Blackthorn criticized that manner of thinking, stating that while an enemy was still alive, there was no point thinking as far ahead as the future, lest they pull an unexpected trick, and stab them in the back.
It was violence that the Blackthorn General was looking for, but Hod pulled him away from it. The violence he foresaw would land too close to the streets of the Capital, harming the civilians that lived there. It would not instil them towards any sort of favour with the citizens of their newly conquered realm. So he bid that they wait, and Oliver listened to him.
He listened, long enough to know what his duty might temporarily be, for a temporary little fire to animate him, long enough for him to march into King Erson’s throne room, and speak with enough truth that he did not hate himself for what he said.
Now the fire died, and he heard only the lapping of the waves in front of him. Quiet now, that was what he felt. He wanted to stretch, and relax, and allow his body the ti it needed to be purposeless. For the victories that he had won, Nila counselled him towards that.
This ought to have been a ti of quiet. After so much fighting, how was the war still not done? Where was that peace that they longed for? It was almost resentfully that Oliver listened to talk of further fighting. The High King, and him alone, by the scruff of his neck, they could cast him out. But he no longer seed like the highest of problems. They would seize him, and be rid of him, would they not?
He shook his head at that. It should not be so simple. He wanted to feel so sort of emotion in his chest at the thought, sothing that might point him in so sort of direction, so that he might know what to do. But even that arrogant sense of certainty that he’d grown to rely on was quiet. They’d suffered much, in the shortest degree of ti, and now the quiet was just as agonizing as the battling.
There seed to be no salve that could make it worthwhile. There was naught that he could put upon his wounds, to ease the strain of the years. The shake in his legs whenever he did relax, and now the terrors that wound its way into his dreams, forcing him to rember the past, as if the present had not been for a while grim enough.
He toyed with the crown between his fingers, feeling its jewels, wondering upon the Kings and Queens that had worn it before. Wondering upon Arthur, who Asabel had admired so much, and Dominus had so respected. Regretting that he was never able to et the man, and feeling so degree of embarrassnt for the crown now that he wore, with it having belonged to such a great figure.
He wondered what Dominus would have to say, with it upon Oliver’s head. No doubt he would have a harsh word or two. Embarrassnt was the real source of the crown’s discomfort, even if he cast away his responsibilities.
He’d lived his years, all those years as a nobleman, founded upon a lie. The truth of his peasant origin, he’d told that only to Lady Blackthorn and to Verdant, and they had received the truth warmly, but that did not ease the blow for Oliver.
For he who relied upon honour, that which Oliver Patrick had taught him, how was he to find any sort of integrity, when his entire career as a General was founded upon a lie? When he himself, in accusing the High King of poison and corruption, had beco a poison himself?
For a peasant to beco a King – perhaps if it was another man, Oliver wouldn’t have minded. But it was him. He was the black corruption biting away at their old established systems, and he did so quietly. He’d snatched a crown for himself mildly, without the truth ever having been laid into the open.
The guilt of it he didn’t like one bit. If he were to et that Arthur, the man would know too what he was, and what sort of creature wore his crown.
If Verdant or Blackthorn had been harsher once they had learned the truth of Oliver Patrick, perhaps it would have been a better thing. Oliver almost desired their criticism, for as far as he could tell, that was the correct pronouncent.
He’d spoken to Nila of it, and in her warmness, she had seen it quickly dismissed. She was a wise girl, at tis, and she didn’t often say things simply to avoid telling Oliver the harsh truth, but even she, when he was as wounded as he already was, likely wouldn’t risk saying anything that might hurt him further. Their kindness on the matter, he mistrusted it.
Temporary King, that’s all he could be. For one, he did not want the position. He snatched it only long enough to keep the embers of Queen Asabel’s cause alive. Soone else would be the great fire that would see it kept burning for decades to co. Not he. He did not have the right stock, nor the right personality to rule.
"Deep in thought as ever, Your Majesty," Verdant comnted, as he ascended the sand dunes just next to Oliver, revealing the sea to himself. He looked upon it, even before his King, with a complicated but warm look on his face. Verdant liked the sea, more than any could have liked it. The sea suited him.
Oliver made a sound of acknowledgent, but no more than that. He too was staring at the waves, as if their relentless motion could sohow grind away the uncertainties that he felt. As if there was sothing to be gleaned in the red of the darkening sky, as the sun set on the horizon. So sort of answer, and once more so sort of certainty that he could run forth on.
"Might I guess as to what ails you?" Verdant asked. "If, of course, I have your permission to remain beside you, Your Majesty."
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