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“Kneel.”
Rogan was five years old when he had first heard that word.
It had been said roughly, little more than a grunt, and Rogan hadn’t understood the word any more than he understood why his older sister was dragging him away. There was a noise then, a fist colliding with flesh, and he heard his mother sob. The command was given again, because that was what it was, a command and when he tried to look behind him, he saw that his mother was on her knees, a line of red dripping down her chin.
He tried to go to her, to help her, to do anything at all because his Momma was hurting, but Laila was pulling hard at his arm and he could do nothing but follow her.
They hid beneath the stairs, Laila covering Rogan’s ears as best she could, and they stayed there until the sun came up, the stranger had left sometime before, apparently satisfied.
“Kneel.”
He had heard it again at seven. Laila was long since dead and buried but now he held his new sister in his arms. His Little Safi, Rogan liked to call her. She was small, smaller than the others had ever been, but Rogan still took her beneath the stairs and he covered her ears as best he could because that was what older siblings were meant to do.
It only lasted an hour this time but when Rogan crept out of his little spot, holding His Little Safi close, his Mother was still kneeling on the dining room floor, her eyes emptier than he ever remembered seeing them.
There had been tears on her face but there was no blood.
Rogan kept His Little Safi resting against the crook of his shoulder as he prepared them all dinner.
“Kneel.”
He was still seven and his Mother had given the command this time, though her voice sounded as wrong as all the strangers before. Though, he supposed, some of them were a little less then strangers. That man with the scar across his eye had come several times over the last few months and the one with the bot belly and the annoying wheezing breath sometimes came with him.
Rogan crept into the little spot beneath the stairs and he found himself alone. His Little Safi had been laid beside Laila. He blocked his own ears instead, though when he looked through the crack in the stairs, Rogan could see the newest stranger, because it was a stranger this time, had knelt willingly and without needing to be struck.
The mans eyes lit up as Momma towered above him and Rogan wondered if it was so easy, why Momma had not just listened the first time and the dozens of times since them.
She wouldn’t have been hurt so badly if she had just listened.
“Kneel!”
He was eight now, nearly a man. The command had been followed by a crash and even covering his ears was not enough to block out those terrible sounds because she kept sobbing and crying out in pain and it took Rogan three days to fully clean the blood off the tile and another day after that before there was a new man issuing the command.
She did not cry again because she knew it didn’t help.
He did not block his ears because he knew that wouldn’t help either.
“Kneel.” Rogan was ten. The command had been a whisper, not a shout, and Rogan dutifully came out from beneath the stairs and knelt right beside his Mother.
“Huh,” The new man had grunted.
“Away, Boy,” She had hissed.
Rogan did not understand. He was just doing what he had been told, like she always demanded of him.
“No,” The man said. “He stays. Gotta earn his keep too, eh?”
“But-“ She tried.
“Triple.” The man said.
Rogan did not remember much of that night, but he did remember how his Mother had been proud of him. At least, he thought that she was proud because she let him have a little bit of tea that she had bought as a treat. He didn’t really remember having a treat before, but he did remember her demanding that he never let his younger brothers know.
He liked the tea. He did not like how his Mother had cried into hers.
In all the times after that, if his brothers were awake he would take them beneath the stairs and make them cover their ears. If his brothers were sleeping, or were otherwise entertained upstairs, Rogan dutifully knelt beside his Mother even before the command had to be given.
“Kneel.”
He was fourteen years old, a soldier of the Masafian Army, and he was never going to fucking kneel for anyone again.
“Kid,” Edwin warned him quietly. “That is Lord Byron. You have to kneel.”
Rogan did not kneel.
Lord Byron’s reprimand was extensive and severe, with most of the bruising lasting a month while the pain in his ribs lasted another three. Edwin had tended to him, no matter how much Rogan yelled at him to fuck off. Rogan could deal with this by himself, he always had dealt with his own injuries by himself after all. Bruises were nothing and the cut that ran down his forehead that would eventually scar was nothing too.
