A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"This man is one that I recognize," Lord Blackwell said, standing to grasp Oliver's hand.

"Oh?" The High King said, his smile fading, as his eyes laid on the pin of the owl on Oliver's chest.

"I am Oliver Patrick," Oliver said, bending at the waist to bow – he refused to kneel. "I have heard my Lord's plea for soldiers, and I have come to serve."

"…Oliver Patrick?" The High King's look of disgust was not a faked one. Even an ardent believer of the High King could not fail to see that he held no love for the youth in front of him. His face contorted, as he struggled to summon back that idiotic smile that he had so frequently used, but even to that end, he was failing.

'This man hates me,' Oliver realized. The honesty of that emotion was a breath of fresh air from the rest of the High King's act. This pudgy man, sitting in his throne of gilded gold, with all those petty little schemes that he had set up, that emotion was at the root of them all. A hatred for a boy whose face he did not even recognize until he was introduced.

"…You have your father's eyes," the High King said eventually. They did not sound awfully like words of compliment to Oliver. The High King barely forced them past his fat lips before he once again grimaced.

"You have studies at the Academy to conclude," Justus the bodyguard took over, as the High King took the time to recover himself. "Yet you wish to fight in a campaign for your Lord?"

"I have come of age," Oliver replied. "I do not think there will be a problem."

There was something terribly satisfying about beating the man to the punch. This was exactly what the High King had wanted, yet the look on his face was certainly not one of pleasure.

"You will not be granted a Passing Scroll," Justus said pointedly. "Your studies will be ended before they are finished. And yet, you say the same again, that you wish to fight for your country – for your Lord, and you wish to campaign?"

"I wish to fight for my Lord," Oliver said again, making it clear who it was that he was fighting for. It was not necessarily the Stormfront that he cared for as a whole. He didn't have enough strength to say that. Justus noted the point with narrowed eyes.

"…You have men, do you not, Patrick?" The High King managed to say. "How many?"

"Three hundred," Oliver replied honestly, though that number would have extended to six hundred by now, if Greeves' job was concluded.

"I don't suppose Lord Blackwell will begrudge the fact that those numbers will be counted towards our total?" The High King asked, having trouble keeping a face straight.

"I shall not," Lord Blackwell replied. "Oliver Patrick and his men shall be remarkable assets. I look forward to their assistance."

"Indeed," the High King replied. His game was over. He had his arms folded like a petulant child, and apparently, with his sniff, he'd lost interest in the goings-on. "I suppose the rest shall be drummed up in due time, then. Justus, you will see this task to our Pillar of War, and he'll have it done."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Justus replied.

"You – Blackwell. Do not fail us again. You have two weeks, and you shall be back on campaign," the High King said. "To all the students of the Academy that you are dragging out with you, ensure they know, that in five days hence, they will no longer be considered as such. For matters of security of course. I would advise that you tell them to conclude any matters that they might have before then."

"As you say," Lord Blackwell said, accepting the High King's blame and his schedules without a further batting of the eye.

"Then we are done," the High King decided, standing up with all the athleticism of a creaking chair. He gave the hall one last glance over, looking up towards the balconies, and then down towards Queen Asabel, and then he sniffed to himself – a thoroughly dissatisfied sniff – and he left, looking like a man that had been let down.

"My goodness… You left me with my heart in my mouth," Lady Blackthorn had said after the ceremony was concluded.

"I had expected something along those lines, but the fact that you managed to slip away the way you did… You have the silent feet of Lady Felder when you wish it," Verdant had ajoined.

"Queen Asabel wishes to express that she feels quite the same," Lancelot put in, interrupting their discussion with a frown on his face. "She was ready to march over to you, but she heeded the better counsel of her Pillars."

Oliver could see her now, catching the last of the fresh air that she could catch, as she stood by her carriage, waiting to depart. He caught her eye for a second, noting how exhausted she looked, but then she made a point to turn away.

"Apologies," Oliver said mildly.

Lancelot sighed. "I am accustomed to you now, Patrick, and I know that you do not move with the intention of injuring our Queen," he said, "but what you did there, it could have quite easily have ended up with more than just you in the crossfire. You understand that, do you not? It was in the Asabelian entourage that you entered in on. The High King will have taken note of that."

"A milder response than I would usually expect from you, Lancelot," Oliver noted.

"…Only because it is the last thing I shall need to say to you in nearly three years," Lancelot said. "A matter that is of great relief. I hope that those years manage to mature you, or else distance you. You're far too volatile a force for our Queen to have around."

"That's about as cold as I would expect from you," Oliver said, unphased. "I hope the years are kind to you in my absence, Lancelot. Keep the Queen safe, and give her my thanks."