Cole woke well before Piet, because Cole never failed to wake early for Stands when he wanted to escape from a lover. Only one of Piet’s roommates had stumbled home, and late at that (though, honestly, he and Piet had finished most of their business quite early – Cole had been impatient), and he slept face-to-the-wall, other roommate’s pillow over his head to dull any chance of hearing them, in his bed, snoring happily muffled. Regardless, Cole lay still for a long time, using the moments of Piet's still-sleeping company to judge and weigh the circumstances, to plan his day, to revive the feeling of the night and see if it was worth it to try again (they could be quiet, if he chose).
Breakfast sounded good.
He didn't wake Piet up, but he didn't rush to leave, either. The spot on his neck where it had rubbed on the ground during the fight yesterday was killing him. He had needed to tell Piet not to hang onto it – poor boy had been offended, embarrassed to be told not to grip onto him so, but not so offended Cole couldn't make him forget.
The fancy sausages were gone, but he could stand a mighty serving of that good black pudding they always had ready in the mornings. And bread. A big hunk of bread. And something sweet, if they had it.
Piet woke, and tried to do so gracefully, but Cole had long since moved on from waking. When the blue eyes cracked open, blearily uneven, Cole gave him a bright smile and extricated himself from bed. He set to dressing immediately.
“So... what are you doing today?” Piet asked, sitting up. He winced at pulled muscles and blushed at Cole, a colouring that touched even the tops of his shoulders.
The cured beef! Never mind, he would have the cured beef, a corner if he could manage it, and the boch tí unless they had the dumplings with it. Sometimes he thought they substituted mutton, which was really better smoked and dried than brined but reestit was possibly even more expensive than beef, which was already a rarity.
While he was thinking, he was saying, “Getting ready for the next round of Cogadh. We might fight Hal's team, you know.”
Piet wrinkled his nose, jealousy as evident on his face as guilt was when he didn't know an answer in classes.
“Hal isn't that great... I mean, his team isn't that great. You have nothing to worry about – why don't you come over? This afternoon?”
Cole gave him a winning smile, leaning down over the bed to give him a sweet and meaningless kiss as he stretched and shifted into his uniform – a shower would have to wait, but Stands was never that taxing.
Piet was happy for the kiss, but Cole didn't miss the dismay on Piet's face when he pulled away. Too bad.
“I need to practice,” Cole said, and set about looking for his jacket.
“You know it was Hal who was teaching those joint locks to everyone,” Piet said, trying to make his voice conversational. It had all the subtlety of a bolting horse.
Hal would have known better than to bring something up that reminded him of losing in front of half the cadets of their class.
Piet was still going. “...There wouldn't have been any problem with taking down that team if Hal had minded a little who he was teaching. He put you behind, and all for not having a little taste.”
The Midraeic had taught Hal, Cole knew it in his bones, and not the other way around – which wouldn't change the sentiment Piet was trying to convey, but Cole didn't feel like correcting him. It was a tedious task, constant correction.
But this morning, Cole didn't feel the tedium of it, and he wasn't going to. Cole felt nothing in particular. Earlier, he thought he might not be – at least, not for as long as this morning – but now he was fairly sure he was done with Piet.
How best to be done efficiently?
“Hal has taste,” Cole said, smiling a little to himself as his memory provided the double-entendre of reminding him what Hal tasted like. He leaned over and kissed Piet one last time as he buttoned his jacket, and the flavour compared poorly.
“...and better judgment.”
There was something in the way he said it, in the drop of his voice or the distant tone, or the jovial lack of any regret, that though the words weren't much, Cole left secure in the knowledge that Piet knew he wasn't coming back.
“What the fuck did you do to Piet?” Hal said, throwing himself down the bench next to Cole at the edge of the showers.
They both looked across the field, where Piet stood, looking back at them with the near-but-distant stare of the heartbroken, swiftly turning away, back into to arms of his friends so they wouldn't see him tear up.
