1607: The Witch – Part 6 1607: The Witch – Part 6 “If there is,” Oliver said, “it was not my will that seized it.
It ca about by itself.
Even if you prod , I can make no more magic happen than there already is.
Indeed, you are right, there ought to be gratitude for the fact that we are still standing – though it cos at the cost of our allies.
Volguard and Yorick, and over a thousand n.
Magic it might be, but it has determined that there be sacrifices for its coming.” “Now the ti is ripe, my Lord, you yourself sensed it.
By naturalness, you gave those commands,” Verdant said.
“The world wills for you to present yourself.
Surely we would all be in denial if we fell apart quietly.” “Look, Verdant,” Oliver said, pointing at the coming Generals, and the two thousand n that ca with them.
“The dragon grows larger, more deadly, and you would have speak up and challenge it?” “Why not, my Lord?
We have survived its initial assault, ought we not be granted the indignity of boasting of our survival?
Have we not at least earned that right?” Verdant said.
“Boast, Verdant?” Oliver said.
“Towards what purpose?” “Purpose, my Lord?” Verdant asked.
“Do we need such a thing?
You yourself said we were already defeated.
That all roads would lead to our demise.
Aren’t all roads equal then?
Can’t you simply do what it is that you wish to do?” Oliver’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and he smiled, by way of response.
He might have spoken up to applaud the seemingly insane declaration, but his exhaustion fought against that fact.
Indeed, if all roads were equal, then a road that was easier to travel, a road more interesting, more full of life, ought that not be the road that he wandered?
Was the road that Oliver Patrick travelled continuously not one now taken by choice?
Did he always plunge into the heart of the fray rely because he had to, or had, at so point, it beco the very place that he preferred to be?
Was it not a strange version of a fact, that, despite where he stood, as dangerous as it was, there was so part of him that was satisfied?
That relished the position he was in, that impossible gravity, that wanted to tear the flesh from his bones rely by standing near it?
Was there not so twisted part of him that relished simply being able to fight alongside his comrades, and see a creature as great as a dragon confronted by the hand of a re mortal?
Even if all he could do is score a wound on his side, would that not be glory enough, would that not have been a life worth living?
Even in saying that, and knowing it to be true, another fact, stronger than the first, still remained: he didn’t want to lose.
He didn’t want to lose even a step.
There was too much at stake.
There was a relish of joy, but the stakes, as soon as he dwelled on them, were impossible.
It was almost childish to consider it.
The sheer emotion.
They were the pleadings of a toddler, to want, and to fear.
They were the most expressly human way of being.
He’d cast it from his mind, but had he cast it far enough?
Was there a perfect road to be travelled?
He’d thought, daringly, with the last elent of his will, as he kept all else hidden, that perhaps, his way of being, the quietness of it, would be enough to close that gap that he so feared.
There had smoldered that tiny elent of him that still looked forward, wishing to win, even though he kept it well hidden.
Oliver had made a declaration to himself: he would do anything for victory, even if it ant the death of his own self.
Even if it was his mind that he had to offer up on the altar, and his personality along with it, he would do anything for that road.
And still the Gods did declare that it was not subtle enough, that human hands, in ddling with their laws, had reached a boundary, of the sort that most n reach, when they do so desire progress.
It coalesced, and it would allow him no further.
That it had brought him this far at all, that was the miracle.
The Gods would not allow him to decipher their code quite so easily.
Dominus had gone his whole life in pursuit of the sa thing, and Oliver had dared to think that he might be able to get closer.
He smiled despite himself, knowing how ridiculous it had been.
To follow sothing so vague that it was to the point of madness, into the most dire of battles… But it was as Verdant had said – it had brought him far.
Yet how much further would it take him?
Did he not already feel that magnificent pressure?
‘None of it will build my bridge,’ Oliver told himself, wondering why it was that such a thing ca with such a strong amount of hope.
Verdant had explained it, and yet it still should not have been possible.
He looked to the man in front of him, from atop his horse, his face weary, but his eyes animated by the presence of his two Generals that had finally co to reinforce him.
In that face, there was aning, Oliver felt, if he so looked for it.
He could try and decipher the ferocity of his expression, and find so sort of significance to it, sothing that played into a grand battle plan, and built him a bridge, where otherwise there would have been one.
But it was as, in reaching for that bridge, the Gods smacked it down.
It was as if the intention of building, of securing victory, was enough to stop it from happening.
It drank the magic out of the world.
Magic seed to only exist if Oliver could not see it from happening.
He wondered to himself – what did he wish for more?
Was it victory?
Or did he wish to see the magic that he so believed to exist proved and controlled, as the mages controlled their mana?
There had been sothing there, sothing quiet, sothing that made his pride swell to see how far they had co, and made Ingolsol burst forth from atop his throne.
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