Archive of Our Own ^beta

Captain K. P. Hob walks off the duelling field, ignoring the squeaks of Lieutenant Gorebladder. This whole situation requires a dramatic exit, and he can’t very well go around picking up his salt goblins. He’d barely live long enough to for Hob to set him back down at the Pagoda anyway. He picks up speed, lengthening his stride as the murmuring of the crowd fades behind him, Gorebladder's dog-whistle-pitched yells lasting longest in his ears. As he enters the forest he picks up his legs in a jog, then breaks into a run and soon enough is galloping on all fours. He barely slows down as he reaches the stable. He slams open the doors and leaps over the fence into Wrackingspelt’s pen. He mounts his horse, throws his arms around her neck and finally lets himself fall apart.

Literally.

Three salt goblins poof out of a suddenly empty military jacket. Knickolas buries himself in Wrackingspelt’s mane, Pnackleless curls up on her back, and Hobberlass slides off to sit on the straw-covered floor between her front hooves. Wrackingspelt reaches her head down and nuzzles the top of her very tiny head, and she pats the inside of the horse’s nostril. 

“That was a fucking disaster.” Knickolas says once he’s got his breath back.

Pnackleless sits up. “Speak for yourself!” He says. “We won! Beat his royal worshipfulness, again!”

“Rue wouldn’t even look at us.” Hobberlass whined. 

“Rue is not the problem here!”

“I don’t know what hobgoblin you’ve been living in but I’m pretty sure Rue is all of the problems here!”

“Rue didn’t pull the Prince’s pants so tight we could see their dick.”

Pnackless falls off Wrackingspelt’s back. “What?!”

“What? We were all thinking it.”

“I wasn’t!”

“I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking of that as one of the problems?” 

Knickolas sighs and tugs as hard as he can on a lock of Wrackingspelt’s mane, which is only just hard enough for her to notice. She tries to turn around to look at him, but he’s too small and out of her field of vision, so she just lowers her neck to the ground so that he can slide down to join the other two on the stable floor. 

“The way I see it, we’ve just got too much going on.” Knickolas says. “Too many problems. If Hob just had one problem, he’d be dealing with it -”

“- but we’ve got lots of them, and we each try to deal with it -”

“- and the whole reason that Hob exists is that we’re bad at dealing with problems by ourselves.”

“Right.” Knickolas pauses for breath and they all stop and think. “So. We’re not agreeing on how to deal with the problems -”

“- or what the problems are -”

“- so we’re not in-sync enough to be Hob.”

Knickolas stands up, grabs Pnackleless by the scruff of his neck and deposits him next to Hobberlass. “We need a strategy meeting, now. We’ve got to get our heads back in the game. And we need to do it in the next five hours and fifty minutes otherwise we’re fucking dead.”

“So. Priorities. Hobberlass?”

“Why is Rue upset with us?”

“Great question, no idea. Pnackleless?”

“Who fucked up Grabalba and Apollo?”

“Another great question, also no idea.”

“What about you?” Pnackleless asks.

“Why is Prince Andhera so fucking handsome?”

Hobberlass and Pnackleless stare at him. 

“That wasn’t a problem we had thirty minutes ago.”

“Well yeah! We hadn’t wrestled in the rain just in our pants thirty minutes ago!”

Pnackleless puts his head in his hands. “Knickolas, you’re a fucking disaster.”

“No, no,” Hobberlass says quietly, looking off into the distance. “He’s got a point…”

“You folded a hundred paper bats.” Hob repeats, dumbfounded.

“Yes. Well, they weren't bats before,” Prince Andhera laughs, “But once I folded them, they became bats, so.”