Sweet Peace, he was glad Stands was so early and so large a group it was relatively easy to go through the whole exercise without seeing anyone you didn’t want to – a fact he had taken advantage of. Piet didn’t have to even in be in view of him. Why Piet was torturing himself he couldn’t fathom.
“Nothing,” Cole said, shrugging.
“Oh, so just the usual then?”
“Hey,” Cole leaned over and made to kiss him, “Remind me what you taste like...”
“Virtue's Tits, Cole!” Hal pushed him off, laughing, “have a little shame, won't you? Don't you ever get the... the 'pangs of the heart?'”
“'The pangs of the heart/ which drive men to love/ and away twice as fast/ once love has its start,' you mean? Those pangs? Constantly.” Cole grinned. “I can show you...”
This was just a jest, but Hal pushed him away again, making a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“Bollocks to you and your poetry, Cole – and your lack of pity. I don't know why I try to make you feel it. Can't remember the stupid poems half as well as you, anyway. There's another verse in there about shame, and you know that's what I mean.”
“Can't recall the verse,” Cole said, flicking away a stray bit of grass stuck to his shin. “On my life!” He put a hand over his heart, then grinned again. “But you didn't sit next me to for my admittedly fine oratory, Hal. Tell me it's that you've heard I'm free again...”
But Hal snorted, shaking his head. “I know better than that,” he said. “I'm here to thank you for not fucking me over for once.”
“Oh?” Cole tried to think of a way this was true, and came up blank. Then again, he had just had the sort of nice shower that made him disinclined to try too hard thinking one up. “I assure you, it wasn't on purpose.”
Grinning (a somewhat vengeful grin, in Cole's opinion), Hal asked in a teasing voice: “Have you checked the Lists this morning?”
“Honourable Death, Hal, it’s far too early to be checking the Lists for anything.” Cole stood, if only because Hal’s demeanour and talk of the Lists was causing him nerves. The air felt good against his skin, though, and he had chance to check over the various wounds the last rounds of Cogadh had left him with (none too bad, but certainly not pleasing to have so many).
“Well, one would hope it was far too early to hear about you stomping all over someone’s heart, but that didn’t stop you asking.” Hal was looking off towards the field again, for all the slight bitterness in his voice, obviously trying not to look – and thus get distracted – by Cole’s body.
“That’s different,” Cole said, smiling to himself. “The first gossip of the day is always who left who’s dormitory.”
“Well, there was a chance to hear this last night, actually,” Hal said, taking some pleasure in having one up on Cole in the battle for knowledge, “if you hadn’t gone directly from the match to fucking Piet, that is.”
This had really gone far enough. Cole wrapped his towel around his waist (quite loosely – ‘draped’ really) and sat close to Hal on the bench, carefully calculating how close he might get as he leaned in, saying softly, “Well, you were busy.”
Not strictly true – Cole had no idea what Hal had been up to. True enough to pull the red up into his cheeks and have frustration hit his eyes as he knew – and knew that Cole knew – that it really didn’t matter whether it was true or not. Cole could say it to him and it would be true.
Anyway it hadn’t been directly. A small matter of clarifying their side of the match with the line judge – normal procedure – and then he had to spend time celebrating Ardghal’s achievement, the team’s victory, hearing their stories, pretending to drink along but studiously avoiding getting as drunk as the rest of them got on the piss-poor dormitory wine they had procured.
Then he had gone off to fuck Piet. It had been torturous, waiting, but what it lacked in flavour the dormitory wine made up for in potency, so it hadn’t taken that long before he could make his excuses. He had the excuse of the wine for shortening his seduction and getting directly to the point with Piet, as well. Not that Piet needed seducing, but he did like to pretend, which again, was why Hal was so much the better choice. He didn’t pretend.
Cole would eventually have to be more careful he didn’t scare other lovers off from Hal; he would want something – deserve something – more at some point. From somebody else. For now, it was... uncomplicated.
Cole liked that. Maybe he needed that. He had needed something, anyway, after getting so... juvenilely worked up grappling with The Midraeic. And, better choices not being directly available, Piet would do. Would have done? Was done.
Hal was opening his mouth to say something – or for some other reason – when a voice broke over them.
