A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1537 - 1537: Where Art The Fire - Part 2

She had surprised him in that too. Oliver had thought she had come for comfort from him, and he'd only been too happy to allow her that. But after a time, she had reached up, almost aggressively, and forced his head onto her lap.

Naturally, such a thing had caught Oliver Patrick off guard. He had flexed his fingers, and his back had stiffened. Who was he to need such comfort? Her hand had found his head, and her fingers had ran through his hair, and the rigidness with which Oliver lay gently eased. He felt Nila's hands quiet down as well, and soften, as if they'd found their purpose, and delighted in it.

It came as a wound to Oliver's pride, he had to admit, as he lay there like a cat, reduced to the need for protection. What wounded him more, perhaps, was the safety that he felt, reduced as he was. It was a terrifying thing to realize, so late in his career, that he still had weakness in him. His eyes had looked at her uncertainly, and she'd gently smiled at him in return.

"It's been the worst of days," she had told him. "You did much. You can rest now, at least here."

And the Gods only knew that Oliver had needed it. He'd performed his function that day as a man possessed. It was to the point of madness, how different he was made to act, to how he viewed himself. The two seemed nearly impossible to reconcile. But there, laying on Nila, with his hands wrapped around her back, and her warmth on his ear, he could not have felt safer. He felt not the hunger of a man, that yearned after a woman, to see her conquered. He found himself wanting nothing more than what she gave him – even if she had wounded him in delivering it, and even if it had left him conflicted.

Now, such a strangeness, the morning after, had left him feeling unusually refreshed. To the point that mere footprints in the snow provided a topic of the utmost excitement. The wind ran through his open night shirt, and the cold flakes melted against his chest, but he found that he did not mind it. He could have fetched his jacket to throw over the top of it, but Nila had requisitioned it, laying next to it, in the place of him. Their little world had fallen into chaos, and each of them required all the safety they could snatch, no matter how pathetic it made them seem.

Indeed, if Oliver stopped to dwell on it for even a second, he had to admit his terror. It had come all far too soon for him. The title of General, and then… And then whatever else it was that he had been granted. Queen Asabel had, symbolically, given him command of their army. Of course, in actuality, that could never be allowed to happen, but the sheer symbolic nature of it… It was terrifying. Oliver could not hold it in his head. He did not have the past resources or experiences to reconcile such an increase in power. Naturally, Ingolsol delighted in it, but Ingolsol offered no comforts. Claudia did instead. Her playfulness declared that such a problem was far too large to be overcome with mere thought. One had to simply exist, and pray that one day, the boulder would fall apart, against the mighty flow that had been created against it.

And so Oliver did play. He stepped alongside those footprints that bore no signs of starting, no possible signs of returns, footprints that had simply magicked their way into existence, and there disappeared. He skipped alongside it like a child, his heart light from Nila's comforts, his movements almost animalistic, strangely reminiscent of Gar.

He traced those footprints all the way back out of the campsite, past the guardsmen with snow gathering atop their helms, who nodded with a start, to recognize the young General Patrick, the hero of the day before, dressed in nothing but his night clothes and boots, his chest bare against the morning cold. He saluted them, politely, and nobely, but playfully, with a strange cheer to him that set them even more off guard.

They watched him go, sharing glances as they clutched their spears. "…That was General Patrick, weren't it..?" One said to the other.

"Course it was. Course it was… At least I think it was."

"Bit strange though, weren't he? Nothin' like he looked yesterday."

"But ain't that what they say about Generals. Yous got to be strange. Maybe that's why he got there so young. Maybe we'd be better off being strange for it."

"If you were any stranger, I'd fuckin' stab you myself."

Oliver slipped back into Solgrim, greeting his own Patrick soldiers. They didn't seem quite as surprised to see their Lord - and now also their General – dressed as he was, despite the cold.

"Tough watch to draw," Oliver said to them. "I appreciate you standing guard, without playing in the snow."

"…Errr, I think it's a bit too cold to play in the snow, Boss," one of the men said – a slave that Oliver recognized, from the new batch of recent recruits, though he didn't recognize him enough to remember his name.

"No, don't tell me," Oliver interrupted him. "You'll ruin the game. Anyway, I'm passing through. Get yourself some extra stew in your ration this morning. It's too cold to be standing around without a good deal of warmth to replace it."

He dashed through before he could hear their reply, jogging down the Solgrim streets, running alongside his footprints.

The town was still very much asleep with the cold snow, and the earlyness of the day. No one wanted to be up early, even if they did not realize it consciously. For all the chaos that they had been plunged into, a nice long sleep with the hope of processing it seemed like the least of one's asks.