Chapter 52: Back Again Tomorrow.

Chapter 52: Chapter 52: Back Again Tomorrow.

It’s only when there’s a knock on his door that khobi realises he’s fallen asleep.

"...Hah?" he manages to grumble out, eyes blurry, brain foggy, and body immediately crying out in protest. "Ugh...." He plants his face firmly back into his pillow and is dimly aware of the door creaking open.

"Evening, sleepy head," a chirpy voice remarks, full of the energy that Khobi had about ten hours ago, and which he’d completely depleted...he spares a quick glance towards the window, and sees darkness...while the sun was still up. "Glad to see you haven’t destroyed your new room yet." Khobi cracks an eye open again and trains it towards the door, and finds a servant beaming at him.

"Oh, it’s you," he mumbles into his bedsheets.

"It’s me," Binny grins, and Khobi lets out an aggrieved groan as he drags himself upright. He’s dog-tired, and everything aches. His arms feel like lead, his legs feel like stone, and there isn’t a bone in his body that feels unbruised.

They’re different aches from the ones he’s accustomed to, but that doesn’t make them any more pleasant.

And he must look about as bad as he feels because Binny laughs as he starts prodding at his ribs to make sure nothing’s broken.

"You look like you’ve been busy," he remarks cheekily, "Hope you gave as good as you got."

"...You know it," Khobi mutters, but the lack of heat to his words just makes it come out sounding good-natured. "...What are you doing here?" he asks, a moment later, hoarse and still fairly disoriented, rubbing his eyes and hissing when pain blossoms across his cheekbones.Binny tuts loudly and a moment later khobi finds his hands being pried from his face by deft hands and being replaced by something cold and wet. He can’t say he likes it any better, but Binny’s hands are insistent.

"Hold it there," he commands, and adds, when Khobi glares at him over the wet towel, "It’ll help with the swelling, some." When khobi offers no further resistance, he backs off and retrieves the tray he’d brought in with him. "...You weren’t in the mess hall for dinner, so I figured you’d want something brought up. Considering what an... eventful ...day you’ve had."

That’s certainly one word for it.

"You always have an appetite when you’ve been fighting."

That’s true.

And he’s definitely been fighting.

It’s only when Binny lifts the lid on his tray and sets free an array of delicious aromas that Khobi realises that he’s starving .

(Again.)

He’d positively gorged himself at lunch. It had been with obvious reluctance that he’d joined them (heads had turned when he’d walked into the soldier’s mess hall, and several tables emptied quite abruptly), but Jaga had insisted that he traipse along with the rest of them to eat, because, as he put it, ’if you’re good enough to train with us, then you’re good enough to eat with us.

’ It hadn’t been a popular declaration, and didn’t exactly convince Khobi that sitting down to break bread with more of the men who had made themselves his enemies was a good idea, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that there were soldiers that you just did not argue with, and Jaga was one of them.

Hasbar had not joined their table, and hadn’t returned to spar with them after.

No one had seemed too bothered, and after Khobi’s initial reservations, Montrel had watched with apparent fascination as he ploughed through bread, and meat and bowls of pretty much whatever the petrified kitchen hands put in front of him.

It was good (and he told them so, twice, in fact, because the first time they’d scampered away so fast that he wasn’t sure they’d heard), and he had to keep his strength up.

"Smells good," he remarks, perking up somewhat.

"That it does," Binny agreed, "You’re lucky there’s anything left, I heard you practically emptied the kitchens today."

That’s not fair. They kept bringing him food, what was he supposed to do??

He says as much, and it makes Binny snicker.

"Relax, I’m messing with you," he snorts, waving away his protests, "They liked you, funnily enough. Snuck you cakes, actually. They aren’t used to compliments down there."

He pulls out a small, sticky-looking bundle from a fold in his tunic and adds it to the tray. "...There would’ve been more, but I got kinda snack-y on the way over here."

Khobi wants to be mad that Binny stole his sweets, and probably not for the first time, but there’s steaming meat on that tray just calling out to him, and if the servant hadn’t brought it up for him, he probably would’ve just woken up hungry in the middle of the night. So he decides to let it slide, this once.

He’s pleased to discover that his body’s still listening to him after what he’s put it through, and his legs don’t even buckle when he puts weight on them.