“Isn’t there something better for the over-forties to be getting to?” Lin said, sharp in his uniform, approaching to take Hal’s seat as if there were no question he would move.
“...Remedial classes or something?”
And Hal – smart enough to pick his battles – stood.
“See you at Cogadh, Second,” he said, dropping a subtle wink at Cole as he walked away.
Cole felt a surge in his chest – Second.
“Honestly, Cole,” Lin said, sitting down, “this shit with Piet and then hanging around the showers with that guy? I don't know what the fuck your deal is, but you can keep better company than that.”
Grunting Cole retrieved his uniform from under his seat and started to dress.
“Every soldier sees a different battle,” Cole quoted at him.
Lin shook his head. “They aren’t even on the same battlefield.”
“Yet,” Cole replied.
Lin nodded his acquiescence to the point. “It’s fine – fuck who you want – but socializing is a bit too far. They’ll start to think you’re soft, and if you’re soft, then they can take you. Or worse, curry favour and try to manipulate you.”
For all his rudeness, this, actually, was one of Lin’s positive features. Like Hal, Lin also never pretended – not on matters of import. He would let a bad joke or social misstep pass, but one always knew exactly where one stood with him.
And there were others in the Prep cadets for whom that was not true.
“We’re all manipulating each other,” Cole said, slipping on his shirt.
Lin’s frown grew fractionally deeper. “Yes, but we at least agree on the terms of battle. Some of those peasants will take you down for nothing but the pleasure of getting one over on their betters. They can hate you for who you are and who you associate with, and both mean they have the right to do whatever they can to you. It’s a different world, and it’s best to stay away from it.”
“Hal is hardly a peasant,” Cole said, mentally begging for the conversation to go elsewhere.
Lin looked at him, a passing glance up and down – he knew, and at least for the moment, knew better than to point out Cole’s status was not far removed from the ‘peasants’ he dismissed so readily – and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. In Prep, it had made them enemies; here, he, too, had to choose his battles.
“It’s the mindset, but like I said it doesn’t matter. Have you checked the lists?”
“Sure,” Cole said, letting his fatigue show and sending a silent thanks to Hal for the intelligence. “My team moved a little up, a few others moved a little down. I’m Second. Nothing serious has changed.”
“Is that so?” Lin said. “Perhaps you were too busy fucking whatever low-ranked doxy was available to notice, Second.”
Uncomfortable as it was to be caught in a lie, Cole only sighed, pretending his top button was giving him trouble to avoid turning his face and potentially revealing his irritation to Lin.
“Why be so circumspect? Tell me or not, First, unless you would prefer not to teach a rival his mistakes.”
Lin snorted. “Like I said, I prefer an enemy on the same battlefield, and if I have to fight to keep you there, I will. Aspen faced a lot more challenges as Second than you know about, and you’ll be facing them soon. Then again, that’s not the important part.”
But he didn’t say the important part. Cole straightened his jacket, brushed down his front. Took a deep breath in and finally looked at Lin, who had been waiting to meet his eyes.
“They posted new Lists,” he said.
Cole waited.
“The Midraeic got five ranks for losing to you.”
Well, fine – Cole had to hide his surprise.
“I think he came up with the plan,” Cole said, and even he knew he wasn’t quite managing the breezy dismissive tone he was aiming for. “Obviously something went wrong with his team, but it was good plan. And he held his own in single combat, even if it was only aimed at keeping me from winning.”
Cole shrugged. “But I won.”
“...And,” Lin said, grey eyes piercing and fixed steadily on Cole, “they switched his class groupings.
Cole started to shrug again.
“...to ours.”
Like a fool his shoulders just stayed ‘up’, lacking any further direction. Cole wished he had more buttons to button.
“What?”
Lin only gave a little titled nod of his head, knowing he didn’t have to repeat himself.
“They switched his groupings?” Cole said, rather stupidly.
A nod.
“To ours?”
Lin didn’t even bother to nod.
“Like... all of them?”
“All of them.”
