A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1789 - 1789: By Claudia's Will - Part 5

He snorted at such a thought, and spoke again, loudly, his voice echoing up the high stone walls. "How could I not? It was me that did it – me. I've always been rash. Have I grown so mighty that no longer does anything remain to subdue me, even when I am so rash?"

The wind blew in disagreement, mightily, and the last candle, though so protected by the glass, went out, and true darkness fell across the entire church. One could not even see a hand in front of him. Lord Blackwell froze. He could say no more – he dared not. For now there was a physical sensation, a hand on his cheek.

The wind was deafening each time it picked up. It sang in his ears, preventing him from hearing anything but it. It blocked out all but its violent terrible song. It cast up his cape, and grasped at his cheeks. It made nothing more apparent than that which it was.

And amid its moaning, the fear in Blackwell's heart, grasped, thinking that he could indeed hear. Voices from the past, old friends, those that he had lost. He fancied he could hear Lombard saying "General," in that distinct way that he had. It surprised him how close such a thing brought him to tears. He regret Lombard's death more than any other. The man, though a mere Captain, had functioned as a support of the most important sought. And it was for Oliver Patrick that Lombard had chosen to die. To this day, Blackwell knew not what to make of that. He thought he had forgiven the boy, for he had done all he could, but he wondered whether there was a truth in that. He wondered whether if he did not in part continue to act and give orders that were tainted by resentment.

Then there was another voice, that of his lady wife, who he had so neglected in this war of his. That spun his heart harshly, for she was alive and well, yet he had not seen her in such a time. He wanted nothing more than to go to her then.

But then there was the voice of his old teacher, his own father. He had been no true expert of war, but his father had held in the belief of their blood. He had declared, firmly enough, and continually, that in Lord Blackwell, such a blood was thick. "A time will come, as it did hundreds of years ago, when your Black blood will stir. For it be given to you so strongly – that's a sign, my boy, a sign. So you sharpen yourself, you strengthen yourself, and you give all in preparation for that time to come. For when the King comes again, as he did in the form of the First King, House Black must be there to serve him, as we were back then. We are the dogs of the true King – do not forget that. Never forget that. Hounds we are, and always will be, but there is pride in that, so you find your master, and you serve him well."

None but Arthur would Blackwell have been happy to have been a hound for. To see himself reduced entirely to nothing but a tool. There was a grandness of comfort in that. He remembered the sensation. To give all for something else – it had been such a relief. He was made for service. That memory made Blackwell all the more certain of that.

The sickness he felt in his chest, the incredible wrongness for his highness in command. He stretched his fingers perilously close to the place of rule – that place which was beyond him. He was a Blackwell, a dog of House Black. That was not his place.

With such a realization, an outstretched hand fell, within the bounds of his own soul, and there came an incredible sense of relief. An ability to breathe that he had lost for some time. A smile on his lips. A dog, through and through, he did tell himself, and he delighted in that. A dog in command of dogs. He'd lost his master, and he'd never forgiven Arthur for that. He did not think he ever would. But Blackthorn was a dog as much as he, and he'd found a deserving master in Queen Asabel. Blackwell saw it in her as well, increasingly. So much so that he'd had to flee from her, almost out of fear. He'd separated himself from her efforts, knowing full well the direction that his heart was turning in.

With words, he'd sworn his loyalty, but not with his heart. That which he was growled in distaste from it. With his hand so lowered, he had no difficulty in confirming that which was always certain to have been the case, as if destiny had pointed to it. Arthur's inheritor, a swordless woman who knew not the battlefield, and yet, she earned his complete loyalty, and even his fear, in a way that Arthur himself would have struggled to.

It had torn at him for a time. For days, and weeks. That lacking of activity, that need to search for his next move. But now that he was like this, as quiet as he could ever be, simply standing where he was, it all became increasingly obvious. Something was already set in motion. It was already pulling him in its direction. That he had dared to assume that he could resist it, and move in another direction, that was his mistake from the start.

When he cast away his ideas of grandness, and the falseness that his mind had built up, as they attempted to understand and come to terms with the new world that was being built, and the responsibilities that were expected of them in it, he returned to that which he was.

Blackwell the Commanding General was far too important a creature to dare to make the sort of decision that he had to, when the board was as tense as it currently was. But Blackwell the hound, in service to his Queen, found no difficulty in it. For no longer did Blackwell's own life matter in the equation – all that mattered was the outcome for the war. And now, it was with a certainty that he was able to say, there was a single move he could make that would put the war in their favour.