A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Amelia thrust herself between the two of them, her arms spread open wide, an alarmed look on her face, as if fearing a reprisal. But by then, the gold had already faded from Oliver's eyes. They were as troubled as a grey storm. He found himself stunned in place, as Lady Blackthorn marched away from him.

The men that had been eating by the fire quietly made their departure. Jorah opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp look for Pauline stopped him from doing so, and a firm hand on his shoulder from Kaya cemented that course of action for him.

Bit by bit, that campfire was left entirely empty.

Oliver hardly noticed their leaving. He was still standing staring at the empty bit of space where Blackthorn had just stood moments before. Now the cheek did sting. He put a hand to it. He could feel the redness, even if he could not see it. His thoughts were in such disarray that he didn't manage to bring a single one to the forefront of his mind and see it acknowledged.

They all trampled over each other, vying for position.

After a time, he sighed, and he lowered himself down to one of the logs surrounding the still burning fire, with its black pot steaming above the flames.

'Today, it seems, is a black day,' Oliver said. 'For a Blackthorn to carry news of a black day… Hah. Seems fitting.'

That thought he felt guilty of. He'd seen her then, he knew he would have just as quickly given into anger. Only in the quiet, by himself, did he know that anger was misplaced?

That quiet did not last long, however. Many amongst the fleeing men had been sensible enough to know when they ought to leave. Those that weren't had friends that they could rely on to steer them in the right direction.

Even with such a friend, and with Pauline relentlessly trying to grab her back, an oblivious Amelia had made her return, claiming that it would have been a waste to let the pot boil itself over.

She gave Oliver just the smallest of looks as she inspected its contents with a wrinkling of her nose. "Another fifteen minutes, and it'll be too soft to be called good," she murmured to herself. "You sure you don't want yours now, Captain?"

"I could not imagine anything I want less now than a bowl of boiling stew," Oliver said bluntly.

Amelia shrugged. "It might cheer you up. You've got a sour look on your face for some reason. Didn't you like, slay a big General, or something? General Zilan? Wasn't he a bigshot?

Why haven't you really celebrated that then? I don't get it."

Of all the reactions to that, the one Oliver would have expected least from himself was to smile. It came to his lips unbidden. There was something about Amelia's cluelessness that was so refreshing. She couldn't give a damn about the war, or combat. She had eyes only for one thing, and that was the Lady that she served. Her love and loyalty had brought her out here, nothing else.

Even as that smile came, it didn't stop the hand of exasperation that rose with it. Oliver ran that hand down his face.

"What? Was that a stupid question?" Amelia said. "Hey, you're laughing at me, aren't you? Why does everyone do that when I ask? Everyone acts so smart… But I figure they just can't explain it. I'm right, aren't I?

You got some big General? You're not meant to be able to do that, are you? Doesn't it like… A bit much? I mean, you're the same age as us… And, a General has thousands of men, doesn't he? Woah. I just had a shocking thought.

Lady Blackthorn's father is a General. You killed a guy like him? Really? That's… That's unbelievable."

"Is that right?" Oliver said.

"I knew it, you're laughing at me," Amelia said. "Well, where am I wrong, can you explain it?"

"No, I don't think you're wrong," Oliver said, leaning his forehead against his hand, struggling to hide his wry smile. "But I don't think anyone's put it quite the same way that you have."

"That… seems like an insult," Amelia said. "I'm not that stupid, you know? I mean, even I know that I'm not that clever. But there's some things I know. I mean, Pauline told me not to come over here. She said you were in a bad mood, and you'd snap at me.

I knew you wouldn't, though. Just like I knew you wouldn't hit Lady Blackthorn."

"…" Oliver was put at a loss for Amelia's supposed wisdom. Her unfounded confidence was otherworldly. But the results did somehow work in her favour, and give her unwriteable methodology some degree of validity.

"What were you fighting for, anyway?" Amelia asked.

"You didn't hear?" Oliver said.

"Well, I knew my Lady got a letter on her behalf. But she refused to tell me," Amelia said. "She said it was news for your ears. So I've been curious, and I've been waiting."

"And now you're pretending to tend to the stew, and instead you're looking for secrets?" Oliver said.

The girl blushed at that. "I really am tending to the stew. I'm a better cook than Pauline. You've noticed it, right? I cook a lot better than the other stuff that gets handed out."

Oliver inclined his head. He had to admit that. Compared to what was cooked up by soldiers, he did suppose that what Amelia and Pauline produced in tandem was a good bit better. "You have sold me then… I suppose I'll have a bowl of this soup that you're so proud of."

"Sure," Amelia said. "But are you going to tell me? A deal's a deal, right?"

"If you worked for anyone other than Lady Blackthorn, you would find yourself in the most incomprehensible spots of trouble. My etiquette is bad enough, or so I've been told… But you've never once understood how to interact with a noble," Oliver said.