A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

A grey dining jacket was put on him, over the top of a brilliant white shirt, with a ruffled cravat, of the sort that Lombard had been wearing earlier. The maid had cut his hair that very afternoon, and combed it, all the while tutting at the unfairness of it all, for someone of Beam's – or Oliver's – station, to have spent so long living in the woods.

"It was for training," he told her, carefully, unsure of what Lombard himself had said.

"Oh, I heard all about your training, and I see it on your skin, more easily read than a book. A boy your age shouldn't be covered in so many scars," she said. "It makes me wonder just what your father was thinking."

Oliver had looked at her dangerously then, for his reaction was more of this 'Oliver's' than Beam's. He had merely needed to look at her to display his dissatisfaction. She gasped, when she saw the gold light up his eyes, and quickly apologized, continuing to do his hair in silence.

Even in silence, what she had produced was something of a marvellous transformation. If Nila had seen him then, she would have burst out laughing, as would the other villagers. He'd never been so clean in his life, it was an uncomfortable thing.

He found himself stepping out into the garden as unsure as a newly shoed horse – even these well-fitting shoes felt heavy and foreign to him. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of it all, and return to what he was used to wearing in the village.

With thoughts of them, that hollowness in his heart that had come with the loss of Dominus, it vibrated once again, and he realized he hadn't had Lombard tell of what happened to them. In truth, he hadn't thought to ask. It was taking him hours to get his thoughts in order, and even then, they weren't as they should have been. There was an extreme fragility to it all now.

Beam had to marvel at the garden. He had to marvel at the wealth of a family that could afford to cultivate such an amount of grass, merely for the purposes of pleasure and appearance.

A whole strip of it ran down in a long lane, with carefully trimmed high hedges on either side of it, running all the way down to a boating pond, calm and quiet. It was big enough for a farmer's field, easily.

He glanced over his shoulder, to finally observe the house from the outside, and that too was just as big. It completely dwarfed Greeves' luxurious home in Solgrim. It was at least five times the size of it.

From counting the windows, Beam guessed that there were likely upwards of ten bedrooms, and then there were two stories to the house itself, all the stonework painted a white as pure as what had decorated his room.

Marianne called out to Lombard as Beam was still busy taking in his surroundings.

"He's here," Marianne said. Lombard turned around, pausing his conversation with another gentleman that he'd been speaking with. He nodded at Marianne, and motioned with his hand to dismiss her. She gave a courtesy to him, and then nodded to Beam, as she made her way back inside.

"Come then, boy, let me introduce you," Lombard said. He was still dressed in the shirt that Beam had seen him in earlier, only now, he too had thrown on a jacket. The back of his was longer than Beam's, and a black, whereas his was a grey. His coattails hung down towards the backs of his knees, with gold on their tips.

At Lombard's urging, Beam followed the stone slabs that marked the way from the house, glancing at the potted plants as he went, as though they interested him. And in truth, they did, but of more pressing notice was the man that stood beside Lombard. The pressure that he let off was intense, and he was making no effort to hide it.

As he made his way to them, Beam did his best to take in information about the man. Lombard had said nothing of their introduction in the earlier conversation. From the way Lombard stood next to him, his body language gently subordinating, Beam guessed that he was one of Lombard's superiors… But who, exactly?

There was a sword at his hip as well, though the man looked more suited to a battle axe, with his thick meaty body, and that extra head of height that he had. His chest threatened to burst out of the shirt that he was wearing, and even though his colour was done up high, Beam could see the hairs of his chest poking out just underneath his beard.

"Oliver, this is Lord Blackwell," Lombard said, his tone betraying no indication of what he expected from him.

Oliver – he was making sure to think of himself as Oliver now, lest he slip up mid-conversation with this man – did the only thing he could think to do, and bowed slightly at the waist to make his introduction.

"Hoh…" Was all Lord Blackwell said, as he looked him up and down, radiating interest, allowing his pressure to bear down on Oliver, without even thinking of holding it back.

Beam guessed that he was at least of the Fourth Boundary, but he wasn't sure entirely if it was his strength that gave him such a daunting presence, or whether it was his position, for as Lombard said earlier, there was an entirely different dimension of strength there.

Oliver wasn't sure if he approved of what he saw. When the silence stretched on, he merely waited, glancing occasionally at Blackwell's sword, and then squinting at Lombard, to see if he could glean anything from him.

"As you see, he is missing the training one would expect of a noble," Lombard pointed out.

"Hm. Indeed. Indeed. The way he carries himself… You can see Dominus in him. A firm stamp, that one left, a firm stamp. Well then, boy, pleased to make your acquaintance.

I was an associate of your father – we fought side by side on more than one occasion. I don't suppose he's mentioned me?" The man spoke in the sort of booming voice that one would expect from his appearance, but there was a civilized edge to his words that spoke of suffocation. It made for an interesting combination.