Chapter 82: A Captain And His Master.

Chapter 82: Chapter 82: A Captain And His Master.

There’s something a little surreal about the training grounds at this time of day.

Rogard’s never seen it like this before.

Emptied, that is.

To him, this is the part of the castle that’s always full. The corridors, the ballrooms, the great halls --there, the crowds come and go like the tides. Sometimes they’re packed fit to bursting, and sometimes they’re so empty it was difficult to believe anyone ever went there at all.

Not here. This place is always crowded, and noisy, and full of life.

Or, it’ supposed to be.

Now, at that time of day when the sun sinks low and red along the horizon, and the shadows of men fall dark, and long, the training grounds are uncannily quiet.

Gone are the hordes of soldiers and all the racket that comes with them --most of them have worn themselves ragged hours ago --but there are some that linger in the fading crimson light, tirelessly pacing out their drills with a stern, quiet diligence that Rogard finds...strangely dignified.

Duelling was an elegant sport, but the training had always seemed so messy to him. Training was a time for sweat, and tears, and being beaten down and built back up from nothing. It was dirty, and ugly .

This isn’t.

Beyond him, the shapes of men form shadows against the setting sun, weaving patterns between each other and kicking up puffs of dust as they go.

Each movement is deliberate, and flows on into the next like the steps of a dance, and each man, with sword in hand, glides across the training ground like it’s one they’ve learned by heart.

One of the shapes, in particular, draws Rogard’s eye.

He’s never the tallest man in the room, and even the ladies of the castle most desperate for a husband say his face is a little too common to be truly handsome, but in the evening glow, profile stern and sharp, and eyes gleaming with focus, Drogger Noog looks quite striking.

(Perhaps it’s the sunset. Rogard’s always been a sucker for a romantic backdrop.)

Distantly, Rogard’s aware that he’s staring. And that his good senpai once told him that it was rude to stare.

He keeps staring anyway.

A lot of soldiers complain, away from dangerous ears, that Drogger should spend less time barking orders and more time training the way he expects them to. That maybe they shouldn’t trust a Captain who won’t work for his men the way they do for him.

They don’t see this. Those kinds of men are hours gone, by now, slipped off at the first chance they get. If they could see him now, shirtless, drenched in sweat and stained red from the setting sun, they’d eat their words. Every single one of them.

Because right now, Drogger looks like a man that others can rely on.

Abruptly, Rogard recalls why exactly he’d once respected this man.

(After all this time, he’d forgotten.)

"--Are you lost?" a voice calls out to him on the wind, and he blinks out of a daze to discover that not only have a couple of the men stopped moving, but that they’re actually looking his way.

One of the pairs of eyes is a steely, piercing grey.

"I’m not lost," Rogard hurriedly assures them both, and then rubs the back of his neck to give his hands something to do as he gravitates towards them, "I uhh, I think?"

"You don’t think you’re lost," Rogard deadpans, as he approaches. He’s not even a little out of breath, and his biceps ripple as he sheaths his sword and accepts a towel from a passing servant to rub away some of the sweat from his torso.

It’s the strangest thing, but Rogard suddenly doesn’t know where to look. He’s not really familiar with the situation. "Which is it?" he demands, just shy of irritated, "You’re either lost, or you’re not." Their eyes meet, and just briefly, Drogger’s gaze drifts to the grazes on Rogard’s cheek.

He could have had a servant cover it up for him, but Khobs and all his soldier friends wear their bruises like badges of honour, so he wants to do the same.

"I’m not lost," Rogard says again, firmer this time. Drogger nods, like he approves of the answer, but his frown deepens, like he doesn’t.

"So what do you want?"

It’s a simple question, and for once, has a surprisingly simple answer.

"I want to win."

"The tournament?" Ynoro remarks curiously, seeking clarification. But the person Rogard’s talking to seems to need no explanation.

Or maybe he does, because a second later he cuffs Rogard around the head. It doesn’t hurt very much because he’s not wearing his gauntlets, but it still makes one of his ears ring a little.

" Idiot ," Drogger growls irritably, "You came here because you want to win? That’s all you have to say?"

"Now, now, Drogger..." Ynoro placates, laying a hand on his shoulder to stop him from hitting Rogard again. But Rogard thinks he understands, a little, and tries again. Wanting to win is part of it.

"...Can I train with you again, Master?" he asks, and looks Drogger right in the face, no matter how much he wants to hang his head. "I want to be stronger." Conviction was something Drogger had always respected, and he needs him to know that he doesn’t intend for this to be like last time.

He won’t quit again.

Drogger considers, a moment.

"Sure."

It’s fairly anticlimactic. He doesn’t even hit him again.

Ynoro even seems a little amused.

"What?" Rogard says, a little confused. He’d expected resistance, lectures, and then demands for laps and all sorts of grovelling.

To get Droggers’s agreement so easily seems, well, suspicious. "It’s that easy? Just like that?"

" --Don’t make me regret it," Drogger growls, already with a fair amount of regret. He jerks his head towards the sparse rows of soldiers pacing out drills that for Rogard are all in a distant past.

They’re routines that used to be doled out as punishments --boring, repetitive movements he’d thought were designed to force discipline on troublesome students. He hasn’t walked through anything that basic in years. "Get in line."

Rogard just stares at him, like he’s joking, even though he’s obviously not. Drogger just stares right on back, and Ynoro lays a hand on Rogard’s shoulder when after a few seconds he’s not already moving.

"...I’d do what he says," he advises sagely, and it’s advice that Rogard wisely decides to take. Sure, it takes him a moment, but he steels himself and goes, all the same.

"...You’re serious, Drogger?" Ynoro asks quietly, raising an eyebrow as they watch Rogard awkwardly try to drop into step with the other soldiers.

He looks lost, and is fairly badly out of time, but he’s determined, and he’s trying. "Oh that’s right, you don’t really joke," he recalls, when his old friend sends him a look. "But why?" He’s not against it,just curious.

Drogger always has his reasons. "If I recall, he was a real brat, when he left. Words were said. He walked away. It was terribly dramatic."

(Ynoro’s had the feeling that Drogger’s always regretted that.)

"He came back," Drogger replies stoically, "That alone shows he’s learned something." Ynoro has to admit that to for Rogard Spidra to be back in these grounds under his own free will, something must have changed.

"Whatever it was, it took him an awfully long time," he remarks conversationally.

"All the same,he wants to grow," Drogger says, and seems to forget that Ynoro is his oldest friend, and can see the way his expression softens as they watch Rogard begin to find the old rhythms once more. "What kind of Captain would I be to stand in the way of that?"