What mattered was that good ol' Lord Fucking Byron had given up before Rogan had because Rogan was never going to let someone have that kind of power over him ever again.
“Would you like to sit down?” Edwin said. “We need to talk.”
Rogan was seventeen years old now they were in Commander Edwin’s tent, because Edwin was the Commander of the regiment now and not just a Lieutenant.
Rogan’s hands were bandaged tightly from his newest fight while the bruise on his eye was still going down from last week and his ribs ached a little if he moved wrong but that had almost become normal by this point.
He sat down, because Edwin had not commanded it of him but had simply just asked him to do so.
“You can’t keep doing this, Kid. I’m not always going to be here to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection.” Rogan snarled. “And I sure as hell never asked for yours.”
“We need to work together.” Edwin said. “Every time you lash out, you’re only convincing the men of what they’ve already decided.”
Rogan huffed, refusing to rise to the bait but as Edwin started to prepare some tea for them. He didn’t give a damn about anything anyone had to say about him. The only reason why he was here in the Masafian Army was because he was never again going to go back to that house, that woman he had called mother, this camp was little more than a place that provided food and training.
Though, this place did have Edwin. It had been Edwin who had found him on the street, half starved and half rabid according to some of the soldiers that had been there that day.
“What have they decided?” Rogan asked.
“That you’re a liability.”
“I’m the best fucking swordsman here and you know it.”
“Yes,” Edwin said. “But they need to know that they can trust you more than they need to know to trust your sword. A war is coming, Kid, and you’re gonna have to decide wether you’re in this or you’re out.”
“You…” Rogan swallowed roughly. “You’re going to take my position?”
“I don’t want to.” Edwin said. “I know this is the only home you’ve known for two years.”
Rogan shook his head.
“Ever.” He said and his heart was pounding against his chest. “Commander, please, you can’t. I can’t… I can’t go back there. Please, Sir, I…”
“Kid,”
“You can’t… No, you can’t, I…”
“Kid,” Edwin had tried again. “Rogan, look, I was only saying that-“
“Please, Sir, I can’t breathe… I can’t…”
Edwin set the tea aside, hovering before Rogan but knowing better than to touch him. Rogan was shaking, rocking forward with each attempt of a breath.
He hated this, this pathetic body that sometimes failed him and made it feel like the world was collapsing around him. It only ever happened when he was alone with Edwin because there was no way in hell he was ever going to let anyone else see him like this and the only reason why Edwin could see him like this was because Rogan couldn’t stop it because he was pathetic and useless and he was falling apart.
“Easy, Kid, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not sending you away, okay, I promise, I will never send you away. You know how I promised that I’ll never hurt you? Yeah? Well, now I promise that I will never send you away either.”
Once Rogan had managed to get some sleep, though he was still a little shaky, they made the deal that Rogan was going to try. He was going to prove to Edwin, and to the others, that he was to be trusted in training and in free time too because there was a war coming and Rogan was going to prove to all of them that they could depend on him in a real battle.
He had done well too, Rogan had simply walked away when Styles goaded him about how small his uniform was, he did his best to ignore the way that Hogan slung an arm around him, his breath like beer even though it wasn’t even noon yet.
He even went a little easy on the training field when he was sparring against Tate, though Tate still landed on his ass.
Rogan had tried so damn hard to prove that Edwin had been right to take him into the Masafian Army even though it had been obvious that Rogan was under the age limit. He had tried so damn hard to prove that he was good, so damn hard to prove he had a place in Commander Edwin’s growing regiment, he had a place in the coming war against Solaria because he had not been lying when he said that this was the only place he really considered home, though it was less the place and more Edwin’s calming voice and late night chats over tea that was home.
It was working. Tate asked him to cover a guard duty shift. Jones asked him what his last name was. Rogan didn’t know it but Jones had still asked him because Jones was his friend now.
“Kneel.”