The problem with Andhera is that he just befuddles Hob. Completely and utterly bamboozles him. There are things that Hob doesn’t understand - court manners, reputation, unspoken rules of engagement in polite society that aren’t actually set in stone but seem to change with whoever’s speaking - but he knows he doesn’t understand them. He gets that. He’s a blunt instrument, he’s not meant to understand them. Lord Blemish and Lady Boil understand, so he doesn’t have to. The three little goblins he’s made of weren’t great military strategists, but that’s because they were only five hours old when they managed to fuse into Hob. Since he’s had more than six hours to live, Hob is a great military strategist. Just. Not a great people strategist. But he expected that. He understood that. He doesn’t understand love-match wagers and assistant-demanded satisfaction and arranged engagements for the good of a court, but someone does - Boil and Blemish do. Hob doesn’t think that anyone understands Prince Andhera, scion of the Unseelie Court.

Confusion is not a good look on K. P. Hob. It means that somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, three idiots are fighting for control of his reactions. Andhera is smiling at him, the expression lighting up their face, damp from their personal raincloud. The goblins inside Hob aren’t actually there any more - they’re not piloting him, they are him - so they’re not actually arguing about it. But he knows, based on their meeting last night in the stables, that it’s the Pnackleless in him that wants to pick up a quarterstaff and forcibly end this conversation; the Hobberlass in him that wants to pick up a quarterstaff and politely change the subject; and the Knickolas in him that wants to drop everything and snog the Unseelie Prince. 

So he’s just standing there. Not doing any of those things.

Andhera opens his mouth and that’s never a good sign so Hob grabs a quarterstaff and moves it towards the Prince, slowly. Andhera stops, his head jerked to one side. Hob holds out the weapon for Andhera to take, and gently takes Andhera’s hand in his claws and places it on the staff. 

“The quarterstaff is a remarkable weapon.”

Hob reads the note again, then quickly eats it. No one else needs to know just how flustered Prince Andhera is in his letters. He seemed particularly uncertain about how to ask Hob for more quarterstaff lessons, saying something about not being anything like Lord Airavis, which Hob doesn’t understand. For all his posturing, Andhera is nothing like the Lords of the Wing, and Hob would have thought Andhera knew that Hob knew him better than that. Hob is good at one thing, and that is fighting, and so of course he’s happy to keep teaching the Prince, especially because Lady Boil thinks it’s a good idea. And it doesn’t cut into his investigating hours anyway, because the Prince is never up before midday. So, Hob can dedicate his one-track mind to sleuthing in the early hours, and companionship and court engagements in the evening. 

When he takes his morning jog around the perimeter of the Goblin encampment, he hears calls of birds in distress from within the forest and quickly takes a detour. He leaps into a tree and masks his movement with the rustling of the wind through the leaves, climbing towards the sound. He then discovers why Andhera didn’t want him to think that they were asking for “quarterstaff lessons” rather than “quarterstaff lessons”. He sits frozen above the canopy, looks back on his earlier choices, and realises that he owes Wuvvy a bit more of an apology for what he had asked her to do. And then he runs away.

As Hob and Andhera meet to spar that evening, Hob is painfully aware of his body. He didn’t choose what he looked like, they didn’t have anywhere near enough time to be that precise with the spell, but he’s always been grateful that he looks like a big hulking menace because it means nobody ever wants to get close to him. Intimacy is not something he has any idea of how to manage - or at least how to manage whilst still appearing to be only one goblin. His fur is deep and shaggy, his arms so long they nearly reach the ground. His claws are serrated and sharply pointed, sticking out of bulky fingers, and when Mistrex Rue had flinched away from his hand in the forest, his insides had been a mix of hurt, resignation, and relief. And those were the hands he’d used to hold Prince Andhera’s to his staff just last night. They hadn’t been wearing gloves, of course they hadn’t been wearing gloves, they weren’t even wearing shirts . 

They’re not wearing shirts today either. The sun is hot in the middle of the afternoon, before the tea party that evening. Hob’s fur has been reacting oddly to the salty sea breeze all Bloom, but it wasn’t very obvious on his legs. On his exposed chest, it’s curling in a way that makes him want to go and put his shirt back on, if that wouldn’t be weirder than leaving it off when he only got changed a minute ago. Andhera looks the picture of regal masculinity, as always, non-functional muscle glistening in the slight mist from the light cloud above them. Hob shakes himself. He’s been reading too much of The Green Hunter if he’s using that kind of language to describe the Prince. 

