A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

It was hard to be strong like that. Hard to even remember what being strong was like when one had spent a week in a cell. The calm that he'd felt earlier had been defeated by Asabel, and now he knew only fatigue, and only change. His world seemed to be a whirlwind of events lately. Whenever he sought to keep abreast of one thing, another thing turned up.

Such was both the blessing and the curse of the Patrick title. He smiled at that. There seemed to be parallels no matter where he looked.

Regardless, these changes weren't exactly for the worse. Or at least, they wouldn't be, if he managed to keep his head. It would be an awful ending to things if he only lost the vote now. Oliver judged how nervous he should be by gauging Hod's nervousness. The Minister didn't exactly seem calm. He seemed to be deep in thought, considering something.

Nor was he exactly erratic though. From that, Oliver supposed that he was walking a very thin line.

It was difficult being so helpless. Perhaps it would have been better to merely cut everyone near him down the instant that they'd tried to put him in chains. That had certainly been an option. He was a man of the Third Boundary now after all. A great position of strength, something that he'd felt for himself. Still, it wouldn't have lasted long, would it?

Now… Now at least his political position had some sort of shield before it, in the form of Asabel.

But how was he to feel good about such a thing? His own position had been so dire that another had needed to step in to save him. It wasn't the first time that it had happened, but that did nothing to dull the distaste that came with it. They spoke of the strength of Oliver Patrick, whilst at the same time defending him. He didn't like the irony in that, not when his hands were chained.

Asabel. Asabel Pendragon. There was a name that he was sure would be rolling around in his head for weeks. Damn it. All the way, she was as good as could be. She'd done her Quarter Inheritance and she could have easily forced Oliver into servitude, given that she praised his strength so highly.

Oliver would have sworn those promises willingly, for he would have owed her that much, and she would have still been a good person for that, and he would have been grateful to her.

But she'd stepped so carefully that it almost hurt to look. Her thoughtfulness bounded on something that he couldn't look into. Something that he didn't understand. She had that terrible feeling to her, that frightening depth. He'd felt it in the brief moment after he'd defeated the assassins, when they'd been together in the corridor, and she had looked at him.

He'd sensed something in her beyond… Beyond what? He couldn't describe it.

Damn it all. It was so quiet in here as they waited. Even Jolamire and Lazarus' argument had died down, and the two returned to their thrones appearing… placated, somehow. That was another worrying sign. Indeed… Indeed. There was so much to think about, and at the same time, so little.

Oliver could very well be getting his head cut off before the day was over. What was the point in even trying to consider what had happened?

No, that thought seemed to be defeatist. Even if he was to die, there had to be something that he could do. Minister Hod… who was he? Why did he defend Oliver so arduously? Was he as pure as his intentions? It was hard to tell.

What of Minister Gavlin? Was he an enemy now? Or was he simply too fearful of the High King to act?

And what of the High King? Oliver felt a flash of something warm pass through him as he thought of that title.

"He chains us," Ingolsol whispered.

There wasn't a doubt of that. If they were to trace it back to one source, then it seemed to be the High King. An image of him was beginning to form in Oliver's head. His chains creaked with a slight jangle, earning him a nervous look from the guard. It was hard to force himself to sit still again.

This would have been the sort of emotion that he carried with him into training and used to progress to new heights.

An enemy. Of the purest sort. Is that what he was? Rather than hatred, it was merely anger and excitement. It was such an obvious thing, but when he realized how simple it was, he couldn't help but feel a shift. A change in his air and direction.

If there was an enemy, then Oliver Patrick would defeat him, no matter who it was. Find more to read at My Virtual Library Empire

Ingolsol reigned on that same eager truth. Theirs was the way of the wolf. When they caught the scent of blood, , when there was a reason to move aggressively, they were at their best. Even Claudia bound with them on this. Ingolsol delighted in the thought of vengeance, whilst Claudia felt anger at the injustice.

The two of them together kept Oliver from slipping into blind murderousness, but it also kept him from being weak.

He played the Ministers Jolamire and Lazarus as well, at Ingolsol's urging. As plainly as any other, they'd labelled themselves his enemies. It was such a delight to recognize that. To simplify matters.

Oliver had been considerably more tolerant of the slights against him than he normally would have been, simply out of recognition that it was the Patrick name that they despised, and it seemed to be the whole world that despised it.

Given such a position, when the whole country was adjusted to be against him, it wasn't appropriate to merely label everyone as the enemy.

He had to trust that there were sensible enough people that could see past rumours, and that trust had borne fruit, just as it had helped to firm up the notion that there were indeed people so firmly set against him that likely nothing he could do would change their minds.

He was not aware of the sweat he brought to the guard's foreheads as he imagined retaliation. He was growing impatient now. These chains needed to come off.