A joke. It had been a joke, a continuation of another joke that wasn’t even directed at Rogan but then he had stiffened and his breath had left him and he had dug his nails so deep into the palms of his hands that he swore that it pierced skin.
He was seventeen fucking years old and with a single word he was falling apart all over again.
And they had seen it.
They had seen it and they had turned to him and they had grinned and Rogan felt like he was dying because he promised Edwin that he would try, promised Edwin that he was going to make it worth having taken him in.
“You like that, Boy?” Jones had mocked. “You like being told to kneel?”
Rogan was still lightheaded seven hours later when he came back into himself.
He now sat in the corner of Commander Edwin’s tent, hands still stained red because no one could touch him to clean them.
Edwin was talking to someone, someone Rogan did not know and Rogan was counting down the minutes until the stranger commanded Edwin to kneel. Rogan decided the moment the stranger said that word, the moment Edwin was ever touched, Rogan was going to utterly destroy them.
The command never came and the stranger simply left.
Edwin crouched down low a few feet away from him.
“Kid,” Edwin sighed. “I’m not gonna lie, this is… Bad.”
Rogan moaned, burying his head into his knees.
He heard Edwin sit down fully onto the ground, the man’s presence grounding somehow.
“Are they dead?” Rogan croaked.
“No.” Edwin said. “But… It was close, Kid. That was, uh, well, that was General Moon. He’s taking his men west in preparation for the Solarian’s. He’s offering to take you in.”
Rogan jerked up, eyes blowing wide.
“I’m not sending you away.” Edwin said quickly. “I told him no. But you can’t do things like this. Rogan, you nearly killed them, our own men. I… I can’t have you train with them anymore. If you want to stay at camp, you can, like I promised I will never send you away. But it will be as my ward, not as a soldier.”
“But Sir,” Rogan’s voice cracked. “I can protect you, protect them. I need to. Please, I need to.”
“Attacking our own men is not protecting them. Look, Rogan, I know I said that I’d never ask, but this has gone too far. I need to know what it is that sets you off like that.”
Rogan shook his head, eyes burning.
“Kid,” Edwin sighed. “Please. I need to know. You want to protect me, right? I’ve told you about my brother, how he would drink and how he would hit me. I told you how I killed him and you protect me because you make sure no one jokes about me not drinking. So how can I protect you?”
“I don’t need protecting.” Rogan said sharply.
He ducked his head low, flinching away from Edwin as if expecting to be struck even though he knew that Edwin would never do that.
“Rogan. Let me protect you so that you protect them. You didn’t want to hurt them, did you? Jones and Tate.”
“Tate asks me to swap night watches.” Rogan whispered.
“Because he trusted you. You violated that trust today and I cannot promise you that you will ever get it back because Tate’s trust is his and his alone to give. But, the first step to regaining it is making sure this kind of thing never happens ever again. So, what did Tate do to upset you like that?”
“It was… It was a joke. He said it as a joke. But I… But he… They can’t use that word. No one can use it. I’ll fucking kil- No. I’m sorry. Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I…”
“Kid, breathe.”
Rogan tried. He breathed in deeply, held it, and released it. One of his hands numbly rose and fell with each practiced breath and while Edwin was still upset with him, he breathed alongside Rogan.
When he was feeling steadier, he spoke.
“They made her kneel.”
The word tasted like acid.
“Your mother?”
And that word was worse. He head swam and his stomach rolled and Rogan was lurching forward with a gag.
He had never told anyone, could never tell anyone. He was the eldest sibling now, he had had to protect them even though he then abandoned them to that woman, in that house. He was the youngest soldier, he had to protect those above him. He was in Edwin’s tent, his whole body shaking as he told Edwin everything, he told him of the men who would come to the house, the money that would be given to his mother, the way it felt as they hurt him again and again.
Rogan told him everything until it all became too much and the lightheadedness worsened to the point of his whole vision blurring white. He didn’t remember being guided to bed that night, nor did he remember being carefully carried by Edwin to the infirmary three days later because he was still out of it.
