A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1493 - 1493: The Need For War - Part 1

"Then, if we face it, and we use all our strength, would we win?" Nila asked.

"That too, I can not promise," Oliver said. "For all I know of strategy, our chances of winning are next to nothing. There still exist four Silver Kings in the country, and all their vassals. They will bind together against us, and seek to crush us, even after Queen Asabel buoys our cause."

"That is to look at it in terms of numbers," Verdant protested. "This is not an era of numbers, my Lord. This is an era of great men. Lady Nila, before you stand Lord Blackwell, and Lord Karstly, the heroes of our campaign against the Verna, the greatest military achievement of this century. They succeeded then, against impossible numbers. And we have our Lord Patrick. Has he not produced the impossible time and time again. Is such a thing quantifiable? You have met Lord Blackthorn as well. If we had Queen Asabel is to join us, that great man will fight on our side. An equal to Lord Blackwell, one would assume. General Skullic too. In terms of great men, I think we outnumber our foe. I dare say we do."

"Our allies are strong," Oliver agreed. "But even with strong allies, the odds are against us. And war is war."

"…We would live our whole lives waiting for the next attack, wouldn't we?" Nila said. "Even if we wished to continue our peace, the first instant that you were away, he would come looking again. And he's getting closer. If not for Queen Asabel, we really would have been done, Oliver."

There were tears in her eyes at the memory. Oliver softened ever so slightly, the gold fading to a degree from his eyes. He put a hand on his head to reassure her. "You aren't wrong, Nila," he said, patting her hair. "We came close. If not for your strength, we would not have made it."

It presented a different reason to take the title of General. A purer one than what Ingolsol pushed them towards. He clenched his fist, seeing the look on Nila's face. That was what he wanted to save her from – that uncertainty. The Battle of Solgrim, and other battles like it, they ought not be fought on their home ground, without reason. "We should not have to continually fight, merely to exist. It is time we brought the battle to the gates of our enemy," he said. "If we are to fight, Nila, then we will win. I will not allow Solgrim to be touched."

She was quiet a while, looking into his eyes, trying to find any hint of deceit. Then, she nodded, with a look of resignation. "…If we are to go to war, then I will trust you. And I will do all that I can as well. I must be strong."

"Have you your answer?" Lord Blackwell asked them.

"I have it, my Lord," Oliver said, kneeling before him.

"Then I name you General Patrick, and I charge you with your first task. Convince your allies to our cause, with Queen Asabel being your most important focus."

It was a strange thing to think, Oliver had to reflect, for him to be in the position he was. For so many valiant men to have raised up their arms, in the form of Lord Blackwell, and Karstly, and all their mighty retainers, and yet for them to rely on him. For him to be the slight little key, needed to pick through the lock, to allow them the beginning of the war.

He was struck, as he stood outside of Queen Asabel's grand tent, with grand gold embroidery on that red canvas, that, when he pushed open that door, he was pushing open the flap heralding in an era of war.

Him. The peasant. He that could not even dream of the likes of knighthood as a child, for the station that he was born into. He that could not even dream, for the longest time, of having a shelter that he could call his own. Or even of his own freedom, when the slave shackles were around his hands and his feet.

Now here he was, quietly on the very precipice of bringing in a war to the Stormfront. He'd become that single drop of water that Claudia so concentrated on. That single tiny part, that gave just enough weight to allow everything to change.

It was far too much power for the likes of him. Someone else ought to have taken the role. It was mere coincidence that had him in that position. An odd relationship, founded upon a chance meeting with a Princess that had seen fit to inherit before her time in defence of him.

There were so many little pieces that had built up over the years, a single tower of cards. It made him uneasy to think about. The slightest of actions at the Academy, the slightest little argument, or acquaintance made, and without a single one of them, he would not have been in the position he was in.

If ever there was a greater sense of destiny, that they moved beyond the will of man, and more towards the whims of the Gods, then Oliver did not know it. He could not have felt more like a puppet string than he was there. But at the same time, he had never tasted a purer freedom. To be given the reins on the most important of issues, without a directive from General Blackwell on how to carry it out, and merely the trust that he would "see it done".

"You being here alarms me," Lancelot noted, as he stopped him at the entrance to Queen Asabel's tent, and saw that his swords and daggers were removed from his belt, and set aside. "Something tells me you are not merely here to report on Ferdinand's death. You walk like a man with a weightier purpose."

"Will you stop me?" Oliver asked. There was no aggression in his voice. He did not feel as if Lancelot was challenging him, as he had so many times before. There was resignation in the handsome knight's voice.