A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1539 - 1539: Where Art The Fire - Part 4

If Verdant needed the comfort of a woman, to rest his head on, to wrap his arms around, to have her gently pat the ills away from his body, he would have smiled, and respected it. He would have been filled with warmth and happiness for the fact that his retainer – and his friend, as Oliver well considered him to be – had found that which he needed. The cure to himself.

For Oliver, though… He could not forgive it. If he had been allowed to move, and to solve, and to continually play, he might have been fine, but now, collapsed in the snow, with nothing but a brick wall of mystery to plague him, along with the statue of his old teacher, he found himself broken. He could feel the playful Claudia standing next to him, though she was not as alarmed as he. She delighted in the slowing of their game, and all that it pointed to, but Oliver was not sure that he could handle it.

Tears ran down his cheeks, as he gritted his teeth, feeling his heart begin to break beneath the weight of the years. He bowed his head in shame. "Master…" he sobbed. "I have failed you. That which you saw in me when we first met, that which you knew would bring danger… It has brought it… Everything you sought to protect, I have invited flames to it… And now… And now… And now… I even have the ill will to allow myself weakness, and comforts… Damn it all. You should have killed me back then Master, I have failed you."

The pain wracked his heart, all that weight, all that struggle, and this was where it had brought him. He found in himself the fear for achievement, more than the fear for failure. He feared what he would become more if he were to win, than if he were to lose – and look where it found him. By Ingolsol's will, he had twisted the hearts of thousands. He had used that ill power, and the overwhelming aggression, as a symbol of war.

Now he sat, with a sceptre in hand, the very symbol for the coming flames… And he dared to do it all, whilst allowing Nila to come closer to him, to soothe him, as if he deserved such tender care. As if he were one of the many lambs that they ought to be protecting.

He ached from his weakness. Her gentleness, he felt, reduced him. He felt as if he'd betrayed himself. He was not strong enough to be weak. His tears fell into the snow. The warmth that she had given him, the pleasant safety… Someone like him, someone who had brought about the coming war, and continually gnashed his teeth at everything he thought to be wrong – he could know no safety. He couldn't allow himself to be weak for a second.

His world of safety had died with his family as a child. His hardness had been built since then. With each scar that was added to his back, another brick that formed that wall. With every burden he overcame, as he fought his way out of the digging pits, the hardness was all the more rigid. He built a grand castle inside his heart, and it was out of respect for those years of hard fought strength that men chose to kneel to him, and it was his duty to be that, Oliver thought.

In his quietness, he would know the same discipline. He would not fade away from strength, he wouldn't allow himself to waver by temptation. For as high as he climbed, at least he could cling to the honour of his duty. For as much as he was tempted by Ingolsol, and at times, he gave into the forces that the Dark God allowed for him, at least he could balance it on the scale against honour, and feel the weight of the two cancel each other out, as he achieved both at once.

But to allow himself comfort, to allow someone else to gently nurture his heart, it shattered those scales. He was undeserving of it. It terrified him. It made him feel far younger than he was. And, indeed, he was still incredibly young for the position that he filled. One could look at his face, and know his youth, as a young man that had only a few months earlier left the Academy, at the coming of his eighteenth birthday. It was his maturity in his discipline that gave him the reach of a man far older. Still, that wasn't enough for the likes of Blackwell and Karstly. They had only given him his title out of necessity, they still detected more immaturity in him.

How was he to accept such a title, when he found in himself, a childish want that he wished to have seen quashed? The childish want for safety? And how was it that he even found that safety? How could one possibly be safe? Nila, in a fight, despite her overwhelming prowess, ought to have been far weaker than he. Yet the warmth of her, and the beating of her heart, as he lay with his head resting against her torso… They all brought about a safety that reduced him.

He thrust his fist into the snow. He wanted to rush back to her, and lay there again, forgetting his duty. It was too overwhelming. Knowing warmth, he cowered from the cold. He could not allow it in himself. He punched the snow, again and again, willing strength back into himself.

"I'm not equal to it, Master!" He cried. "I've made a mistake – we've all made a mistake. A terrible blunder. Why I? Why would I allow them to push me towards my position, even if merely as a symbol? I am not worthy of being a symbol. I am too corrupt. They do not know my heart as you did, Master. None of them do. They do not know what I am tainted by. Only you know of it. They have tricked themselves, and I have tricked them too. I have sinned in allowing it to go too far. When the flames rise up high, and the men fight, they will do so with false belief, and it will be my fault. They will wonder why their swords don't have the strength that they ought to, not knowing the emptiness that it was all built on…"