A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He shook his head, his lips pursed. Whilst relieved that she had neglected to mention anything of the previous evening quite yet, he was still sure that he wasn't off the hook. These were the sort of games that he did poorly at. Or, at the very least, they were the sort of games that he was least practised in handling.

A stern-faced and well-dressed yellow-shirted student opened the door to the balcony, and in came the vicious winter wind, like an icy dagger. He did a brief inspection of the ground. It seemed to have been shovelled that morning, but more snow had laid since then. He began to scrape up the remnants, and Asabel politely excused them from their company.

"You don't mind if I talk to Oliver alone, do you, Verdant?" She asked the priest. Verdant glanced at Oliver to see if he had any requests of him, but Oliver shook his head.

The priest smiled. "I could not imagine a company that he would be safer in, Your Highness. You need not worry on my account."

"Then please, make yourself at home. Mary, will you bring Verdant another drink? And for their guardsman, can you make a cup also?" She said, motioning to Jorah. "Whilst we talk, he may have a seat, if he wishes it."

Jorah firmly shook his head. It seemed like he didn't even trust himself to speak in her presence. She tried not to look amused by that.

"Very well," she said, "but remain welcome all the same. I do not imagine we will be long. Come, Oliver, let us talk."

She motioned with her head for Oliver to follow, and stiffly, almost robotically, Oliver did as he was told. He found it easier to imagine it as a battlefield in his head.

The moment Lancelot detached himself from the wall to follow, Oliver sensed it, like he would sense an arrow coming at him from the corner of his eye – provided that his lagging perception was paying the proper amount of attention.

"Lancelot, you as well. Stay, if you would," Asabel said. She was the foe in this game, repelling another foe. A monster of the forest, clearing the grounds for battle, but Lancelot was no slouch himself, he held his ground, and dropped his voice.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but I see no need for the risk. I was there, after all. There need not be secrecy from me – not of the sort that would leave you at risk in this beast's presence," Lancelot said. He was like a Black Wolf, the way he chomped at him endlessly with those vicious jaws of his. Always looking for the slightest bit of weakness to latch onto, always teasing.

It was so much like the battlefield, that Oliver's hand no longer felt out of place as it hovered near the handle of his borrowed sword.

But Asabel was a far stronger opponent than a mere Black Wolf. It was hard to categorize what she was. A Hobgoblin? He felt guilty for even thinking of the comparison. The woman had been nothing but kind to him, thus far, despite his guardness around her. A Hobgoblin comparison was likely too much, given how fair her appearance was.
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"Lancelot, my dear, please," she spoke to him like a mother chastising her child. Less formally than she had when the others could hear her, but with the same amount – or even more – authority. "You're not yourself around Oliver. It degrades you. Please, allow me the trust that you normally put in me."

"It isn't my intention—" Lancelot began, those Black Wolf-like instincts looking for the slightest bit of flesh to cling to. It was all a battle, wasn't it? Conversation, politics, all of it. He wanted some bit of ground to cling to, so that he could change the battlefield, and orient their offence against Oliver entirely.

"I know," Asabel said. "As well as I know you, I know. You have a better side to you. I would see you wear it, and be the retainer that I am accustomed to seeing. Your emotions towards Oliver Patrick are not things that have been proven to be trustworthy, you understand that, do you not? Your judgement last night, for example, was poor.

I have not quite forgiven you yet, for your initial decision, you know? Perhaps your understanding here might work towards that…"

A crushing blow. Perhaps she was stronger than a Hobgoblin. She tossed Lancelot's Black Wolf attack aside more like a Boulder Crab would. Lancelot's eyes bore the signs of defeat, and he sighed deeply. He shot a contemptuous look at Oliver's way, but was forced to give ground. It was not a fight he could win.

"As you wish, my Lady…" He said at last. "But I will guard the door, and I will come rushing at the first sign of trouble. I assume that is acceptable."

"It is," Asabel agreed happily, more girlish now that she was allowed to let her guard down.

"The balcony is clear again, Your Highness," the retainer that had been shovelling it reported. "I have put a sprinkling of salt down, but there still might be ice to slip on. Please do be careful."

"Thank you very much, Barth, we'll be very careful," Asabel assured him, as the man came out. Even this retainer managed to shoot Oliver a glare before he left. If this were a battlefield of monsters, Oliver wondered quite what he'd done to attract such animosity. What manner of creature was he, that they all pointed their weapons his way? Or perhaps he was the monster. Perhaps they were merely people.

His ruminating was cut off with a word from Asabel, as she dragged him back into the real world. "Oliver? Are you coming?" She'd already stepped out on the balcony. Lancelot stood to one side of the glass door, staring him down. Oliver sighed, returning to his senses, and steeling himself. He stepped up and out onto the balcony, following after her.