Chapter 1991: An About Turn - Part 6
The way the people of Solgrim had relied on her too, as if she were a strong member of their community. She hadn’t minded that so much either. When Greeves had taken charge in Oliver’s name, of course Nila was there as well, to step in and ensure that the slimy merchant didn’t abuse his power. After all, who else was there to keep him in place?
She was so certain then. She had felt so strong. She could hold her head up with pride. Oliver – that same boy called Beam – had become a nobleman of some renown, and had done extremely well at the Academy, but Nila could still hold her head up high when she spoke to him, and she had been confident that she used her own years well.
But then it had continued to spiral. A storm, and another storm, and then perhaps a storm that encompassed them all. Was it the same story, or a different one – the same road, or a different road that they had glided to?
Was this all predetermined, since that very first moment when Beam had met Dominus? Or was it by magic that they – he – had endured, obstacle after obstacle, and had become the man he had – become the King Patrick, ruler of the Black Mountains that he had recently claimed.
She had been able to understand it all, until very recently. The cause they fought for, Oliver’s position in the army, fighting under Blackwell and Queen Asabel. That was his place. He was a remarkable swordsman, and capable of inspiring those that fought under him. His talent on the battlefield was otherworldly. She had known that to be his place ever since she had seen him confront the Hobgoblin – and then his leadership in the Battle of Solgrim had sealed it.
Young, he’d been, impossibly young for the title of General, but she could overlook it, for that was who Oliver was. He knew no bounds. He was as magic as a mage without ever having set foot on that darkened path.
She could follow it, and had been able to follow it, all the way towards the battle with Tiberius.
She almost wished that she could have been there, so she could better understand what had happen.
She was a peasant that had dared to court a nobleman, by the eyes of the realm. And now she was a peasant courting a King.
Or were they still Nila and Beam, the children that they’d been. He’d grown up in a quiet peasant village like she. They ought to have been the same. When they had spent that week in the Black Mountains together, certainly they were the same. They could not have been closer.
It was the real world that tore them apart. "Am I not a burden to him?" She wondered, as she walked that treeline, looking into the darkness of the forest, wondering upon that wolf, wearing the crown dripping with the blood of the man that she so dearly loved.
She hated that thing, just as much as he. The restriction it brought, the responsibility, but most of all the danger. It just wasn’t their place. It seemed as if only bad things could happen wearing it. He would be a target to all. All would wish for him dead. And the suffering it brought to Oliver to shoulder it. She wondered why the others could not see it. For surely if they could see it, they would not force it upon him.
"Do they not realize that they’re going to break him like this?" She murmured to herself, digging her fingers into her hands.
When Oliver dared to sleep, his body would tremble with such a violence that it was like he was engaged in constant battle.
He would wake up and look at her with such fear in her eyes, that it was like she was the most terrifying woman on the planet.
Hours she had spent comforting him, with the hopes that she might bring some degree of proper rest to him. But it was hardly sufficient, not for all the pain of the years.
Then, come morning, he would don a mask again. Look at her with a faint smile, and pat her head, as if nothing the night before had ever happened. He’d roll away from her, and stretched, the scars on his back from all those years beneath a whip more than evident.
He would don trousers, his boots, one of those fine noble shirts, usually ones dyed blue, and he’d throw a long coat of wool over the top of it. With every bit of clothing that he added, he armoured himself, even without actually armour. Then he would pause when he came to that terrible crown, and he’d stare at it for a time. Minutes on end. She never said anything. Oliver was likely not even aware that he was doing it – yet he stared away. Then with a gulp, he’d once more put it there, as the others demanded of him.
He’d bid her farewell, and then slip away into those corridors of the now ghostly Blackwell estate, whose true master would never return home, and whose son drew no breath to see it inherited with.
"He’s broken," she realized, more than once. The Oliver Patrick that strode around, and carried the weight of their cause was a boy no older than her. A boy troubled beyond measures, with more pressing problems rolling around in his heart than the weight of the kingdom.
The others had their own scars – particularly Lord Blackthorn who had caused such a stir – yet it was Oliver who was made to carry on the banner for the rest of them. They forced it of him, forgetting that he was a simple creature of flesh and bone.
He pushed himself more and more, despite Nila’s protests, and as the weeks passed, those tremors that he had in his sleep grew no better.