Chapter Text
Rook knows he’s slower than usual today.
As a hunter, he’s usually one of Coach Vargas’ favorite students as he sprints around the track and gracefully leaps over any obstacles standing in his way. Pomefiore’s morning yoga exercises have kept him nice and flexible, so it’s a lot easier to swerve and dodge his other classmates as he goes around the field. His stamina is incredibly high for somebody of his age, and while perhaps not as high as some of his beastmen classmates, he can usually go on for a few hours without getting tired.
Then winter break ended, and all of a sudden, he was like a newborn foal trying to stand on its own legs and balance its head on top of its neck.
His “sprint” is more like a slightly faster walk, he’s nearly run into five people today and actually collided with two, and he has to stop every minute or so to catch his breath.
He’s taken to drinking absurd amounts of water and pressing both of his hands on the side of his stomach to quell the aching whenever he’s taking these light breaks. Eventually, he convinces himself it’s not too bad, he can go on a bit longer, and he gets back up. “No pain, no gain”, as they say.
He knows it’s odd, and he’s not oblivious to the stares he’s getting from his classmates, but there’s really nothing he can do about it.
It all falls apart when everybody’s already finished, and Coach Vargas is yelling at him to at least complete his third lap before they go on to relay racing. He considers taking a break again, but then he looks up to see the red flag at the end of the track only a few meters away.
Just one more push, Chasseur d'Amour, he thinks as he takes a deep breath. One more push.
He puts one more foot forward, and—
—and that turns out to be a mistake.
A scream leaves his throat as a blaring pain stabs him just below the ribs. He stumbles over his own feet and hits the ground with such force, the only thing he hears next is a gong-like ringing in his ears.
The act of falling has always been… unpleasant. The pain from hitting the ground is already bad enough, but the feeling of small pebbles and dirt embedding themselves into his skin, the burning friction of his hand against the ground as he tries to catch himself, and the flaring sensation of his skin ripping open is always what gets to him the most.
His hands instinctively fly to press against his side once more as he curls himself into a ball like a hedgehog. The pressure does little to ease the pain, but it doesn’t make it worse, either.
He thinks he hears Vil asking him what’s wrong, but it’s probably just a delusion.
He definitely knows he hears Coach Vargas calling out his name, and the sound of his footfall as he runs over to him. The coach turns him over so he’s lying on his back instead of his one good side, and Rook sees his concerned expression gradually turn to one of horror as he slowly removes Rook’s hands.
It’s hard to make out, especially with how dark his PE clothes are and the black spots starting to invade his vision, but even the most inexperienced person could tell what it was immediately just based on the smell.
Ah, he thinks. If he could summon the energy to, he would grimace. That’s what I get for pushing against self-done stitches, I suppose.
“You’re going to be okay, Hunt, it’s going to be okay,” he hears. He’s never heard Coach Vargas sound so soft before, but there’s always a first time for everything.
The majesty of it is shattered instantly when the burly man whips his head around to his classmates standing on the other side of the track and screams, “WHAT ARE YOU ALL STANDING AROUND FOR?! WE NEED A DAMN DOCTOR!”
One, two—maybe three?—blinks later, le roi des lions is kneeling over him with a grave expression on his face. Rook can see a soft pink glow at the corner of his eye, like a healing spell, and suddenly the blade-like gashes in his side alleviate to a dull knocking. It makes sense;despite his aloof demeanor, Leona probably knows more about medical magic than anybody at school—barring le roi des roses , of course.
But maybe that’s more of a curse than a blessing, as it means Leona is close enough to notice something halfway through the process. Damn beastmen and their impeccable eyesight…
Leona narrows his eyes, his pupils drawing into tiny slits. He carefully undoes Rook’s belt, then languidly lifts Rook’s shirt and jacket up to inspect his wound. Perhaps that’s a serious breach of privacy, but to be fair, he is bleeding out, so the clothes would’ve had to go off eventually no matter what.
It’s difficult to hear much of anything, but he swears he hears Leona mutter; “Are these… claw marks?”
The fear that seizes Rook at that sentence causes him to black out.
After he finishes his stint in the infirmary, it takes a lot of begging and promises to rest and not go out hunting for three weeks to convince Coach Vargas to not tell anybody outside of his class. It takes a hint of princely intervention to keep the rest of his class from talking. Rook didn’t ask for it, but he does appreciate it so he leaves Leona be for a month as a silent “Thank-you”.
They probably both think it’s a matter of pride for the hunter, and if there's one thing either of them understand, it's pride—but Rook still thinks their gestures of kindness are noble.
Coming back to class, though, is still an awkward experience. People always tended to avoid him before, but now they stray a bit too close at Coach Vargas’ request, as if they all expect him to collapse at any second again.
Rook just prays Leona hasn’t made any connections to the assassination attempt on his nephew.
He doesn’t feel keen on explaining to him it wasn’t the lionesses who stopped it—terrifying and formidable as they are, make no mistake, as his new scars can well attest to.
He’s not sure Leona would even believe him, if Rook claimed he was the only reason he even still has a nephew.
His family certainly wasn't very happy, that's for certain.