Work Text:
Contact Juggling
Judeau believes; Corkus does not. It takes all of a quarter of an hour for both of them to figure this out, even if Judeau is young and Corkus is drunk. Corkus has been with the Band of the Hawk longer, at least a year already (not that anyone's counting) and by his own argument he's got every right to follow without following.
"Just watch," Corkus says, "well, not that you can watch yourself, but keep track of it, or something. Those stars are gonna leave your eyes soon as you see battle."
"I've seen battle," Judeau doesn't quite lie.
"But you haven't seen us in battle. And yeah, we're good, and most of us are still here since we came in, I mean, you get the blowhards whop sign up and don't see a coin in their short stupid lives, but most of us aren't that stupid, otherwise we'd be dead. But you're gonna see us in battle, kid—"
"I'm almost sixteen."
"—and you're gonna think that Griffith's not a god, just a little guy with a poncy helmet of course you're a kid, you're a kid and so's he and you should be happy I'm underestimating you."
Judeau smiles.
"But yeah," Corkus goes on, his hair and his stubble bristling as he slams his tankard back onto the table. "You're gonna get used to this."
"Okay," Judeau says, because he doesn't want to argue, and drinks some more of his own ale.
Judeau does see battle, not very long after that; he wasn't completely lying when he said he had before, he'd just never killed someone on purpose. Now he has. It's actually very different, and he wasn't quite expecting to feel less awful about doing it intentionally. But he does. It feels like performing.
Griffith's not directly responsible for counting out the bonuses, but once the bodies are collected it turns out that one of the enemy commanders had Judeau's knife in his throat, and they only figure that out after all the corpses are counted so Griffith brings the money to Judeau personally, and tosses it through the flap of the tent onto Judeau's bedroll, right between the peaks of his knees.
Judeau stares at the little pouch for a bit. The laces drag it to the side, and the edges of the coins press out through the tauter section of the leather.
"This doesn't usually happen on your first day out," is what Griffith tells him, not congratulations or you did well or you'll be promoted.
"I wouldn't think so," Judeau agrees.
Griffith lets the tent flap shut. Without the moonlight, with lanterns instead, his pale features warm up considerably but don't stop shining. He comes nearer, to stand over Judeau, and Judeau wonders if he should stand. He doesn't think so, but it can't hurt. Looking up at Griffith is making him kind of dizzy anyway—
"You'll need to buy more knives," Griffith says before turning and leaving before Judeau can decide to stand. "We lost Freed today, so we'll need a new smith. You're in charge of recruiting one. Check with the enemy army first."
"Yes, sir!" Judeau says, before the tentflap shuts again, slapping on the rest of the hide.
So of course Judeau can't help his happiness the following morning, even if it means most of his pay is probably going to be used to sweeten the deal. So he enjoys the weight of the gold while he can, juggling the pouch on one hand, letting the leather slide along his skin, spin around his wrist and hack onto the back of his fingers—then slip through, one more circle and a catch—
"Well, someone's done well for himself."
It sounds line—and is—Corkus, a ways behind Judeau, scrambling a bit to catch up. Judeau slows for him, quickly ties the pouch of gold onto his belt, and smiles. "What, you didn't?"
"Hey, I got paid same as you yesterday," Corkus says when he gets to Judeau's side, hands spread out, somehow defensively. "Knew I underestimated you, but I thought you'd be the type to save it."
"Can't, I've got a smith to recruit."
"Yeah, I heard about Freed. Dog's death too." Corkus tilts his head in a sort of shrug that Judeau wants to imitate, it seems as useful as it is funny. "Figures since you gave the Red Hounds all your knives you'd take their smith. 'S a good plan."
"Griffith's idea," Judeau says.
"Hope you didn't give them all the knives, then." Corkus grins and leans in, gets his backpedaling enough into Judeau's path that Judeau has to slow down even more. "'Cause they're not gonna like you barging in and buying them out."
"So that's probably why Griffith sent me," Judeau says with a little shrug of his own—not quite the tilt Corkus used, but he can practice.
"Shit, then I'm going with you."
Judeau stops. This head-tilt isn't a shrug.
Corkus scoffs. "What? Gotta keep you alive. Every one you kill is one who doesn't kill me, right?"
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