A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He had people… but no one who sat right by his heart, as a family should. Dominus had come the closest, Nila closer, but both of them were far, far away, for different reasons.

"Lancelot, you're being silly. The moonlight will do nothing for my skin. Besides, there's no moon, is there?" A voice in the darkness. Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was a voice from the other side. A brief glimpse into another life.

The first finger touches of infinity. If that was what infinity felt like, then it was awfully, awfully cold.

"My Lady, that wasn't what I was saying. I was merely noting how inappropriate it would be for you to be caught walking at this late hour," another voice, closer this time, overlapping the golden figures that danced on the edge of Oliver's vision, closer than ever before, swirling and strange, frightening – but he would not show that fear to them.

"Would you have had me turn her away? The poor thing, she was distraught. A few hours of sleep is no sacrifice for a smiling face," came the reply. "Though, Lancelot, I must admit I do regret dragging you into it…"

"My Lady, please don't speak like that. When you get that look on your face, I worry that you'll merely do the same thing, whilst leaving me out of it. Kind though you may be, the world is not so. Even in a place as civilized as the Academy, there are always poisoned daggers looking for opportunity."

Crunching feet in the snow, a secondary sound. A sound that was too physical. A sound that ill-suited the gold in Oliver's vision. He opened one eye, a habit he'd had since a child. Whenever he heard something, he would always crack one eye open, and fall asleep just like that.

The world of his eye overlapped with the world behind it. Stained by the same gold, the same indistinct objects, the same swirling brightness despite the dark.

"Thank you, Lancelot. You take good care of me, as irritating as I'm sure I can be at times," the woman said. She had a voice like running water, smooth, relaxing, and gentle. It had to be a voice from the other side, Oliver reasoned.

Wherever it came from, he couldn't move. He wasn't sure quite when it had happened, but his fingers no longer wished to move when he thought of them. Even when he got that faint sense of will in his head, when he attempted to gather all the sensations in one place, to manifest the same consciousness that came with normal living… even then he was like a spark in a damp room. It couldn't hold.

Every effort to shift was soon lost.

The pain from earlier had intensified. That pain that he had thought to be hell, with his organs twisting, had become an impossibility. A level of mindless, searing pain that shouldn't have been achievable. It was as though his whole body burned in lava, but he felt none of its heat, only the cold of the snow, and the cold of a feverish body. It was done.

A pain that even Oliver Patrick couldn't hope to recover from.

It seemed that one man wasn't sufficient to stand against Gods, to break their rules and win.

"Irritating? Asabel, the fool that ever dares to call you irritating is the same sort of fool that will be found dead of some mundane death, dying behind a tree, with no one to see him," the voice said. The voice was giving eyes, as a tall youth glanced at him, and then proceeded to ignore him.

"That's an awfully specific example, Lancelot… I haven't heard that sort of anger in your voice in some time," the woman said. She shifted alongside him, closer to the lake than he. He shielded her from Oliver's view.

"Even I'm prone to sudden pangs of passion, my Lady. It is a weakness I shall seek to stomp out, so that I might serve you better," the tall youth said, his voice fading away. His was the voice of a prince. The sort of voice that belonged in a dream. His very stature and bearing were that of a prince.

Shrouded in the gold of Oliver's delirious vision, with his long flowing black hair, and his almost feminine face, he seemed just that.

Oliver's eyes began to close.

She turned her head, somehow sensing his presence. He should have been completely blanketed in the tree. His colours were dark, and the world too was dark. The boy had only managed to glance at him out of sheer luck. But the woman glanced back as though she knew he'd find it there.

She gasped at the sight of him. Oliver's other eye flung itself open. The spark of consciousness that he'd been trying to fire for a while now struck even faster. He sparked it again and again, trying to bind all that he was together, a panic in him. He needed to run. He couldn't be seen like this.

Not by anyone. And especially not by someone like that.

"Lancelot!" She said, horrified. "I thought you were being too specific! You saw him! Don't try to deny it!"

"…I did," Lancelot admitted, pulling his face into a grimace.

"Why?" She demanded hotly. "You've seen someone dying, and you're just going to leave them there."

"It was hyperbole, my Lady. He's not actually dying, though there are many throughout these walls that wish he was," the youth said. "I imagine he's merely drunk something that he shouldn't have. Given his reputation, I wouldn't be surprised if he was drunk."

"You know this boy?" She asked. Both were still keeping their distance, swimming in the murky gold of Oliver's vision. His earlier efforts to flee rendered his mind exhausted. He found his eyes almost closing once more. Even his embarrassment seemed to fade away, as all returned to void, along with his body.

"I'm more surprised that you do not," the boy said. "As ever, you're innocent in the most unexpected ways despite all you do for people. That's Oliver Patrick. The spawn of Dominus Patrick – and a rather questionable subject for conversation amongst the masses."

"…Oh, I see. So that's him," she murmured thoughtfully.