“Captain! Sorry, my letter was a mess, I hope you don’t, er, think that I’m asking anything, er, well, anything at all actually. No questions from me!”

“I have absolutely not a clue what you’re talking about.” Hob lies. He picks up his staff and throws the other to Andhera, because he doesn’t trust himself to hold his claws steady enough to pass it into their hands. “Right to it, your highness!” 

Hob is stronger, sturdier and more experienced, but Andhera is fast and acrobatic and just all around slippy. They trade blows, Hob landing hits but Andhera always saving face. After each point to Hob, Andhera asks that he show them how it was done. Hob is rightfully proud of his abilities, and truly wants to share his joy in the fight with Andhera, who is fast becoming a friend. Boil had told him to make friends. So he does. He takes Andhera’s hands and positions them just so on the staff, and he doesn’t think about the things that people say when unglovèd hands touch over a tea service.

He manages it for about an hour and by that point his brain is filled with so many thoughts about unglovèd hands that he throws down the staff and says, “Wrestling?” 

Andhera smirks. “You know I’m always up for a re-match with you. Any chance to turn a humiliating defeat into a, I don’t know, satisfying draw.”

Hob frowns. “Stop putting yourself down, your majesty.”

Andhera shrugs, and leaps on him. 

The disparate parts of Hob’s brain immediately stop working together, and all he can think is that this was a terrible mistake. He (Knickolas) is completely unable to stop Andhera pinning him to the ground, his hands pushed into Hob’s shoulders. Andhera blinks at him. He (Pnackleless) reaches out his right arm, scrabbles around until he finds one of their quarterstaffs from earlier and whacks Andhera in the side. Andhera yelps and rolls off him, mouth dropped open in shock. She (Hobberlass) leaps up, salutes with an ankle kick and a raspberry, yells “Good day!” and sprints off into the woods.

“K.P.!” 

Hob jumps. “Andhera!”

It’s raining on the beach, where Hob had gone to sit and stare moodily out at the ocean. He had assumed nobody would disturb him because the weather is, frankly, miserable. But what better place for a prince whose favourite drink is cave water?

“I apologise profusely for my cowardly escape from our wrestle,” Hob says, back straightening as he tightly clasps his hands behind it. “I dishonoured you and our spar and our friendship, and I can offer no excuses save an addled mind.”

“K.P., it’s fine!” Andhera says with a laugh. “I was worried about you! I thought I’d… pissed you off, that you’d finally had enough of me constantly asking for help. You’re a very good friend to have put up with me for that long.”

“No, no, not at all, it’s the greatest honour of all, to tutor a friend in the art of battle.”

Andhera raises his eyebrows. “I saw you wince each time you touched my arm to correct my form. You’re very polite, but it was obvious.”

Hob growls, his ears flattening back on his head. His fur is soaked through and flush to his skin and he must look like a dishevelled wreck. “I did not object to the corrections - I worried that you would think my touch inappropriate.”

“Your touch?” Andhera frowns, reaching out his hand to Hob - close, but not touching. “Why would I -” He brings his hand down, to hold Hob’s elbow, the highest point he can reasonably reach, and Hob breathes out slowly to avoid flinching. He can’t stop his ears flicking up nor whatever must be happening on his face, because Andhera’s eyes widen and he blushes and pulls his hand away. 

“Oh, shit, if you think - I’m sorry, I didn’t - was I insinuating something? Was it the fucking letter about the sparring lessons? Did I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean - I mean - don’t get me wrong, you’re really fucking handsome, my guy, but I don’t - I mean - maybe? What?”

“Prince Andhera, if you’re writing cheques your body can’t cash -” 

“Oh fucking hell you heard that?” Andhera squealed.

“I didn’t hear it!” Hob shouted. It was getting hard to hear each other over the thunder of Andhera’s storm. “Well, I did, but not from you! From a, a penguin? Or something? There were a lot of birds!”

“Hob, you have to kill me, now, I’m never coming back from this -”

“If you’re writing cheques I’m running a fucking bank! And when the market crashes everyone will realise that the vaults are empty and always have been!”

