A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He raced past them, his long coat fluttering up behind them as he ran. He dashed in and out of the crowd of students, evoking more than a few yelps, but none who dared to shout abuse his way – not when they saw the sword clattering on his hip.

By all accounts, Oliver Patrick looked as though he was dressed to go on campaign, with those riding boots that he was wearing, and that thick cloak, those gloves, and that sword. He was the picture of a man standing in a state of urgency. Most that looked at him, despite themselves, could only assume that something significant had happened, and a nervousness began to build because of it.

They who did not even like Oliver Patrick had come to respect his presence, or at the very least, his significance. Oliver might have bemoaned his own lack of progress in securing himself more favour amongst the noble masses – given their seemingly constant dislike of him – but he had neglected to look at the other aspects of the picture of Oliver Patrick that was now being painted.

Few remained that failed to regard him as strong. Even if they did, those were thought to be fools.

A certain Minister of Logic, high up within his tower, spied Oliver as he raced down the steps out of the Red Castle and out onto the main Academy grounds. He too saw the reactions of the other students to him, and he allowed himself a small smile.

"There's hope," he declared, drinking from the shallow bowl that he called a teacup. "Even those without eyes are beginning to see."

…

…

Oliver could hardly feel himself breathing heavily as he reached the halfway point, but that only urged him to greater speed. Unlike Verdant, he didn't have a watch that he could check the time on. His only hope was the many clocks scattered here and there about the campus, and the very position of the sun itself.

He hadn't spied a clock in a good few minutes though, which did nothing to calm his racing heart. If he was going to assume anything, he would assume that he was late. He was all but sprinting at this point, a thoroughly poor strategy for covering long distance, but he didn't have any choice.

He sped off the path, taking a shortcut through the trees, plunging through the snow, and giving his boots an added shine for the moisture of the melting snow.

There were fewer people here to dodge, and those that did see him were the quieter sort. Some, amongst that quiet sort, were even an interesting sort. They sought these trees as places to practise their swordsmanship, or their way with the spear. Oliver spied a few familiar faces – not people that he'd spoken to, but people that seemed to be of the same mind as him.

He'd seen them often, as he trained himself.

Some, out of respect for that mutual awareness that was now building up between them, spared him a nod as he ran. He nodded stiffly back, racing straight past. They, just like the rest, wondered what had gotten Oliver Patrick so riled up first thing in the morning – and what sort of event had required that he rush to it with a sword at his belt.

Soon enough, he was back on paved grounds, recently shovelled clear of ice. Guardsmen were about here, as they were near the perimeter of every one of the Academy's castles. They stiffened more than the students at Oliver's approach, almost fearing him. As he passed a pair, they flinched heavily, sincerely believing that there was a good chance that they were about to be attacked.

Of course, Oliver merely raced past them, up the steps of the Yellow Castle.

"Slow down, Patrick!" Someone dared to call out to him. Oliver turned his head, and noted a professor. He wasn't sure what subject the man taught, nor his name, but it was quite clear that he was aware of Oliver.

"What's the time, Professor?" Oliver asked, pausing atop the main steps to the Yellow Castle.

"The time?" The Professor repeated, frowning. "You ought to be well enough organized that you aren't in such a rush against time." So he said, but nevertheless, he pulled out his pocket watch to check. "By my clock, it is 8:28. Do you have a meeting to attend to?"

"I do! Thanks, Professor," Oliver said, making a show of waving, and walking calmly through the doors. Only once he was out of the man's sight did he begin to run again. He could feel that a light layer of sweat was building up on his forehead, and he didn't doubt that his cheeks were flushed from the cold air, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He found the steps to Princess Asabel's quarters and took them three at a time, more jumping up them than climbing up them. He reached the second floor in an instant, and then he was outside of her door in another instant. He spared himself a brief few seconds to compose his breath, and then he knocked on the door, trying to convey a sense of collectedness in that knock.

He heard the clicking of heels approaching the door all but immediately, but still managed to spare himself the time to brush over his face with a handkerchief, freeing it of any signs of his exertion, aside from the flushed nature of his cheeks.

A bespeckled Serving Girl pulled the door open and looked down at him. Oliver didn't recognize her, but that was to be expected, given the number of positional shifts that Asabel had going on around her, especially as of late.

"…Who are you?" The girl asked, though the way she asked it seemed to suggest that she was well aware of who he was.

"Oliver Patrick. I have a meeting," he said, holding up the invitation card in front of her, just close enough so that she could see it, but retaining his grip so that she couldn't snatch it away.

"…I suppose you do," the girl eventually relented. "Ser Lancelot," she called down the hallway. "Oliver Patrick has arrived."