Chapter 1968: The Old Dragon - Part 4
They attempted to pour wine in front of him as well, but Oliver waved them away, and requested fruit tea. Even more than ever did Oliver mistrust himself with alcohol. It was never his favoured thing, but now with his heart in turmoil was it even less so. He feared most of all doing something without realizing that he had done it – in having his body act entirely of its own whims, in a fit of madness, driven by his stormy heart, only for his mind to catch up after the fact.
That had happened more than once, when the terror had properly gripped him, and he had found himself a good time later, gripping Nila in a fierce hug and quivering, not knowing quite how he’d gotten there. That to him was one of the most terrifying things that he could experience.
Oliver looked around, seeing that the rest of his party’s plates were well stocked as well, but at the other end of the table, the small family that remained of Queen Asabel were still busy deciding on what it was that they wanted. The young son Benjamin in particular seemed to be struggling. At least though, his struggle was the endearing struggle of a child, rather than some sort of diplomatic trick.
Barely eight years old the boy was, and Oliver had to confess that he had not seen nor heard much of him. Asabel had talked of him only briefly and only fondly. She’d said he was an adorable little boy, full of energy. And then she would follow that up with a sad comment about how she wished she were able to spend more time with him. The boy had been incredibly young when Asabel had made the decision to Quarter Inherit, and since then, their time alone together had been – much to Asabel’s regret – painfully small.
He was to be his sister’s rival, even if he knew little of the world yet. It was he that would have taken the throne in her place, had Asabel’s politics ever fallen through, and had she been cast away from her position.
Far too young he was to do much of anything yet. It was a sad thing to Oliver, for so much to be placed on the shoulders of one so small. For him to be used as a toy that many different sides exerted a pulling force on, until the day that he was either torn to shreds, or until he took the throne for himself.
Rightfully, it was his crown that Oliver was wearing. Even more than the old Pendragon King, who had already abdicated his position, it was that young boy Benjamin that should have been Asabel’s heir, given that she had sired no children of her own, nor had she married.
That same boy that was chasing peas around his plate with his fork, and giggling with glee when one slid off that plate, and went bouncing along the carpet, only for a servant to hurry after him. A gentle whisper of chastisement from his mother, warning him not to make more work for the servants. Then a little nod of apology from Benjamin himself.
Brightness Oliver saw in him. The sort of untainted purity that could only come from one so young. If he felt the pressure of the world and all that had been placed upon him, he showed it not yet. He gave no outward signs that he had been affected by the war, and by his father’s – and therefore his own – loss in station. The boy was as content as Oliver had ever seen a youth.
Content, but still there was guilt enough to Oliver that he had to wonder whether he really ought to wear that crown. If he really ought rob it from someone so young. An innocent and pure heart, the boy at least had that. He’d rule well, likely, if he had the advisors. Did Oliver have the right to deny himself that? Naturally, he thought the answer to be no. He had not even a right to the crown in the first place.
Wearing that silver crown, as if to insult his hosts, Oliver easily polished off the food that was in front of him, doing so almost absentmindedly, trying to whip his mind into finding something that he might say, so that they might break the crushing silence.
The only sound now was the busy bustling of forks and knives, and the occasional whisper from the different parties. Nila would whisper to Blackthorn, and then Blackthorn would whisper back – both of them looked to be well on edge. Nila more so that the other Lady, but merely because Lasha lacked the ability to write the emotions on her face well enough.
The servants saw Oliver’s plate restocked in the same way as before without him even truly acknowledging it was happening. Through that food he went again, a good many potatoes, and a lovely bit of honeyed beef, and then a sip of his fruit tea – all of it quickly forgotten amid his torrent of raging thought. Here, he had to find the words to say, to start the conversation that needed to be had, and to push them forwards towards some sort of conclusion that both sides would find acceptable.
Yet how did one start such a conversation? Oliver wanted to dive right into the heart of the matter, and speak of Asabel and make his apologies, and invite the King’s condemnation. But the game the nobles played with a more complicated sort, and Oliver struggled with it and its many winding paths.
After a time, Verdant offered Oliver a life raft, guessing at his thinking. He gave him a whisper in his ear. "Your Majesty, perhaps a remark on something light first might make your burden easier?"
"Very well, Verdant," Oliver said, deciding to do just that – and then struggling almost equally as much to find such a remark. It was almost embarrassing how much thought he put into such a simple and lackluster comment. So much so that his shoulders sank in disappointment with himself when he delivered it.