Dominicus removed his face from the pillow, but could hardly be called awake. The sensation of falling – his only working arm (the other being entirely numb) having pushed him towards the edge of his bed – got him to put his feet right only just in time not to flop like dropped roll onto the ground.
He could have flopped like a dropped roll on to the ground. That would have been fine. His arm hurt.
In the distance a pipe wailed; they no longer felt the need to personally introduce them to the infernal, bagged-wind-screeching machine, and the distant but distinct noise usually sufficed to awaken them.
But...
“Hnurf... whe... what?” Ruaridh got up, because he had heard Dominicus get up.
Feichín’s eyes were open, but was he awake? He hadn’t moved from his corpse-like posture on his bed, one hand and one foot hanging limply out of the covers over the side.
Dominicus didn’t understand words yet, but he understood the imperative of his new schedule. Now he had early Stands. He must get up at first piping. He must get ready. He was getting ready.
“What are you doing?” Ruaridh asked, rubbing his eye, body moving to also get ready.
Some moments later, Dominicus understood the words.
“Go back to sleep. My schedule changed.”
“What?”
Maybe he said it in Midraeic.
“Go back to sleep. My schedule changed.”
“...What?”
Oh, no – he understood. But Dominicus was in no shape to explain. He tested his arm, thought about the sling, stuffed it into his bag (if he couldn’t get through Stands without a sling he needed to be at the medics). Stuffed everything else he had in his hands last night except the boots (on his feet) into his bag. Had to get to Stands.
“Cogadh,” he said, because that was a relevant word. “Schedule changed.”
“It doesn’t do that,” Ruaridh said, like a man waking from a dream where the sandwiches ate him, and still a little scared about it.
“It does,” Dominicus said, and shrugged.
“But not ours,” Feichín croaked, eyes closing, limbs retreating back under the covers like a snail into its shell.
Dominicus left, with Ruaridh still staring in bleary confusion as he sat in his bed.
Stands went fine, but Stands was supposed to go fine. There wasn’t anything to Stands. Maybe they stared, but it was a foggy morning and maintaining disciplined marching order meant they couldn’t stare for long and staring when you were trying to touch your own toes was both obvious to the ollamh (meaning asking for punishment) and difficult to achieve gracefully.
Breakfast had the potential to go differently, but it didn’t – largely because Dominicus wouldn’t let it. He didn’t have time to dawdle, or be distracted; he had to memorize his new schedule, asking the Prophet to be so merciful as to locate all of his new classes in places he already knew how to get to. They were too far along for there to be any mercy for lateness or confusion, not that there had been much to begin with, and if he didn’t catch hell from the ollamh then being conspicuously lost would get him chased by Second Years.
The news was bad – but not today. He would remain being taught Swordplay by Ollamh Corin, and he would remain being taught Ancient Languages by Ollamh Hammerlyn, and God’s judgement was that he should suffer both in the same day.
But being a merciful God, that day was not today. Today he would start with History, and move to Grappling, and Grappling was still Ollamh Dubhlainn, proving he was still loved by someone near to the Prophet’s hand (he resolved to do something for the Holy Mother, who was after all his patron and known for such blessings-mixed-with-suffering, but how was a consideration for another time).
But now he had to go to History, with this new ollamh, and new classmates, and a new room, which meant he ate food (something was on his plate, that he put there, that he ate) and then left the hall without so much as looking away from his new schedule (they were so many pages – he was in a new group entirely! The holes left in days for his bivouac were different, if that’s what these holes were – one never knew until one was either called or not).
His guess that the new ollamh would rather die than disturb class to make any acknowledgement of things that happened to cadets proved accurate, which also supported his tactical decision to remain as quiet as possible and observe the class. He could stand being thought stupid or thoughtless for one day, and wagered it was unlikely his silence would be taken as something worthy of notice (and thus punishment) for a single day, as well.
Thus it was he was at leisure to notice a preponderance of the Prep cadets in his class. Particularly, he was unhappy to notice that Third was among them, though Third, and indeed the rest of them, seemed content to pretend he didn’t exist.
