A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1541 - 1541: Where Art The Fire - Part 6

Oliver shivered, as if his body suddenly remembered the state of his own cold. He could feel his tears freezing against his cheeks. He felt undeniably weak. But, by his master's words, he wondered if that weakness was not a good thing – if it was not his punishment for daring to grab power as he had.

"I don't think there will ever come a time when I am equal to that power, Master," Oliver said to himself, looking at the pale blue of his near-frozen hands. "Never. Even the power of a Captain left me uneasy. To so suddenly be where I am, how could I ever get used to it? How could my hands ever stop shaking?"

"I can tell you how," Ingolsol offered.

"And silence with you," Oliver thundered, feeling a sudden flash of anger. "You and your temptations are half of the reason that we find ourselves in this position. I hope you are happy, Ingolsol, your manoeuvrings have pushed the country right into the war that was threatened."

"Mine?" Ingolsol said in amusement. "If that were true, no creature would be happier. But why not ask your little naïve Claudia the reality of it. Why not ask her what was building, and how powerless you were to stop it? If you fear my judgement so much, then run to her, ask her those questions as if she were the skirts of your mother."

"…I fear that he might be right, Oliver," Claudia said gently. "Blackwell, at the heart of it, pulled the bowstring, launching us into this war. Ingolsol and his influence only took advantage of the embers that were already beginning to grow hot."

"An advantage he should not have taken," Oliver declared. "That power should not sit in my hands."

"It's not power," Ingolsol said lazily. "You'll see power, when we snatch that later. All you have now is mere quality as a symbol."

"We will not," Oliver said. "We will never. We have already taken too much, and for no good reason."

"We will see," Ingolsol said mildly, his attitude contemptuous enough that one could quite easily imagine him languidly leaning in the vastness of his gold and black throne.

Oliver was well aware that there was no sense in arguing. He was also well aware that his arguments were unfounded, and that his own blame in it was as strong as Ingolsol's. His own wants, those were what the Dark God played on. He talked to the parts of Oliver that Oliver himself least wanted to acknowledge. He didn't want to hear them stirring any longer.

He did not know how long he had sat before the statue of his master, but the snow on his clothes, and the increasing light of the day told him that it had at least been longer than an hour. He felt his teeth chattering, as his body fought to warm up.

He looked back towards the village, wondering if he should not jog back to his tent, given that his retainers would be rising. They would most certainly feel a spot of trouble if their Lord were to so suddenly disappear, right after the announcement of a grand war. And beyond their retainers, now there would most certainly be people of import looking for him as well.

Blackwell had said it the night before, when they had met, to discuss their future plans. "Speed is our only friend in this, we must move quickly," he'd said, and everyone of note had agreed, though they had not declared anything solid yet.

If Oliver were to take his responsibility properly, after having seized it, he would have rushed back to where he belonged there and then. But before the statue of his Master, who so easily saw through him, even when confined to Oliver's own imagination, he could not deny his weakness to himself. His heart could not have felt more fragile. The years could not have felt heavier. The wall that had been erected for them to overcome was far too vast.

He feared that if he were to return then, his hand would reach for Nila once more, before the day had even begun, and he'd seek comfort in her arms, like an old and pathetic cat. As endearing as she might have found it at first, even she would start to grow uncomfortable, if he began to require that of her.

He gnashed his teeth, cursing himself, and he turned on his heel, racing towards the outer wall, and back out into the world beyond. The guardsmen called their salute to Oliver as he ran, but he dared not stop to acknowledge it, so pathetic was the state of him. He was quite sure that they'd be able to see the redness about his eyes, and even if they couldn't, they could definitely see the wetness on his shoulders where the snow that had landed there had begun to melt.

In such a condition, it was the snow that was his only ally. It had begun to fall more heavily now, obscuring the distance that one could say. He felt grateful for that, gratitude of the highest. That the Gods could deliver a curtain that he could hide behind, he wished for nothing more. It made him feel as alone in the world as he wished to be. He wanted no one to see how weak he felt. Not even Nila, though he had dared to show her the slightest portion the night before. These were his emotions to deal with alone. He did not think he deserved the comforts of other men. No – he certainly did not. He lost his capacity as a tool when he allowed that of himself.

He raced into the forests, along the same familiar paths that he had beat his way down so many times before. Up the hillside he went, past the plateau in the woods where he had rented his first house from Greeves, only for the merchant to see it burdened down. He regarded that spot ever so briefly – the woods had reclaimed where the house had once been, and though the merchant had gone so far in securing the spot for himself, he had never ended up using it. Oliver felt the smallest flash of rage when he realized that.