A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He was all those things. He was still weak, with a strange innocence. And somehow, that made him all the more frightening. For it implied something. That stirring presence that was Ingolsol – to make that vanish. To hold command over it, just as he held command over Claudia. To yield such a will, that he could make even a Fragment from the God of Power kneel to himself. That he could appear innocent despite all that. That he could rule over the likes of Ingolsol, and be that which he was, at the entire heart of himself.

Indeed, it pointed to something. That, the creature known as Oliver Patrick, without the Fragments that inhabited, he was far more terrifying. For he was as invisible and fluid as the wind when he wished to be. He had the disconcerting ability to create storms out of the smallest of cracks.

Now such a thing was what Tiberius found himself in. A trap that he had not foreseen. An army that he had thought to be split into two halves revealed itself to be the same stirring winds of the same storm. The instant that Oliver Patrick had donned the crown was the very instant that Tiberius had lost.

He pushed himself. A final effort of will, as he felt his terror overriding his hatred. The will, at least, to die with dignity, different from the child that had once hidden under the table. Cruel he might have been, but he would show no regrets for it.

"CROSS SWORDS WITH ME!" He bellowed, and spurred his mount forward, closing that final distance, past his own men. Rushing himself towards the inevitable, beating Oliver Patrick to it, as that terrifying man took one step closer at a time.

The same charge as before. Tiberius' cavalry tried to push themselves to a speed to support him, though within the confines of Oliver's men, such a thing was difficult.

Oliver stood his ground, as he had a short while before. He let his sword drift back. He could feel the fear leaking out of Tiberius. He could feel Ingolsol's fingers curled around him. If Oliver wished it, he could have clenched them into a fist, and rid the world of Tiberius then and there.

But to the Gods that had given him opportunity, Oliver once more gave sacrifice. Once more, madly, did he put himself on a set of scales, and allow that dice to be rolled, as he walked that beautiful balancing line.

His sword drifted back, in the same way that he had seen Dominus do so many times before. He balanced himself firmly between his two feet, a level of precision that was impossible to appreciate, until it had been pointed out continually by that same swordsman.

A stabbing pain in the heart, as a set of memories threatened to burst free. The memory of a woman, behind his beloved teacher. The memory of a Queen with golden hair, and of a General fierce enough to threaten even a High King.

The building of that pain. The very hands that had forced him towards that current moment. The very storm that had seen a crown put on his head.

And then, for the pain of it all, a beauty.

The hideousness of his enemy, and his corruption. And then, in that moment, the smallest degree of thanks for a worthy and impossible foe. Just as he had once muttered a silent degree of thanks to the Hobgoblin that had almost claimed his life, he muttered his thanks to the strength of the creature that was Tiberius. Disgusting, deformed, and as close to evil as Oliver had ever encountered. A man that had stolen from Oliver more precious things than one could imagine. And still, Oliver gave that man a final chance to air his grievances, and claim victory for himself.

They came past each other. This time, Oliver did not aim for his horse. This time, Oliver sprang from his back foot, straight into the path of Tiberius' blade. He saw the look in the man's eyes. That final bit of surprise, and a barely hidden degree of respect. To have it all, and to still take the risk. The heart of Oliver Patrick placed firmly on the line.

He swung down with all the momentum of his leap, and he brought his blade slicing down through Tiberius' shoulder, and deep in through his ribs.

Horse went thundering past without its rider. Oliver landed on one foot, and then rolled. A split second later, Tiberius crashed down to the floor after him, already dead, for the merciful sword that had rammed through his ribs, and claimed his heart.

A knee taken by a newly crowned King. An Emperor toppled from his throne, and another crown thrown into the mud. Oliver stood, his expression reserved, as he turned to face the men around him. Then, an explosion of cheers, bellowing their victory.

Oliver put his hand into the air, catching a few flakes of snow upon it. The cold felt good. It brought a small little smile to his face. He knew he likely looked like an invalid doing as he was, but he could not help it. They had chided him endlessly about wearing his gloves during their march, but he was reluctant to. The sensations of the world were too fresh, and too delightful. He held the snow in his hand as it melted, and transformed into a cold water that ran between the cracks in his fingers. He let a little run away, and then cupped his hand to his mouth to drink the last few drops of the rest.

That felt good too. He swayed in his saddle, looking up at the sky. Grey it was, with just a few hints of light passing through. The snow was just light that day. They'd ridden through a storm on the way before. The winds had howled then, and they'd been half frozen. Oliver had found that he did not mind it. For the cold meant they were alive. Impossibly, they were that – alive.