A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Now you recognize it," Oliver said. "And you know me not to be lying. You have given me much, Princess Asabel – but I might have further use for you still. I shall not allow you to run away, now that I know for certain." "To that end, I return the same words to you, Ser Patrick," Asabel said. "If you are so enamoured with a power that I despise, then you had best do your best to claim it." Whatever exactly those words meant, Oliver didn't have the faintest, but they certainly sounded like a challenge. "Is your heart back to the strength it was?" Oliver asked. "Perhaps," the Princess said, letting out a sigh. "I thought it was meant to be I with the power to heal… Fine – very well. I know what you seem to expect of me. The same thing that I expect of myself. I haven't been neglecting my duties, but I suppose neither have I been giving them all that I should have. I shall anticipate your victory, Ser Patrick, and when you return, I shall show you victories of my own." "I'm looking forward to it," Oliver said. … … The discussion with the Princess had gone on longer than he'd intended – a good ten minutes – but it was still not as long as it had felt. There was a weight to certain moments that gave them more significance than entire days worth of time. Several moments in that room with Asabel had eclipsed that phenomenon. Those momentums felt like weeks. If Oliver had a mind to, he thought he could have spent years dissecting them, trying to find the truth of a certain action, or a second shifting of the eyes. That was a time that he was not privy to, however. The Oliver Patrick and Princess Asabel that left that room were forward-facing individuals, people with purpose. They said their goodbyes with resolute looks on their faces. Asabel's retainers seemed to note the change about her immediately, just as Verdant soon noted the change about Oliver. He allowed the Princess to leave first, and then when Oliver strode towards the main entrance with all the grace of a panther. Once more, his body felt rested, as did his soul. It ached for potential. It spoke to him of its readiness, in the same form as the sword at his hip did. Though this battle had not been one of Oliver's wants, he found himself better prepared than he'd been for any battle throughout his entire history. His condition was perfect – as perfect as he could get it. The guard's cloaks fluttered as Oliver strode past them. It was as though the wind itself had rushed through. They were startled, but by the time they made to look, Oliver had already made it towards the bottom of the steps. There, Verdant awaited, holding the reins of both his horse and Oliver's own, and Lady Blackthorn was to the side of him, beautiful and determined. Verdant saw Oliver's condition, and nodded his approval. He said nothing else about it, for nothing needed to be said. Some things seemed to be better left unspoken. "He's eager, my Lord," Verdant said instead, handing Walter's reins off to Oliver. "As am I, Verdant," Oliver smiled, accepting the reins. "I see now that the High King has been a better instructor for me than perhaps any man at this Academy – he has given me opportunity, time and time again. What King could be more worth serving?" The priest pulled a face. Even in humour, he didn't seem inclined to compliment the very man who had made his Lord's life as difficult as it was. "I pray only for your survival, my Lord. And jokes, I think, should come after that fact."' "Relishing the opportunity for a good battle can be done at the same time, can it not?" Oliver. "Lasha, at the very least, agrees with me, I think." "I am equally grateful for the opportunity," Lasha said, mounting her horse beside Oliver, her whole body prickly with tension. She was just as ready to confront and overcome something grand as her teacher was. The priest sighed. "I suppose, at the very least, I am grateful for the opportunity to see you achieve such greatness, my Lord," Verdant said, mounting his horse, the last out of the three of them. "It will be a long ride though, I fear. I hope whatever sentiments we might have will not be dulled by the winter cold on the ride there." "Not a chance," Oliver said. From the furrow of Lady Blackthorn's brows, she was thinking the same. With that last word, they drove their heels into the sides of their mounts, and sprang forward towards the outer gate. The guards let them pass without a second question – seeing the surcoats of the different men, none could have them stop. Oliver, in his primarily red surcoat, Lasha in her black and gold, and then Verdant, in the same surcoat as Oliver. They sprung out through the snow, cutting dashing figures, as their thick woollen capes rose up behind them. By now, the news had spread reasonably well. The guards, at least, knew where they were headed. A few offered salutes of encouragement – though they seemed to be more for Verdant and Blackthorn than Oliver, though he did think that he recognized one of the saluting men, and supposed that he might have been amongst the men that Skullic had gathered for practice. It was far faster on their horses than it otherwise would have been in a carriage. The depth of the snow made increasingly sure of that. It was already beginning to fall, just as they were leaving the Academy behind them. It was a strange thing, to see that both Lasha and Verdant had horses of the purest black. Casper – an old friend of Oliver's by now – retained his distinctive black shine, whilst Lasha's mount was in no way inferior. Smaller, perhaps, but just as well tended, a perfect match for the woman's hair.