A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1787 - 1787: By Claudia's Will - Part 3

He received constant updates on the progress on the battle happening to the west of them, in Ernest, and each one he received made him want to rally his men to move out to join them. But the presence of Tiberius prevented him from doing anything in that regard.

That man was a thorn of the most vicious sort. Just in existing, Tiberius posed all sorts of threats. He'd already demonstrated his skill, in defeating Hod and Skullic and handily as he had. If Blackwell were to move and not respect him despite that, he knew very well he'd be quite a foolish man indeed. Yet that was what the Black blood willed of him. Some sort of decisive and certain action. Just anything at all. Not what was currently his placement, in just sitting, and waiting, as if expecting some sort of sign or providence.

He almost had to admit that to himself, that such a thing was what he was doing. Looking for providence, some sort of direction to point himself in. For where else was he to go? When the stakes were so high, what was a man to do, but look towards the Gods?

And Blackwell hated that more than anything. It was his hands that had brought about this war, and this responsibility. What sort of a man was he to now beg of them to show him the way, when he had chosen this path himself?

Or was the choice of his own path an illusion? Was he carried towards it, by hands that were not his own? Was his decision preordained from the start? Was it not the High King who had forced his hand?

'But there was ever a choice…' Blackwell had to reassure himself. His voice sounded small even in his own head. Inside such a grand church, so filled with divinity, he seemed a tiny insignificant creature indeed.

They trusted him as the Commanding General of Asabel's armies to see the war effort won, through to the very end, but how could they place their trust in such a creature as one that had to turn to the Gods for direction?

His fingers clawed at the floor in front of him in anger as he knelt. He disdained the fact that he did not know. And once more he disdained the fact that he could not move.

The candles flickered in the wind, and in them, Blackwell, despite his wants, saw more meaning than he had in hours spent over the strategy board, studying their position. He fancied they were all such candles, threatening to be snuffed out, by something beyond themselves.

There was a loud crash, and the door went slamming closed behind him. Massive doors of heavy wood they were, and the wind had dragged them closed regardless. He looked at them for a good while, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

The church felt darker with them closed, though it was night outside regardless, and there was no light to be offered.

The snow that he'd let in melted on the floor. The church felt more confined, as if there were something in there of a great magnitude, drinking up all the space. All the animalisms that made the men of House Black descent what they were rose up a cry of alarmed terror. When Blackwell faced forward once more, he did so fearfully, quite certain that, despite the empty appearance of the church, something had entered in with him, and it had closed the door behind him.

There was no wind now to blow through the church, but those candles flickered even more violently than before. Terrifyingly so. Blackwell, a veteran of many wars, and an old acquaintance of death, had to acknowledge that the pounding of his heart was down to fear.

All at once, half of those candles went out, snuffed out by an invisible hand. Blackwell forgot to blink. He stood motionless, waiting. Mighty General of all the Asabel armies, and he was struck dumb by that which he could not explain. Tiny he was, in that magnificent church, and with that invisible force that the more primitive parts of him were so sure existed.

It seemed to taunt him. It seemed to point out the insignificance of his size. It made him sit there, kneeling, in the presence of those old Pendragon statues of old Kings. They looked down on him, mightier men than he could ever be. They had held qualities that a mere Lord could never have. Lord Blackwell's gaze danced from one face, to another, and then to another, until he found one that he was intimately familiar with, in Arthur.

Even he looked harsh. His eyebrows stern, his jaw tight. The sculptor had not known him well in life, Blackwell thought accusingly, to make him look such a menace. The Arthur Blackwell knew was one of quick laughter and smiles, always intending to put those in front of him at ease, for he knew very well the overwhelming presence that he had. To be sat in a room with Arthur Pendragon was truly to be locked in a room with a mighty dragon. And what a benevolent creature he had been despite that. So willingly had Arthur gone to his death, and Blackwell had never understood it. He was the mightiest man that Blackwell knew. Mightier than any man could ever likely be. Of course, there was Dominus Patrick, in his skill with the sword, but the two had seemed evenly matched, and Arthur had still been allowed grandness in other realms as well. The sheer magnitude of his being was overwhelming.

"Why give in to it?" Blackwell snarled, almost bitterly, trying to disguise his fear in that lonely church, he asked that question of the long dead Arthur Pendragon, and that falsely serious look that suited the man not. "You were destined for far more. Under your reign, this kingdom would have thrived. You were the High King that all wanted. You would have ensured a reign more golden than any of the jewels we wear. You cared for the peasantry, and you had strength enough to quell the nobility – you were to be King amongst Kings. Why did you accept it? That which was your death sentence? Why did you go willingly towards it? Why must we now fight in your place, when you ought to have done so many years ago?"