Chapter 53: Quick Fist.

Chapter 53: Chapter 53: Quick Fist.

Now, Xena had been raised a lady, and her parents had always stressed that it was important, to always be the cleverest in the room. It was one of the few things they’d agreed upon, actually, in their own way. Knowing an audience was key to understanding them, and understanding them, was the key to getting your way with them. And the best way to get to know them, was to listen. To them, and about them, her father had preached. Crade had an efficient and reliable information network, if one knew where to open their ears.

Her mother had never been able to argue that, but wholeheartedly considered it most unladylike to gossip.

(Xena had always found rather the contrary. All the ladies of the castle seemed to do was gossip.)

And, it would break her mother’s heart to know, but she listened. Her mother was brilliant in many ways, but in their world, knowledge was power, and her father was the master of knowing things he oughtn’t know. She learned what lords had petty rifts with who, and where soldiers’ loyalties truly lay. She heard much of who was bearing who’s bastard, and who was slowly sinking into crippling debt, and, most recently, something upsetting that had the entire castle abuzz with uncanny delight.

Loac Trent had a black eye.

The rumours had started in the morning, when the bruising was little more than a shadow on his dark skin. Servants and soldiers alike that passed him by wondered if maybe it was just a trick of the light, or if he hadn’t slept too well.

(He was known for that sort of thing, after all.)

But by the time afternoon rolled around there was no question, the truth was right there on his face, dark, mottled purple, and very ugly.

It’s something she has to see for herself. Even if he won’t thank her for bothering him, she has to make sure he’s okay.

(Someone has to.)

It’s not fair on him, not at all, that no one’s offended for him. Sure, some of the nobles have said it’s an outrage, for a member of the royal family to be assaulted in their own home, but she knows what they say about him behind closed doors when they think the servants aren’t listening, and knows that they’re secretly glad. That he’s finally gotten what he deserves.

And maybe he does deserve it, but he’s still her cousin, and someone should be upset.

When she eventually finds him, alone in his room, not even he seems to be.

(For some reason, that makes it even worse.)

It looks awful.

It looks like it hurts.

"Is it true?" she demands to know, flying into his room before he has the chance to slam the door in her face. "Loac, did he hit you??" He wrinkles her nose at her shrill tone and bats away her hand as she reaches up to inspect the ugly bruise. The fist that hit him broke skin above his brow, and there’s a fearsome looking cut running right through the middle of it. It’s even worse than they said.

"What does it look like -- ow, Xena, don’t touch -- "

"Oh, he shouldn’t have done that!" she huffs, shaking her head in dismay as he backs beyond her reach, because he shouldn’t have. The nobles, bless them, warbled about all sorts of things, but for once they were right. "Oh, if father hears about this --"

" --He’ll probably shake his hand," her cousin cuts her off, voice dull and listless and resigned, and as much as she’d like to be able to tell him that he wouldn’t, that his uncle cares about him, the words stick in her throat. It wouldn’t be a lie, she’s sure of it, but he wouldn’t believe her anyways.

She doesn’t try to touch him again.

"...Are you okay?" she asks, from the safety of the doorway, watching as he turns his back on her and busies himself with the buttons on his vest. There’s a discarded shirt lying on his bed, white, with brown flecks down the front where blood has dripped, and dried. She knows he sees her, she can see herself in his mirror, and she looks sad, and very far away. Small, too, like a lost little girl. She feels like it. He’s her family, she should be able to help him. She should be able to take him by the hand and tell him things will be okay, and protect him when they aren’t, but he’s drifting ever further away from her, and sometimes the distance between them feels endless.

(This is one of those times.)

He looks up, just briefly, and she locks eyes with his reflection, wanting to hear him say it, to hear him say something , even if it’s a lie.

"S’fine," he tells her, and then firmer, because he can tell she doesn’t believe him. "I’m fine. Don’t worry about it."

How can he ask that of her?

That’s not fair either.

It’s clear that the conversation, if it was really ever that, is already over, but since he hasn’t shooed her yet she lingers, watching as he leans in to the mirror, eyeing his reflection and examining the damage closely. It must hurt to touch, but he doesn’t flinch as he slowly runs a finger over the cut over his brow, inspecting its edges and it’s depth, and then along the ugly swelling under his eye with apparent fascination.

Xena could be imagining it, but she’s pretty sure he looks impressed.

...

" -- Tell it again, Khobi, please, come on, this is the best day of my life."

