A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor -
Chapter 1464 - 1464: A Struggling Heart - Part 3
The respect that Ferdinand held for Oliver Patrick was unnatural. He recognized that, and he very much kept that to himself. He did not know exactly why it was, or when really it had begun. He wondered if it was perhaps in the Battle of Solgrim, when he'd heard talk of the youth that had fought alongside Lombard, and been instrumental in securing their victory? Back then, he'd almost been jealous. He'd dreamed that fantasy himself so many times as a boy – of helping the adults in their major battles, and impressing them all, but he'd never had the opportunity.
The opinion grew into something approaching more solid respect, as he'd observed the boy himself from a distance, and he had heard his battling at the Academy. It was with a distinct feeling of pride that he heard every victory – he'd known since the Battle of Solgrim that such a youth would be special.
'He'd lived like a peasant, and fought like a noble,' Ferdinand had thought. 'He has strength, with the humbleness of a peasant origins to stop him from growing too arrogant in it. That's certain to take him far.'
And when it had taken him far, Ferdinand had thought, with some degree of pleasure, that he'd almost had a hand in it happening. But the young Ser Patrick had gone beyond his expectations. His surviving of a trial that was clearly set up by more powerful men to see the death of him. His repeated triumphs in the missions the High King had set for him, all designed to see him fall beyond his time. Ferdinand had made sure the most intimate details were sent to him, and each time they did, his opinion of Ser Patrick grew beyond what was reasonable.
Now, by his eyes, he was far from being a normal man. He was a creature that Ferdinand could not fathom, a God above human potential. For there was no way an ordinary young man could do as he had done. Ferdinand could not process such a degree of strangeness, and there was no chance that he could voice such an opinion aloud.
It was with a distinct act of will that he managed to keep himself behaving respectfully around the man. He had a vague sense of unease when he needed to leverage his title around him. He found himself far more comfortable leaning in the opposite direction, to truly disguise the respect that he held for him. It was impossible for him to play the middle zone.
So, he had ended up in this situation, that to him, seemed all the more unsolvable. The more he tried, the more his opinion of Oliver Patrick grew to the point of recklessness. He saw him with Nila Felder, and he felt himself frown. But then by the same token, as he walked along that wood-chip covered path, to evaluate how the many food stalls were performing, now that midday was coming around, and the people were eating, that initial reaction found itself shifting. 'It's likely that Oliver Patrick sees something that I do not,' he found himself thinking. Despite the strength of his initial opinion, the mere fact that Oliver Patrick held a different view was enough for him to change his own thoughts on it. In all other areas, he could not see as far as the young man, and so in his head, he supposed on this too he was wrong.
'I ought not think like that, though,' Ferdinand said to himself. 'He's just a man. I can't ascribe to him this impossible sense of overwhelm. It doesn't make a lick of sense. I'm going to slip up one day, and label myself a fool.'
But in telling himself that, he knew that he was also telling himself a lie. For he'd already done as much as he could as far as solving it, and nothing at all worked. It was an opinion so deeply set in him, built up over the course of many years, that he did not think that he could overthrow it. Ser Patrick's recent slaying of a General on Lord Blackwell's campaign had only elevated that opinion further, and made him lose all rationality in agreeing to a competition with the young man. He'd had to go to impossible lengths, wondering if, through cruel endeavours, he could rid himself of the strange thinking entirely. Naturally, though, this was the result.
He was looking around at a festival that, for all intents and purposes, was the doing of Oliver Patrick alone, and he found himself nodding with a degree of satisfaction. He saw how the stalls bustled. How the grills of the various butcher stalls sizzled, and how the smell of freshly baked pastries from the bakery stalls drifted in the air, and how homely village wives and their small shared-stalls teemed with customers, as they sold their sandwiches and other homemade goods. It was beyond successful. Every single day was better than the last. The sheer coin being produced was impossible in scale. A region as untravelled as the one they stood in had likely never seen such a grand shift in wealth.
It wasn't only the bakeries, and the butchers stalls either – for those were aimed at the peasant class, and the soldiers, who otherwise wouldn't have had the coin to afford more expensive items. There was a section of the stalls, clearly made separate to the others, exclusively for the curiosity of nobles, and other coin endowed customers looking for fancier items. Their tents were larger, better decorated. More than a few had solid wood table and chairs set outside of them – which, in transport costs alone, showed how much better off they were than their lowlier competitors.
The experience the noblemen had dining there was closer to that of a restaurant. Such places were where Ferdinand found himself eating, and where the other noble visitors dined as well. It was with a hint of pride that Ferdinand knew himself to have been instrumental in making that possible. He'd known distinctly that they weren't quite tailoring to the noble customer as well as they ought to have been, and since Ser Patrick's staff had been so terrifyingly effective in arranging services for the lower classes, Ferdinand had made it almost his exclusive focus to aim for the higher classes.
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