily, laying his free hand upon the hilt of his sword to dissuade Khobi from reaching for it.

"Khobi," he added, soothingly, the kind of voice one might use to placate a wild beast, "There will be other times for fighting, but for today, just meet with His Majesty. He means you no harm."

" –I don’t believe that," Khobi gritted out, with such venom that it seemed to leave a sour taste on his lips.

And Bongo was rendered so speechless by the ferocity of his words that he had to wonder to himself just how many lies Khobi had misguidedly believed, how many times he’d been burned by the hollow promises of kings to mistrust them so wholeheartedly. And suddenly the wild, hunted look in his eyes made sense.

But Bongo was no king, and he meant what he’d said. Crade was not Briyagi.

"Then believe me."

If only Khobi would understand that.

Fickle his king might be, but somewhere beneath his slippery skin there was a good man pulling the strings, and that was who Bongo trusted in.

Gurdet, despite having earned a reputation as a snake of a king, and a fox of a man at best, had never ruled by fear (although it could not be denied that he certainly possessed the capacity for it) and had but a fraction of Luminous’s penchant for the suffering of others.

And as long as he did not consider Khobi a threat to him or his, the young prince had nothing to fear from him but mischief.

Bongo was not about to let Khobi become a threat.

And so, breaking the tentative stalemate they had been locked in, he slowly relaxed his grip on Khobi’s wrist, letting the blade of the razor settle snugly against his skin, and offering up his throat.

"Or kill me," he offered, solemn and sincere. Understanding. "...And run, if that’s what you want to be."

More than a dare, more than a challenge, it was a question.

And Bongo waited with bated breath to see how he might answer.

For in that moment, he was all that stood between Khobi and the rest of the castle, and he was at Khobi’s complete mercy. The human throat was so fragile, and to cut it, to let that razor sink deep would have been only too easy. It would be messy –the slitting of throats always was –but it would be over quickly, and while Bongo choked out his last in a pool of his own blood, his sword would be open for the taking.

These were all things that they both knew, yet Khobi hesitated. And in the moments that ticked by, the fire in Khobi’s eyes turned stormy, and rife with conflict. The blade at Bongo’s neck quivered once, twice, pressing in deep enough to draw blood. Then it stilled, and went no further.

"Just...just breakfast?" Khobi’s words were barely more than a whisper, low and hesitant –but words enough for Bongo’s expression to soften just so, because he knew that he had made his choice.

"You have my word," Bongo assured him solemnly,and for some reason Khobi seemed to find that laughable.

"...Like your word means anything to me," he scoffed through gritted teeth, but snatched back his arm nonetheless. The sharp pressure against Bongo’s throat abruptly vanished and he let out a breath, a gloved hand rising to his neck to brush off some of the dry blood that had crusted over there. And it was a good thing that Khobi had his back turned, else he might have seen him smile.