In fact, most of the class seemed to share that contentment. Most definitely there was staring, but also a great deal of reluctance to acknowledge Dominicus’ presence.
But, in fact it was more than that: A slip in another cadet’s glance his direction allowed him to notice that this invisibility was being enforced by the stony disapproval of the Prep cadets – as if it granted him too much power to be so noticed.
Today, this suited him. Inevitably, it would change – they would change their tactic and he would change his approach, but today, it was an enormous relief. Even more so that, thanks to all his extra reading, he was not so far behind his new classmates as he feared.
And when class ended, in keeping with both his wants and their apparent group decision, everyone obliged him by leaving him behind. This meant he could follow behind the great mass and watch it dwindle down until only those heading to same Grappling class as him remained in front of him on the path.
Less pleasing. Perhaps even, un-pleasing. He did not like the feeling this engendered in his chest. Not every Prep cadet remained, but enough of them. And naturally they met others at the place the class convened who were also un-pleasing to see.
And Third. There was Third. He did not want to match up with Third. The latent pain in his arm pulsed stronger and he resented the shit out of it for reminding him he might be matched up with Third.
And also there was Brahn Innrachtig. A few others of his circle. All of whom had taken some kind of shot at Dominicus in the past, and he had to assume were inclined to continue their feuds.
More than Third, he was worried about Brahn. Their meetings in Groups had become so sparse as to be unremarkable, because the Cogadh meant Groups seldom met at all. Brahn’s vendetta had proven more enduring than Dominicus would have guessed already – it would be foolish not to expect trouble out of this. And now, it would be troubled faced several times a week, inevitably.
Un-pleasing. He wished he could think of a better word, but it was hard to say he was totally recovered. They would have a rest day, soon, and he would just have to survive until then. Dominicus stayed apart, stretching and limbering the way they all stretched and limbered (though taking special care of his injured arm) before a combat class, but keeping a wary eye on the groups his new classmates formed, their friendly chatter, their curious or hostile glances in his direction.
The Prep cadets in attendance seem to have laid down their law on this group as well – or, at least, nobody was willing to try anything, with Dubhlainn already here as the class convened.
Finally, the ollamh clapped to bring them together. In his usual, unceremonious way, once they had formed up, he said, “Galen, let’s see where you stand with this group.”
Even the Prep cadets could not enforce their will on the ollamh. Ignoring the rustle of discontent, Dominicus slipped through the others to take a place at the front of the class.
“Ah’Kannan, face up.”
A well-built but anxious-faced cadet approached the front, setting his square jaw as he walked. He took the place opposite Dominicus, and they saluted each other as combatants.
Dominicus pushed a hand into his shoulder joint as they sized each other up, testing to see how much it might hurt to use. Being put in a position to demonstrate worried him, but he knew that was Swordplay’s fault. Nobody had ever seen a single cadet moved across classes – there had been the great reordering of all of them, a few weeks in, but that affected everyone – so nobody could be sure if this was ‘usual’ for the situation. It certainly felt demonstrative to Dominicus, but he could not be certain that was Dubhlainn’s intent. Dominicus didn’t think so, but he didn’t know, either.
But he had said ‘let’s see where you stand’ to Dominicus. And, unlike when the year had started, Dominicus was not learning along with these classmates, starting from the bottom. There was reason to measure.
And, naturally, since... well, everything – circumstances – Dominicus’ opinion of those circumstances – had changed.
So, Dominicus would show them where he stood.
Cadet Ah’Kannan closed; Dominicus grabbed the other cadets’ right arm with his left, kicked him hard in the side, dragged him forward and then down and then Cadet Ah’Kannon was face down on the ground, Dominicus’ knee on his back, arm torqued up behind him, calling Gaellem to end the match.
Dominicus let go. Ah’Kannan stumbled up, saluted back in a wobbly fashion and headed for his place in the class formation.
“Naos,” Dubhlainn called, “come.”
He came; they saluted; Cadet Naos got tripped and thrown to the ground so hard he started gasping for breath, and called an end to the match that way.
