A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

It was to the point now, that Oliver wondered if he had made a mistake somewhere along the line. To have his men believing almost blindly like that, it was a worrying thing. But was he truly any different? Had he not come to rely on that very thing that had made him drive a knife through his hand? That insufferable sense of certainty, that some part of his felt, like a tiny little black diamond, hidden amongst mounds of hay, was that not the very thing that he had fallen victim to? Was it not these storms that had made them that?

The more they rode through them, the more faith that he had in that. He knew not how they'd achieve victory, or even against what, but he had faith that, given a storm, the Patrick men would know how to fly through. They'd find a way, whatever it took. A mad belief, based on nothing at all but that vague feeling.

And that feeling did come, as the men found their passion, as they set themselves to stirring, without a word from Oliver. He simply looked at them from the back of his horse, as the shouts grew louder, as more men added their opinions to the fray, and soon enough, they had their weapons raised in a cheer.

"FOR THE GENERAL!" Firyr roared, his voice having the tinge of a growl to it. He looked to those new three hundred men that he commanded, and already won the hearts of, and they bellowed back to him.

"""FOR THE GENERAL!""" Others echoed, until the entire two thousand strong Patrick section of the army were cheering. Their morale was the sort of thing that seemed almost feverish and frightening. Frightening enough that it began to affect those Treeant men next to them.

Like a wave, it rippled down the line, without Oliver moving. His eyes barely took it in. His attention was focused on that mounting feeling. Like a man searching through dark waters, looking for that treasure that he had dropped. All that anxiety, all that dread, they were clouds that hid him away from that sun that he had once cursed, for the brightness of its light reduced all the suffering that he had felt.

The nearer he came to it, the hotter that feeling burned. He had been sitting slack in his saddle, slack and unsure, overcome by uncertain emotions, but now he sat straighter, his eyes dancing. Not gold, nor purple, but grey, and blue and green, and those purple and golden flecks mere stars amongst the storm that shone through, delighted to be a part of it.

It rose along with the rising morale of his army. Oliver gripped his reins tighter. Those Treeant cheers, they were true cheers. Not out of love entirely for Oliver Patrick, but out of recognition for the love that he had evoked in the men that had served him longest. They looked to them for understanding as to who Oliver Patrick was, and their intuition began to decipher him, through the borrowed knowledge of another.

They were excited almost to the same degree, but excited for a different reason. This man that had bested King Germanicus – him of uncertain power and quality. He that had evoked such love from the men that had served him longest. Now they would find the true measure of him, for now they served with his hand at their back, under his orders. How could they not be excited, they that loved strength more than any other?

Oliver had to move, the feeling in his chest stirred to the point that inactivity became impossible. As his men continued, he said not a word, and simply turned Nelson's head around, and slowly trotted down that line, leaving the cheers behind him – or at least, he ought to have. But like a ripple, they came. When he neared those Treeant men, they cheered louder. Hardly for him, Oliver thought, hardly for him at all. For their idea of him was an abstract thing now, based on the knowledge of another. They looked at him through the lens of several perspectives, and saw something entirely different.

But it mattered not. The strength of it was there. Even the strangeness of their viewpoint carried a peculiarly different strength of its own. He felt the building of the bonds with them, through the lines that Ingolsol governed, and he saw the fire spread from them, licking at the fresh Tavar troops, who Hod had so quickly disobeyed.

They stood stock still, those Tavar men, confused. A full third of their army was in the highest of spirits, manic and blood thirsty. They bashed their weapons, and cast their shouts into the wind. The wind could drown them out no longer. Now the wind was simply another instrument in the army's choir.

To resist that level of passion would have required an inhuman level of coolness. Even if those Tavar men could not understand, they could feel themselves being stirred, especially those nearest them. There was the pushing at their back of something, the will to understand, the want to see what the others saw in the man in the front of them.

The youth, with the sigil of a beast sewn into his surcoat, atop the back of that monstrous white horse of his. So unnaturally calm – or so it seemed – despite the tremendous feeling of gloom that was in the camp. Despite all that fear that had been built up inexplicably in all their hearts. He stood there, unmoving, and wordless, and he saw an entire army motivated.

"GURAHHH!" One Tavar man cried, simply for the thrill of it. The passion of the warriors that surrounded him. The boiling of his own bloodlust. He had to admit it. There was a building of something. Even the gloom of their General's death, the cobwebs that came with it, it was beaten back just for a second. That which overwrote fear – anger was what it was.

He was looked at strangely for a handful of seconds, before other men joined in. These weren't cries simply for Oliver Patrick any longer. These were the cries of men that had just been defeated, and now had to march into the jaws of unknown danger. They were the cries of built up emotions, of much suffering. They were raw, and they were unyielding, and Oliver respected them more than anything else in the world.