89 Zi'da 717
"I can do it," growled Oliver, his tone low and guttural. Gustauv stood outside the door of the carriage, arm outstretched to help the injured noble from the cab, but Oliver slapped away his strong and steady hand. Instead, a paper white hand gripped the side of the carriage, and if Oliver were stronger, it might have punched through the wood. Gustauv made a motion to move to help, but the baleful glare from Oliver stopped him cold.
"My lord, I only wished--" the man started, but Oliver interrupted him, voice booming over the calm and collected tone of Gustauv.
"Seven Saints, Gustauv, I'm not a sarding child. I can help myself from the carriage," he said, determination and lamentation mingling to create something new and fierce in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, which was quickly dampening from sweat and exertion, despite the cold air. His eyes, usually shark-black, were a stormy greenish grey, his inner resilience trying to shine through the crippling realization of his handicap. Still, though, he would be indomitable, even if it meant his downfall.
"My lord, I am well aware you are no longer a child. Were you, I'd have hefted you up over my shoulder and carried you, kicking and screaming, like I used to when you threw a fit. Now, quit with your Fates-damned pride and give me your sarding hand." Gustauv's tone caused Oliver to freeze, a malevolent glare meeting the manservant's own cool and non-committal one. They held there, anger flashing from Oliver to his manservant like bolts of lightning, forking and reflecting back to Oliver as if Gustauv were immune. After a moment, though, Oliver acquiesced, holding out his left hand to allow Gustauv to help him from the carriage.
The first thing Oliver did was check to ensure that nobody had overheard the exchange, not only for his pride, but for Gustauv's safety. If a proper noble had overheard the manservant talking to Oliver like that, they would demand to see him reprimanded physically. Oliver, while still angry at Gustauv for his insubordination, would never punish him for speaking his mind. At least, not without being forced. Still, though, the coast was clear, and Oliver leaned heavily on the manservant as the Gustauv maneuvered the grab the remaining few items from the carriage. First came Oliver's jacket, heavy and black but not adoring the man because of the relative heat of the cabin. Draped over Oliver's shoulders, next came the shaft of plain brown wood, worn and crudely fashioned into the crook of a cane. Taking the cane in his right hand, Oliver let out a sigh of relief as the wood took the pressure of his weight off the still-fresh wound. Looking down, Oliver expected to see a bloom of wetness cover his trousers from blood, but it did not. Smiling tiredly, he nodded. Life was about the little wins.
Gustauv took his other arm over his shoulder, fully supporting the rest of Oliver's weight. Smiling at the man, Oliver nodded.
"Thank you, Gustauv," he said, the exhaustion in his voice mingling with the pain of getting out of the carriage. He winced as they started moving, but Gustauv just offered a 'mhm' sound as they began their journey.
It was at Oliver's insistence that they journey the two trials to Andaris. It was agonizing, the carriage ride, but Oliver endured it with little complaint. It took longer than usual to get out of the carriage to piss or shit, but other than that, it was just the atrophic languidness that melded with a body that hardly moved in two trials that bothered Oliver. Ache set into his back and legs, and though it paled in comparison to the supernova of pain in his right side, it made him restless and uneasy as he rode. Gustauv had actually ridden through the night the prior trial, so as to not be in the carriage any longer than necessary. Oliver could never repay the man his debt of service, especially since Pythera...
Pythera. Once his sister, now his enemy, she was the reason for all the trouble and discomfort of this trip. A few ten trials earlier, she'd stabbed Oliver in the side, causing serious wounding and what was likely to be a permanent invalidity in his ability to walk. Vowing to carry more than just the scar and limp as a reminder, he'd sent a letter to a bladesmith in Andaris, requesting a cane sword. The man had responded quickly enough, and the blade took form before Oliver's reply letter had encouraged him to begin. He told Oliver that the eighty-ninth of Zi'da would be the trial in which to claim it.
Oliver was coming to claim it, and begin in earnest his search for his damned sister. And so, as they trudged through the streets, garnering looks, Oliver kept his head held high. He was proud, not of his scar or injury, but because it had not delayed his thirst for justice. Or was it vengeance? He was unsure. To him, it was justice for Pythera's effect on Darcyanna in their youths, for her stabbing him, for stabbing Caius, for wounding Charlie... Pythera's obsession had cost every one of them something, and Oliver was planning to repay her a thousand times over. Each and every wound she caused, mentally and emotionally, was going to cost her, if it took Oliver's life to do it.
"My lord, we are nearly there. Should you like to rest and gather your strength?" Gustauv asked, barely a hint of the breathlessness in him. He carried him charge with duty, and Oliver respected that.
"Please, Gustauv. I'd like to support myself in front of the smith. What was his name?" Oliver asked, shark-black eyes dark blue with pain.
