Sothing about that, despite their intentions, now carried the whiff of corruption to Oliver.
It ought not have been the case, for the morality that they based their decisions on. Yet there was still that franticness, as if they feared what was in the darkness. They operated based upon that fear, so that they might exercise so degree of control.
It ought to have been within their rights to do so, for so much had happened, so much suffering had occurred. Were they not right now, to grasp the rewards of everything that they had earned, and to ensure that their war was finished, once and for all, with the favour firmly set on their side?
As fickle as the Gods themselves, Oliver felt the needle that governed his heart shift in a different direction.
Suffering, and Claudia’s promise – that their suffering would be rewarded.
The intensity of recent suffering that they had endured. The spiralling of it, sending him so deeply that he reflected upon those tis past, and upon all that he had so neatly hidden away. So part of him that he rather disliked seed to expect that, based upon everything that they had endured, they deserved sothing now.
They had survived the Ersons, Tavar, Tiberius. Did they not deserve the favour of the Gods? Why was it that they had to swim through this murky swamp all over again. Why did they have to struggle even more? Surely there was an injustice in that?
A weak feeling, Oliver thought it to be, after having it haunt his heart for weeks, as he toyed with his grief.
Was he suddenly now a creature incapable of suffering?
His body seed to understand that things had changed. He was not the sa creature that he had been at the start of their campaign. That did not an however the God’s would simply place into his hands all that he desired, and make all his anxieties disappear. It was the very opposite. The more Oliver Patrick tried to control, the more his fears mounted, and the more he tried to control in order to combat it. With each passing day, he had wondered just what made him different from the High King.
If he were to seize the crown for himself, how he could he do that without the purest of intentions? He didn’t exactly know what pure intentions looked like, but he thought he might know the feeling.
It sat there, now that he knew everything was building, and a great pressure approached, and it allowed that pressure to happen with a faint smile and infinite distracted patience. Not to forcibly to dismiss it, but to have his attention and his curiosity honestly turned elsewhere. There was so much more magic in the grim world than he had realized before, and he paid it his fullest attention, as he toyed with his Battle board pieces, and realized just how much he enjoyed the ga.
A knock at the door.
"Co in," Oliver said, not turning to look towards it.
"The Erson contingent has arrived, with Lord Idris at the head of it," a soldier told Oliver. His breathing laboured, the man seed to have run all the way there. Snow lted upon his shoulders as he stood to the fullest of attention, the cold water of it wetting his Patrick surcoat.
"Interesting," Oliver said. "What are their numbers?"
"So six thousand, Your Majesty," the soldier said.
"And their leader?" Oliver asked. "Is Prince Hendrick amongst them?"
"...Not that I could see, Your Majesty. General Fitzer, he is the man that heads them," the soldier said.
"Interesting," Oliver said again, toying with the cavalry piece that he’d picked up from his battle board. Marble pieces they were, with fossil coral inside them. They were polished to the highest of shines. A set left over from the Blackwell residents that had dwelled there before him.
Nila watched the interaction wordlessly, her knitting needles set to the side. She waited for Oliver’s pronouncent, as did the soldier.
Eventually, Oliver set the piece down, and he heaved a sigh, before dragging himself to his feet. He threw his arms over his head, and heaved a mighty stretch.
"Where’s that crown got to?" He asked of Nila.
"Here," she said, fetching it from the table hidden behind a nearby chair.
He accepted it with a murmured thanks, and placed it upon his head. He briefly considered donning his long coat, so that he might go out and greet them, but he opted for his sword instead, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Then past the soldier he went, his boots clicking their way along the corridor.
Nila seized her bow, and hurried after him. The soldier fell in just a half-step behind her.
Neither said anything, they simply followed.
Oliver glanced through the many windows of the corridor as he marched, looking upon the city below. An exhausted city it was, preparing for the arrival of these Erson n that they’d waited so many days for. About the only people in good condition were the soldiery. Though, that was only really true on the individual, physical level.
Moral was at its worst, with the friction between Lord Blackthorn and King Patrick. There’d be deserters rushing out through the gates for the past two nights. So two thousand n, with various allegiances – so to Oliver himself – that had vanished. Only the Patrick n, and the Treeant n, seed largely unaffected. They seed to believe – or at least the Patrick n did – that whatever happened, their Lord would find a way to cure it. For the Treeants, it was hard to tell exactly what they were thinking. Perhaps they could sll in the air the scent of an approaching battle, and they delighted in it.
Oliver himself found the delight swirling. "What do I do..." he wondered to himself, considering all the options he had, all the resources he had available, and all the problems he had to overco. Lord Blackthorn wasn’t an option, but was it worth sending word to him anyway?
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