A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Oh my, how rude. Has she forgotten herself before the High King?"

The fingers of one of Oliver's hands gripped the balcony with an intensity that Oliver wasn't conscious of.

"She does not begrudge you this, my Lord," Verdant told him. "She would have come regardless. Your own involvement was simply the extra push that she needed."

"Mm," Oliver said, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Both Blackthorn and Verdant had chosen to join him on the second floor, despite the fact that they could have easily been accepted on the first, as lordlings in their own right.

The arrival of the High King was preceded by the arrival of nearly fifty soldiers, all armoured in that shiny half-silver half-gold colour that they sported.

They sprinted their way down the length of the throne walkway, and forced any stragglers back off the springy layered carpet, pushing them towards the floors that they ought to have been on, or else pushing them back towards the benches at the sides of the room.

They were all fully armed, as one would expect. Each carried a long spear. The perfect sort of tool for keeping a crowd under control. If there had been any commotion, they would have been able to deal with it in an instant. The fact that they'd disarmed everyone only lent to that fact.

"They're strong…" Oliver noted. Every single one of those men had passed through the Second Boundary, if he had to guess. The fact that there were fifty of them in one place… Was that not a rather monstrous display of military strength?

"Indeed," Verdant replied. "The royalty are no strangers to the secret of Blessings. They would use that knowledge to keep themselves advantaged. Why would they settle for common spearmen as the King's Guard if they can—"

AWOOO!

AWOOO!

AWOOO!

The blowing of a longhorn cut Verdant off, provoking a rare irritated look from him. He wasn't the only one silenced, either. The whole room had gone silent. There was no choice but to. Hearing a battle horn echo around the high walls was enough to keep anyone silent. And even if it was not, the presence of the High King that followed it would have been.

The man stepped in with all the dignified grace of a fat cat. The smug look that sat on his face was a perfect companion for it.

He was dressed in the red and gold finery of a true King, and his very steps kept the crowd silent. Oliver's eyes bore into him, their colours gold, purple and grey. He gripped the balcony, knowing at once that this was the man he was after. Even if he had dressed as a servant, Oliver could have sworn that he would know it was him.

Ingolsol saw through him and growled, and even Claudia gave a despondent tut of dissatisfaction.

"This man?" Oliver said, quietly. "This is the man that dares to battle me at every turn?"

There was nothing to him. There was no aura, no power. There was no stench to his soul. He has less presence than some of the peasants that Oliver had grown up with. Oliver didn't know how it was possible for a man to live so long – the High King must have at least been in his fifties – yet for his vessel to be so empty.

He could not fathom a world in which that could happen. It could only be in a world devoid of progress. It could only come from a man that avoided struggle as though it was the bitterest of medicine. Even his very flesh itself was soft.

Suddenly, the High King turned, right in the middle of his carpet. He must have sensed Oliver's eyes bearing into the back of him, for he looked right his way. Their eyes met, and Verdant's alarm was sudden.

He prepared to reach out a hand to calm his Lord, but such a gesture was unnecessary.

Oliver's face was calm to the point of coldness. From across the large distance of the hall, he returned the High King's look, as though oblivious to who he was. It was like staring through the heart of a bubble, and catching a glimpse of what was inside.

A tense moment passed, and the High King turned back around, apparently satisfied, and he continued his way down towards the throne. The crowd seemed none the wiser to the exchange that had happened, though a few cast curious looks in Oliver's direction, trying to find out what it was that might have caught their King's attention.

The High King ascended the throne, and Oliver's hands slid off the balcony as he sighed. As he expected. The void of the throne was not something that the High King adequately filled. He looked lost in it, and so thoroughly out of place. The throne seemed to swallow him up, and make him appear even smaller than he had been walking down that carpet.

"… Disappointed, my Lord?" Verdant asked him quietly.

"…No," Oliver replied, with a similar level of quietness. "I can well understand how this man has been such a thorn in my side."

Had their eyes not met when they did, Oliver would never have seen through the façade. It was a level of weakness that Oliver couldn't possibly phantom. The man had a regal walk to him, but it was self-satisfied and tottering. The excess fat that he carried didn't help matters. He made himself look like a fat squirrel, offering himself up to any hawks that might swoop by to catch him.

And that was exactly his intention. There was a reason that he had survived the cycle of succession, when it ought to have gone to the Pendragons.

He was weak enough for it to be strange, which in itself, was some sort of strength. Oliver's anger had almost blinded him to the fact of the man. If he did not have two extra pairs of eyes to see through, he might not have understood what he was looking at, even after their eyes had met.