It’s a stiff walk to his table though, and his tailbone definitely doesn’t thank him when he sinks down into the chair.

"Nnnnngghhh...." he grinds out from behind clenched teeth and tosses the wet towel onto the table next to his tray. His face still smarts something awful, but there’s food in front of him and priorities are priorities.

"Rough day, huh?" Binny snickers, leaning up against the windowsill as Khobi ploughs into his food. Khobi gives him a dry look, as if to say ’ you could say that ’. "Heard you got to meet the king."

"Oh come on, I bet you were watching," Khobi snorts flatly.

"Guilty," Binny chimes, shrugging, "I was curious. You did great, by the way. Kept it real classy." He’s making fun, but Khobi’s starting to find he’s kinda getting used to it.

(He’s not sure if that’s a good, or a bad thing.)

"...Saw you at the training grounds, too," he continues conversationally, "...You’re a real sucker for punishment, aren’t you?" Khobi can feel his eyes roving across his dusty clothes --borrowed, from Montrel since the ugly things Bongo had dressed him in for breakfast were horrendously unsuited for the battlefield --tallying up the lumps, and scrapes and bruises. He mustn’t find anything more worrying than the unsightly swelling on his face, because he doesn’t comment further.

"...I like fighting," he shrugs, chewing a mouthful of meat and bread, "...And I’m good at it."

It’s not necessarily a brag, it’s just the truth. Some men train every day of their life and become adept swordsmen. Other men --men like himself, and, if he’s honest, men like Vogrid, probably --they’re gifted. Adept doesn’t begin to describe the caliber of fighter they’re destined to become. Jaga and Montrel are good. They’re good, sturdy soldiers, with strong arms, deft strokes, and loyal hearts, and sure, sometimes they’ll get one up on him, but Khobi’s the talent, and they know it.

Binny’s next question comes out a lot more serious than he’s used to.

"You don’t get bored?" he asks suddenly, and when Khobi looks up, confused by the question, he’s not looking at him.

"Why would I get bored?" he snorts, because the notion’s ridiculous. He’s been fighting as long as he’s lived. First in his uncle’s halls, entranced by the soldiers, and the way they danced in both challenge and celebration of each others’ strength, and then in Briyagi, not just because he had to, but because he’d seen how beautiful swordplay could be, and was determined that it would be beautiful for him again, one day.

It takes Binny a moment to answer, and when he does, he sounds sad, and far-off.

"Some people get tired of fighting."

Khobi snorts into his food.

"That’s loser talk," he scoffs contemptuously, "What good does giving up do?"

Binny seems surprised, and almost a little impressed by his answer.

"I guess you’re right," he admits, the grin returning to his face, but strangely less bright, somehow. "So, you’re going back tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, back to the training grounds? I’m sure you’ll find plenty of new guards to beat up," he nattered, back to his normal, chatty self in the blink of an eye.

"I’d bet all the gold in the treasury that there are soldiers out there that reckon they could take you, no problem."

"They’d be wrong."

"I know that," Binny chuckles, "But they don’t."

For some reason it comes as no surprise that Binny has a mischievous streak.

As for his question, Khobi finds he doesn’t have an answer. He hadn’t even thought about tomorrow.

Not for a second had it even crossed his mind that the freedom he’d tasted today --not real freedom, sure, but a type of freedom nonetheless --was anything other than fleeting.

He hadn’t even considered that when he woke up in the morning, there would be no locks on his door; no guard breathing down his neck.

The bread in his mouth feels like its sticking in his throat.

Tomorrow.

He can do it all again.

He can wander through the castle without soldiers watching his every move, he can go to the kitchens, when he’s hungry, or back to his room, when he’s tired.

And he can go back to the training grounds, can breathe the air out there, feel the dirt under his feet, (and occasionally under his face), and for the first time, in such a long time, fight just because he loves it --to show the world what he can do --because down there, there are men (good men, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind) who will gladly cross swords with him, and then still invite him to eat at their table.

He thinks of the sword, lying on the chest at the bottom of his bed, and decides that today felt different.

And he realises, that whatever it was, that made it feel different, he’s missed it.

"Yeah," he answers, long after Binny’s question has faded into silence. "I’ll go back tomorrow."

(He doesn’t know it, but what he’s feeling all of a sudden, is excitement.)

(It’s been a long time since he’s looked forward to anything.)