Rogan did remember talking to Tate and Jones though because he could only apologise when he was fully aware of what he was apologising for. He did remember Jones’ curses and Tate’s apprehension and he did remember how for days after the only person who spoke to him was Commander Edwin.
He heard the whispers of course, he just didn’t care because he was going to prove to them that he was not the monster they saw him as, he was going to prove once again that he was worthy of their trust and he was going to protect them like his older sister Lalia had done for him even if he hadn’t realised it at the time.
Laila was dead and so was His Little Safi. Nine of Rogan’s siblings had died before he left and he never wondered how many more died since then, or in fact how many more his Mother had had since then.
Most of all, remembered the day Tate came up to him and offered out his hand. It had been a year of work, a year of proving himself that he was capable and worthy of their trust, a year of tensions rising along the border, a year of Edwin making certain that not a single person within the regiment used that word.
It had been a year and Tate had fully healed and now he had forgiven Rogan even if Jones was still not ready and yet the day the orders to move out were given, Rogan was instead ordered to stay here.
The war had begun and Rogan was to stay here at camp because the men did not trust him to watch their backs. Edwin had made certain to acknowledge how hard Rogan had worked before he left Rogan standing there in his tent as if that acknowledgement was enough.
Rogan followed along anyway, because there was no way in hell they were going into battle without him there to protect them. He took Knight, the horse that he had been training up whenever he was waiting for private lessons with Edwin to begin.
Knight was feisty, but he was loyal. He refused any saddle they had tried on him and the regiment had actually been ready to set him loose when Rogan tried to ride him for the first time. Rogan adored Knight, and he found he didn’t mind when the other soldiers made fun of how Knight was the perfect height for a kid like Rogan because that meant that they were making jokes with him again and that meant that Rogan’s effort was paying off, though apparently not yet enough.
He made sure to get Knight to slow whenever they got too close to Edwin’s regiment, keeping away enough from the soldiers that they wouldn’t notice his presence but close enough so that he could still protect them if required.
When Rogan found enemy scouts on the way back to Solaria to report to Solaria of the numbers and position of Commander Edwin’s group, Rogan found that his hands were once more stained with blood but he also found that he didn’t mind because he had protected them.
He had protected Edwin and Tate and Jones and all of them, even if Jones had not yet accepted his apology.
Once the regiment would reach their intended battleground, far east of Yurano River, Rogan would go to them and he would prove that he was worthy of their trust because he would have protected them throughout their entire journey.
They never reached the river.
By the time Rogan had tried to warn Edwin of the trap, the thousand Masafian’s had already been surrounded by five thousand Solarian’s.
“Kneel.”
Rogan was eighteen years old and there was that word again. That funny little word that seemed to haunt him wherever he went, that seemed to have soaked into his very bones, his very soul.
They were surrounded by enemies and every single one of Edwin’s men were on their knees already and it was only Rogan and Edwin who remained. Rogan’s arms were held behind his back tightly and even now he was fighting against the grasp, refusing to let his legs buckle even when they kicked the back of his knee.
“I said kneel.” The Solarian General rumbled.
From the moment that Rogan had been dragged over, Edwin’s gaze had never wavered, had never once left Rogan’s face even when a Solarian soldier pressed a pistol to the Commander’s temple.
“You will kneel for his Lordship,” The soldier barked. “Or you will die.”
“Sir,” Tate whispered from his place on the ground. “Your orders, Sir.”
Edwin took in a deep breath. He held it, released it.
“Kneel!”
Rogan thrashed against the arms that held him, screaming in fury as they tightened their grip. It was not just because they were holding him though, it was because Edwin was in danger, they all were and he had to protect them, he promised to protect them.
He had to get them beneath the stairs, he had to make sure that their ears were covered and they did not see.
He had to protect them.
“Sir,” Tate tried again.
Edwin took in one more practiced breath. In, held it for a moment, then out again.