It’s a story Montrel could hear a thousand times over without tiring of it.

He was being a dick, so I punched him .

"It’s real bad," Gandy remarks conversationally, after Khobi repeats himself for the umpteenth time. "...Saw him skulking around the kitchens earlier. Looks like it hurts."

"Should do," Khobi says grimly, "I hit him hard."

That sets Montrel off all over again, and even a couple of the guards have to crack a grin despite themselves. They’re good soldiers, and good soldiers are loyal to their king and crown, and all, but it’s one of the castle’s worst kept secrets that everyone who knows him has been waiting with bated breath for someone to finally punch Loac Trent.

" It’s about time ," Montrel had managed to get out between howls of laughter, when Khobi had finally arrived at the training grounds amid circulating rumours, " Someone should’ve punch that kid years ago ."

He makes it sound like Khobi did it on purpose.

Which he kind of did, but it’s not like he’d meant to. He hadn’t started his morning with a plan to hound out the prince and sock him.

He’d just gotten lost.

And, predictably, stumbled upon something he wished he hadn’t.

That something was Loac. And he hadn’t been alone.

(It’s not the first time Khobi’s found him like this, and he knows with a grim certainty that it probably won’t be the last.)

Discretion doesn’t seem to be one of Loac’s strong points. And sure, things happen in empty corridors, Khobi’s not stupid , but it’d be nice to be able to walk down a hallway without the risk of running into two people fucking.

It’s a small mercy that they haven’t quite made it that far by the time Khobi chances upon them. Although from their state of undress, and the unashamedly wanton look the man Loac’s with is wearing, they’re not far off.

"Oh for fuck’s sake."

He hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out.

And unfortunately, that was what had gotten him into trouble.

Loac, much to the dismay of his partner, stops what he’s doing, and turns. Hooded blue eyes bore into Khobi from the shadows, and he’s a little ashamed to admit they stop him dead in his tracks.

Something feels off, in the way he looks at him. His bed-partner of the day is pissed off, (as one would expect) but there’s still a heady haze in his eyes that Loac doesn’t share. Instead, his eyes cut right through Khobi, a harrowingly glassy calm.

Considering what they’re doing, and what they were soon to be doing, Khobi’s sure there’s meant to be heat there, but Loac doesn’t even seem that annoyed.

"What are you looking at?" he asks lowly, and presses a wet kiss up into the other man’s throat, eyes never leaving Khobi’s face. "...See something you like?’

"Tsk, as if," Khobi snaps, and although he means it, because he’s not an animal , he’s not quite quick enough to avert his eyes, and catches the way ’s eyebrow quirks suggestively.

"Is that so?" Loac muses, humming as his partner runs a hand down his chest to recentre his attention.

"...Sure seems like it." Khobi falls for the taunt and glares at him with heat, which in hindsight was probably exactly what Loac wanted him to do, because when he has Khobi’s gaze fixed on him again, he inclines his head towards the alcove in invitation.

"You want to join?"

"Hey, I --" the other man starts to complain but Loac presses a finger to his lips to shush him as he shrugs himself free of his embrace and turns to assess Khobi.

His eyes are different now, the hunger is back, brimming under the surface, like a bored jungle cat presented with fresh meat.

Khobi doesn’t like it at all, when he looks at him like that.

In his defense, he’d given him fair warning, had firmly declined his offer, and told him, quite plainly, that if he came any closer, he’d punch him in the face.

He had, so he did.

It had been a really good punch too. Solid, quick, and almost a direct hit. Almost, because Loac had moved just before impact. Which was a shame, because if his fist had landed where he’d wanted it to land, it probably would’ve shattered his nose.

It still had the desired effect. Fist met bone with an ugly, muted crack, and Loac’s head snapped backwards at an alarming rate. He didn’t stagger, the way men usually do when they’re hit, just hung there like a puppet as Khobi drew back his arm, satisfied with his work. He waited, almost expectantly, poised for the retaliation that never came.

Nothing happened.

So Khobi took a step back.

And still, nothing happened.

He took another, on guard for the slightest sign of an incoming attack.

Nothing.

Another step took him beyond arm’s reach, and it was only then, and with a hunted look thrown back over his shoulder, that Khobi turned his back on him. It was a dangerous move, but Loac didn’t come after him.

He said nothing, either, but as Khobi stalked off, head held high and knuckles aching, he could feel cool blue eyes boring into him, watching him go.