"And what man do you think I am?" Oliver said, his eyes flaring, as Ingolsol's anger wormed its way to the surface. "Do you not think I more easily dwell with the destructive lot than I do with your sanitized noble ideals? Do you not think I would more quickly burn Claudia's Church to the ground, than I would hand you over to them, contrary to what I believe in."
Even with the gold in his eyes that had made so many quiver before, Asabel hardly flinched. It was only a sad smile that she had for him.
"You do not frighten me, Ser Patrick," she told him gently. "No more than a wolf frightens me for the fact that it must hunt. You are truer to yourself than any man could be – and so I again, put my trust in you."
"I don't want this burden. I won't do as you wish me to," Oliver called after her, as she walked towards the door. "If you're intent on waiting, then you shall be waiting a long time."
"We shall see," Asabel said to him, composing herself. By the time she turned around to bid him well, she was the very picture of composed royalty, her earlier tears nowhere to be seen. A smile sat on her lips, as though they'd just had the best of times together. A smile so perfectly composed, yet so different to the one she normally wore. "Good day, Oliver Patrick.
I am glad that our meeting has proved profitable."
Oliver made no move to reply. The fire seemed more likely to offer answers than her. He dared not give voice to his words regardless, it was all he could do to stop himself from driving a fist through the wall.
The ridiculousness of the noble idles. The ridiculous way that Asabel herself held them up. She was such a strong and clever woman, and yet why would she throw her head on the blocks for such a stupid reason?
He looked at his hand and gr it his teeth. Perhaps he too was stupid. Stupid to have said what he had. Stupid to have seen what he did. Perhaps, too, he was stupid to have thought that she had healed him. It didn't seem so unlikely that it was as she said, and that her power had not worked.
Yet, if so, why? What of that overwhelming presence that she bore, deep within her?
He asked, but not even Ingolsol nor Claudia knew the answers. They could only echo his own feelings on the matter.
"Are you well, my Lord?" Verdant asked, when Asabel left.
Apparently, as soon as she'd left the study, she'd made her excuses and left their meeting.
Oliver made no move to reply to the question. He was back in the dining room with the rest of them, and anxious to be moving – to do anything. Ridiculous though it was, despite the unpleasantness that ended their meeting, Oliver was struck by the near insatiable desire to do something. It burned at him like an itch.
It didn't matter what that something was. Whether it be sparing with the sword, or solving matters of coin and politics, he wanted to do something, make progress somehow and somewhere.
The second he'd voiced the proclamation aloud, that he would sooner burn Claudia's Church than throw Princess Asabel in chains for the power that she'd been born with, he'd meant it. He'd meant it enough to want to do it. When he wanted to do it, Ingolsol had greedily joined in the scheming, empowered, happily pointing out where they were lacking. Which as it happened, was everywhere.
The power to do what he wished. That seemed to be what Ingolsol was pushing him towards.
Three times he'd fallen upon weakness, and three times he'd required saving, in some form or another. That was a weakness of the union within him, and it tore him apart when there was progress.
After today, he felt that union to be more solid than it had been in recent times. With each recurrence of the sickness and its overcoming, he left stronger than he was. His body seethed with both anger, and the desire for new potential. He did not doubt that he made a most discomforting roommate as he brooded in an intense silence.
"Did the meeting go well?" Amelia asked, curious. "You don't look like it went well, but the Princess was smiling."
Oliver glared at her harshly enough to make her fall into silence. He had no room for Amelia's remarks today. Not then.
"Is there anything you require, my Lord?" Verdant asked, more adept at reading the room.
"Much," Oliver replied. "The question is how do I get it?"
"You have made great strides, if you would forgive my impudence. Talk of your victory at Dollem Fort is already beginning to spread. Granted, it is only amongst the most senior officers of war, and those most involved in Lord Barlow's counsel, but the name Patrick is being spoken with a considerably more positive tone," Verdant informed him.
Oliver looked up, surprised. "Already?" He said.
"News travels fast," Verdant said.
"How did you come by these sources?"
"My father," Verdant admitted. "I am not adept enough to have as many birds in as many places as he, yet. Though, I am quickly working to remedy that weakness of mine, my Lord."
"Just one mission?" Oliver mused aloud. "It's already beginning to stir that kind of sentiment?"
He hadn't anticipated that. He'd thought politics moved somewhat more slowly than that. He certainly didn't expect for them to hear the news so quickly.
"It likely won't reach that much further than this," Verdant admitted. "Everyone worth informing was informed by crow the previous evening. The word is unlikely to spread that far amongst the masses… though it is true that as far as the points that concern you specifically, my Lord, this is a good showing indeed.
Some are even praising the High King for his use of you – a fact that should encourage him not to interfere with what missions you plan to do in the future."