Chapter 1998: The Scale of a Foe - Part 3
Most certainly, he was sure, the High King was sat stewing in the Capital, waiting for Oliver’s march. And that man, surely, as he waited, was boiling with rage for the opponent that was sure to go his way. But, Oliver was still certain that even the High King did not hate Oliver Patrick more than Oliver himself did.
None were more aware of his impurity than he. It had always existed, as the most tainted of all creatures, but it was only since his battle with Tiberius that he began to truly recognise it. As if the evidence of that man’s poison was the evidence of Oliver’s own poison.
From his social rank, right down to the very things that made up his soul, in the form of the Dark God that so many feared in Ingolsol. If all knew, deeply, all there was to know about Oliver Patrick, how could they like him?
Even Nila was not aware of the extent of his corruption. She flinched to see it, and wept for him, declaring that he had suffered, but was that all there was to it, Oliver wondered?
Into the trees he punctured. Those dark, terrifying shadows. He feared the dark more than ever now, and yet he longed for it.
His breathing came harshly enough now that it stung his throat. He pushed himself further. Hard enough that he could begin to taste iron in his throat. The fear mounted, and Oliver went exactly towards where it feared he would go.
It was the only ounce of power that he had. When he could summon up his old will, and pretend to be a hero for just a second, and race towards that which he feared most. But he was deluded enough not to realize that it was simply a distraction. It all was – everything that Oliver thought these days was tainted by that corruption. Everything he did, that corruption leaked in. To the point that he simply wanted to stand still.
The more he raced, the more that voice in his head and heart grew. It tempted him in different directions.
"Why, you’re running well today, it said. Why not push yourself more? Imagine if you did this for a week, how fast you would become, how much fitter you would be. Then who could stand before you? The world would be a much better place."
The cruelty of it. Those old words, that once would have been spoken as the noblest of desires, those too now had been corrupted, somehow. The very ideal of Claudia, that shining silver of promise, that their suffering had been rewarded, and so tainted was Oliver that he had corrupted even that.
For he knew how that voice broke now. Stupid Oliver might have been ,but even he could not fail to notice a pattern when he had seen it a thousand times. So often, had that been his response to pain. So often had he told himself, "all will be well, as long as I get better.".
At first, that had been a noble thing. The will to improvement. He loved to see that in himself, and most importantly in other people. He looked to those that had suffered, and those that were still trying, and he could declare with all the honesty in the world that he loved those people more than any other. They were the height of nobility.
What was this creature that grew within himself that had hijacked even that? Oliver understood it not. Standing alone in the forest, all the terrifying sounds, and most certainly terrifying monsters that lay within it. A boy again. Frightened. Strong, but frightened. Wasn’t that the worst a creature could be? To be powerful, but without the psychological strength to hold it together?
He was that – Oliver was the very creature that he was intending to kill. The weight of accusation, and he could not deny it. There arose a fear above all fears, the grandest of all dragons. Oliver feared that he was just as bad as the High King.
He doubted that he could lord himself over the man, as an arbiter of justice. There was no honour in him, not when his whole career had been built upon a lie.
And what of before then? Those days when he had snapped at his sister before she had died. He had grown ever so impatient with her. She was relentlessly following him around. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? Did she not understand that there were times when he wanted to play rough with boys his age? Was she that stupid?
That biting anger. No excuses for it. Then he could not even apologise for it. For she was snatched away, and despite all that anger, he did not have the strength to defend her. His parents too, had he ever truly appreciated them? His father he had always thought of as an idiot, and even began to look down on, not truly recognising the strength in the man. The quiet moments where he would manage a smile, when others would have descended into despair. The immense quality of immeasurably strong will that he kept hidden behind a facade of stupidity. Whenever their family had faced difficulty, his positivity had been the rock that had kept them all together.
Always did Oliver find that he was wrong. So many mistakes had he made, and he would never have the opportunity to correct them.
The highest ideal he had held to, and even that now was tainted purple, like the flesh of Dominus Patrick, with the Pandora Goblin’s poison running through him.
A face flashed into Oliver’s mind, and he drew the sword from his belt. Tiberius was there, in the shadows, tittering. His titters grew into a loud bellowing laughter, until it was indistinguishable from the cold wind that ripped through the branches. Even the wind heralded the dark corruption now.
Claudia and Ingolsol could not reach him with their words. They came broken, and soundless, as if they were somewhere far away, and being passed through a filter. Those things that did reach him were darker still, and pushed him even further.