All that week was time that Oliver had spent in a cell, on the hard and damp prison mattress, eating their dungeon food, listening to the guardsmen's banter as his only source of real entertainment, shooing away rats when they came searching for his scraps, and generally just enduring what many would call a miserable time.
Yet his peace lasted for that duration. He had time with his thoughts, and he found that his temper was not frayed. He was in a position of peace that he hadn't achieved in the longest time. These were long days – days all to himself, where nothing was expected of him. It was a good time, quality time.
It was time that he spent reviewing all that had happened to him, pausing in a way that he hadn't been able to until now.
That peace was running out, though, like a ticking timer inside of him, he could feel the unity drifting apart. It was not a permanent affair. It was fragile stitches, done in a way that he didn't understand, holding together the now increasingly powerful fragments of Ingolsol and Claudia, as well as his own self.
Between the three of them, they bridge the gaping hole that the Divine Energy had left, but they did not do so easily.
Nonetheless, in the heart of the peace, it was not something that he worried about. Or at least, it was not something he dwelled on. He didn't understand the mechanism that had cured it the first, or even second time – for it had been 'cured' twice since his passing into the Third Boundary.
Once, when he'd survived his death, after the initial aftermath, and a second time after he'd dealt with the assassins on the following evening.
He spent time in that cell training, when the boredom had grown too much. He dropped into his familiar press-up position, something that had been so routine to him during his time as a slave, and he pushed away. Back then, forty had been a constant, across many years, it had been impossible to break that boundary, and now he easily passed three hundred without any signs of real fatigue.
There was much potential to be had, now that he was of the Third. All he had, really, was potential, should he have the time to exercise it. It felt like every time he thought of a weapon, he made a new discovery, a new optimization. Even just imagining thrusting a spear, he could feel the progress flowing like a spilt drink.
He did not dwell on his reason for imprisonment much. It didn't seem sensible to. He didn't know what was happening in the outside world, and any plans he concocted could immediately be shot down by the slightest shift in happenings that he didn't understand. Indeed, that was the heart of the problem, the fact that he didn't understand.
The depths of the politics that the Patrick family had been embroiled in – that Dominus had left behind – were still an eternal source of confusion, no matter how he tried to keep abreast of them.
It was only the morning of the trial that he received his first visitor, and even then, he was not allowed to see the man's face, nor hear his words. He was instead merely given a parcel – a parcel that the guardsmen had rifled through, rendering the gift a crumpled mess – of the sort that he desperately needed.
For the week, though given water to wash with, he hadn't been given a change of clothes. This package contained just that, and just at the right time. A new jacket, blue once more, just like his old one, with a ruffled noble's shirt, also of the blue colour, and a new pair of black woollen trousers to go with it, as well as a pair of freshly polished boots.
Verdant, of course, was the sender of such a gift. He assured Oliver that the funds had come from the fruits of their dealings with Nebular, though he had neglected to mention just how much they'd made in those dealings.
He promptly changed, washing as best as he could in his bucket of water as he did so. He cast his old clothes onto the prisoner's bed. Even if they were washed now, he doubted they'd ever be anything like what they once were, now that they'd been caked in blood for so long, as well as the dungeon grime.
"Another," came a guardsman's gruff voice from behind Oliver's back. He tossed the half-torn open parcel to him, as though he didn't dare to come in reach of the bars. Oliver caught it with his free hand, feeling its heft. A weighty gift, the sort that would make him curious, if he could not already see what it was through the tears in the packaging.
"Ah, thank you," Oliver said, looking down at it. He'd half forgotten that they'd placed an order for this. Well, it was more Lasha that had placed the order than him. It came out finer than he could have imagined. By far and away, it was the finest piece of clothing that he had ever owned. Merely the silky soft touch of the short black furs was enough to tell him how rich it was.
He'd forgotten the material, he only knew it was something high-class. He could have sworn that the attendant at the store had said what it was, but by now, Oliver didn't have the faintest clue. It didn't matter. Even if he could not put a name to it, he could sense its quality.
He opened it up, and slid it onto the shoulders, revealing the fashionable traces of red that laced the black, just as Blackthorn had requested.
With it over his shoulders, and a lace of black fur around his neck, he looked more of a noble than he ever had. Hanging out of the pockets of the coat were another pair of black leather gloves. He smiled at the thoughtfulness, and pulled them on as well. The gloves made a satisfying creak when he clenched his knuckle.