Andhera stops yelling. The clouds above their head stop spitting lightning. “What?”

Hob buries his head in his hands. 

“Are you okay?” Hob feels Andhera’s hands on his, as they gently pull their fingers away from his face. “What does the bank of Hob deal in? What have you been telling people? Are you in danger?”

“No, nothing like that.” He holds Andhera’s hands like a lifeline. “I’ve been - making friends. Getting to know you. Enjoying the time we spend together.”

“And is that a lie?” Andhera asks, so casually. Like he’s had people lie to him about being his friend before, like that’s perhaps all he’s ever known.

“Never.” 

A ray of sunlight shines onto Andhera’s face. He smiles, and carefully rubs his thumb across the back of Hob’s hand, avoiding the serrated edges of his claws. It’s the straw that breaks the hobgoblin’s back.

“‘m sorry -” is all he manages to squeak out before he poofs out of existence. His jacket falls onto the wet sand. 

“HOB!” Andhera yells, frantic. He throws himself to the ground, patting the jacket warily, like it might disappear as well, which is good, because if he hit it too hard he’d probably squash one of them. He lifts up the jacket and shakes it, and the three salt goblins fall out with a plop onto the sand. 

They haven’t been seen by anyone other than Wrackingspelt since they were “killed” all those years ago. They jump up as soon as they land and run towards each other, each grabbing another’s hand. They look up at the Prince kneeling in front of them.

“Which one of you is Gorebladder?” Andhera asks, quieter now he sees he’s talking to such tiny goblins. “Where’s Hob? What happened to him?”

The one on the right clears her throat. “I’m Hobberlass.” She says. Andhera stares at her blankly.

“I’m Knickolas.” The one on the left says.

“Pnackleless.” The one in the middle says. 

“Hobberlass.” The right one repeats.

“Knickolas Pnackleless Hob.” Andhera whispers. 

The three goblins nod, and cower away from him. 

Andhera wriggles around until he’s lying on his stomach, head as close as it can be to their height. “Are you okay?”

Knickolas looks at his friends. “Oh, yeah, we’re fine, we’re just -”

“- overwhelmed. Not really used to anyone -”

“- being so close to us. Are you okay?”

He laughs. “Am I okay? I’m fantastic, I just thought my best friend died but it turned out he was three goblins in a trenchcoat, can’t get any happier than I am right now.”

The salt goblins look at each other, and look back at Andhera. He waves a hand from where it’s awkwardly trapped underneath his shoulder. Knickolas, Pnackleless and Hobberlass scurry over to his hand and climb up into it. They all fit, but it’s a tight squeeze. Andhera slowly sits up, keeping his hand level, and just keeps grinning at them.

“Thank you so much for trusting me with you.” He says. The rain has stopped, and they can just hear the waves lapping calmly at the shore. 

“You’re the only person that’s made us feel so much we can’t feel it together -”

“- but you’re the only person we’d trust to see us apart.”

Knickolas spreads his arms wide - about as wide as Andhera’s palm. “We’re all that’s in the vaults, right? Just us.”

“Just you? Just the most precious treasure I’ve ever seen?”

Hobberlass gasps. Pnackleless grabs onto her arm for support. Knickolas grins, showing all his tiny teeth. 

Andhera reaches down and carefully, carefully kisses the top of Knickolas’ head, then Pnackleless’, then Hobberlass’. The goblins sigh and scramble and shimmer and then a very awkward, very furry and very naked Captain K. P. Hob falls up out of Andhera’s hand and tries and fails not to loom over him too much. 

Andhera leans back to look up at him. “Is that like kissing a frog?” 

Hob folds his long, long legs underneath him and sits down. “What?”

“You turned into an entirely different creature after a kiss. Does that happen every time someone kisses you?”

“Well, I generally avoid turning into salt goblins at all, but it would happen at times of extreme emotional shock, which is to say that -”

They interrupt him with a kiss on the cheek to test their theory, and the raincloud above pours down on Andhera and a large, hairy, and singular K. P. Hob.