A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1912: Tears of the Gods - Part 1

"Blackthorn," Verdant said, his voice like a whip, stirring the woman.

She looked at him blankly. "It is time to fight," he said.

"I cannot," she replied, shaking her head, not moving from her knees.

"My Lord requires you," Verdant said.

"I cannot."

"Do you believe your suffering to be greater than his?" Verdant said harshly. "None suffers now more than my Lord. If there is any heart in you, find yourself to your feet, and trust in him."

"Verdant... this is..."

"It’s hell," Verdant finished for her. There were tears still running down his cheeks as he gave her the orders.

"What’s the point in living through this?" Blackthorn asked desperately. "I cannot bear it. I will not ever be able to forget it."

"The point?" Verdant laughed. "I know not. But my Lord does – my Lord will find a way."

"How can you ask that of him?" Blackthorn said, biting her lip, in much the same way that Oliver had. A thoroughly childish gesture. "He... he cannot bear it either. He was closer to Blackwell than any of us... closer to Skullic, closer to Asabel... How can he possibly do anything? It’s not fair. We will die here, Verdant. We can’t expect any more from him."

"We can," Verdant said. "Because we have to. We must have faith in him."

"Why?" Blackthorn said. "Why do you always rely so on him? Why do we do the same?"

"Because he knows it best," Verdant said. "He knows the hand of suffering. He knows the sacrifice that it requires from him, and he knows the bravery required to overcome it. He is, in every sense of the word, the truest hero that the Stormfront could want for."

Chapter 28 – Tears of the Gods

Many ripples fell upon the waters of Claudia’s looking pool, as the tears fell down from her cheeks, and her silver hair dangled in the water after them.

"Forgive me... forgive me..." she cried.

From his confines inside that realm where they had seen him trapped, Ingolsol stirred uncomfortably upon his throne.

"Wine, my Lord Ingolsol?" His attendant asked.

He glared at her. "Fool," he said, waving her away with a hurried hand.

From the heavens, even the dead looked down bemoaning the image, as a boy that was barely yet a man knelt in front of five stakes, bearing heads, contorted in expressions of the utmost pain. Tiberius had seen them frozen there, the looks of their face horrific, forced like that until the skin was eaten away enough that the expression could no longer be seen. Even then, one could easily fancy that their skulls would tell just as well the horrible way that they had died.

"Can he bear it?" Persephone asked, a hand on Dominus’ shoulder, as she wiped the tears away from her cheek.

"...I do not know," Dominus said.

"You taught him," Persephone said. "None have endured like you, my love. The suffering that you carried, and the nobleness of the path you still yet chose. Who better to teach him than you?"

"...This is, this is... a harshness that I could hardly face," Dominus said. "The cruel wheel of fate, it spins around on us again. The Pandora Goblin once more snatches away that which is dear to we who bear the Patrick title. Whatever the boy does, I hope he knows I am proud of him regardless. No creature ought to be able to endure this – he’s done enough already."

"You taught him," Arthur said. "He has your impossible will and stubbornness, old friend. I think, on behalf of my niece, I will place my faith in him."

Before those heads, Oliver saw himself dismounted from his horse. The pain in their eyes was accusatory. The screams were written right there from their wide-open mouths.

That harsh old face of Blackwell, always so stern, now made to show weakness in death. Made to show that even a man as rigid as him could be made to suffer, and made to show that suffering, so that all the world could see.

Skullic was not spared from that. In his eyes one could see well written the regret. The man fought with the purpose of returning. He fought to see himself reunited with the woman that he so loved. All of that snatched away from him, by a creature of the utmost cruelty.

Broadstone, ever stoic, ever a man in the form of a castle – his castle walls were broken. The heart of him was laid bare. Fear was in those eyes as he left the world. A terrible thing to see written on the face of a man that Oliver so respected.

Karstly, always proud, had been forced to lose that smile of his. It was a wretched look that he’d been left with.

It was Asabel that he found hardest to look upon. Poor, sweet Asabel. Always so gentle. A woman whose kindness had saved Oliver more than once. A woman whose beauty had been famed across the entire realm. It was hard to call her beautiful now, after what Tiberius had done to her, so deliberately. He’d seen her delicate features maimed. He’d taken his time with her before she had died. He’d clawed out one of those startling green eyes of hers, and his knife had found more than enough skin on her face. But her hair, that long golden mane he’d seen kept intact, and her crown too, placed atop the head, so that all might know who lay there.

Cruelty of the highest degree, none could be more cruel than that. A monstrousness that did not even make sense to exist. Even goblins would have struggled to inflict that degree of cruelty onto their subjects.

Verdant’s words held Oliver in place, like a knife to the heart. He made himself look, even though he didn’t want to. He made himself take in their suffering, and carry it, as if he was guilty of it himself. As if, somehow, these deaths too were upon his shoulders.

He wept before them, and begged for their forgiveness. He lamented the fact that they were not faster. That he had not worked harder to see Tavar dealt with sooner. The fact that he could not be there for them when they needed it of him.