A/N Written for the TPE BINGO prompt 'mud'. BINGO is on now (Sept 10 - Nov 30), so if you want to write some fic (and win some prizes), come on over and check us out. The link to TPE can be found on my profile, since ff/n seems to be uber offended by me putting it in this note.

It had stormed hard throughout the night. Heavy sheets of rain hit shuttered windows and crashed on the roof of the recruits' barracks well into the early hours of the morning, interrupted only by the rumble and crash of lightning as the storm moved above them.

By the time they were pulled out of bed by slamming doors and the shouts of the Own's recruit master – Mat of Disart: a retired Own archer with a shockingly loud voice, given his small stature – the storm had fled completely, leaving the sky blue as far as the recruits could see, from atop the castle walls right to the treetops of the Royal Forest to the west. Birdsong and the ambient noises of castle life surrounded them as they gathered in the courtyard the Own used for combat training: soldiers in with their Companies trained in groups or pairs around them, swords clashing; they could hear the thrum of the bows from the field around the building; and, voices were raised in shouts and conversation as soldiers and servants alike began their days.

Not every trace of the storm had disappeared into a beautiful morning.

"Traitor," the young man hissed at him as Lerant spit mud off his lips. He had been thrown to the ground - again - by his sparring opponent, the youngest son from which house, again? Some lesser noble from the book of bronze, not that it mattered. He was the younger son or nephew of some Tortallan nobleman. Lerant's aunt was the sole surviving member of the conspiring traitors who nearly killed the king at his coronation.

Mud coated the white and blue uniform meant for Own recruits, smeared down both cheeks, and caked his hair. He kept his expression blank as the training master shouted over at them. "It's a blocking drill, what are you doing on the ground again, Eldorne? Get up!"

Wiping his hands as well as he could, he re-adjusted his grip on the sword he held in front of him, making sure nothing would hamper his hold on the weapon. He couldn't allow himself any weaknesses. Not when no one wanted a traitor in their midst.

He was used to the way his sparring partner swung too hard, and hid his wince as the swing jarred already-sore wrists. He was used to anticipating attacks that were not always using the movements they were practicing, too. Lerant blocked the thrust anyway, stepping back only slightly and quickly getting back into line. He was used to the way his partner hissed insults when Disart couldn't hear. He was used to that, from before, and well versed at pretending not to hear, even as they burrowed within.

Lerant couldn't afford to react. He had already been rejected from the navy, the army, as a man-at-arms. When he lost his temper and threw his own insults or – more likely – threw a punch, he was always the one blamed. No wonder, what with the family he came from. No wonder, spawn of traitors.

And this, his place in the Own... it wasn't just his honour he was trying to reclaim. Sir Raoul had offered him his place, had brought him in to training, had stood up for him. When Lerant was sure there was no place in Tortall that would have him, Sir Raoul had taken his side.

A tricky jab at his knees had him sprawled in the mud again, Disart shouting from the end of the line at him.

They did not want him here. They did not want him to succeed, to prove himself worthy, and prove Sir Raoul's faith in him founded. It felt like every eye in the courtyard was on him, hoping for him to stay in the mud.

Lerant picked himself up.

And again.