There was a stirring. Dominicus had assumed they had started at the bottom – had they not started at the bottom? – of the ranks of cadets in the class. There was no need for stirring.
“Innrachtig,” Dubhlainn said.
Had they known that would be the next name called?
“He’s better than me, ollamh.”
The whole class swivelled like poppies in a stiff wind to stare at Brahn Innrachtig. Including Dominicus, who had rather grimly set himself to prepare for a real death match.
“We’ve fought, sir,” he said, into Dubhlainn’s querying gaze. “He won each time. He’s beaten cadets better than me in my presence. He’ll need to be matched with the top of this class, if anyone.”
There was a pause.
“In your opinion,” Dubhlainn said.
“In my opinion, sir,” Brahn answered.
Dubhlainn smiled. “Well, then, let’s not be too hasty, but hastier. Cadet Cole, in that fine teaching style of yours – come face our new classmate.”
Well, fuck.
After a little more stirring, Third pushed his way in a leisurely fashion up to the front. He was smiling, but Dominicus feared that he always smiled (well, not always – he had definitely seen him not smile, and not very long ago, the bastard), so smiling wasn’t a telling gesture. Still. Un-pleasing. Something stronger than un-pleasing but he didn’t particularly want to put a name to it, not least because it was distracting.
But of course, that was also how it must play out.
This was a logical step. It made sense. There was nothing portentous about this matching.
His arm hurt a little more for no reason.
“We meet again,” Third said to him, in what seemed to be a light a pleasant tone. His voice was irritatingly hard to read, just like the bland paleness of his Ainjir face. “Hope there’s no hard feelings. Let’s have a good match.”
Dominicus, having given up the series of thoughts that would formulate and translate an appropriate reply, grunted. He was rapidly shutting down processes that weren’t ‘beat the shit out of this son of a bitch’ occurring in his thoughts. He needed all his attention focused if he was going to win.
And, this time, he was going to win. Fucking one-armed or not.
Dubhlainn, as if listening to the banter of cadets was beneath him (and it was), gestured for their match to start.
And it was beautiful. All very mechanical. Very clean. It was like the intervening time between their match the previous day and this one hadn’t happened – they skipped the preliminaries, the testing, the feinting to learn or testing of speed and grip. And it was even more brutal, in that, without the distraction and confusion of the Cogadh swirling around them, there was really only one concern for each. It was simple. Very hard, but very simple.
All Dominicus had to do was kick Third’s ass. Blissfully thoughtless, this was what he aimed to do.
He didn’t know if it was blissfully thoughtless for Third – who could tell what chased heathen thoughts around that skull of his – but he knew the moment he was winning, and the moment Third decided to attack his injured shoulder rather than lose.
Dublainn stopped the strike before it hit, hand closing on Third’s wrist. The snapping of his long limb into the middle of their combat startled them both into stillness, such that when he pulled up, as if helping Third to stand out of their locked-together limbs, they could both... just go along with it. Dominicus rolled away while Third let go and returned the pull to bring him to his feet.
“Good,” Dubhlainn said, smiling to them both like he hadn’t narrowly prevented medic-worthy injury to one of his students. “I think we’re clear.”
They both wobbled back to their positions, the abrupt end of their match like the collapse of a child who had spent the last minute spinning. Dominicus had to replay in his mind the steps of the bout – it was all really a blur – could he even recall? Not very much...
But yes – he recalled that, at the end, at least, though Dominicus didn’t know what the expression was that had replaced it, Third had stopped smiling.
Dubhlainn had started the lesson. He was showing them something new. They all had to pay attention, or risk falling behind. Dominicus was trying hard to focus, but also pulling at his memory to try to recall what had just happened beyond that he had been winning.
Well – technically – he had won. More or less. Sort of. Mostly.
Third knew he had won. In the only way that mattered.
And Dominicus could consider it a double victory. For all his inability to drag his mind away, he wouldn’t call the fiery surge of satisfaction he felt a problem. It accorded. He had won. His opponent knew he had won.
And in his personal battle, he had also won, for indeed, Third had been right:
There were no hard feelings.