A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He put to torch the character of Oliver Patrick. All that he had stood for. His honour, his pride, his reputation. And he made himself something else, for the purpose of something larger. He put a crown upon his own head, for a cause that ought to have died when their Queen had died, and when their Commanding General had died. He killed himself, so that their cause might live.

Breaths caught in their throats. Oliver Patrick, with a crown upon his head, stared down the Emperor Tiberius.

Sword in hand, the wind would not allow any to speak for the longest time. A painting of a moment. A newly crowned King, with a crown of mud. Surrounded upon all sides by his enemy. Facing off against a creature as richly decorated as Tiberius. A peasant's crown, for the mud of it. And a peasant's positioning, for his lack of a horse. Still he stared, and still, all that looked upon it in that moment knew, just as all those who looked upon the many paintings that had been created of the moment afterwards knew, who it was that held the highest of command.

When the wind stopped howling, Patrick men were the first to speak. Lord Idris, he who knew the truth of Oliver's birth now, he wore the most violent, most excited smile. Trembling as adrenaline ripped through him. He witnessed that which was most assuredly the hand of the Gods. He bore witness, entirely, to Hod's Time of Tigers. He saw the moment in which prophecy was turned into reality, and he was allowed the privilege of blowing the horn of the Herald, and announcing it.

"ALL HAIL KING PATRICKKKKKKKK!" He roared, so loud that he might have torn his vocal cords, using every scrap of Command that he could.

It was given without question that those Patrick men would be quick to do the same. As swords went into the air, and their eyes widened. The impossible done, but they had seen the impossible done so many times before by their Lord. Reckless he was, impossible he was, tinged by magic and firmly animated by the spirit of the Gods. Even the title of General was not fit for him. King, they called him, and gladly. In the heat of that which should have dismantled them all, Oliver Patrick did find himself.

"""GODS SAVE THE KING!"""

They bellowed, furiously, passionately, madly. Different men, transcendent, not knowing entirely where they stood, but knowing truly that there was no mage in the realm that could have created a magic more potent than the one that they now bore witness to.

A bemused Oliver Patrick, not knowing entirely where he was, staring down a Tiberius that he so hated, wearing that crown. Feeling the weight of the responsibility that he had picked up, but knowing with a gladness that his legs were more than firm enough to bear it. The storm grew, and the pressure mounted, as the army that Oliver commanded became the army of a King.

Hod saw it as Verdant had. That which he himself had predicted. An impossibility beyond comprehension, and still he had not imagined this. He lowered his head, and smiled, giving up a part of himself, knowing truly, that he could never match the imagination of the Gods. And then, with more pride than anyone else, he raised his fist in the air, and gave the same pronouncement, startling the archers and men in the rear that had remained with him.

"ALL HAIL KING PATRICK!" He roared. "ALL HAIL HE THAT CARRIES ON QUEEN ASABEL'S CAUSE!"

He put into words that which the others had symbolically understood. A way forward for them all, after their total and cataclimistic defeat. A meaning to replace all that they had lost.

The men with him did not even truly know what they were doing when they raised up their weapons and they gave the same pronouncement.

"""GODS SAVE THE KING!""" They roared, not knowing where it was where they stood, or what it was that they had done, but feeling the instinct for it, as Stormfront men. It had happened once before, when they were lawless, and disorganized, without a country. When men had gathered, and against all established systems of autonomy, they had raised up a man above all others. The First King, and the Time of Tigers that was to return with him. There was a recognition of a successor, both to him, and to Asabel.

It spread, capturing everyone. The Treeants were quick to bow to it. They who worshipped strength could imagine no finer King than he who had already killed their own. Their eyes glowed with purpose, and many, as others were cheering, fell to their knees in respect for he.

The cries reached as far as Prince Hendrick, and General Fitzer, who shared a troubled glance. "...We are witnessing something abhor—"

"Do not lie to me, Fitzer," Hendrick said. "I can see the way your eyes glow with passion."

"They don't…" Fitzer said, but he had a hard time making himself sound honest.

Hendrick smiled with reassurance. "We are Stormfronters. This is the way it should be. That man in front of us. He is our King too – and we will give him his reverence."

For the Emerson army, Prince Hendrick led the pronouncement. "ALL HAIL KING PATRICK! GLORY TO THE STORMFRONT!"

He, just as passionate as they. He unleashed the cork on that boiling Emerson tension. Now with the Prince's reassurance, they knew where they stood, and every man in that army, without exception, acknowledged the birth of a King. A man that had picked up the crown with almost a disappointing lack of thought. He did so with hands at his back, pushing him forward, taking the risk, without fully understanding why. He stepped into the shoes that fate had set out for him, since the moment he was born, and he did so without really understanding why it ought to have been a struggle.

Tiberius' jaw was slack. He that had put a crown upon his own head – and had he ever received such a degree of worship?