A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1908 - 1908: A Timely March - Part 5

To suffer as they did, to be placed as they did. To have that option of giving up be right in front of them. To be able to wander meekly to their own demise, declaring that they had obeyed orders, and done all they could. To have hoped once, and had that hope trodden on. To suffer to the point that their heart ached simply to dwell on it. To take all that, and still reach within themselves, and claw out, at the bottom of it all, that fighting spirit that made them men of the Stormfront.

Oliver grit his teeth, the feeling in his own chest at a height. His own suffering that he was biting down, and fighting back. His eyes were a glow. They flickered from storm, to solid gold, and then to purple. He remembered all those things that made him what he was. "Be brave," he'd been told once, or perhaps several times, and now he could not even remember who the woman's voice was that had said it. He wondered whether it was his mother, when he found fear in him as a child.

The same voice that had been there, through those years of suffering as a slave. To sit in the dark chains of it all, that prison constructed of the reality around him, with no hope as to salvation, and to still hold to that ember of himself, ever so quietly, in that complete darkness. To burn as hot as humanly possible, and as small as possible. A light that none could see, one that he'd reduced small enough that it would escape even the notice of the Dark God Ingolsol. That passion that was at the heart of Oliver Patrick.

Was that the source of his feeling, he wondered? Was that the arrogance? It was that which he'd given into in the battle against the Emersons. He'd reduced himself entirely back to what he had been as a slave – he'd made himself invisible, and clung only to that tiny ember, allowing it to grow hotter and hotter with none to see. He'd been a danger of the smallest sort. He'd reached through cracks that only the blowing wind could set fire to.

Was that it entirely? Oliver thought not. For that emotion was fleeting, and it was beyond him. But those memories that were there once, and those passions that had allowed him to exist in his worst moments. They, at the very least, were a large part of what made that arrogance what it was. They made it more than simple arrogance, they made it a skill, an instinct, beyond Oliver's understanding.

A skill that required the most terrifying thing of all from him – absolute faith.

The entire fifteen thousand strong army was set to cheering, as Oliver marched along its length. He did not delude himself in thinking that those cheers were entirely for him. Those Tavar men likely would have much rather served with anyone else.

But all that Oliver Patrick had been through, every moment of it, that was what made him what he was – that was what had contributed to that little black diamond inside of him, that feeling of certainty. Every piece. Every Fragment.

At the height of their cheers, he allowed Ingolsol free to snatch hold of them, and to make that fifteen thousand strong army his own. The web of potential that spread out of them. The greed that only the God of Power could have possibly seized upon, without feeling the slightest bit of guilt. The understanding of their suffering that Claudia had seen, and the respect for their warrior's resolve that came with it.

All of it came together in a single moment, a single raised hand, and then a clenched fist.

"FOR TODAY, YOU FIGHT AS THE PATRICK ARMY!" He told them, his voice heard, even above their cheers. He'd found his fire, even against the cold. His passion was a dangerous thing then, matched by no other man of the field. His eyes were wild things.

"TODAY, YOU FIGHT AS PATRICK MEN," Oliver told them, as the cheers continued, and the Tavar men knew not the net being cast over them.

"AND TODAY, YOU WILL KNOW THE GRANDNESS OF A PATRICK VICTORY! I PROMISE YOU THIS! MEN OF MINE, LET US MARCH!" Thanks for reading—brought to you by NovelFire.

He seized it – both the army, and then the cheers that came from them. Those cheers, even from Tavar's soldiers, they in part belonged to him now. Just a step closer. Just the slightest bit more greed of overwhelming command.

Hod watched it. That display was likely the only thing that could have made him smile that morning, though it was the smallest of smiles. His own grim feeling warned him of what they might find up ahead, but he supposed, if it was an army so resolved, then they might be able to overcome it.

Doing his part, Hod spoke to Prince Hendrick, as Oliver led the rest of their army from the front. "You will function as a rear guard, with your objective, naturally, being to secure Queen Asabel as much as possible."

"The only individual we will defend is the Queen, Minister. Do not expect us to guard that Patrick man," Fitzer said hotly.

"...He makes for quite the spectacle," Hendrick murmured. "I think, Fitzer, perhaps we are not so badly placed after all, in ingratiating ourselves with Queen Asabel in advance."

"Do not go beyond your bargain, my Prince. It would be foolish to do so," Fitzer warned.

"Worry not. As my General says, Minister, you may trust us only with the guarding of Queen Asabel when we do find her. We will not interfere with any other matters. By all appearances, you should be fine on that front regardless."

"Very well," Hod said, not letting his own foreboding show, as he dipped his head, and put his heels to his horse, so that he might return to his function as the strategist in the rear.

The army marched forth, with Oliver leading by the front. They were close to the border already from their encampment. They did not expect to have to go far in order to find the forts of their allies. And indeed, it was barely an hour before they spied the first of them – though it took some effort for the fog to identify whom it might have belonged to.