A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1853 - 1853: Old Boulders - Part 10

Firyr ducked it, and plunged his spear through the man's belly, seeing the shock on the man's face, as he saw the now gaping wound that the spear had left behind. "I'm not a Stormfronter, ya prick," he said, kicking the dying man to the ground, taking out a degree of his own fear in rage as he sent him crashing.

His heart was beating ever faster. He had to wonder whether one day justice would find him for the wrongs that he had committed. He was sure it would. Little dishonourable actions like that, a lack of sympathy for the dead. He didn't have the breadth of heart to afford them mercy when he was barely hanging on himself. He had just to keep dashing forward, and forward, evermore, so that he might outrun his fear, even if it meant outrunning his own men, and leaving them as far behind as he currently had.

"Sorry, Boss," Firyr said. "I just ain't cut out to be a leader. I've got to do things by myself."

Two men closed in on him, and Firyr took his risks. A sword scratched along the length of his cheek, as Firyr dared to lean into one strike, so that he might better avoid the others. Then he was free of them – free of the danger, and suddenly alive again. He existed in that single moment of suspension, when there was no gravity, when it was him, in the air, like some sort of bird, free for just a handful of seconds.

His spear fell on them as if guided by the hand of a God. Through one man's side, and through another man's neck, with the rapidity of many thousands of hours of training, he saw them slain. There was a polish to his spear now that he had not had before. He hadn't wanted to put much practice into anything until he'd fought alongside Oliver Patrick, and until he'd fought those impossible battles, and come to realize that, if he did not train, he would die. Then there had been a sick delight in training. The feeling of balancing on a tightrope…

And that reward was in those few seconds of flight that his General allowed for him, those thin opportunities to sore. That which chased the fear away temporarily, and allowed him to exist, in honesty, just for a handful of seconds.

A warm hand on his head greeted him. The influence of the Fragment of Claudia. If not for her support, he thought his heart might have cracked long ago. He would say nothing aloud, he would only talk to her in his quietness. For all he had seen, for all he had done, they stayed in his dreams, and behind his eyes whenever he had a second to pause. He could not rationalize it, or anything, without the assistance of that godly Fragment.

"Do not give in to despair, Firyr," Claudia said. "Do you profess to know all things?"

"You know I know nothin'," Firyr muttered back.

"Then simply have faith. In me, and in the man that has trust in you," Claudia said. "Has that not always worked in the end? Have you not always found what it was that you were looking for, when you had in trust in General Patrick?"

Firyr slowed his run. A brief window presented itself in which he could look back. He could see his men now there, struggling even more without him. There was no one to bind them together. Oliver had made sure of that. He had made sure that they all belonged to Firyr, and here Firyr was, abandoning them.

"But all I am is the strength of my weapon…" Firyr muttered. He had believed that even from his time in the Syndran army. He'd been stronger than the rest, but that hadn't been enough to make up for his lack of discipline, and his inability to follow orders.

He knew not what to do, only that his fear guided him forwards, towards Blackthorn's back. Away from that which Oliver had given him. Fear tore at his heart, and guided him towards constant and relentless action.

"It's time to stand still," Claudia said. "And accept that which has been running after you for years. Not problems, Firyr, but gifts."

To Firyr, standing still like that was the most frightening thing in the world. His eyes went wide, and his hands shook. He hated nothing more than that. The battlefield transformed into something closer to a hell in the periphery of his vision. The blood seemed to grow a darker, more ominous red. The corpses seemed to have more accusations in them. They seemed ready to come to life, and bring about their vengeance. They wanted to point fingers, and give blame, and it was Firyr that they accused of it all, he was sure.

"Have faith," Claudia said. "That is all you need, Firyr."

Firyr grit his teeth. To trust anything, he didn't like that.

"You already trust him. Why not go all the way?" Claudia said. "Why not trust yourself, in the way that he trusts in you?"

He stood still then, longer than he ever had on a battlefield. Every second was the worst of agonies. Every second brought fresh bouts of fear, making his heart threatening to burst, and his wobbling knees threaten to collapse, with the weight of all the years and all that he had seen. Yet, he endured. There was a sensation he'd remembered before the battle had begun, the sort of thing that one could only really understand in times of peace. He knew that what they were getting into would be something impossible. The General Patrick had stood up in front of them and told them that. Yet none of them had wavered. They'd done the opposite. They'd glowed with certainty, they'd practically growled, for they could feel the same emotion pouring out from their General, even if he could not identify it himself. The certainty in their victory.