A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"You are weak," he said. He did not speak particularly loud, but it was a testament to the silence that reigned on the training grounds that all heard his words. "I came here seeking strength. What can you teach me?" As he spoke to the man, his lucidity began to return, bit by bit.

It was the blade that changed him. The logic of words, the consciousness that they required, it brought him back to himself. He realized, bit by bit, even as the heat of anger faded, that he had within his hands a professor of the Academy. Not just any professor, but the swords professor, who Oliver would have hoped to learn much from.

The hatred that burned in Heathclaw's eyes was blinding. With the last of his anger, Oliver tossed him aside with a sigh.

He felt blood running down his back. His wounds from battle had opened again. He was not meant to be exerting himself so thoroughly. But that wasn't the only problem. The fine line of control that he'd walked all these years, it hovered in imbalance. It was a wonder he had not completely given himself to Ingolsol yet, as Dominus had predicted he would all that time ago.

Silence once more reigned, as Oliver looked out across the crowd of startled students, most of them echoing the hatred that he'd seen in Heathclaw's eyes. A sentiment that Oliver shared.

'Not great…' he said to himself, acknowledging the mess that he had caused. When he looked at the students directly, their hatred would dim, and they would look away. He found Blackthorn amongst them. She didn't look away. She didn't even seem to bear the same hatred. But Oliver thought nothing of that.

He could not trust his perception any longer.

He wondered briefly if he would be tossed from the Academy now. He then wondered if that was really a problem. Heathclaw brought himself back to his feet, and he was screaming. Gods, the man was loud. Oliver looked at him, in the disconnected sort of way that comes when everything has gone truly wrong. It was so broken, so ruined, that there was hardly any point in saying it anymore.

The strength that he'd wanted to find here, the interesting things that he'd sort… There'd been some of that. But now he found, more strongly than ever, he carried Dominus' distaste for nobility. To scorn of a man of Dominus' strength, and Dominus' honour… To him, that spoke much of their character.

It compounded with his own distaste for them – a peasant's distaste, as he imagined those higher than him, behind their castled walls, with their silken hands freed from labour.

He looked at them, the nobility of his age, with three years of training under their belts. He found himself unimpressed. He looked at the rest of the faculty that had stepped forward to deal with Heathclaw, and then he looked at Heathclaw himself, and he found himself, once more, unimpressed.

These were men and women that were trained to be the leaders, to be the officers, and yet they weren't any more impressive than the soldiers that he had seen in Lombard's army. In fact, they were less so, for they knew not of suffering, only of scorn.

It was the perfect moment to say something, anything, to curse them for their weakness, to challenge them for their hatred, to prove his strength in the same brutish sort of way that Bournemouth had.

But the anger had gone, and with it, he was left feeling hollow. Nothing would be gained by further playing with the weak. Information – the Academy might have that, but so far, when it came to strength, they were painfully lacking.

The man called Dominus Patrick had been one in a million. A truly special sort of man. It was only now, faced with such inferior tutelage, that he was beginning to realize that.

Heathclaw continued to curse, and with the help of several other members of staff, he was on his feet again, pointing angrily at Oliver – but he did not approach. Not anymore. With that sword in his hand, Oliver was easily the most dangerous person on that training square. He knew for that a near certainty, and the realization brought him nothing but disappointment.

With that thought in his mind, he finally said what he had been thinking, with a bitterness that he had not expected. "How disappointing."

With that, he let the sword slide from his hand, back onto the sands of the training ground, and he slowly walked away, contemplating the effects of his actions.

'Bournemouth… I would have gotten away with,' he thought to himself. 'But punching a professor, I imagine that's particularly bad.'
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Though, even as he thought such things, it was the anger he feared. He realized with a start, that things could have been much, much worse, had that anger held him any longer. The thought allowed him to smile, again.

Even on the brink of despair, that half-smile sat on his lips, thoroughly out of place, as he pondered just how wrong things had gotten. Even his mind was no longer his own.

"So be it," he spoke these words aloud. Even control of himself had now been taken from him. A dangerous game to play – and yet he had survived. He'd survived that battle that he had no right to. Even if they threw him out of the Academy, he would seek his strength, by whatever means, and he would grasp it.

Those words did not bring comfort, they merely returned the throbbing homeostasis of pain that had followed him since the battle had ended. The soles of his boots clicked on the stones as he walked.

"Young Wolf! Wait!" A voice called after him.

'Strange,' Oliver thought to himself. He was sure none would follow. He was sure it would be a waiting game, waiting for the authority to find him. He almost kept walking, but something made him slow, and turn.