A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 553 The Punishment For Living - Part 4

"His blade," Gavlin said to one of the nearby guardsmen. The man rushed to comply, removing Oliver's sword belt, and the weapon along with it.

He spared Oliver a brief look, and then gave his final order, as he handed him off to the guards. "To the cells. Treat him well. He is not a charged criminal – he is awaiting trial, and should be treated as such."

With the clang of chains, and hundreds of staring eyes, Oliver was escorted out of the Yellow Castle, across the Academy grounds, and towards the holding cell deep underneath the main gate.

…

...

Dungeons are not the most pleasant of places. One would have hoped that the dungeons of a school, or an Academy, would be an exception to that rule. They were not. They were just as grimy as the holding cells in towns, and in cities.

Even Solgrim had its own cells, though it was rare that anyone was kept there for a length of time. Usually a week at most. Anyone worthy of a higher punishment was usually just killed. Those Solgrim cells were nicer than this. They were above ground, for one – and they weren't used regularly enough to get that dirty.

Where they'd put Oliver as dank and miserable as a man was likely to get. They'd given him a bucket of water to wash himself with, and then they'd given him some stale bread and dried fruit to eat. They hadn't been particularly impolite, but there was a hostility that hung in the air of the guardsmen. He didn't have any friends among them.

And yet, despite that, despite it all, despite the tiredness that he felt, despite the thought of death hanging so close by, as had happened the night before, despite the stress that he'd felt worrying about his dealings with Asabel – somehow, despite it all, he had not yet descended to the darkest pits of the mind.

In fact… In fact, somehow, he almost felt good.

As the battle fatigue wore off, it was replaced by an incredible calm. A calm that he hadn't felt in the longest time. He'd touched upon it on the battlefield with Francis, for moments at a time, but it hadn't remained.

Throughout his days as a slave, when he got to the true heart of them, that calm had hung with him. An unyielding calm, progressive, and purposeful. Thoughtless, yet with direction in mind. He always had in his head that he was moving toward escape, to freeing himself, yet those thoughts hadn't been tainted too much by anxiousness.

No, initially they had. But such a thing was unsustainable, especially as he was learning to deal with the Curse of Ingolsol that dwelled in him. The imbalance of the emotions, the addition of a new body that was not him, and thus feelings and intentions that he could not control.

The only rational response to that had been calm, a quiet calm that looked for any way out of the container that he was in.

That old calm, a remnant of who he once was, it trickled back to him now. There was something terribly simple about a cell. Merely damp stone walls, and rusting iron bars, overwhelmed by simplicity. There was nought to be done in a cell. The lack of possibility often drove many long-term inhabitants mad.

The lack of possibility was a quiet reprieve for Oliver, though his calm had begun before that. Not quite at the end of the battle, but just a little after. Was it because Ingolsol was satiated? That was possible, though it did not seem particularly likely. Ingolsol hardly ever dwelled in complete satiation. He was the manifestation of a particular type of greed, he always wanted more.

A unity – maybe. Close to one. A fleeting unity would likely be the most accurate way to describe it. For but a few moments, and maybe even a few hours, he felt peace within himself, enough that he could merely sit down on the bed that they had provided for him, and calmly cross his legs, resting.

The scarring within him seemed to be better than it had been in the longest time. He'd felt that morning that he'd quickly be incurring another bout of it, and yet, as he sat here, it felt as though that timer had been reset – and without pain this time. It might have merely been conflict that Oliver needed.

That might have been what he was – he needed activity, and obstacles to overcome, so that he could find his peace. It was a worrying thought, not impossible, but he wasn't sure that it was it. In truth, he had no idea what it was. He simply knew enough to enjoy the peace when it came, so that he would not mourn it too severely when he was gone.

The dungeons weren't particularly quiet – there were frequent shouts from other prisoners, as they demanded to be let out, and then there would be the loud clatter of things being quickly overturned, as the guards rushed in with heavy hands to silence them. That was merely the ambience of a dungeon, like bird song was the ambience of a forest.

A trial would be held tomorrow, or so they had said. Oliver didn't know exactly what he was being put on trial for. He didn't understand the politics around his incarceration, nor did he try to. Dominus' affairs had long since been shrouded in mystery, but Oliver knew that he'd made an enemy out of the King.

He didn't know whether that meant a Silver King, or the High King himself, but he assumed that it must have been the High King, after all, he'd said the King to be foolish for wasting Arthur in a reckless Pandora Goblin expedition whilst they were at war.

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The same night that Oliver sat, enjoying his peace, others worked frantically, despite the late hour.

Verdant arose on unsteady legs. It had only been a few hours since his poisoning, but he'd endured all the rest that he could possibly take. Oliver's other three retainers were in his room – a larger room than Oliver's own – and they were growing increasingly restless, just as the priest himself was.