"Bart, my lord," Gustauv said, helping Oliver to gingerly rest. The noble nodded.
"Just a bit or two, then, Gustauv. And then we will go get my sword." Oliver breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall to the smithy.
"My lord, I only wished--" the man started, but Oliver interrupted him, voice booming over the calm and collected tone of Gustauv.
"Seven Saints, Gustauv, I'm not a sarding child. I can help myself from the carriage," he said, determination and lamentation mingling to create something new and fierce in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, which was quickly dampening from sweat and exertion, despite the cold air. His eyes, usually shark-black, were a stormy greenish grey, his inner resilience trying to shine through the crippling realization of his handicap. Still, though, he would be indomitable, even if it meant his downfall.
"My lord, I am well aware you are no longer a child. Were you, I'd have hefted you up over my shoulder and carried you, kicking and screaming, like I used to when you threw a fit. Now, quit with your Fates-damned pride and give me your sarding hand." Gustauv's tone caused Oliver to freeze, a malevolent glare meeting the manservant's own cool and non-committal one. They held there, anger flashing from Oliver to his manservant like bolts of lightning, forking and reflecting back to Oliver as if Gustauv were immune. After a moment, though, Oliver acquiesced, holding out his left hand to allow Gustauv to help him from the carriage.
The first thing Oliver did was check to ensure that nobody had overheard the exchange, not only for his pride, but for Gustauv's safety. If a proper noble had overheard the manservant talking to Oliver like that, they would demand to see him reprimanded physically. Oliver, while still angry at Gustauv for his insubordination, would never punish him for speaking his mind. At least, not without being forced. Still, though, the coast was clear, and Oliver leaned heavily on the manservant as the Gustauv maneuvered the grab the remaining few items from the carriage. First came Oliver's jacket, heavy and black but not adoring the man because of the relative heat of the cabin. Draped over Oliver's shoulders, next came the shaft of plain brown wood, worn and crudely fashioned into the crook of a cane. Taking the cane in his right hand, Oliver let out a sigh of relief as the wood took the pressure of his weight off the still-fresh wound. Looking down, Oliver expected to see a bloom of wetness cover his trousers from blood, but it did not. Smiling tiredly, he nodded. Life was about the little wins.
Gustauv took his other arm over his shoulder, fully supporting the rest of Oliver's weight. Smiling at the man, Oliver nodded.
"Thank you, Gustauv," he said, the exhaustion in his voice mingling with the pain of getting out of the carriage. He winced as they started moving, but Gustauv just offered a 'mhm' sound as they began their journey.
It was at Oliver's insistence that they journey the two trials to Andaris. It was agonizing, the carriage ride, but Oliver endured it with little complaint. It took longer than usual to get out of the carriage to piss or shit, but other than that, it was just the atrophic languidness that melded with a body that hardly moved in two trials that bothered Oliver. Ache set into his back and legs, and though it paled in comparison to the supernova of pain in his right side, it made him restless and uneasy as he rode. Gustauv had actually ridden through the night the prior trial, so as to not be in the carriage any longer than necessary. Oliver could never repay the man his debt of service, especially since Pythera...
Pythera. Once his sister, now his enemy, she was the reason for all the trouble and discomfort of this trip. A few ten trials earlier, she'd stabbed Oliver in the side, causing serious wounding and what was likely to be a permanent invalidity in his ability to walk. Vowing to carry more than just the scar and limp as a reminder, he'd sent a letter to a bladesmith in Andaris, requesting a cane sword. The man had responded quickly enough, and the blade took form before Oliver's reply letter had encouraged him to begin. He told Oliver that the eighty-ninth of Zi'da would be the trial in which to claim it.
Oliver was coming to claim it, and begin in earnest his search for his damned sister. And so, as they trudged through the streets, garnering looks, Oliver kept his head held high. He was proud, not of his scar or injury, but because it had not delayed his thirst for justice. Or was it vengeance? He was unsure. To him, it was justice for Pythera's effect on Darcyanna in their youths, for her stabbing him, for stabbing Caius, for wounding Charlie... Pythera's obsession had cost every one of them something, and Oliver was planning to repay her a thousand times over. Each and every wound she caused, mentally and emotionally, was going to cost her, if it took Oliver's life to do it.
"My lord, we are nearly there. Should you like to rest and gather your strength?" Gustauv asked, barely a hint of the breathlessness in him. He carried him charge with duty, and Oliver respected that.
"Please, Gustauv. I'd like to support myself in front of the smith. What was his name?" Oliver asked, shark-black eyes dark blue with pain.
"Bart, my lord," Gustauv said, helping Oliver to gingerly rest. The noble nodded.
"Just a bit or two, then, Gustauv. And then we will go get my sword." Oliver breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall to the smithy.
