A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Please…" One of them murmured, as Oliver stepped forward. He was on them a moment later, without mercy. Two men were cut down in an instant, their blood joining their comrades, as it ran out against the floor.

The last man gave a thrust with his spear – a poor thrust, given his fear. Oliver snatched the weapon from his arms with a forceful motion, and delivered a fist to the man's face, sending him hurtling against the wall. It wasn't enough to kill him, but it would be enough to keep him unconscious for a while.

With the sound of his body falling to the floor, and Verdant's raspy breaths, the corridor returned to its previous quiet. The murmurings of the students from earlier seemed to have disappeared, replaced only with the terrible stillness of death. Oliver glanced down at the blood on his hands, and clenched his fist. Even for him, this was a little too bloody.

"Jorah," Oliver said firmly, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. Jorah looked up, like a horse that had just been struck by a whip. "Run to Princess Asabel, now. Tell her it was Black Grass."

"Will he—" Jorah dared to ask, as he looked down at Verdant, who was already beginning to spasm. But he bit the question off and merely nodded, rushing for the stairs like a drunk man. If Oliver had to guess, Jorah likely had never seen a man die before. It was easy to tell with the unsettled expression that hung on the boy's face as he glanced back from the top of the landing.

"Quickly now!" Oliver said.

Hearing Jorah's retreating footsteps, he kneeled down next to Verdant, in the blood. Verdant's eyes flickered in recognition, but despite his struggling, he could get no sound out of his voice, only the hoarse passing of air as he struggled to breathe.

"Hold, Verdant," Oliver said. "Hold, damn you. You've got some explaining to do."

…

…

Asabel found them like that, in a corridor covered in blood, merely minutes after the battle's conclusion. Lancelot followed behind her, along with two more of her yellow-shirted guards.

They'd seen the state of Jorah as he arrived, covered in blood as he was. From his panicky explanations, they'd had some idea of what to expect, but nothing could prepare them for the scene that greeted them.

So much blood. So much. In a corridor like that, it looked like a whole swimming pool full. It was a corridor that they walked so often that they barely acknowledged it any more. Everything about it was so familiar that it hardly warranted their attention. This place they were in now – it was completely foreign.

Everything was different. It was hell, bloody, and violent.

So much death. The blood wasn't limited to the floor. They saw it sprayed up the wall in terrible patterns. They even saw what looked to be some sort of brain matter on the stone bricks as they passed. So many bodies… So many weapons with the obvious signs of poison on them.

And then, in the middle of it all, like some kind of wild animal, there kneeled Oliver Patrick, by Verdant's body, covered in blood.

Lancelot suppressed a shiver. Merely from the man's back, he could feel himself start to tremble. He had to clench his hand just to steady himself. He saw the shock in Asabel's eyes too. She'd spent time in the hospital – far too much time for a royal – treating the wounded. She'd seen terrible injuries.

But even this shocked her.

She gulped, and took a moment to steady herself, clutching the box of herbs that she carried to her chest. Her dress was long, and trailed along the floor – the same dress that she'd worn to dinner just twenty minutes before. It was hard to believe that the world could come crashing down so suddenly.

"I've brought them, my Lord," Jorah said. It was the first time that he had called Oliver that. Ser had seemed more appropriate. But after today, Ser did not seem sufficient. A whole group of them, armed to the teeth, and they waited on that kneeling boy, as though afraid to go any closer, lest he lash out.

"He's still breathing," Oliver said without turning. "Asabel, can you save him?"

Asabel recovered herself at the sound of his voice. Cold, and lifeless it seemed – but there was heart in there, a desperate want, as the thrill of battle gradually faded away, and he returned to what he was without it.

She couldn't see his face, but it was still a relief to have a slight bit of familiarity, when it seemed as though the boy that she'd just met the night before had turned into someone else entirely.

"I can," she said firmly, stepping into the blood, letting her dress bathe in it. There was no time to carry it. No time to worry. A life was at stake – a life was far more important than the likes of pretty cloth. She firmed up her heart, and approached, drawing out the herbs. "It is not a complicated poison to antidote.

Not when it's applied immediately. How long since he got caught?" She directed that question towards Jorah. Experience tales at empire

"Five minutes, at most," Jorah said, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

"Then he will survive," Asabel declared. "Oliver, I will need you to make room," she said gently, as though afraid of provoking him.

There was too long a pause between her request and his response. It seemed as though he was going to ignore her completely. But with a sigh, and a shift, he clambered to his feet. When Asabel saw him, she was shocked by how exhausted he looked.

"Did you get cut?" She asked. He shook his head firmly. She studied himself, looking him up and down, but with the amount of blood on him, it was impossible to tell which was his.

Deciding that he wasn't at risk – at least for now, she began to arrange her herbs. She explained each one as she held it up, out of habit. She found that it helped bring comfort to patients, if they knew just a little bit more about what she was using on them. "Dried lavender," she said. "It'll help to form the bulk of the antidote.

Snowberries – they'll ensure that the poison doesn't spread any further. Ash's root – the true antidote. With a little drop of water, we grind it up like this…" She explained gently, taking out her mortal and pestle, mixing the ingredients together. Verdant's eyes were firmly closed and he gave no indication of understanding, but Oliver watched her hands, as though hypnotised.