Chapter 65: Running Laps

Chapter 65: Chapter 65: Running Laps

Within the confines of the training grounds, it was Drogger’s way or no way at all, so for Khobi, there was only one logical option.

" Hey Rogard, you comin’ or what ?"

Rogard feels like an idiot.

Despite his best efforts, he’s certain he looks like one too.

Honestly, he’d had no intention of following Drogger’s orders. Those days were long over. He’s a man now, as his father often likes to remind him, and gifted , and people with his sorts of talents don’t associate with those who, well, lack them .

They don’t concern themselves with the common rabble, and they certainly don’t waste their time and talent on something as undignified as running laps .

And yet, there he is. Running laps. Like a disobedient child. Or a criminal. And as if that wasn’t already humiliating enough, he’s doing it in a silk shirt and dress shoes.

All because he let Khobi get under his skin.

(Again, but who’s counting).

The worst part is, he isn’t even winning .

Which is not something he’s overly accustomed to.

(He can’t say he likes it much.)

"Hey, hurry up, would you?" Khobi hollers, like he’s dragging his heels some hundred feet behind him, when in reality he’s barely a couple of paces ahead. It’s still enough to make Rogard seethe and contemplate throwing one of his shoes at him.

It’s probably not a bad idea. His feet are already killing him, and they’re just starting their second lap.

"I am right behind you," he grits out, adjusting his pace just so so that he draws even with him for a split second before Khobi does exactly the same thing and pulls out in front again.

Obviously, Rogard can’t let him get away with that.

Heads turn as they thunder by, kicking up dust in their wake and wearing grooves into the dirt. Under normal circumstances Rogard would relish the attention. He’s got the looks and the effortless, boyish charm for it after all.

But these aren’t normal circumstances, and he’s aware of how ridiculous he looks.

He’s only glad his father isn’t here to witness. He’d be humiliated. Furious, even, that his own son could make such a mockery of their house.

"Not getting tired, are you?" Khobi smirks across at him, noting a bead of sweat beginning to form at Rogard’s brow. Rogard’s getting pretty sick of the cheap jabs, and he doesn’t like how Khobi seems largely unaffected by the distance they’ve already travelled.

"No chance," he bites back, sickly sweet, and brushes the offending droplet away with a flourish and a pleasant, unruffled smile for good measure. He knows how to play games too.

And for a while, it works.

The first few laps are easy. He keeps pace with Khobi, and Khobi keeps pace with him --something that neither of them are entirely happy about --and they trade snide remarks every now and then just to prove that fatigue hasn’t set in.

And then it does, and each lap starts to feel so much longer than the last.

He’s an excellent actor, if he does say so himself. Had to be, really, with the company he kept. Sons of lords could be so dull , and their daughters prettier, but not much better, but he would smile and laugh, and gossip amongst them like he cared and they would lap it up and keep coming back for more. It could be quite exhausting at times, but it was amazing where natural good looks and a little flattery could get you.

But when your lungs start to give out on you, it’s fairly difficult for even the most accomplished actors to pretend they’re not.

And yet, he perseveres.

He will not give this nobody the satisfaction of seeing him struggle.

...

"Rogard’s starting to flag," Montrel remarks conversationally, following the two figures in the distance with a degree of interest.

"Seriously, you can tell from all the way over here?" Mural remarks incredulously, squinting in the direction Montrel was looking, barely able to distinguish the pair of them from this distance.

"No way," Gandy scoffs, waving away Montrel’s statement as absurd, "Did you see how far Khobi already ran this morning?? He’ll drop first, no question."

Montrel considers this for a moment, then smirks, "...Wanna bet on that?"

...

"Still pretending you’re fine, huh?"

"...I am fine," Rogard huffs, but there’s a hitch to his voice that says he’s lying. He’s not fine at all. Khobi had almost starting questioning whether he was wrong about Rogard being out of shape, but it’s finally starting to show through. He’s got to admit, he’s impressed by the guy’s commitment to psyching him out, and the fact that he’s kept up with him for so long. But he’s already done his time today (and every other day), and he’s getting pretty sick of running.

So he speeds up, confident that any lap now, Drogger will see they’ve run out their sentence like good little soldiers, and let them settle things once and for all.

"Hurry up," he complains, looking over his shoulder and smirking when he sees Rogard trailing behind him. It’s not like this is a race, or anything, but if it was, he’s pretty sure he’d be winning. "The sooner we’re done here, the sooner I can kick your ass."

Unfortunately for him, Rogard doesn’t like to lose.

And unfortunately for them both, Drogger doesn’t tell them to stop.

...

"This is all your fault, you know that??"

" How is this my fault ??"

...

Hours pass, and around the training ground they go. Sometimes Rogard’s in front, and sometimes it’s Khobi, and although they keep running, because both of them are too proud to stop, it’s with a little more lead in their legs, and a little less air in their lungs, a little less dignified.

They’re exhausted, and it shows.

("Well what do you know," Mural notes, not without surprise, "Montrel was right."

"I dunno," Gandy sulks as they look on, gazing out at the two sluggish blips against the horizon, "They both look pretty beat to me.")

