A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

No, Oliver Patrick was a different sort. He knew, quite firmly, that he didn't exist completely on the side of the good.

He bowed to her, as he arose. "Thank you for your time, Princess. I shall be busy most weekends from now on, but, if you should ever wish to speak, I shall make time for you whenever you need it." Your journey continues on My Virtual Library Empire

He didn't get a reply to that. From the heaving of Asabel's shoulders, she didn't trust herself to speak. Oliver was not aware of just how embarrassed she was, at having cried so openly in front of all those who knew her.

"Patrick," Lancelot stopped him, just as he crossed the threshold of the door of the living room. He'd hurried to catch him, and he reached out an arm to stop him, a thoroughly serious look on his face. "I think I might owe you thanks – though I do not know what for."

"Don't, Lancelot," Oliver said, brushing his hand off, but smiling to show that he did not mean anything by it. "You are wise to look at me as you do. The Princess needs it. Though, I would appreciate it if you didn't make it such a hassle to get a meeting with her in future."

"That was… petty. I agree," Lancelot said, carefully. Oliver figured that was likely the closest he would ever come to an apology. He looked back in the room, towards the still-recovering Asabel. "I shall give it time. If the Princess does wish to see you, then I would not stand so firmly in your way… Though, I beg of you, do not pull such a stunt as you did there.

You intentionally made it look like a proposal, didn't you? Do you have no mercy, even for someone you call a friend?"

"Oh, but it was a proposal," Oliver told him, giving the man his slyest smile. He delighted in the horrified look that Lancelot gave him, leaving the man behind him, as he slid past the serving girl who'd let him in, and opened the door to the outside himself.

"That is, if you mean literally what a proposal is…" Oliver murmured to himself, once he was in the quiet of his own presence at the top of the stone stairs of the Yellow Castle. "Did that go well, I wonder..? Or have I royally screwed it up?"

He slowly took down the first two steps, as he looked through the stained glass window, catching the sun that was only just beginning to rise a little higher in the sky. "If Skullic heard what I did, he'd probably have a heart attack. Verdant too… That wasn't exactly political of me, was it..?"

When Oliver had told Verdant what had transpired in his absence at the meeting, it was hard to exactly gauge what his reaction was. At first, he'd simply grown quiet, and then he had nodded to himself, as though coming to understand something, and then he had merely smiled at Oliver, and told him that he trusted in his judgement.

It wasn't exactly a reaction that inspired confidence. It seemed more like he was watching a man of a particular solid state of mind come to terms with his grief. Though he continued to wear a smile, it would have been hard to suggest that he was altogether happy with what had occurred.

To Skullic too, Oliver had sent a brief note, confirming what had happened, just so the man couldn't complain about Oliver not warning him in advance. It was on the first day of his weekend – just the following day – as he was getting ready for a hunt that he received a reply.

A different courier it was today, some young girl that hardly seemed to want to meet his eye. She mumbled something that could have been a spell, but was more likely than not his name, and handed him the letter, before dashing away, denying him the chance to say anything in reply.

"Well, I suppose…" Oliver said, seeing her flee. "I suppose I don't exactly look my best, do I?"

He was wearing a pair of clothes that he probably should have thrown out. They were one of the many cheap pairs that he'd bought for monster hunting, and one could tell that they'd been used before. The evidence of many bloodstains was still there, even after he'd sent it through the Academy cleaners, and then through Blackthorn's own personal cleaners, they'd returned like this.

Still, it had felt like a waste to throw them out, so he'd ended up buying a leather cloak to go over the top of them, to hide the worst before he got out into the forest. It just so happened that he wasn't wearing his cloak when the knock had come at the door, informing him that he had mail.

He saw Skullic's crest in the wax seal on the letter – a tower, with a flag on top – confirming that it was the reply that he'd been expecting. Something about the way his name had been scribbled so hastily made him think that it had been written when the man was in a less than pleasant mood…

Regardless, he tore it open before the apprehension could fully set in, expecting a long reply chewing at him for all the mistakes that he'd no doubt made. Instead, what he found was something even more terrifying for its brevity.

"Time will tell…" he read. A simple maxim, one that would ordinarily not have been so intimidating… though Skullic's had been written as though he was trying to carve a hole in the paper. Quite clearly, he had been pressing down extraordinarily hard on his pen as he wrote it, and there were three ominous ellipses after the initial line, making it seem far more like a threat than anything else.

In other words, if it proved that he'd made the wrong decision, then Skullic would unleash a sledgehammer on him for his stupidity. However, if it happened to work – somehow, in whatever impossible world it might – then… Well, then Skullic would probably still lay into him for his stupidity when next they met, but at least he'd get to keep his life.