“Protect the Kid.” Edwin said.
It was not until much later that Rogan realised that it had not just been an order but a rallying cry.
Every single one of Edwin’s men had surged up and fought not just because it had been an order but because it was an order that they believed in. Tate had been one of the first to be gunned down, after Edwin himself, while Jones had been the one to kill the men holding Rogan but Rogan had barely managed to regain his footing before Jones was nothing but a spray of blood and a body on the ground.
Rogan had roared then, drawing his sword, but the first bullet went straight through his shoulder and the sword Edwin had bought him all those years ago fell uselessly to the ground. A second bullet lodged deep into his hip but he barely felt it as a Solarian crashed up against him.
Rogan had done everything he could to get the man off of him and before Rogan even realised that he had risen again, the Solarian lay dead beside Rogan’s sword.
Rogan stumbled forward and threw up.
He trembled, a hand pressing against the blade in his gut, trying to remember how it had gotten there. Rogan gripped its hilt and pulled, barely recognising his own scream amongst the dying men around him.
“I’ve got him!” Someone shouted.
He was hoisted from the ground and Rogan really did scream then. Blood poured down his wounds and Rogan’s world spun around him, dully wondering if the lightheadedness was because of blood loss or because Edwin was dead.
Edwin was dead.
Edwin was dead.
Edwin was…
Rogan bit down another gag, remembering the feeling of dirt beneath his finger nails from when he buried His Little Safi.
One by one, men were dying around him. Men he had eaten with, men he had trained with, men he had joked with though they always looked at him strangely when he said the wrong thing. The men he wanted to protect, had sworn he was going to protect, were dying and there was nothing he could do.
“Help… Me…”
Rogan twisted to the voice, thrashing against the new arms that held him and found Danny laying there in a pool of his own blood, a sword still pierced deep in his chest.
Danny was young, barely Rogan’s senior, but when Rogan tried to get to him the hands digging into his arms were dragging him away.
More gunshots and one of the men that had dragged Rogan to his feet fell and Rogan was already running towards Danny when fire crashed through Rogan’s own chest. He stuttered forward, falling to his knees next to Danny.
Danny was already staring up at nothing, a thin line of red tracing down from his mouth.
“We have to get him out of here!” Someone yelled.
“There’s too many!” The shout back echoed louder than the gunshots.
Rogan was lifted again and the world flashed white with pain.
He was draped across something and all of his wounds pulled and he was shaking and maybe he was screaming too but none of that mattered because he had been put onto a horses back and the horse was running and every single movement was agony but worse than that was the fact that the horse was running away from the fight, from the Regiment, from the men he had sworn to protect, the men he had worked so hard to earn their trust and yet now he was abandoning them because his body was not listening to him and his strength was leaving him as blood poured from his many wounds.
The rest of it passed in a haze of pain and Rogan didn’t quite know at what point if any he fully surrendered to the darkness.
All Rogan did know was that he was nearly eighteen and the next time someone commanded him to kneel, or anyone else, he was going to do it.
Because when you don’t fight, you don’t get punished. His Mother had learned that lesson and Rogan had learned it once too, he just had needed to learn it again.
Of course, that was until he met a certain stupid Princess with stupid golden hair and they went on a journey to save her little sister and ultimately all of Masafia from the Solarian invaders.
“Kneel.” Elena said sharply, chin tilted high.
“Get fucked.” Rogan said.
He kept walking and Elena huffed out a hot breath, trudging along after him. She was cursing him out, in that way that only nobility could, and Rogan found his mouth twitching up into almost a smile.
He didn’t even feel lightheaded as they passed by an old house, focused instead on how Elena was still somehow ranting while Mac was behind them, talking about some new surgery technique that he’d heard about while Jefferson pretended to listen to him.
Rogan did not know how or when it had happened, but it somehow felt like home here on the road with the Princess and her rag tag bunch of soldiers, even as they left that old house where it stood and the ghosts along with it.