Chapter 1967: The Old Dragon - Part 3
Oliver’s party stood up from their chairs to show their respect long before he did. Even if one was unsure who it was that had been named newly a King, an action like that would have been enough to highlight him. Of course, the old Pendragon King had an easier time identifying him, simply by the crown upon his head, familiar enough that the old King could still remember its weight and sensation, as it had once sat upon his own head.
He studied the youth, in the short few instances of withdrawn delay that Oliver presented him with. The defencelessness that he’d shown, in temporarily directing all his attention elsewhere. Mid-stride, casting his attention about the room, doing all that was expected of him, and presented himself with the sort of gravitas that one would expect from a man that was once King, and still the Pendragon man found himself in a similar position to Oliver himself. His attention, almost entirely, was robbed by one thing.
So much to study, in just a single languid sitting. The seemingly relaxed raising of his knee, allowing himself to twist around more properly, and sit in his chair practically sideways, so that he might enjoy the fire that was the subject of his attention. The seriousness of that gaze, and the weight of the thought behind it. A churning, relentless creature. Easy confidence, and an easy oozing of terrifying strength. A thoughtfulness that the old Pendragon King had not expected from him, though he had seen the young man a few times already. An unexpected vulnerability, in letting himself drift away like that. A strange charisma, merely in the way that he sat – a churning storm, obvious enough even from a distance.
And then slowly, Oliver’s eyes did turn to face him. A weighty gaze, riddled with those same intense warring emotions that the Pendragon man had supposed to be in him from a sideways glance. Troubled, but straightforward. Complicated beyond measure. A very difficult sort of creature to reason with, he supposed.
The King Patrick stood, along with the rest of them. He dipped his head, as if to apologise for his delay. The Pendragon King drew up at the other end of the table, and faced off against them, his own look stern, and his posture grand, and practically radiating disapproval. He allowed them to stew for a short few moments, before he did what was expected of him, and followed the etiquette in putting them all at ease.
"I welcome you to my house, King Patrick. I welcome you and your party to my table, and I look forward to sharing bread with you, and hearing the tales that you would bring me from lands afar."
An old sort of greeting, the standard that was expected of him, changed just to a degree. The warmth that it should have come with made it seem all the colder for the fact that it was lacking. Colder than a harsh dismal might have been.
The Pendragon man pulled on his long coat, with its gold dragon embroidered upon the dark red, and a servant hurried forward to help him remove himself from it. The man’s age was evident from the whitening of what had once been golden hair, but there was still a power in every one of his actions that spoke of a physically strong body – yet one that had never been fortunate enough to break through to the Second Boundary.
With the old King’s invitation, Hod led Oliver’s party in seeing them seated. It was his etiquette, and that of Verdant that the least well versed of them found themselves following. Nila and Blackthorn in particular needed to keep studying them most intently from the corner of their eye, lest they fall behind, and make some kind of faux pas that they were unaware of.
"Would you see yourselves served now, my Lord Pendragon?" The servant asked of the old King, holding his coat in one arm.
"We would, thank you Serbius," the King’s wife answered on his behalf, seeing herself seated next to him, and with her son seated opposite her.
There was a grand number of spaces between both parties, given where the two had chosen to sit, at very opposite ends of the table, with Oliver staring down at the Pendragon man anytime he chose to look straight ahead.
It was a pointed choice of seats, even Oliver could, if only for the mere fact that he needed to raise his voice to address the Pendragon man – and as the servants started to bring in their platters of food to see the table decorated with, it became apparent that it would be him that needed to start the conversation, for Viktor Pendragon was rather content sending his attention entirely elsewhere.
Oliver drummed his fingers on the table, looking his way. The dishes started to pile up, and the silver that covered them was removed, unveiling the steaming food beneath, in ribs of hog, and a leg of beef, and a good many steaming potatoes, along with great big bowls of steamed vegetables. One would not think that they sit right on the tail end of winter with how much food Viktor Pendragon had managed to produce. To Oliver, it almost felt wasteful, for he knew for a fact that they would have no chance of getting through it all. But he supposed, that if worst came to worst, there were at least enough servants and guardsmen that could see it polished off.
A silver plate was set in front of him as well, and anxiously did a servant work to see it filled with Oliver’s choice of food, which wasn’t an exactly difficult task, for there was nothing on the table that Oliver wouldn’t eat. He pointed to potatoes, then to vegetables, then to another pot of potatoes, forgetting that he’d already added some to his plate, making the servant pause in surprise. But Oliver simply stared at him, not seeing the issue, and soon enough Oliver’s plate became a strange colony of potatoes, with the beef and the vegetables being reduced to a mere garnish in comparison.