That was certainly one way of putting it. The late summer sun was high and hot today, and indiscriminately unkind, and neither Khobi nor Rogard, despite all their pride and their willpower and their considerable physical strength, had been spared.

And it’s taking its toll.

Khobi’s feeling it, and it feels bad . Maybe it’s the sun getting to him, or the monotony of the endless loop around the grounds, but somewhere along the way he’s completely lost all sense of time. He has no idea how long they’ve been out here anymore, or how much further they have to go.

It’s weird, because although he’s sure his legs are moving, he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Each step feels so heavy, each breath feels like he’s fighting to fill his lungs with air, and his heart is pounding dangerously loud like it might just beat right out of his chest. He aches , and he’s tired, and his body just doesn’t want to run anymore.

And whatever he’s enduring, he’s pretty sure that Rogard must have it a whole lot worse. He fell behind some time ago, with sweat pouring down his face and his feet starting to drag in the dirt like he barely had the strength left to lift them. Khobi can still hear him scuffling along somewhere behind him, stumbling every now and then on shaky feet, like it’s taking everything he has just to stay on his feet.

Khobi can relate. Every step he takes is a gamble on whether or not his legs are going to buckle out from under him and makes his entire body creak in protest. He can barely see there’s so much sweat dripping in his eyes. He doesn’t want to quit, because that’s not what who he is, but unfortunately, it might not be something he has any say in this time. The day’s too hot, and he’s run too far and too fast, and now he’s running on fumes.

So when, somewhere behind him, Rogard’s strength finally fails him and he topples to the ground, it’s almost out of relief that Khobi lets himself fall too.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second, and when he comes too he finds himself lying where he fell, face full of dirt and every muscle in his body on the verge of seizing. The ground is parched, and scorching hot, but it feels so good to be off his feet that he finds he doesn’t even care. He’s not even sure he can move anymore, so he just lies there for a long moment with his eyes closed, completely motionless, and basks in exhausted, unmoving bliss. Even if he wanted to get back up and keep running, he’s not sure his body would oblige.

Rogard doesn’t get up either.

Khobi can’t hear him anymore.

"Hey, Rogard," he says into the ground, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. Some dust creeps in on his next breath and makes him cough. He waits for it to subside, licks his lips and tries again. It comes out a little less shaky this time. " Rogard ," he calls, with more confidence, coughing again. "You still there?"

There’s a long silence before the reply comes, weak, but emphatic.

" Fuck you ."

Despite himself, Khobi chuckles. His lungs don’t thank him for it, and he’s still coughing up dust and trying to catch his breath when shadow passes overhead.

It comes with a pair of boots.

Khobi groans when he sees who they belong to.

"...What...what do you want...?" he huffs, hands curling into the dirt as he tries to muster the strength to haul himself back to his feet. It doesn’t work, and he just ends up flat on his face again. Drogger, hands behind his back and expression unreadable, checks the sky briefly, and considers.

"By my count, Rogard still owes me several days’ worth of laps," he informs him blankly.

" Oh come on ," Khobi curses. Even if he was capable of it, the last thing he wants to do right now, is keep running. He’s starving, he’s parched, and his legs are cramping so fiercely it feels like they’re eating themselves.

"-- But ," Drogger concedes, "It is getting late." Khobi looks up at him, hardly daring to believe what he’s hearing, and Drogger nods. It’s both approval, and dismissal. "You can pick up where you left off tomorrow."

Khobi’s not thrilled by the prospect of running again, but it’s not right now, and that’s what matters. He’s done for now, and the relief that surges through his body is enough to bring him to his knees. And once he’s there, Montrel materialises at his side to help him the rest of the way.

"Jeez, kid, what took you so long," Montrel snorts dryly, "Everyone else finished running hours ago."

Khobi knows. He’d watched them struggle to the finish line with scorn, and then, as the hours passed, with envy. "Seriously, what are you trying to prove?" he complains, digging Khobi in the ribs with an elbow that almost sends him reeling. "You’re making the rest of us look bad!"

"S-So what’s new?" Khobi manages to smirk back. It comes out a bit too breathless to sting, but Montrel still threatens to drop him.

"Hey smartass, you want to get out of here or not?" he drawls, "Coz I’ll leave you here."

For some reason, Khobi knows he wouldn’t.

Drogger’s waiting. For what, Khobi’s not sure, but as he and Montrel pass him by, he makes sure he draws himself up to his full height and looks him straight in the eye. He stumbles a little, and his knees nearly cave in under him but he catches himself and gestures for Montrel to let him stand on his own, for just a moment.

"I’ll be back," he tells the captain firmly, resolutely, and glances back over his shoulder to Rogard’s quaking form. He’s still crawling in the dust, pretty blue silk shirt stained dark with sweat, and his body’s strength completely sapped, but when he looks up, feeling eyes on him, his expression is one of thunder. Khobi knows that look, and knows he speaks for both of them when he says, "We’re not done here."

Drogger studies him for a long moment, grey eyes stern and piercing as he sizes up him and his resolve. It’s impressive, to say the least. He’s not seen fire like that in a soldier’s eyes for years.

No, he agrees, you’re not .

"Try to make it on time from now on."

(It doesn’t happen.)