Chapter 1990: An About Turn - Part 5
Or was it now that they had nearly won, that they supposed themselves to be having their doubts? Was it in fact for the very reason that they could march their way towards the High King’s gates and hope for victory that they found themselves so shattered? For as optimistically as all had spoken, all still seemed surprised that they would make it this far.
Perhaps, what they really feared was the change they would bring. They had exposed the flesh of the Stormfront so strongly with their wars that now they could reach a hand towards its very beating heart and stop it and it entirely if they so wished.
That level of responsibility that bordered something that ought to have been asked more of Gods than men.
And who were they?
That was the question – that was what made Nila stand up now, and scream and the night sky. She howled like a wolf until her throat was roar, trying to kick that dreadful dream to the furthest recesses of her memory.
Who were they?
She, and Oliver both, had yet to make it into their nineteenth year. And this was the position they were in?
Oliver – Oliver. Gods be damned, the man was something else. It was hard to even think of him as a man, for the side that he showed to her. He was a ball of vulnerability, a fragile as a beautiful glass sculpture. Delicately did she find she had to handle him, for he allowed her the exclusive right to hurt him, even accidentally, should she move incorrectly.
That he existed at all. He was a mystery beyond mysteries.
She loved him. It tore at her heart to realize that, for the pain that it brought, and the worry that it brought along with it.
Since she had first met him, she had to admit to herself she loved him.
That quiet, clumsy, and terrifyingly stupid boy that had come knocking on her door sent by Greeves. She’d seen through him in an instant. That suffering that sat deep behind his eyes. An endless abyss with depths unplumbed.
Years and years that had spent around each other, and she had still not succeeded in mapping it. Or even come close. He never spoke about those years that he had spent as a slave, not until recently, and even now... Even now he hardly touched upon it.
A level of suffering that was unimaginable to her. That he had endured for so long, she could not fathom it. What did it mean to be Oliver Patrick, and what did it mean to love him?
She loved him – she was certain of that, at least. Every time he stood strong in front of his men, she loved him. She loved the way she could tell others loved him. She loved that he did not pretend. He was Oliver and honest all the way through – that boy called Tempest, one could see it in him. When he stood in front of his army, and rallied his men, she could see the vulnerability that he allowed. He couldn’t operate without doing so. An armour covered in cracks, and he was brave enough to go forward for it.
The responsibility that he’d been given, and the responsibility that he snatched.
That boy that she had first met – who had he become? Who had he been then, and who was he now? That boy with the sled, barely hanging on by the smallest of threads. A creature firmly of the forest, magic, as if he were an elf or some other sort of creature. And she had the privilege of interacting with him, of touching upon that strangeness.
His diligence in even those smallest of tasks. The strangeness of his situation with Dominus. Endless mystery. Stupid and dull enough at times to truly annoy her, then compassionate and brave enough to jump out to defend her when they found themselves assaulted by goblins.
When she said, "I love you," to whom did she even speak? There was so much to him, and so much had changed and continued to change, that it was impossible to tell anymore.
It was a feeling in her chest heavy enough that it made her want to tear out her heart. It brought tears to her eyes when she was away from the world like this. It made her feel as if everything would always be insufficient. For the weight of his burdens, and the weight of her own.
At once, she wanted to carry everything for him and with him and to ease his suffering, and in the same breath, she wanted to run away, to rejoin her mother in those Pendragon lands up north.
She missed them terribly. Her mother had looked after her better than any mother in the land, she was sure. She was a mother, a father, a sister and a friend all in one. No one could Nila ever rely on even more than her. Perhaps Oliver, but their relationships were too different to compare.
Nila wondered now, what Mrs Felder would say.
She laughed despite herself, a sad, self-depircating laugh. She put her hand over her eyes, and struggled forward through the snow. "To ask mother this," she said. "The weight of an entire country, and the future of a King. To ask poor mother that. What could she say?"
Yet somehow, Nila was certain that her mother would have better advice than any other. Simple advice, of the sort that Nila could understand. For the world had grown complicated, and every spoke in grandiose terms. The change in station continually was too significant. She needed that simplicity, to remind herself of who she was, and what she was doing.
She only knew that she loved Oliver. If not for her love for him, the complexity of their situation was something she was inclined to run from. For what business did she have deciding the fate of a country? She was only a peasant girl. Why was her opinion taken into account when counsels were held?
She had thought, all that time ago, that she had already made it. When she had seen Beam fight the Hobgoblin, and Nila had found her own resolve to go forward. When she had finally made her hunting business work, and she had found a future there, that she could support her mother and her siblings with. That was far enough.